The Perfect Stranger

by Marin Montgomery

  “Oh, I see her all right.” He glares at her, his face sallow. “I feel the resentment and the evil eyes on me even when I sleep. It’s no wonder you thought I was cheating.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” He leans back on the other side of the bed with a sigh. “I just can see why you would try and make yourself feel better with this cheating fantasy.”

  “Oh, so it’s a fantasy?” Astonished at his bold statement, her voice rises. “You’re unbelievable. You think I want you to cheat?”

  “I think you keep looking for any reason to leave.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

  “You want me to leave.”

  She bites her lip. “I do not.”

  “Well, I’m almost there.”

  “What do you want from me?” she asks. “What will make you start acting like the husband I knew?”

  “For you to see Dr. Sabin. I wrote the appointment on your calendar. I’ll be back Tuesday night.”

  “But it’s only Thursday.”

  “It's for work,” he says firmly.

  “Are you sure you don't want me to go?” she begs. “We could do some sight-seeing? I could check out the Chelsea marketplace while you’re working. Maybe even do dinner with Maggie?”

  “There will be no dinner with Maggie.” He slides off the bed to stand. “And as far as touristy stuff, I don’t have time. I think it’s more beneficial you see your psychiatrist and work out a treatment plan.”

  “For what?”

  “Your borderline personality disorder. The depression that's spiraling you down.”

  “I don’t want to kill myself.”

  “I never said you did. I just want you healthy and back on some medication.” Grant turns to look at her, his voice almost a whisper. “You are the love of my life, Stella, I swear to God that when we took our vows, I meant that.” He gingerly leans forward to kiss her forehead. “I can’t live like this. If you don’t get help, we need to separate and go on with our lives.”

  “You can’t be serious.” The light touch of his lips stings her forehead.

  “But I am. You’ve stretched the boundaries of love and tested my limits. See Dr. Sabin, and we will talk when I get back Tuesday. He’s made a special exception to come to the house Friday and this way, it’ll give you some time to think.”

  “Think about what?”

  “If you really want to be married.”

  “And what about you?”

  “Good idea. I’ll do some thinking myself.” He stops at the door, his hand grasping his luggage handle. “I’m going to be unavailable this week. A break would be good for us.”

  “Unreachable?” Her heart plummets the way it seems to most of the time these days. “What if I need you?”

  “Then call Rebecca and she can reach me.”

  “That sounds dangerous,” she whispers, “to be out of touch so long.”

  “Just remember, this time is for soul-searching.” He blows her a kiss, giving her a look that makes her blood boil. “But please get help. We’ll talk when I get home, I promise.”

  With that, she hears his footsteps echo down the landing, and just like that, he’s gone.

  Her husband is gone.

  And the scary part is, she’s not sure he’s really coming home.

  And even more terrifying, she's not sure she wants him back.

  26

  Stella

  After Grant tears out of the house, she frowns, her whole body trembling with fear. If he leaves her, she’ll be all alone, abandoned.

  The house she cherishes so much suddenly feels like a prison, four walls that keep her isolated.

  She tries to console herself with television and binge eating, but forces herself to throw up after the feeling of contempt hits when she sees herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

  Stella thinks of her past, and how they hadn’t spoken in months.

  He’d never returned any of her calls. She certainly hadn’t left a voicemail.

  Feeling desperate, she dials his number. It’s no longer saved under ‘Marissa’ in her phone. In fact, it’s blocked.

  But tonight she needs him. He might’ve been categorized as an affair, but his presence completed her in a way that made her feel alive.

  He can take the pain away, make her feel whole again.

  And now that the damn cameras are disconnected, he can come over to the house, and they can pop a bottle of wine and sit up on the observation deck, looking out over the ocean. She can order them take-out, or they can sneak into their favorite Thai place.

  Now that he’s single, it will all be all right, she tells herself, even if Grant leaves.

  She waits for him to answer but he doesn’t.

  Trying again, his voicemail automatically responds.

  Debating on if she should leave a message or not, she hesitates. It should be fine, especially since he’s on his own.

  “Hi ... it’s uh, it’s me. I just ... I just want to talk to you, even better if I could see you. Please call me back.”

  She hangs up, feeling melancholy.

  What if he doesn't respond?

  Stella wonders what he’s up to. She used to spend lots of time jealous, thinking about him and his wife.

  He said the same thing about her and Grant.

  They agreed not to talk about their spouses. But it got hard. When they weren't together, she’d daydream about what they could be doing together. When they were together, it was intoxicating, like a drug. She felt a sudden rush, a high that she'd never experienced, and the feeling she could do anything.

  But then they’d part and she’d go back to her life, and he’d go back to his, and she’d worry he'd forget about her, or when they would be able to reunite again, and as much as she loved how he made her feel, she hated how he made her wait.

  Disgusted, she decides to get dressed up and go out.

  Putting the final touches of her lipstick on, she decides that tonight, she needs to go dancing.

  She calls a couple of friends, but it’s last minute, and everyone has plans. Trying Lucy, she begs, “Lucy, come on, let’s go out.”

  “What?”

  “I want to go out.”

