The Last Wife: An absolutely gripping and emotional page-turner with a brilliant twist

by Nicola Marsh

  “You’re right, Christine, I don’t know what’s going on in your life because we’re not close and that’s my fault.” I pat my chest. “I admit I wouldn’t win any mother of the year contests, but seeing you so drunk today has me worried.”

  I stare into her eyes, beseeching her to understand what I’m saying comes from a good place in my heart and I’m not interfering for the sake of it. “There’s something more going on that you’re not telling me, and that’s fine, but I hope that while you’re here you’ll trust me enough to open up.”

  Her lips remain mutinously shut and I want to ask about the money withdrawals, but I don’t. I can’t afford to push her away. Not after we’ve made significant progress. “Anyway, if you don’t want to talk to me, please go chat to Doctor Limstone.”

  After a long pause, she shrugs. “Can’t hurt.”

  It won’t, I’ll make sure of it. I’ll encourage the doc to give Christine a none-too-gentle nudge toward a private rehab facility on the city’s fringes that has hosted many celebrities in need of help without the publicity.

  “Why don’t you go up to your room and rest?” I finally risk a touch, patting Christine’s hand briefly.

  She nods, hauling herself up from the sofa like she’s a hundred. She scuffles toward the door, pausing to glance over her shoulder.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Relieved I’ve made some inroads with my daughter, I need to move on to the greater challenge: ensuring the rest of the family fall into line with my plan.

  12

  Ria

  Eight thirty every evening is my favorite time of the day when I get into bed next to Shelley and we read. No matter how bad my day has been, no matter how demanding or challenging, the peace that envelops me the moment I slip beneath her butterfly-covered quilt is overwhelming.

  I glance at my daughter and resist the urge to squish her tight. Her gaze is glued to the page of her favorite author’s latest pony book release, the tip of her tongue poking out and resting on her bottom lip, her head tilted at an odd angle as if she can’t fathom the story. She’s adorable and I never get tired of looking at her.

  As if sensing my stare, she glances up and rolls her eyes.

  “Mom, this is a really good bit. Stop disturbing me.”

  “I didn’t say a word.” I duck down to plant a kiss on her forehead and she shoves me away, but it’s half-hearted. She loves my kisses and cuddles as much as I love bestowing them.

  “Read, Mom.” She elbows me away and points to my e-reader. “You’ll never know if that lady doctor falls in love with the cowboy unless you keep reading.”

  Surprised, I stare at the print on my backlit page. “How do you know that?”

  “Because I always peek at the page you’re reading before you turn out the light. Duh.”

  “You little—” I tickle her and she squeals, trying to push me away while tickling me back.

  God, I love this kid. My heart fills to bursting with it every single day. That’s what I’ve never been able to fathom about Grayson. How he could leave this wonderful girl behind and not care if he ever saw her again?

  I can pinpoint the exact moment I knew he’d been hiding something, about a month before he left us. Shelley had been almost five, a bright, precocious girl who never stopped chattering. She’d wanted to go to the zoo forever and we’d agreed to take her the following weekend. But after building up his daughter’s hopes for a week, Grayson pulled out at the last minute, citing a major work project.

  I’d watched him squat down to tell Shelley, trying to buy her off by presenting her with a ridiculously expensive jewelry box for a four-year-old. She’d accepted the gift and hugged her dad, but I’d seen the sadness in her eyes and the secrets in his, and in that moment I knew Grayson wasn’t the man I thought he was. Our daughter didn’t want gifts, she wanted to spend time with her father, something I knew only too well from my own childhood.

  He’d continually withdrawn in the four weeks following that incident, spending more and more time at work, ignoring us. The day after he’d left, I took one glimpse at that emailed photo and wanted to vomit. Turns out, I was right: I didn’t know the man I married at all.

  “Truce,” Shelley yells, her giggles piercingly loud, and I stop tickling.

  “How about I get back to my cowboy and you get back to your ponies?” I point at her book. “Though it’s been a long day, so another five minutes then it’s lights out.”

