by A. J. Banner
“I’ll work it out.”
“Your mom will be back soon. You’re going to stay here with her?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’ve got some things to figure out.”
His expression softened, a pleading look in his eyes. “I don’t want to be away from you. I’ve been faithful to you. I’m feeling my way through all this, just as you are. I didn’t tell you about Monique because I didn’t want to lose you. That’s the truth. There’s nobody else. Come back to the cottage. Please.” He touched my cheek, his eyes full of pain.
“I need to be alone for a while, to figure things out. That’s all.”
“Sarah . . .”
“I need some time.”
He nodded, his shoulders slumped. “I’ll move into a hotel. You go back to the cottage and stay there. I’ll give you the space you need. But I want you to know. I love you. I’m not going to give up. If this marriage fails, it will be because you decided to leave.”
“Don’t lay this responsibility on me.”
“I don’t mean it that way. I only mean—it will be your decision. The cottage is yours for as long as you need it.” He turned and walked away, but the faint scent of him lingered in the air long after he was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
When I pulled up to the cottage and found the driveway empty, my entire being went still. Johnny had drawn the curtains against an icy sky, and then he had vacated the premises. The gray morning hung lonely and desolate. The birds had gone silent, as if they sensed the chill in my soul. Even the rhododendron bushes curled their leaves against the frost.
Inside the cottage, Johnny had left the rooms pristine. His magazines were gone from the coffee table. His shoes were missing from the doormat. His coats had disappeared, the brass hooks on the wall bare, except where I’d hung my raincoat.
But his smell remained—the pine scent of his aftershave and his indefinable male aroma, reminiscent of spice and the salty sea. I’d heard that smells conjured the deepest emotional memories—it was true. I remembered the way he’d held my hand on the beach in Oahu, his impulsive stop at a roadside stand to buy me a bag of lychee fruits. He understood my moods, sensed what I needed when he made love to me. What was the measure of a marriage? These moments of caring and bliss? Or the secrets withheld?
Had I ever known the real Johnny? He was a contradiction. He became efficient under stress, and yet more absentminded in small ways. He kept track of finances but left his socks lying around. He balanced the checkbook but scattered crumbs on the countertops.
Was he still in Shadow Cove, or had he escaped to another town, where he wouldn’t be easily recognized? Here in our insular community, he might run into people he knew. They would ask questions.
Had he removed his wedding ring, or did he keep it on, idly turning it around on his finger, as was his habit? He removed anything else restrictive the moment he got home. Wallet and keys, bills and coins, all emptied from his pockets.
This morning, he had taken the contents of his pockets with him. On the kitchen counter he had left me a supply of my favorite foods—soft challah bread, organic blueberries, soy milk, and ground coffee. He knew I often became so involved in writing, I sometimes forgot to eat. He wanted to remind me of his thoughtfulness. But could the good things be fairly weighed against the lies? Or more accurately, against sins of omission?
How could I concentrate on writing? My upcoming signing, at the Shadow Cove Bookstore, weighed on me. How could I smile and pretend to celebrate? I heard Natalie’s voice in my mind: Living well is the best revenge. I would have to find a way to live well.
Or a way to simply live.
In the bedroom, the coverlet stretched across the mattress and tucked itself beneath the pillows. My normally messy husband had taken time to make the bed. Suddenly, I wanted his untidiness, the indentation in his pillow, his clothes left on a chair.
The second bedroom felt impersonal without his computer and pens, his books and mugs. The chair was locked in the reclining position, as if he had slept there. Maybe he couldn’t bear the thought of climbing into bed without me. Had he slept in the hotel? Or had he merely dropped off his suitcase, brushed his teeth, and gone straight to work? Did he miss me? I wanted him to long for me, although on a deeper level, I did not want him to suffer, despite the way he had deceived me. What would bitterness accomplish?
