by Nicola Marsh
I love living in this hip lakeside suburb where tourists mingle with locals, sampling exotic food or listening to the latest grunge band at a dingy pub. Where a chilly breeze off Lake Michigan brings a welcome cool in the depths of summer. Where I can appreciate my new lifestyle and how far I’ve come.
Right now, I’d like nothing better than to grab Trent’s hand and head downstairs to follow the indie music drifting in our window from one of the many trendy bars. To indulge my passion for raw vegan fare. To browse through one of the bohemian boutiques in search of that elusive knitted, knee-length olive-green cardigan I’d glimpsed once and never again.
Instead, I glance around our spacious apartment as an affirmation. I can’t lose this. The honey-oak floorboards, the quirky art-covered walls, the monstrous wide-screen TV at odds with the funky purple suede sofas, all of it signifies a life I built with Trent. With his money.
I hear him rummaging in the kitchen, humming a recent pop hit and know I have to make my escape before he comes back and insists I take that bath. I can’t, not right now, I’m too wound up.
I slip on a crocheted poncho and head downstairs, punch in the code for the alarm and open the back door to Makes Scents, my aromatherapy shop, that also houses a large room where Trent teaches music. We’re living the dream. A dream built on his bank account.
I have no intention of allowing it to turn into a nightmare.
The aromas hit me first. Lavender. Geranium. Marjoram. Rose. Pungent and intoxicating, familiar and comforting, I inhale deeply, waiting for the usual calm to infuse me.
It doesn’t and I know why. I hate how May made that big announcement at the party, like we’re wasteful kids who need to be taught a lesson in reality. We all know she controls the family fortune and she can take it away as fast as she bestows it. But to have our noses rubbed in it…
I can’t go back to being poor. My fears are silly, really, considering I have the shop now and a steady clientele who pay way more than the overheads for my concoctions. But the lease is in the Parker company name, as is the apartment.
Trent and I will be screwed if May cuts us off. Sure, we have an investment portfolio carefully managed by Justin, but how far will that get us if May only doles out a small wage from a trust fund?
The average house price in inner Chicago currently sits in the high six figures and there aren’t many steady jobs for aromatherapists and part-time guitar teachers.
I’d been rattled enough after my confrontation with Ashlin and May’s surprising announcement intensified my unease.
I’ve paid my dues.
And paid a small fortune online to create a history far removed from my actual past, knowing a woman like May would have me investigated once I started dating Trent. Money well spent the day a Parker asked me to marry him.
I’d targeted him initially. He’d been playing in a talentless band at the same pub for a year, a rich kid flaunting the fact he didn’t need to work. I recognized him from a newspaper article on Chicago’s richest families and known right then he could be my way out.
I’d insinuated my way into his life. He loved my carefree spontaneity; I loved his sizeable apartment and bank account. But once I got to know him, I knew how lucky I was. Trent was one of the good guys and I hadn’t had many of those in my life. I fell in love for the first time, heady and surreal for a girl like me. We shared our hopes and dreams and he asked me to move in.
May didn’t approve at first but I won her over. People like me. It’s a skill. I’m genuine and sweet and guileless; when I want to be. We married six months later and opened our business three months after that.
That had been thirteen years ago and I’ve grown complacent, secure that the lies I’ve concocted will never be discovered. The thing is, while having money is nice and I’ve grown accustomed to it, it’s the thought of losing Trent that has me in a spin. I can’t bear the thought of him not loving me. He’s my world.
Because for that terrifying second when Ashlin confronted me at the party I thought she knew my other secret, the one I don’t think Trent would be able to forgive.
Panic fills my chest, squeezing it in a vise, and I force breaths deep into my lungs to calm down. Everyone thinks I do yoga because I love it; little do they know. It’s a necessity, a way for me to keep the ever-present apprehension at bay, the fear that at any moment my carefully constructed life will come tumbling down around me.
That’s what has me worried. If Ashlin has somehow discovered the truth about my past, what else does she know?
My fingers tremble as I mix up a concoction of frankincense, sandalwood and ylang-ylang, perfect for anxiety. I pour the mixture into a burner and light the candle beneath. In another beaker I mix bergamot, geranium and frankincense for calming and add it to an electric burner. Overkill, maybe, but I need all the help I can get right now.
I’ll need to call that client to come by later to pick up a batch of my famous arthritic remedy so Trent doesn’t discover my lie. I need a few hours to clear my head, to calm down, so he doesn’t pick up on the fact that Ashlin freaked me out. So I set to work. Lining up the bottles of essential oils: chamomile, cypress, lavender, lime. Measuring out the base oil. Adding the right amount of drops. Mixing.
Yeah, this is exactly what I need. The soothing repetition of a familiar activity, far removed from vindictive Ashlin and her too-close-to-home accusations.
9
Ria
I don’t have to wait long until Shelley is in bed and I can fire up my computer. She’s exhausted after the party and talked non-stop on the way home about the cool stuff Jessie is doing: ballet, horse riding, piano, golf, polo. I refrained from saying that the poor girl doesn’t have time for a childhood with that extensive list of after-school activities. And when does she find time for homework?