  “It’s almost eleven, and I’m kind of busy,” she admits, giggling into the phone.

  “Doing what?”

  “Having sex.”

  “Seriously?” Stella squeals. “With who?”

  “My husband.” Lucy clarifies, “my ex-husband.”

  Stella’s face falls. “He's over there?”

  “Shh ... yes.”

  “Oh my God, you’re such a bad girl. So no going out?”

  “Not tonight,” Lucy murmurs, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Grabbing an Uber, Stella decides she’ll go out by herself. Calling Aras’s personal cell on the way, he picks up on the third ring.

  “Aras speaking.”

  “Hi Aras, it's Stella McKinney.”

  “Hi, Stella McKinney.”

  “My purse was stolen,” Stella offers, "in case you forgot who I am.”

  “Yes, I do remember you. Spicy blonde.”

  “Good.”

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. McKinney?"

  “I'd like to come dancing tonight.”

  “And you need my assistance?”

  “I'd like to come to your club, but I'm not bringing any friends.”

  “You're going out alone? I like your style. Ballsy.”

  “I just wanted to see if I could get in instead of waiting in line.”

  “Certainly.” Stella starts to disconnect, but Aras says her name. “And Stella?”

  “Yes?”

  “Come up and see me when you get here. Let's have a drink.”

  “Deal.”

  When Stella gets to the club, she’s waved in just by mentioning Aras’s name. At the hostess stand, she addresses the same girl as before, who still has the resting bitch face down to a tee.


  “I’m here to see Aras.”

  The girl gives her the once over. "Sure you are."

  “I have a meeting with him.”

  “So does every girl in LA, sweetheart.”

  “Can you just call him?”

  “If you're meeting him, why don’t you have his number?”

  “Fine," Stella pulls her cell out of her clutch, pressing re-dial. Aras answers the phone.

  “Happy?” Stella mouths at her as Aras says, “Is there a problem, Stella?”

  “Yeah, your lovely hostess can't seem to find her way upstairs to take me to you. Apparently I’m unpopular.”

  She starts to interject, but Stella gives her a death glare. “Can someone else here be of more assistance?"

  “I’ll send Anthony down.”

  “Thanks.”

  “That was uncalled for," pouts the hostess. “Thanks for messing with my job.”

  "Thanks for being a total LA douchebag,” Stella retorts as Anthony comes around the corner.

  “Fancy seeing you again," Anthony reaches out a muscular hand to shake hers.

  “I know. Probably thought I'd never step foot in this dump again.”

  “Yep.” He looks over her shoulder. "Where’s your entourage?”

  “I left them at home to do laundry and pick up after their significant others,” Stella jokes.

  “So a lone wolf tonight?” He whistles. “With those killer legs, it's going to be trouble.”

  “I figured.” She smirks. “What is Aras’s drink of choice?”

  “Tequila.”

  “That I also figured," she giggles, “well, maybe just one.”

  Anthony leads her up to the second floor, the door to the office wide open, the loud staccato and bass making the room shake.

  “Come on in." Aras is standing at his bar, considering the options.

  “Mrs. McKinney, pleasure to see you."

  “Likewise.”

  “What can I make you?"

  “You mean they don't provide you with your own bartender?”

  “I prefer to control the strength of my liquor.”

  “Tequila.”

  He whistles. “Wow, not what a pegged you as.”

  “No?”

  “I figured vodka.”

  “Nah, let's do a Tequila sunrise.”

  “One Tequila sunrise for you coming up.” He opens the mini-fridge, pulling out a carton of orange juice. “And one straight double shot for me.”

  Pouring the Don Julio into a chilled glass with ice, he mixes in the OJ and then slowly pours the grenadine syrup in.

  “For you.” He hands her the glass, then pours his in.

  “Cheers.” Clinking their glasses together, he motions toward the velvet couch. “I’m actually glad you called me.”

  “You are?” Stella takes a long sip of her drink. “How come?”

  “I have an update,” he drains his glass, “some new information about your purse.”

  “Seriously?”

  “We didn’t catch anything alarming on the cameras aimed at your booth. However, we saw the potential suspect walking out the side door, past the bathrooms, with a bag we believe to have matched the description of the tan Balenciaga.”

  “That’s fantastic,” Stella almost spills her drink. “I mean, it’s a shitty thing to do to someone, but is there a way to ID the person or charge them?”

  “The clip is grainy. Mind if I show you so you can see what I mean?”

  “Not at all.”

  Aras brings over his laptop and pulls up a clip from a saved file. “Okay,” he points to the screen, directing Stella’s gaze, “watch as this woman comes around the corner with a handbag.”

  Stella’s eyes are glued to the dark-haired woman, wearing a one-shoulder dress, her dark hair in loose waves.

  Dismayed, her mouth drops open.

  The woman passes the line for the restroom, heading out the side entrance of the club, the tan bag an exact match for Stella’s.

  The color drains from her face. The woman in the clip is none other than Lucy Wagoner, making a go out of the club with Stella’s twenty-four-hundred-dollar handbag.