Still, I couldn’t stop dark thoughts from creeping in. How many evenings had we spent with the Kimballs, watching movies or chatting over dinner, when Johnny’s arm might’ve brushed Monique’s? When she might’ve leaned over him at the dining table, to place a platter of roasted vegetables on a trivet, and he might’ve caught a whiff of her perfume, glimpsed the curve of her breast? Made a plan for a rendezvous? Every moment carried new, adulterous meaning—the way Monique had sucked on a Popsicle on a hot day, while gazing over her sunglasses toward our backyard, where Johnny, shirtless and sweaty, had been digging in the garden.
He’d tried to leave nothing behind in the cottage. His side of the bedroom closet stood empty. He had taken all of his clothing, except for a shirt and a pair of slacks, which he’d left draped over a towel rack behind the bathroom door. For the first time since I’d known him, I found myself checking his pockets. If he hadn’t insisted on taking his own suits to the dry cleaners, I might’ve checked his pockets before, for mundane, forgotten things. An innocent kind of search. But now I sought evidence of deception, and I found the folded receipt, in pale blue ink, with the imprint of the Harborside Florist logo at the top, for the costs of a potted hydrangea and delivery, ordered the day before Johnny and I had gone to dinner at Eris’s house—paid for in cash.
I was still looking at the receipt when I heard the low rumble of a car prowling up the road. Adrian’s black Buick rolled to the curb and idled in front of the cottage, and then the engine kicked off. Jessie got out of the passenger side.
I wiped my eyes, smoothed my knit sweater, and opened the front door. Unseasonably wintry air pricked at my skin. “Jessie, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
“Just a minute,” she shouted at Adrian. “I’ll only be a minute!” She strode across the grass toward me, underdressed for the cold in a hoodie and skinny jeans. Her running shoes slipped when she reached the sidewalk, then she regained her balance and walked with her arms slightly out to the side. Her eyeliner was smudged, her face gaunt.
“What are you doing here?” I said. “You’ll catch your death. Would you like a jacket? Come inside.”
“I was worried about you,” she said. “My mom said you and Dr. M. are getting a divorce.”
“What? That’s not true.” The blood drained from my face. How had news of our marital trouble traveled so quickly? Who had told Pedra?
Jessie crossed her arms over her chest and glanced back toward the car, then she looked at me again, emptiness in her red-rimmed eyes. “Is it true? Are you guys splitting up? Was it the journal? He was having an affair, wasn’t he? Dr. M. was banging Mrs. K.”
“Banging? Who told you that?”
“I figured it out. That bites. I’m sorry.”
“Jess—”
“I just came to tell you I’m leaving,” she said, hugging herself around the waist now, shifting from foot to foot in the cold.
“Leaving for where? Why don’t you come in? We can talk for a while. You’re cold.”
“I can’t. Adrian wants to go right now. He has a job interview in Silverdale.”
“He’s not working construction anymore?”
She shook her head, kicked at the sidewalk with her shoe. “He got fired.”
“What are you doing with him?” But I knew the answer. I could see it in his hulking shoulders, in Jessie’s naïveté.
“I have to get out of here,” she said.
“Where will you go?”
She looked up at the cottage, longing in her eyes. “We’re getting a place.”
“Who? You and Adrian?” This couldn’t be happe
ning. She wouldn’t go with him.
She nodded toward the car. Adrian was talking on his cell phone, gesticulating. She looked at me again. “I was waiting for my birthday.”
“Do your parents know?”
Adrian slammed the palm of his hand on the steering wheel. Jessie flinched perceptibly. “I left them a note,” she said, looking at me with defiance.
“Think about what you’re doing.”
“I don’t need to think. My parents don’t get it. They think he’s the pyro, too. They’re wrong.”
Was he the pyro? I wondered. “Did you return the things you took?”
“I’m going to, I promise.”
Adrian got out of the car and approached us with an overconfident swagger. The air seemed to grow thin around Jessie and me, as if he sucked it all away.
“Don’t go with him,” I blurted to Jess. I grabbed her sleeve. She did not pull away, but she stood steadfast.