  True to form, my angelic daughter doesn’t argue. “Okay.”

  She’s quickly absorbed into the world of gymkhanas again and I try to read but my attention wanders. I can’t stop thinking about those emails and how I’ll deal with them.

  When I realize I’ve read the same sentence eight times and Shelley yawns, I close my e-reader and gently shut her book.

  “Goodnight, Shell-Bell.” I hug my daughter, grateful that she still wraps her arms around me in return. This will change all too soon over the next few years, I know that, which makes me cherish every single one of these hugs before the fraught teen years.

  “’Night, Mom, love you.”

  “Love you, too.” I kiss her forehead and ease out of the bed, immediately missing her warmth and the fruity apple smell that clings to her pillow from her shampoo.

  I turn off the lamp and barely make it to the door before I hear her breathing deeply and I know she’s asleep. I envy her. I wish I could put my head down and fall asleep instantly but it’s been years since I’ve had a restful sleep. When I go to bed I mentally rehash my day, make a to-do list for tomorrow and when I drift off eventually, I can’t help but remember the past and hope the future will be different.

  I shut her door with a soft click and pad to the front of the house, knowing it’ll take more than the usual hour to fall asleep tonight. Ever since the idea of contacting Grayson for help popped into my head I can’t ignore it. He’s the only person I know who’s better than Lars at anything to do with computers.

  He’d helped me countless times when I’d initially started my freelance career, desperate for a hint of a story, delving behind the scenes online so I could write the best damn articles to get ahead. I’d reveled in the closeness it created between us. He’d been content to work for his family’s company’s IT department when he could’ve been so much more but I admired his loyalty. Pity it didn’t extend to his daughter and me.

  Maybe I should wait, see if any more emails land in my inbox. Then again, considering what those explosive emails contain, waiting could be foolhardy. I’ll do a little more digging online tonight and if I still can’t find anything, I’ll instigate steps to reach out to Grayson, wherever he may be. I can’t help but hope he might know who’s behind this, considering the same person sent that email and photo of him.

  There’s a soft knock on the door as I’m about to enter the den. No one visits us at this hour. I don’t have many close friends, just a few reporters I keep in touch with, and they wouldn’t drop by without a text or call first. There’s been a spate of home invasions in Chicago lately, reported on the news daily, and I’m nervous.

  I peek through the peephole and slump against the door in relief. It’s Justin. Though that relief is short-lived as I wonder what my brother-in-law is doing on my doorstep at eight forty-five on a Saturday night after we’ve seen each other only a few hours earlier.

  I open the door as he’s about to knock again. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

  “Can I come in?”

  He sounds calm enough but his hair is spiked, like he’s run his hand through it a million times, and his skin is pasty beneath its usual tan. But it’s his eyes that have me wondering what’s happened, clouded with worry that lends him a dazed, disoriented look.

  “Sure.” I clamp down on my initial urge to send him away and open the door wider, waiting until he’s inside before closing it. “Shelley’s asleep so we can talk through here.”

  He hasn’t been here al
l that often over the years but he strides toward the lounge room and I follow, biting on my bottom lip to prevent myself from inhaling his intoxicating citrus aftershave.

  I hover in the doorway when he starts to pace, staring at his feet like they hold the answer to some complex unsolved problem.

  “Can I get you anything?” I offer out of politeness, when in fact I hope he won’t stay long.

  I have no idea what has him so agitated and I don’t want to find out. I can’t be this man’s confidante, family or not, because after this afternoon and the strange frisson of something between us, I don’t trust him. Or myself. Besides, he’s never visited my place alone, and the fact he doesn’t have the girls or Ashlin with him has me on edge.

  “Wine. Beer. Anything alcoholic,” he says, dragging his gaze away from his feet to stare at me, a little wild-eyed.