Then again, the Parker women don’t have to study because when they finish school they get unlimited access to a seven-figure bank account to live off.
Though that’s changing, considering May’s surprising announcement earlier this afternoon. I’d almost applauded when she’d divulged changes that would encourage her children to stand on their own feet. It would have no effect on me but as I’d looked around that table I’d seen shock and horror. And anger from Justin, who’d obviously been blindsided like the rest.
For as long as I’ve known May she’s never played games. She doesn’t pit her children against each other or lord it over them that she’s still the matriarch of a powerful financial family. She’s caring and down-to-earth, to the point of stoical. I admire that about her. So I have no idea what her motivation is for the announcement today that has her family so rattled. I’d contemplated telling her about the emails I’d received this morning but, after her announcement, the party had quickly dispersed and Justin hadn’t left her side.
Besides, I want to delve deeper, to discover who is behind those emails. Are they a first step in blackmailing the Parkers? If so, why send them to me and not May? Unless… I haven’t thought about it until now but maybe other family members have received those revealing emails too and they’re too embarrassed to say anything?
There’s only one person I can ask and I pull up Shamira from the contacts list on my cell and hit the call button. She answers on the third ring.
“Hey, Ria, everything okay?”
Her greeting isn’t surprising considering I wouldn’t usually call her after we saw each other only a few hours earlier.
“Yeah. We didn’t have much of a chance to chat at the party so I thought I’d touch base.”
“That’s sweet of you.” I hear an odd bubbling sound that’s muffled. “I’m down in the shop mixing up a batch of arthritis remedy.”
“You’re working late.”
“The joys of being self-employed, you know how it is.”
I join in her chuckles, not wanting to point out Trent and Shamira freely access the family account May mentioned earlier and haven’t had to worry about money a day in their mar
riage.
I’m the only one who withdraws a sedate one thousand dollars a month, and that’s only because May forced me into it, saying she’d open up an account in my name and deposit ten times that every four weeks.
As if sensing the direction of my thoughts, she says, “What did you think of May’s slap on the wrist earlier?”
“It’s surprising, considering she’s given the family financial carte blanche for so many years. Maybe the company’s in trouble?”
“Yeah, maybe.” I hear glass clinking. “I’d love to chat, Ria, but I’ve got to get this mixture into sterilized bottles before it cools. Can we catch up for a coffee soon?”
“That sounds lovely.” There’s no easy way to skirt around the issue and I can’t think up a logical excuse, so I blurt out, “Hey, have you received any weird emails lately?”
“Apart from the usual spam for penile enlargements and hooking up with hot Russians online, no.”
I laugh and she continues, “Why?”
“I’m writing an article about phishing scams at the moment so I’m just checking with family first to see if they receive that kind of thing regularly.”
The lie slides from my lips, perfectly plausible.
“Nope, nothing here.” I hear a muffled curse and clinking of more glass. “I really have to go, Ria. See you soon?”
“Absolutely. Take care.”
She ends the call quickly and I sigh, placing my cell next to my laptop.
Shamira hasn’t received the revealing emails and I don’t want to ask May, Justin or Christine. Which means I’ll have to delve deeper. Lars is my go-to-guy for researching the cyber world and has helped me with so many articles I’ve written I’ve lost count.
He’s online, which isn’t surprising. I often joke that he never sleeps and when he does his brain is hardwired to his PC.
I send a message.
I need help tracing an IP address.
I forward him the sender’s details. However, his response a few minutes later says that tracing the IP address proves as frustrating as my contacts who’d tried five years ago. Lars is one of the best in cyber mysteries but whoever sent these emails is better.
He loves a challenge and if he hasn’t found anything I know he’ll be willing to go where he’s not supposed to, like accessing the police database.
I fire off another instant message to him.
You’re not giving up, surely?
Don’t you journalists know when to quit?
I smile and answer, pandering to his ego.
You know me, I never give up. Besides, I need a cunning, street-smart expert and isn’t that you?
Cut the sweet talk. You really need this IP address?
Yes. Please. It’s important.
I wait as the dots appear on the screen, before his response pops up.
Give me a few minutes to hack into the police database.
With a sigh of relief, I wait. Lars has a degree in computer science and knows how to get a job done, legally or otherwise. He’s helped me get the scoop many times since I’ve gone freelance and I trust him completely. We’d met during my last year at college through another journalism major and stayed in touch because I’d been suitably impressed when he showed me how he could reroute an IP address around the world many times to make it unidentifiable, then enter the dark web where anything and everything is for sale.
I don’t usually ask questions about where he finds his information but it’s usually accurate and, when I’m chasing a story, that’s all that matters.
The dots appear on my screen again and I hold my breath, hoping he’s come through for me yet again.
Sorry, still nada. Whoever’s behind this is a virtual ghost. You know me. I can find anything and anyone online. Not this time. But I love a challenge so leave it with me, I’ll keep digging and if I discover anything I’ll get back to you.