“Jess, c’mon,” Adrian said, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. He came close, too close. He wore pressed khaki slacks and a wool jacket, his black shoes shiny, his hair slicked back. He towered over both of us, exuding overbearing smells of mouthwash and metallic aftershave. “We’re gonna be late.”
“Why don’t you go to your interview and leave Jessie with me?” I said.
His dark eyes appeared oddly vacant. “Jess, come on.”
The Minkowskis’ house was closed and dark, both cars missing from the driveway. “Call your parents,” I told Jess. “Right now. They love you. Call them.”
She shook her head, looked at the ground. “I’m not going back there.”
“Come with me, Jess,” Adrian said.
“She’s not going with you,” I said. In the distance, Eris’s front door squeaked open, then slammed. She clattered down the porch steps in parka and boots and strode toward us through the woods.
Adrian gazed at me as if I were merely a speed bump. “You’re the writer,” he said.
“I do write,” I said. My heartbeat knocked around inside me.
“Stories for kids, right?” He snorted.
“They’re awesome mysteries,” Jessie piped up.
“But they’re about a rat or something,” he said. “Should I call the exterminator?”
“Mouse, actually,” I said.
“Oh, a mouse. All that . . . writing about rodents. Is it why your old man left you? All the rats in your brain?” His gaze raked me up and down.
Jessie stiffened. “Adrian, come on. You don’t have to insult her.”
“Jess,” I said. “Why don’t you come inside? Let Adrian leave.”
He took a hand out of his pocket and pointed his forefinger at me. “See, Jess? What did I tell you? Everyone’s going to try to stop us.”
Eris was halfway here, moving at a fast clip.
“Sarah, I can’t stay.” Jessie looked everywhere but at me.
“Let’s go,” Adrian said. He lunged, grabbed Jessie’s arm. “We’re leaving now.” He dragged her toward his car.
“Stop,” I said. “Stop it. Let go of her.”
“Fuck off,” he said. “Leave us alone.”
Eris approached us, waving her cell phone in the air. “Hey!” she shouted. “Hold it right there!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“What the hell is going on here?” Eris said when she reached me. “I’m calling the cops.”
“No, don’t!” Jessie said, but she had pulled away from Adrian. He did not attempt to grab her again. He stared warily at Eris.
“What are you doing to this young lady?” Eris said to Adrian.
He did not reply.
“Don’t call anyone,” Jessie pleaded, tugging at my sleeve. “Don’t call the police. You don’t need to. I’m not a minor anymore.”
“But you’re in danger,” I said, glaring at Adrian.
“No, I’m not. Adrian and I—we just need to talk.”
“Talk about what?” Eris’s brows rose. “Looked like he was about to yank your arm out of the socket.”
“I wasn’t yanking nothin’,” Adrian said. “You saw wrong. We’ve got ten minutes to get to my interview, babe.”
“Then go,” I said. “She’s staying here.”
“I’m moving in with him,” Jess said in a shaky voice.
“Really.” Eris’s gaze shifted from Adrian to me and then to Jess. “Honey, he’s no good for you.”
Adrian burst into harsh laughter.
“You don’t get it,” Jessie said. “You don’t understand. Nobody does.”
“She wants to come with me,” Adrian said. His cheeks were flushed. He held his hands slightly away from his body, his fingers curled into fists.
“She can speak for herself,” Eris said smoothly. “He already hit you before, didn’t he?”
Jessie went pale. “He did not hit me.”
“Next time, the damage will be worse. Are you sure you want to go with this man? Think about your future.”
“I am thinking,” Jessie said.
“I want your boyfriend off my property,” Eris said. “Right now.”
I looked at her, surprised by the stony look in her eyes.
Adrian stood his ground.
“Now,” Eris said. “Off.”
Adrian stepped back off the curb, toward his car.
“Come on.” Eris grabbed Jessie’s arm and hurried her toward the wooded path. I followed.
“What if I don’t want to go with you?” Jessie said, but she did not run back to Adrian.
