I struggled to keep my composure and appear relaxed. I'd broken a lot of bad news within the confines of this office, and today should have been no different. Just another choreographed routine of reassuring smiles, compassionate glances, and tender pats on the hand. That was what usually went down inside these four walls. At least five times a week.
But nothing about this moment felt routine.
The fact that I had personally been the one to prove the unfaithful tendencies of Benjamin Connors was irrelevant. It doesn't matter whose bare skin he touched, whose slightly glossed lips he kissed, whose short, provocative dress he tried to remove. What mattered was that he did all those things. With someone other than his wife.
This thought gave me a fleeting burst of strength, and I decided to seize the moment before it sizzled away and I was left once again with the total disaster that had stared back at me from the mirror this morning. I folded my hands in my lap and looked into the eyes of the woman sitting across from me, a serious yet empathetic expression etched into my face. "I'll be honest with you, Mrs. Connors, I don't like to draw out these meetings any longer than I have to."
For your sanity and mine.
"I know how difficult this is for you, so I'm just going to get right to it."
She nodded, her eyes wide with anticipation and fear. I could almost see the tears preparing for their call of duty. Lining up in the trenches of her eyelids like an army ready to go into battle, ready to deploy upon command.
"As we discussed, my associate"—I paused, shifting uneasily in my seat—"conducted a fidelity inspection on your husband, Benjamin Connors, on Saturday night at the Palazzo Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas."
Her lips were pressed hard together, soft pink pigment slowly giving way to a spreading sea of cold and lifeless white as she awaited my next words with eagerness.
"Your husband," I began slowly, "unfortunately did not pass the inspection."
Darcie drew in a sharp breath, held it for an unnaturally long time, and finally blew it out again. Even from across the coffee table, I could feel the soft gushes of warm air on my face.
"Oh God," she said, dropping her head in her hands. "Oh God."
That was all she managed to say before the sobs started.
Normally, I knew exactly how to respond in these situations. Normally, I'm a freaking database of supportive catchphrases and pep talks, complete with hand gestures, corresponding facial expressions, the works. But not now. Now I was just an empty mess. Nothing in my head was making sense. It was as if it were all written in a foreign language and I had lost my translation filter.
And for the life of me, I couldn't find a way to comfort Darcie Connors. All I could do was stare, dumbstruck, at her quivering body. After a few moments, my hands finally unfroze and my brain functioned long enough to grab the box of tissues from the table next to me and offer them to her.
Darcie lifted her head and plucked a tissue from the box. She blew her nose loudly and wiped under her eyes. "It's really happening, isn't it? My worst nightmare. It's happening."
I wasn't sure how to respond to this, either, so I just took a deep breath and reached out to touch her knee. She seemed to find comfort in the gesture, and strangely, so did I.
"I'm sorry I'm such a mess." She blew her nose again. "It's just that two weeks ago I had everything I ever wanted. A husband who loved me and the chance at a baby. I feel like I just lost my entire family in the course of five minutes." She let out a strange, nervous laugh. "It almost sounds funny when I say it aloud."
I nodded, feeling helpless. This had always been the dichotomy, trading the pain of the present moment for the hope of a happier future. But now I wasn't so sure. Was all this pain and agony really worth it? Not only hers, but my own as well?
"I'm just sorry it had to happen like this," I muttered, staring down at my hands.
And I was. I was sorry it happened like this. I'm sorry Ken Littrell's idiot best man felt the need to falsely accuse Shawna of prostitution. I'm sorry that I was able to get on that midnight flight to Vegas. And I'm sorry that I was the one who had to feel Benjamin Connors's lips on mine.
Darcie's hands were clasped so tightly around the straps of her handbag, the pink pigment of her knuckles was starting to give way to that same pale white color that had recently overtaken her lips. "Yes, well, what's done is done. And once you know, you can't really go back, can you? As much as you might want to."
All I could do was nod my head again. I couldn't verbally express my agreement because it felt like I was betraying Jamie all over again.
Apparently my nod was good enough, because Darcie was quickly out of her seat, standing tall and rigid in front of me. "I'm sure you'll excuse me for not staying any longer," she choked out, surprisingly pleasant. "But I have to make a call to our adoption lawyer." She grabbed a few extra tissues from the box and then walked right out my office door.
My body slumped against the back of my chair, and my arms fell dangling over the sides. I felt as though a train had been coming straight at me for the past ten minutes and all I could do was stand in the middle of the track and welcome it with open arms.
Her words lingered in my mind like an annoying song that refuses to be forgotten.
. . . you can't really go back, can you? As much as you might want to.
But did I want to? And would I have done things differently if I could?
I immediately realized the futility in my own question—or more important, the futility in spending any time agonizing over the answer. Obviously it was outside of the realm of possibility. I couldn't turn back time. I couldn't repeat the events of Saturday night.
But for some reason, I had to answer the question. I had to know just how much I really regretted my decision. Because in my mind, it held the key to my self-inflicted sentence. The answer would determine just how deep the guilt went and how long I would have to punish myself for it.
