The Secretive Wife (More Than a Wife Series Book 2)

by Jennifer Peel

  “Well, that was exciting,” Avery commented. “I better go find Jimmy and Matt and make sure Mimsy’s sugar daddy isn’t taking any candy from my kids.”

  I had a feeling it was Mimsy who was the sugar momma. Which was why I was happy to turn around and see that Sarah and Joseph were glued to the pale, wrinkled Kanye and Kim wannabes. Giovanni was trying to stare me down, but all he got in return was a smirk. Mimsy, I noticed, was pouting like a child, and Sarah kept grabbing her and pulling her back like she was a toddler. Joseph smiled warmly at me and mouthed, “Thank you.”

  I wasn’t sure why he was thanking me, but I would take a kind word from him any day. And hoped to give him many in return in the future.

  First, though, my new fan Deann with her two sidekicks accosted me when I made it to the stairs as if they were waiting for me to pass by. Deann reached for me and they circled around, making me feel like I was the sacrifice for the weird ritual they looked ready to perform. They were all staring at me in what could only be described as bewilderment. I began to back away, more than uncomfortable, but Deann pulled me back into their unholy circle. Where was Mimsy’s holy water when you needed it?

  “We were just saying how lovely your home was and how Peter hit the jackpot.” Deann petted my arm. The women all smiled at some inside joke I'd apparently missed.

  I wasn’t even sure how to respond, but didn’t need to. The perky dyed brunette to my right who was wearing a puffy dress as if she was going to prom in the 1980s spoke before I could.

  “You know, Peter dated my daughter in high school.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Nor did I care to. Not like I was jealous, but what difference did it make now?

  “They were such a cute couple. I thought maybe he might change his mind about entering the seminary then. He broke Eva’s heart, but I guess he was . . . well, I guess he wanted bigger things.” That sounded like sour grapes with a topping of BS.

  I suppose you could consider God bigger things, but I was sure they were slighting me somehow. I should have kept my mouth shut, but I wasn’t going to be insulted one more time tonight in my own home. “You know what they say—good things come to those who wait.” I got too much pleasure at the taken-aback, wide eyes of each woman. “Excuse me ladies, I’m sure my husband is looking for me.”

  Like startled mice, they all scurried over to Sarah and instead of acting affronted they seemed excited. Why it was such a thrill for them to tell Sarah what an awful human being I was, I would never know. Newsflash—she already knew. Or at least she thought she knew. To add to the oddity of it all, Sarah hushed them. She didn’t seem happy to have others confirm what she already knew. She looked up from her circle of friends and locked eyes with me. In hers, I saw a look that teetered on perplexed and ashamed. What that was all about, I had no idea. I expected gloating.

  No time to think about it. The party gods got their final revenge on me for the evening. Cody appeared with his baby sister wailing in his arms. I assumed he was looking for his dad, or maybe not since he wasn’t exactly on speaking terms with him, but the kid was looking for help and I was it.

  Cody thrust ten-month-old Farrah into my arms without a second thought. “I don’t know what I did. One second she was laughing, the next . . . this happened. And she won’t stop.”

  I rarely had the opportunity to hold a baby. I was as unprepared for it now as I was the first time. And just like the first time, I instinctively held her close to me, not sure where those inclinations came from. “Shhh.” I bounced Farrah, trying not to get emotional myself. So many memories flooded my mind and I ached desperately for her. The baby with no name. I smoothed Farrah’s blond, wispy hair while she calmed down, wishing for the red hair I had only touched once. Farrah looked up at me with her big brown eyes full of wonder. A smile filled her cherubic face. Tears filled my own eyes. I never knew the color of her eyes.

  Peter surprised me and wrapped his arms around me from behind, bringing Farrah closer to me. It was both ecstasy and agony. Farrah calmed and snuggled against me. I held onto her with all that I had.

  “You’ve never been more beautiful to me,” Peter whispered in my ear.

  Would he feel the same way about me if he knew about her?