“Believe me, honey, you want to stay with your family,” Eris said, steering Jessie along. “You’re lucky to have parents who give a damn about you.”
“They suck,” Jessie said, sniffing, but she stayed with us. Adrian got into his car and revved the engine.
“You always hate your family when you’re a teenager,” Eris said. “You’ll realize how good you have it later on.” A hint of bitterness crept into her voice.
“No, I won’t,” Jessie said, and she burst into tears.
Adrian screeched away from the curb, burning rubber, and raced off down the road.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jessie crumpled on the porch in sobs. Eris and I tried to console her, but she had collapsed inside herself, bereft. She kept saying, “I love him I love him I love him,” but I did not know to whom she was referring, Adrian or Chad—or maybe both.
Eris drove her home, and I returned to the cottage, shaky and disconcerted, Johnny’s florist receipt in my pocket. I had a feeling this interlude might not be the end of Jessie’s drama.
In the cottage, I could not be still. Now that Adrian knew where I was staying, alone, I no longer felt safe. But why? He had not specifically threatened me or anyone else. But still, I imagined his expressionless eyes watching me.
When Eris’s car returned, she bypassed her driveway and came to the cottage. Ice pellets had begun to plummet from the sky, covering the ground in tiny, glittering shards.
“I did what I could,” she said in the foyer. She looked perfectly put together, despite the weather.
“Is she all right?”
“Who knows? I tried to talk some sense into her, but there’s only so much I can do. Or anyone. I was her age once. Way wilder than she is.”
“She’s home again?”
“For now,” Eris said. She took off her gloves and placed them on the counter. “I’ll make us some tea?”
A few minutes later, we sat at the breakfast nook with two mugs of tea. “Do you want to talk about it?” she said.
“She told you,” I said.
“Divorce?”
“Separated for now.” Outside, the ice pellets dissolved into rain.
“Was he? I mean, did he . . . ?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a near whisper.
“Here I am alone again, drinking tea.”
“You’re learning what you’re made of. Haven’t you heard the saying a woman is like a tea b
ag, you never know what she’s made of until you dip her in hot water?”
“Ha ha.” I laughed, holding the cup between my hands, letting the heat seep into my skin.
She reached out and rested her warm hand on my wrist. “What an asshole.”
“We’ve been under stress. The fire burned away more than our house. It burned everything I believe in. Sorry if I sound melodramatic, but I feel dramatic. And homeless. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the cottage. It’s just that—”
“I know what you mean.” She looked out the window toward the Minkowskis’ house. “I understand what it’s like to feel homeless. I grew up in foster homes.”
“I didn’t realize—”
“I didn’t have a home until I made one for myself. I learned to take the reins. Nobody else would.”
“You’ve done well,” I said.
“I overcame my obstacles. I always do.” She pointed two fingers at her eyes, then extended her fingers outward. “I set my sights on a goal, and I get it. Patience and persistence pay off.”
“Good attitude. I admire you.”
She sat back and looked down at her hands, then at me. “What do you want now that Johnny is gone?”
“Not gone for good,” I said.
“The man cheated on you, and you’re going to take him back?”
“No, but I mean . . . he said he didn’t cheat after we were married.” I sounded ridiculously lame, with the evidence in my pocket.
“I understand,” Eris said. She got up, looked at her watch, then at me. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want.”
In an instant, I saw Johnny laying me on the bed, kissing my lips, my neck, lower . . . “I’m not sure,” I said. “We’ve already made memories here.”
She looked thoughtful. “I need to show you something. Wait here.” She went back to her car and returned with her briefcase, from which she removed pictures of a perfect writer’s retreat—a two-story cottage, ideal for one person. “It’s been on the market for a while. It’s a little overpriced and remote. But I could negotiate with the seller. I’m good at persuasion.”
The photographs depicted a bungalow built of ecologically sustainable materials. Big bay windows overlooking the ocean. A tower room with windows in all four walls. The atmosphere in the pictures, the storybook quality of the retreat, touched a deep part of my soul. “This is stunning. But—”