Disappointed, I fire back:
Thanks.
This is crazy. Lars is good at his job and he’s stumped.
There’s one other option I hate to contemplate. I know another computer genius who is smarter than Lars.
But I can’t reach out.
I don’t want to.
My heart pounds and my palms are clammy as I contemplate contacting the last man on earth I’d ever approach for help.
And that’s even if I can get in touch with my ex-husband.
10
Ashlin
I’m spoiling for a fight by the time we make it home.
I can feel my anger simmering, a slow burn that needs an outlet before I explode. But I say nothing in the car because I don’t like my daughters witnessing the friction between Justin and me. The girls are prattling in the back seat, their usual exuberant selves after they’ve spent time with their cousin. They’re close to Shelley thanks to the regular Parker catch-ups. It makes me feel guilty for not organizing more play dates and accepting Ria’s occasional invitations but then I’d be indebted to her and I don’t want that.
Shelley is sweet but also incredibly naïve for a ten-year-old. At eleven, my Jessie is far worldlier. She’s on every social media app and is proud of who she is, flaunting herself in a way that screams confidence. I initially balked at giving my approval, considering the legal age for a child to sign up to those apps is thirteen, but Jessie provided logical, well-thought-out arguments as to why she should be on them and I caved. Besides, it’s healthy for my girls to be self-assured and I want them to own who they are and use common sense to traverse the online minefield. It will teach them independence.
I want my girls to develop their personalities, their likes and dislikes. No point skulking in the shadows. That kind of recalcitrant behavior never helps a woman, especially in the cutthroat world of Chicago’s elite. Shelley is the antithesis of my confident children. She’s reserved, though playing with my girls brings out her boisterous side. She’s pretty too, with her mother’s big brown eyes and long dark hair and lips I can only obtain by regular visits to my cosmetic surgeon for fillers.
But I find her craving for affection irritating. She’s always been a hugger and I don’t like kids other than my own embracing me. I’d seen her crestfallen expression when I greeted her with only a wave at May’s party and wished I could be a better aunt, a better person, but it’s too late for that.
“Wasn’t it a great party, Mom?” Ellen pipes up from the back seat.
“Just swell,” I mutter, shooting Justin a venomous glare, likes it’s his fault I’m in this mood, when in fact he’s only partially responsible.
He ignores me, his stare focused on the car’s camera screen as he reverses into our garage.
“We had fun playing with Shelley,” Jessie adds, sounding less like the poised, mature girl I’m raising and more like her younger cousin, all bright-eyed enthusiasm.
“That’s great, but haven’t you both got to do prep for pony class in the morning?”
The girls groan in unison and tumble from the car as soon as Justin kills the engine. The ensuing silence is taut with unspoken accusations.
I know what’s coming.
He’ll say I always behave badly around his family, I’ll say he’s sniveling and weak-livered for pandering to them.
When was the last time we spoke a civil word to each other? I can’t remember. I hate being in a marriage that gives me everything I could want but not the one thing I crave: love.
I hate myself more for being this superficial, brittle woman who’ll tolerate it for the sake of appearances when I want so much more from my husband.
Back when we’d first met fourteen years ago he’d labeled me elegant and classy, and wooed me with first-class trips to Europe on a whim and four-carat diamond studs. It helped that I found him incredibly attractive, along with his massive fortune.
We’ve been a power couple in Chicago ever since; we both get off on attention and when I produced the requisite two kids not long after we married, I could do no wrong. Even May thawed toward me w
hen I gave her grandchildren.
But over the years the family’s tolerance of me has waned. Most of them are polite to me because they have to be; I’m family. May is civil but I see the judgment in her steely gaze, like she knows what I’m doing in cuckolding her workaholic son who barely acknowledges I exist these days.
I can’t pinpoint when Justin’s attitude toward me changed. Not that I expected the heady days of our early courtship to continue indefinitely but I married a charismatic man who makes me feel good just by being next to him. So when he started distancing himself, physically and emotionally, I predictably shut down too.
His continuing silence unnerves me. It’s a game we play, to see who’ll crack first. We do this all the time, a stupid, childish one-upmanship that results in neither of us winning. We’re both stubborn but today I won’t be able to hold out. I’ll cave first. I’m too pissed off. I don’t like firing the first barb but the six champagnes I consumed earlier are making my head pound and I want to go inside.
I half swivel to face him, irritated that his profile is still so goddamn attractive. Strong jaw. Straight nose. Defined cheekbones. Smooth skin. His perfection annoys me today; as if I’m not feeling insecure enough after Ria’s hint at my impropriety. It makes me want to lash out.
“What’s going on between you and Ria?”
He has the audacity to laugh, a harsh sound devoid of amusement, as he stares straight ahead like a motionless robot. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Actually, I’m deadly serious.” My drawl hides my growing fear that I’ve broached a subject I would’ve been smarter avoiding, but I want to rattle him as much as his immobile posture is rattling me. If Ria’s implication she knows what I’m up to and Shamira’s accusation aren’t bad enough, May’s announcement has thrown me completely.