As I sat there contemplating, I suddenly realized I was not alone in the room. Darcie Connors was back, standing precariously in the doorway, staring back at me with a pensive look on her face. Startled, I jumped up and struggled to straighten my body in the chair.
"I just want you to know," she began, seemingly failing to notice my dramatic shift in posture, "that I'm grateful for what you did."
I cocked my head to the side and stared at her intently. The doubt in my eyes was apparent. And although I never asked the question aloud, she confirmed it with a nod. "Yes. Eternally grateful."
There was a brief silence between us, and she glanced down at her feet, struggling with her next words. "I . . . um . . . there's something I didn't tell you when I first came in here last week."
I continued to stare at her, my mouth slightly agape as I studied her timid body language and uneasy stance.
She took a deep breath. "My parents got divorced when I was fifteen. My mom cheated on my dad. It completely destroyed him. It destroyed all of us. Our entire family fell apart. And I promised myself that I would never put my children through that."
She paused and pressed her lips together before continuing. "I had every intention of keeping that vow. But it wasn't until two weeks ago that I realized I was only half of the equation. I could be as faithful as a Buddhist monk until the day I died, but I couldn't control what my husband did or would possibly do. And that's when I decided to come to you. It was the only way I knew how to keep my promise to my future children. So thank you." And then after a deep breath, "You and your . . . associate."
I could feel the tears start to well in my eyes. Normally, I would fight them off at any cost. Never show emotion in front of the client. Never get personally involved. But her words hit too close to home. Her plight felt all too familiar.
Any words that I might have thought to say were immediately caught in my throat. But I didn't really mind. I knew that they wouldn't do my feelings justice anyway.
When she left the second time, I didn't collapse back into my chair as I had b
efore. Instead I stood up and walked to the window. There was a distinct electricity surging through my body. It made me feel vibrant, alive. More alive than I'd felt in a long time, actually.
I thought back to my original question. The one that promised to condense all of my feelings, all of my emotions, all of my regrets, into a simple yes or no response.
If given a second chance, would I have done things differently?
And staring out at the ocean, replaying Darcie's final words of gratitude in my mind, I knew that I had my answer.
15
a nod to jane austen
By the time Friday arrived, I was physically and mentally exhausted. I had spent the entire week trying to undo the damage caused by Shawna's arrest. After a call to Gracie Katz, Ken Littrell's fiancée (or now ex-fiancée), I was able to ascertain that Shawna's cover had, in fact, been blown. Apparently, during her simultaneous bachelorette party, she got drunk and told all of her friends that she had hired the agency to test Ken. Well, one of the bridesmaids, who also happened to be married to Ken Littrell's best man, got on the phone and relayed the information to her husband, just in time for him to spot Shawna dancing with the groom.
When I repeated all of this to a lawyer in the Las Vegas area, he was pretty certain he'd be able to get the charges dropped. Especially when, after some more digging around, he discovered that Ken Littrell's best man is actually the son of a very prominent high roller who frequents the MGM Grand, which was the only reason his "suggestion" that Shawna was soliciting sex was taken seriously.
The whole ordeal was an outrage and impossibly frustrating. But by the end of the week, the situation was under control and settled. The charges were dropped and Shawna's record was cleared.
When I got the news, I decided to duck out of the office early and head home for some much needed R&R.
But just as I was pulling out of the parking garage, my cell phone started ringing. I checked the caller ID and saw that the incoming call was from Willa Cruz, wedding planner extraordinaire. I had been screening her calls for three days now, and they were getting increasingly more frequent with each day that I didn't pick up. So I figured I should probably just answer and get it over with if I wanted any hope of a relaxing weekend.
I pressed the Bluetooth button on my steering wheel and spoke into the empty car. "Hello?" I grumbled.
"Jennifer!" Willa's voice came loudly and bubbly over the speakers, and I immediately jabbed at the volume button with my thumb.
"Yes, hi, Willa," was my slightly less enthusiastic reply.
"You know, I've been unable to get a hold of you for the last few days. Is something wrong with your phone, perhaps?"
I cringed. "Yes, perhaps."
"Well, the reason I've been so persistent . . ." Willa began.
I almost laughed at her choice of words. Two calls is persistent. Ten in three days is just plain harassment.
". . . is that I have located the most perfect of all perfect venues for your summer wedding."
I found it hard to believe that Willa Cruz would be able to pick out the most perfect of all perfect places for our wedding when the wedding questionnaire that I was supposed to fill out and fax back to her was still tucked away in one of my purses.
"You have?"
She sighed orgasmically. "So many brides have killed for this location, but it's always booked up years in advance. But I just got a call from someone I know on the inside." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, as if this "insider" were in mortal danger for having made such a phone call. "Apparently, there was a cancellation. The groom ended up doing some highly inappropriate things on his last business trip, if you know what I mean."
Unfortunately, I knew exactly what she meant. "Yes, I think I get the picture."
"It was really quite scandalous," she continued in her hushed tone, which in all honesty was starting to grate on my nerves. "It turned out the bride actually hired some agency to test whether or not he would be faithful to her. And he failed."
A lump formed in my throat as my grip on the steering wheel tightened. "You don't say," I croaked.