  I should make coffee but wine’s quicker and the sooner he drinks it the faster he’ll be out of here. I pad into the kitchen, belatedly realizing I’m in my cotton PJs. They are pale blue, loose elastic-waist pants and a singlet top, more like workout gear really, but I’m still uncomfortable.

  But making a big deal of changing would signal that discomfort and I want him out of here ASAP. So I pour two glasses of Shiraz, half-glasses for speedier drinking and a faster exit on his part, and head back to the lounge room. He’s sitting on the sofa, his head resting against the back of it, eyes closed. Worry lines fan from the corners of his eyes and tension brackets his mouth but even in obvious distress he’s strikingly handsome. I must make some kind of embarrassing sound because his eyes snap open and fix on me with unerring accuracy as I cross the room, my heart sinking as I realize where I’ll have to sit.

  One chair is covered in a stack of Shelley’s artwork; the other has a pile of folded laundry yet to be put away. Leaving me no option but to sit next to him on the sofa. It’s silly, this awareness on my part. He’s my brother-in-law. He can visit any time he likes. But he doesn’t and the fact he’s arrived alone at this time of night and is wound tighter than a spring indicates that what’s about to transpire may not be good.

  I hand him the glass in silence, hating how uncomfortable I feel in my own house. It’s crazy. I should be welcoming him, especially if he needs help, considering he wouldn’t have arrived on my doorstep otherwise. But I can’t forget this afternoon and how for the first time we skirted around the issue of our attraction. I don’t know why I’m uneasy. I feel guilty but I haven’t done anything.

  Not yet.

  And it’s that qualifier that has me on edge, wishing he’d hurry up and get the hell out of here.

  “Thanks. You have no idea how badly I need this.” He downs the wine in a few gulps then stares at the empty glass, and me.

  I sit and he places his glass on the coffee table, then braces his elbows on his knees, staring at my photo-covered mantel.

  “Sorry for turning up here like this but I didn’t want to drive around when I was angry and I couldn’t go to Mom’s so…” He trails off, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to pop in when we both know it’s not.

  “So you came here?”

  My incredulity is audible and when he lifts his head to finally look at me I don’t like what I see: a startling mix of regret and confusion and hope.

  I don’t want any part of this. No matter how much I want to hug him to make it all better. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he’s probably had an argument with Ashlin. But I can’t be his go-to person. Like all married couples, this can’t be their first argument and he must have other places to go.

  I fidget on the seat, knowing I have to tell him to leave but too polite to be blunt. He takes my silence as permission to continue.

  “I can’t do this anymore. Live with Ashlin. Pretend like we’re a couple.” He drags in a deep breath and blows it out, the worry grooves bracketing his mouth deepening. “We’re over.”

  He needs to leave. Now.

  But as he continues to stare at me with that shell-shocked expression tinged with hope, it’s my turn to tip wine down my throat. I drain the glass, place it on the table, and try to surreptitiously scoot away from him.

  “I’m not the person you should be confiding in, Justin, and we both know it.”

  His eyebrow quirks, annoyingly rakish. “Why?”

  If he wants me to spell it out he’ll be waiting a long time. I won’t play this game. It’s fraught with danger and can only end badly.

  I shake my head. “You should go.”

  I make a move to stand and he grabs my hand so fast I tumble back down, much closer to him this time. I’m almost sitting in his lap and it’s too much.

  “I need you, Ria. Please.”

  He squeezes my hand tighter, beseeching me to understand. I don’t want to. Because I know if I open my heart to this man even a little I’m in grave danger of making a mistake I’ll regret.

  “You’re hurting, I get that.” I speak softly, trying to sound calm when I’m a mess inside. A confusing riot of emotions centered on how damn good it feels having him hold my hand. “But whatever you think you’re doing here, it’s not right.”

  He tries to intertwine his fingers with mine. “I need a friend, that’s all.”

  Bull, and we both know it.

  “Justin, listen, I can’t—”

  He kisses me, his lips warm and commanding. I gasp in surprise and he takes it as an invitation to invade my mouth. His tongue sweeps in, taunting mine and for an insane moment I give in to temptation.