  Chapter Seventeen

  I stretched in bed, careful not to wake up Peter. I knew how exhausted I still felt and was sure he felt the same. He had helped with more of the cleanup last night than I did, and on top of that, he had to calm his mom down when Mimsy basically declared she thought we all were liars and Giovanni was the only person who really cared about her. Joseph and Sarah were supposedly going into the assisted living facility today to have an emergency meeting with the executive director. James said he would call in a favor and get a background check done on Giovanni.

  I lay there and watched Peter’s chest steadily rise and fall. I had to stop myself from touching him. I knew he wouldn’t mind. He said I was his favorite wakeup call. For today, though, I only admired and wondered. I was still amazed that we ended up together. It was as if black and white got married and decided to live in gray. For the most part I think it worked for us. I didn’t believe life was black and white, but sometimes, like last night, I was reminded of the stark contrast between our two worlds. I was not an Eva, who had five children and was married to an oncologist as her mother had told me. Not only that, but she was PTA president, a terrific cook, taught Sunday school, and from the sounds of it, would be canonized immediately upon her death. But she was sure to live forever because she was a nutritionist and taught spin classes regularly. Eva’s mom, whose name I couldn’t remember, wanted to make sure to drive that home as if it were a competition.

  I could write a kissing scene that would make toes curl. Did that compare? Probably not. That said, Peter did like to be my test subject.

  “I never saw you coming,” I whispered. Maybe if I had, I would have made different choices. I didn’t even know someone like him was an option. As much as I wished we’d met ten years ago, I wasn’t ready for him then. I wouldn’t have chosen him, a thought that made me shudder. However, I did make choices—hard ones, stupid ones, life-altering ones.

  I lay back on my pillow, trying to decide if I should try and go back to sleep. My phone said it was only 6:05. Early for Sunday. I was surprised I didn’t have any texts from Chad demanding more pages. I supposed I could get up and work. I looked at my slumbering husband. I could wake Peter up and we could spend our morning under the covers. Yes, I liked that thought very much, but we hadn’t gotten to bed until well after midnight, and he wasn’t stirring at all, which spoke of how tired he was. Normally when I moved away from him in the morning he always reached for me.

  What to do? Working didn’t sound appealing at all. A weird thought popped into my head. What if I made breakfast? I internally laughed at the thought. That would be quite the wakeup call when our smoke detector went off or I blew up our microwave again. Sam did promise me the blueberry bake Peter was so fond of was easy enough for me, but she didn’t know about the microwave popcorn incident.

  This was ridiculous. I was a competent, capable woman. I could master cooking. I didn’t need to become Betty Crocker, nor did I want to. But dang it, I wanted to be able to make something not only edible, but good. Challenge accepted. I threw off the covers.

  I crept out of our room, not feeling guilty at all passing the door leading to my office. I would work once Peter left for church. Besides, maybe the mayhem I was bound to make in the kitchen would make for a good scene. Laine, like me, was an awful cook.

  It was so nice to come downstairs to a quiet, empty, tulle-free home. The only evidence that a party had occurred was the large bouquet of black roses Sam had given me displayed beautifully in a glass vase on the island. The thoughtful thank you card still sat next to it. I picked up the sweet card and read the sentiments again.

  Dear Delanie, my sister, my friend,

  Thank you for enduring a week of hell. I love you.

 
Sam

  It still choked me up and almost made having the party worth it. I think, overall, Sam and Reed had an enjoyable evening. Or they put on a good show. They laughed and talked to everyone while hardly letting go of one another. There were the few hiccups, but I don’t think most guests had a clue we were harboring what I was guessing to be a felon, and then there was Neil who, thankfully, left early. Sam and Reed took Gelaire home.

  I couldn’t forget Sarah’s weird friends who may or may not be part of a cult or coven. They watched me all night with interest. Every time I walked by them, their heads went together. My guess was they were talking about how to boil me in their cauldron or how to kill me with their knitting needles and make it look like an accident. Then there was Sarah, who seemed to want to say something to me, but she tried and failed on more than one occasion. It was probably the nicest thing she’d ever done for me.