  “You okay?” Aras asks, pulling the laptop away from Stella’s face. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  Stella gulps the rest of her drink, unsure what to say. She doesn’t want to tell Aras that the woman in the video is her best friend since college, that the two are like sisters, and that she is the last person she suspected.

  She needs a moment to gather her thoughts, not wanting Lucy to get in trouble with the club or the police. There has to be a reasonable explanation for this, but she keeps coming up blank.

  Why would her best friend steal her designer handbag?

  It’s not like Lucy doesn’t have nice purses, or access to handbags, or even that she can’t afford them. If she wanted to borrow it, she could’ve just asked.

  Something’s not adding up, and Stella tries to relax her face as Aras considers her wan pallor.

  “I’m fine, sorry, I’m just baffled that someone can be so sly.”

  “Hard to trust people, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I just…you know, you start to lose your faith in human decency.”

  “I see it all in the club.”

  “So what now?”

  “Do you have any idea who this might be?” Aras asks. “It’s a dead end for us if we can’t ID the woman.”

  “No idea. She looks familiar, but maybe just from bumping into her at the club.”

  “Well, I thought I’d give you the update. Did you get everything squared away with your bank?”

  “Yes, I did,” Stella says, “and it was weird since the person didn’t even try to use my credit cards.”

  “Really? That’s bizarre. But good.”

  Aras stands, heading back behind his desk. “You still in the mood to dance?”

  “Of course.” She takes his question at her cue to leave. “I’ll see myself out.”

  “If you need anything, let me know.”

  “Thanks for the update. And the drink.” Stella salutes him and heads out, maneuvering her way down the stairs, her stomach filled with apprehension.

  Her legs tremble in her stilettos, and she can’t fathom what Lucy would want with her purse.

  Unless…

  No, it’s impossible.

  Stella sinks against the wall, the bright lights dance across the crowded dance floor. She feels claustrophobic, the hallway closing in on her. Shutting her eyes, she tries to concentrate on her breathing.

  No longer in the mood to party and impatient to get home, she hails a taxi outside, directing it to a bar near her house.

  There she sits, head in her hands, as she sobs into her vodka sour, drinking the mixture of salty tears and alcohol until she no longer feels the pain, just the discomfiture of her current predicament. Who is the other woman, she wonders?

  27

  Stella

  When she wakes up the next morning, it’s only because the blinds aren’t shut, and the sunlight causes her to blink in confusion. Stumbling out of bed, blonde hair plastered to her forehead, a quick peek in the mirror confirms she didn’t wash her face, traces of mascara rimming her eyelids.

  The start of a migraine pounds at her temples, and she holds her hand over her eyes, the glare off the water making her feel like she’s being scorched on sight.

  Pulling the shades closed, she drowns three Excedrin with a bottle of water, her throat parched.

  She didn’t even manage to make it out of her clothes, but she’s unsettled when she glances at the long-sleeved men’s shirt she’s wearing. This isn’t one of Grant’s, she typically drowns in his clothing. No, this belongs to someone else.

  Did they reconnect, she wonders?

  Frantic, she searches for her phone. Shoving her face underneath the bed, searching in the covers, and pulling out the bedside drawers, it’s nowhere to be found.

  Rubbing a hand through her tangled hair, she wal
ks around the upstairs for clues. What happened to her last night? She went to the club, then was upset by something.

  Stella snaps her finger. Ah, the fact that her best friend ran off with her purse.

  And then what?

  She stopped at a local bar.

  Disoriented, she wonders if she drove home.

  Scrambling down the stairs, she yanks open the garage door, relieved to see her Porsche in one piece, no body damage or scratches in the white pant that she can see.

  Her phone’s lying on the quartz counter, upside down.

  Stella scrolls through her call history.

  Her face burns with heat as she realizes how many times she tried to get ahold of him last night. From her call log, it doesn’t look like he returned any of her phone calls. Ditto for texts or voice messages.

  The question still lingers - whose shirt is she wearing?

  Slowly she climbs back up the stairs, every step causes a strike to her forehead, causing her to keep her head down.

  After she examines her walk-in closet, she finds the gold lamé dress she was wearing last night and her panties discarded on the floor.

  Did she bring someone home?

  Cameras.

  She can check the security cameras.

  But if Grant logged in and saw her coming home with someone, she’s sure she put the nail in the coffin of their marriage.

  In some ways, she almost hopes he watches her as she brings someone home. Serves him right to have her doing the same dirt he’s doing. They both haven't taken their vows very seriously, the difference is, she would never be so obvious about it.

  Maybe she should feel relieved he sucks at hiding his tracks. This is probably his first time. Definitely his last. Because she can’t stay in a marriage feeling trapped and alone for very much longer.

  Stella logs into their account, realizing she canceled the cameras.

  The only operational one is a single mounted camera Grant installed that looks over one of the patio door entrances. It wasn’t part of their security plan, just a bonus he installed for extra measures, to make sure no one on the beach or any bums were trying to break in.

  Frustrated, she wishes for once she did have some proof of what she did. Trudging to her bed, she collapses into the covers, reaching for the pill bottle on the side table. She pops an anti-anxiety pill, chugging it down with the last of the water.