  It’s hot and frantic and so damn sexy I may die as our tongues tangle and we moan into each other’s mouths. Exactly as I imagined it would be: explosive and passionate and a prelude to so much more.

  His hands are on me, one on my butt, the other slipping inside my singlet, palming my breast. My skin is on fire, making me writhe.

  I groan when he tweaks my nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger with just the right pressure. Sensation streaks lower, pooling between my legs, making me want to clamber all over him.

  When he starts to push me back against the sofa and I feel how hard he is, reality crashes over me.

  No way in hell I’m having sex on my sofa with my daughter sleeping in the house.

  The moment the thought pops into my head I’m even more ashamed. What would I do if Shelley wasn’t here?

  I struggle beneath him and push him away. “Justin, we can’t.”

  He stops and crazily I miss his touch when he slides his hand out of my top and readjusts the strap. Hooking his finger into it, sliding it up slowly until it sits on my shoulder. It’s an oddly tender gesture and I feel tears prick the back of my eyes.

  “I should apologize for that,” he says, staring at me with such intensity I can’t look away. “But I won’t, because I’m done with the lies.”

  He shrugs, like it’s no big deal we almost devoured each other a few moments ago. “I’ve lived my entire life according to other people’s expectations. Being the perfect eldest son, getting the perfect marks, the perfect business degree, stepping into the family business. Marrying a woman from similar social circles. Being a good husband, a good dad…”

  He trails off, his audible anguish making me want to hug him so I sit on my hands instead.

  “But I can’t keep up the pretense any longer. I’m sick of being unhappy all the damn time.” He runs a hand over his face. It does little to erase the sadness. “Were you miserable before Grayson left?”

  I rarely talk about my marriage with anyone, least of all Grayson’s family. After he left, May had berated him publicly in front of her other kids, leaving them under no illusion Grayson had been at fault and had always been flaky. I got the feeling her youngest son had embarrassed her by abandoning his wife and child and that’s why she stuck by me. The Parkers have standards to uphold and Grayson had fallen well short, if May’s disgust was any indication.

  Justin, Trent and Shamira had always been supportive after Grayson left. Christine did
n’t particularly care. Ashlin had implied I wasn’t woman enough to hold onto a Parker man, like it was my fault Grayson had fled to get away from me.

  “Miserable? No.” I shake my head, hating that over five years have passed but thoughts of Grayson still have the power to make me doubt myself. Could I have done anything different? Could I have tried harder? Could I have seen the signs of his withdrawal? Could I have guessed his sordid secret if I’d looked hard enough?

  “I thought we were okay. We hit a rough patch like all couples do when Shelley was little but we worked through it.” It had made us stronger, or so I thought. “I think he tolerated his job at the company out of loyalty to the family and I could never understand why he didn’t want to do more with his IT skills, but I thought most of his dissatisfaction stemmed from his job, not me. He spent way too much time at work the last month before he left and I resented that, more the workload than him though.”

  Justin stares at me with open curiosity. “So you didn’t hate each other before he left?”

  “Far from it.”

  Heat creeps into my cheeks at the memory of exactly how normal our marriage had been, right until the day he left. We’d made love the night before and it had been slow and sensual and incredibly tender. He’d spooned me as usual. We’d slept; I’d heard him tending to Shelley’s breakfast the next morning like he usually did. I had no idea he was about to walk out our front door and never return.

  Or the secret lifestyle he led that must’ve left him so guilt-ridden he had to leave.

  “Grayson’s an idiot for leaving you,” he says, sounding fiercely protective, making me want to be near him again. “To be honest, I was always a little jealous of him.”

  He glances away, embarrassed. “Jealous of the obvious affection between you two while my marriage has always been… strained.”

  I have no idea how he’s lived with Ashlin this long but it’s not my place to say. Not when it can be misconstrued. I can’t be the reason he leaves his wife and I need to make him understand that.