Willa, who was clearly a big fan of wedding-related gossip, was enjoying this immensely. "Yes. They sent some girl all the way to his sales conference in Minneapolis. Can you believe that?"
I was hardly even listening to her because I was too busy yanking my car off the road and rummaging through my briefcase until I found what I was looking for: the case file Lauren Ireland had turned in to me last week. I had brought it home this weekend in hopes of getting some data entry done.
I flipped it open, and the lump in my throat immediately doubled in size. I felt as though I might actually choke on my next attempted breath.
There it was, right at the top of the client bio page. Six rows down from the top and clear as day.
BASIC INFORMATION
Case Number: 2371
Subject Name: Nathan Charles
Occupation: Software Developer
Client Name: Amanda Savant
Relationship to Subject: Fiancée
Associate Assigned to case: Lauren Ireland
Inspection Location: Google Sales Conference in Minneapolis
I didn't have to ask what the groom's name was. There weren't that many fidelity inspection agencies in town. I only knew of one, and I had just left it. This was no coincidence.
I suddenly became aware of the fact that there was an expectant silence in the car, and I assumed Willa was waiting for me to react to whatever it was she had just told me. To be on the safe side, I went with something generic. "That's crazy!"
"Isn't it?" she replied in awe. "Well, the bottom line is that the wedding is now off, and the most perfect of all perfect venues is now open for the date of August fourth! Their loss, your gain, right?"
"No," I replied quickly, without even thinking. The word just sort of flew out of my mouth. Because truthfully, it was the only word that made sense right now.
There was a stunned pause on the other end, and then she asked, "What do you mean, 'no'?"
"I mean, no, I don't want the venue. Or rather, we don't want the venue."
"But I haven't even told you what venue it is!" she exclaimed, the tone in her voice clearly indicating that she thought I was being unreasonable.
But I just wanted to get her off the phone. I didn't want to hear anything else about the most perfect of all perfect venues that was only available because of me. Or rather, because of my agency.
"Well, I don't want it. I think August fourth might be a bit too soon, anyway."
"But—"
"I'm actually really busy right now. Let's talk about this later."
"Okay, but I still haven't gotten your questionnaire yet—"
And then suddenly Willa's bubbly voice was cut off as I ended the call with the touch of a button, silencing her for good. Or at least for now.
I laid my head back against the headrest, trying to digest what had just happened. My wedding planner was trying to pitch me a venue that had just been abandoned by a couple that my agency broke up.
Honestly, what were the odds of that even happening?
Maybe it was a sign. Of what, though? That we shouldn't get married on August 4 in whatever perfect location Willa called to tell me about? Or that we shouldn't get married at all? Well, that was just ridiculous. Clearly it was the former.
There was really nothing more to read into it.
I refused to get married in a venue cursed by a failed fidelity inspection performed by my very own employee, and that was that. The whole thing was just twisted and wrong.
Not to mention incredibly bad karma.
Jamie arrived "home" (I still hadn't gotten used to him calling it that) around eight and brought with him my favorite vegetarian lettuce wraps and hot-and-sour soup from P. F. Chang's and a six-pack of Tsingtao beer. We spread out our take-out feast along the coffee table and ate dinner in front of the TV.
It was exactly what I needed.
A reminder of why I had given up the tumultuous, drama-laden life of a fidelity inspector in the first place. For the quiet and comfort of Chinese take-out with the man I loved.
We ate in silence, watching an episode of Deal or No Deal while we crunched on lettuce wraps and slurped on soup. Then, once we had finished, we pushed our plates to the end of the coffee table and leaned back on the couch, covering ourselves with the crocheted afghan that I keep in a basket under the end table. We tangled up in each other's arms like interlocking puzzle pieces, fitting together perfectly, as if his body were specifically made to intertwine with mine.
It wasn't difficult to picture the rest of my life like this. And I didn't feel as if I were forfeiting anything if this was what the rest of my life would look like. I felt safe with Jamie. Protected.
And although he hadn't yet unpacked all the boxes that had accumulated in my hallway over the past five days, I was still happy that they were there.
Jamie seemed to sense my contentment, because he squeezed his arms tighter around me as if to say, "Me too." Then he grabbed my hand and brought it to his lips to kiss. He likes doing that, kissing my hand. The way they do in period pieces where the women wear long, flowing gowns and tight tendrils frame their faces and the men are dressed in tailcoats and sweep into respectful bows whenever they enter the room. It started out as a joke. Ever since we rented Pride and Prejudice on DVD, he would say things like "But of course, my lady" in a really pathetic British accent and then bow and kiss my hand. But then it later became more than a joke. It became kind of like our thing.
I suppose the gesture was pretty archaic and probably sexist. Yet somehow when Jamie kissed my hand, it always managed to make me feel beautiful . . . and loved.
Like some kind of unspoken magic between us.
I waited for the familiar touch of his lips on my skin. But a few moments passed and there was nothing. And when I looked up at him, I realized that Jamie was no longer preparing to kiss my hand, he was just kind of holding it awkwardly in front of his face, as if he were checking my skin for suspicious aging spots.
The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men Page 15