  I was only glad it was done and over with and I banked on never having to deal with Sarah’s friends again. I was ready to enjoy a relaxing Sunday with my husband. Family dinner was even canceled. The vulgarities going through my mind celebrating that fact were making me smile. Life for the moment felt good.

  I got out Sam’s cookbook and flipped to the page she marked for me. She had even made little notes for me, like what each dry and wet ingredient was. That should have been self-explanatory, but when it came to recipes, no one would know that I had a master’s degree or that I wrote books for a living. Sam also suggested that I get every ingredient I needed out and set them on the counter before I started, so I didn’t get flustered during the process. And she put a star next to the note reminding me to preheat the oven. I got this. Maybe.

  I went about following Sam’s instructions line by line and double checking as I went. I was more impressed that we had all the ingredients. I wasn’t sure how we had baking powder, but I rolled with it. I’m sure I bought it for some disaster I had taken to his parents at one time. I probably should have checked the expiration date, but I was living on the wild side this morning.

  I laughed at Sam’s notes telling me exactly how to wash the fresh blueberries that Peter always bought—he loved those things and popped them like candy. After reading Sam’s note about vinegar and baking soda, I was sure we had never eaten clean fruit in this house. Oops.

  By some miracle I was able to get everything mixed properly, as far as I knew, and get it into the prepared baking dish. And by some freak of nature it looked like the picture in the cookbook. It looked so pretty I was afraid to drop it on the way to the preheated oven. I should have brought my phone down so I could have taken a picture. If I didn’t burn it, it was getting its own photo shoot. But I was getting way ahead of myself.

  It made it in the oven without a hitch. I even remembered to set the timer and, not to brag, but I set it for the right time this time. I swore I stood there for forty-five minutes watching it bake, waiting for the explosion or for the house to smell acrid from accidentally using a cleaning chemical in place of a real ingredient. But no. It smelled not only edible, but good. I had this feeling I was about to become the best freaking wife in the history of wives. A feeling I had never felt before swelled in me. I felt giddy. I didn’t think that was a thing for me. I would probably never admit to it out loud, but, dang, I felt it.

  Sam’s note of don’t forget the hot pads rang in my head as soon as the timer went off. That was a good call on her part. In all my excitement, I had honestly forgotten. And no one had time for third-degree burns. The anticipation was more than it should have been, but this was a first for me and I was going to enjoy it. Even more, Peter was going to. I couldn’t wait to show him. We were having breakfast in bed!

  The smell was even more incredible when I opened the oven. Peter must have caught a whiff of it, because I heard him coming down the stairs while I was pulling out my masterpiece. So there went my surprise of breakfast in bed, but that was okay; I was so excited to show him, this worked out better.

  He came flying into the kitchen just as I pulled out his favorite breakfast. My first thought was wow, he must be hungry. It didn’t click that he was harried and holding up his phone. I was too enamored with what I had created.

  I held out the dish like it was our first-born child. “Get ready to be impressed and want to rip my T-shirt off.” To my irritation and dismay, he didn’t even look at it or respond to my sexy wife routine.

  “Delanie, baby, your secret’s out.” He sounded out of breath.

  “That I can cook?” That made no sense at all. Then in a rush it dawned on me what he meant. “No.” I shook my head.

  Peter carefully inched closer holding out his phone. “There’s pictures.”

  In my tunnel vision, all I could see on the screen was a box in my office filled with awards Autumn had won. I couldn’t breathe. I went numb. My masterpiece slipped from my hands and crashed down around me, just like my life. The glass dish slammed into the wood with a loud clang. Food splattered, and Peter jumped back. A part of me knew my bare legs had been burned, but it didn’t fully register. I leapt over what I could of the damn breakfast I had spent so much time on and ran up our stairs. Peter chased after me, asking me if I was okay, but I had no time to answer. And the obvious answer was no.

