“Oh, no,” Lisa had said, holding a wooden spoon aloft. “Just returning this.” She’d had Aimee’s spoon at her house for weeks, but it was a good excuse to come by and feel out her friend, to try and strengthen their friendship. “I also brought this, for Noa.” She held upThe Encyclopedia of Marine Mammals, which she had found in the bargain section of Barnes and Noble.
“Oh, that is so sweet of you! You shouldn’t have.”
“I know how into whales and things she is. She’ll probably be a famous scientist when she grows up!” Lisa wondered if she was laying it on a bit thick, but she needed Aimee to move past the hurt she had caused her. She would address it directly, the oddball comment, but she didn’t want to arouse any suspicion that she had been listening in on her conversation with Scott.
“She is going to love this,” Aimee said, taking the book. “That reminds me, I have Kai’s soccer shirt. The one Benji borrowed? I washed it. Let me get it for you.”
She slid off the seat and went to retrieve the shirt, leaving Lisa alone in the kitchen. Aimee didn’t seem angry, Lisa thought as she peered at the paperwork spread out on the counter. Her eyes stopped on a medical form Aimee had been filling out. As she looked over the form, she saw that a field for Scott’s socialsecurity number had been filled in. This was it. Her opportunity to dig a little deeper. Quickly, she took a picture with her phone. That evening, after Marcus was fast asleep, she slipped open her laptop and searched for a reputable company that did the most thorough background checks. If she was going to do it, she was going to spend the money and do it right.
She found one that promised to deliver: address history, a social security number trace, sex offender search, employment history, and other criminal searches. Lisa entered Scott’s personal information and then typed in her credit card.
If there was any dirt in Scott’s past, she was going to find it.
22
NOW
Barb is downstairs in the kitchen with the boys, serving them dinner, and Gwen is upstairs helping herself to another glass of wine that she smuggled into her bedroom.
This Monday had been torturous. She’d stopped by the morgue to identify Anton’s body and had almost collapsed when she saw him stretched out on the cold metal slab. Detective Salazar had been there, had tried to discourage her from leaving the viewing area where she could look at Anton through a window and actually entering the room the body was in. Gwen insisted but quickly regretted it. It had been a mistake to enter the cold, lab-like room that stank of chemicals. When she got close enough to Anton to see the waxy sheen on his skin, the faint bluish tint on his lips, she thought she might be sick, and had to rush out.
Now, back at home, she wants to drink and forget it all. Forget that her husband is lying dead and cold in an industrial room. Forget that she is a widow who will have to raise her boys on her own. Forget that her marriage was built on lies.
But she can’t forget that feeling she had when she saw that pen from Le Cannu. At that moment sheknew, deep in her bones, that Anton was cheating with Lisa. Didn’t she? She takes a swig of wine and goes over the little details of the past year, searching for clues. Her mind might be playing tricks on her, but she can’t recall a single incident that suggests they were having an affair. Is she in denial? Has she forgotten—or did she never notice—what was right in front of her? Maybe her mind has buried those memories deep inside the recesses of her brain in an ill-conceived effort to protect itself from going mad.
Or maybe her mother’s right, and she’s concocted the whole thing.
Then again, she thinks as she pours another glass full, her mother hasn’t read Anton’s latestfiction. Gwen picks up her phone. Every moment of their lives is documented on these things—doctor’s appointments, bills, photos, receipts. They are digital time capsules. If there is any proof to be found, it will be on the phone. She wishes she had Anton’s, but the police still have it.
Gwen scrolls through her phone, not entirely sure what she is searching for. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to remember when exactly Anton went to that writer’s conference in Tampa. Sometime in June, maybe July? She checks her phone’s calendar and finds the dates. What else was going on that weekend? She opens her Instagram and scrolls all the way back to the beginning of the summer, cross-checking the dates with texts and the photos she’s posted.
A photo of her and Aimee and all the kids at Brookside Gardens jogs her memory. They were there for Wings of Fancy, the butterfly exhibit. She looks at a photo of Noa and Benji, grinning, butterflies alighting on their arms, shoulders, heads. Lisa was out of town that weekend, and Gwen remembers her saying they should go without her because Kai wouldn’t want to go, anyway.
Out of town.Because she was with Anton.
Gwen gulps down more wine and stands up. Her mother’s words in her ears:let it die with him.
The advice seemed sensible a few hours earlier. And maybe a different woman would be able to follow it. Let her husband’s dirty secrets be buried with him.
There is no way she can let this go. It is like asking a person who’s been set on fire to stand still and be consumed. She would thrash for her life. She needs to know the truth, to confront Lisa in person. Otherwise, she will be stranded between grief and rage forever. Hatred would be easier to deal with. Purer andbrighter, it could be a source of energy, whereas grief is damp and depleting.
Or maybe she just wants to hate Anton because that will make it easier to deal with his death.
Gwen reaches for the bottle and finds it empty. She grabs her phone and walks downstairs. Her mother is on the couch in the living room, the boys on the floor near the coffee table where the board game Sorry! is set up.
“I’m winning,” George says.
“That’s great, honey.” Gwen walks over and stands over them, but no one invites her to join. She’s become an outsider in her own family.
“I better take the dog out before it gets too late.” She is careful to articulate each of her words. She doesn’t want her boys or her mom to think she is drunk. Both her parents are heavy drinkers—cocktails before dinner, nightcaps, Bloody Marys at the club on the weekend. But somehow it never seems to slow them down. Not being able to hold your liquor is a sign of moral weakness to them, as though if you really put your mind to it you ought to be able to drink half a bottle of gin and still win at Bridge.
But I’m a grieving widow. I should be allowed to fall apart.
“Sounds good,” Barb says, without looking up. “One, two, three—sorry!” Barb returns one of Rafi’s pieces to his home base.
“That’s not fair!” Rafi cries.
Gwen latches Sababa’s leash and steps outside. The cool air invigorates her. She’s been cooped up all day, since yesterday, actually, breathing in the stale air of her home. If it weren’t for Sababa, she might not ever venture outside. She walks around the edge of the cul-de-sac, allowing Sababa the full length of the leash so he can sniff the curb and wander a little way up onto the lawns of her neighbors. Fall comes late to Washington, and her Argentinian neighbor still has tomatoes ripening on six-foot-tall vines in her front yard. The whole thing seems like an exercise infutility to Gwen. Could a half-dozen tomatoes really be worth all the work it takes to grow them?