  I flew to the bedroom door. Unlocked. Who had come in here? I raced to the closed door to my office. I had almost reached my destination when searing pain shot through my foot all the way up my leg. “Aargh!!! What the hell?” I hopped on one foot and fell onto the spare bed.

  Peter was to me in no time, patting me all over. “Where are you hurt? What happened?”

  “My foot, my foot,” I cried.

  “You’re dripping blood everywhere.” Without a thought, he ripped off his shirt and pressed it against my foot.

  In another place and time, I would have thought that was sexy, but I was in the middle of a nervous breakdown, so his beautiful chest didn’t get even a glance.

  Peter was visibly shaken and began giving me a more thorough examination. “Your legs, baby, they’re burned.” He slowly pulled back his bloody T-shirt. “I didn’t think the pan broke downstairs.”

  “I don’t think it’s glass. It’s something in here.” Or maybe it was glass. So much adrenaline was coursing me through me, I might have run up here with glass in my foot.

  Peter looked down around him. “Hold on.” He bent down and came back up holding a silver hairpin with my blood on it.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  Peter walked to my office door and opened it. Without a key. I hopped off the bed, not caring that I was dripping blood all over the wood floor. I leaned against Peter and scanned the inside of my office. To my horror, I saw opened boxes and my framed New York Times posters lined up against the wall like they had been posed for a picture.

  “Who? How?” I begged to know.

  Peter scooped me up. “Let me take care of you first.”

  I refused to relax in his strong arms. “No. Tell me what you know.”

  Peter hung his head and sat down with me on the bed, holding me against him as if he was trying to brace me for the worst. The pain from the pin and burns hit me. I took deep breaths and let them out in heavy sighs to try and stave it off.

  “Delanie, you’re hurt.”

  “Just tell me.”

  He reached over for his phone he’d left on the bed. He pulled up the pictures again. This time he swiped through them. “James sent me these asking if it was true that you were Autumn Moone.”

  There were several pictures, everything from the awards to the framed New York Times lists. There were even pictures of my red typewriter.

  “Where did James get these?”

  Peter’s chest filled with air. He held it for several seconds, all while a dozen notifications popped up on his phone. So many I couldn’t keep up with them or comprehend them, but knew they all had to do with the pictures and me.

  “Peter, please.”

  He exhaled in a loud whoosh. “Baby,
I’m so sorry, it looks like Deann took the pictures.”

  I sat up straight. “Your mom’s friend?”

  Peter nodded. “That’s not the worst of it.”

  My heart dropped before he said more.

  “She’s posted them on Facebook.”

  Then there was no keeping it quiet. “That b—”

  Peter kissed me mid swear, but I still got it out against his lips. He stroked my hair. “Ma is so sorry.”

  I jerked back away from him.

  “She didn’t know—”

  “Didn’t know what?” My tone was so icy even I felt the temperature drop.

  “According to James, she asked Deann to break into the attic last night to see what we were hiding.”

  I jumped off his lap and landed on my bloodied foot. I crumpled onto the floor from the pain and pure shock of the situation. “What did I ever do to her?”

  Peter dropped down next to me.

  My head fell on his shoulder. “Peter.”

  He took my hand. “I know, baby.”

  “Our lives will never be the same again.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “What in the hell is going on over there?” Joan’s voice made my pounding head throb even more. “I have ten messages from that rat bastard, Lucas, from LH Ink.”

  Joan and Lucas Hirsch III, the CEO and the current LH in LH Ink, kind of had a romantic history but they despised each other now.

  I sat on the hardwood floor of my office leaning against the wall in a state of shock. I didn’t want to move or talk to anyone. All I wanted to do was stare at my things. My things. Things that someone touched and photographed without my consent. I couldn’t muster the energy to cry or rage, though a hurricane stirred inside me. All I could allow myself to feel in that moment were the burns on my legs and my punctured foot that had been carefully wrapped by my husband, whose raised voice I could hear in the other room. Never once had I heard him raise his voice. It didn’t even sound like him. Nothing in that moment felt real.