The Loyal Wife
A gripping psychological thriller with a twist
Natalie Barelli
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
A note from Natalie
Also by Natalie Barelli
Acknowledgments
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents other than those clearly in the public domain are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2018 Natalie Barelli
All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
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The Last Word
NSW Australia
Paperback ISBN: 978-0-6482259-3-5
eBook ISBN: 978-0-6482259-4-2
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Cover design by coverquill.com
Chapter One
I never thought I’d end up in a place like this. I never thought I’d end up in a house like this. I still get a little thrill when I drive up to my beautiful home, with its large front porch framed by four enormous white columns. It might not be the most expensive house around here, but it sure ain’t the cheapest.
But hey, I deserve it. Mike may be the money guy, but I’m the perfect wife. Take this evening, for instance. We hosted a small dinner party that was very important to Mike, and by extension, to me.
It was a success. I may not have cooked the food myself, we have Sophia, our housekeeper/cook for that, but I do know how to plan the right menu for the right occasion, and I know how to be the perfect hostess.
We invited Rob and Bethany Wolfe into our home because they’re rich, interested in Mike’s work, and right now he needs campaign donors. I don’t know why, exactly. I mean, we’re pretty rich ourselves, I would have thought he could pay for his own campaign, but what do I know?
Mike runs his own boutique investment firm, and he’s done extremely well, and I do mean, extremely well. Then one day, a couple years ago, he announced that it was time he got involved in politics, and he has set his eyes on the prize: governor. I’ve been very encouraging, because I think it would be nice to be governor’s wife. It has a certain ring to it.
He says he needs to make himself more visible. Enter Rob and Bethany Wolfe, with their deep pocket and keen interests in state affairs. That’s what they call it: 'state affairs,' as if they actually mean ‘affairs of the state’ instead of ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours and we’ll call it lobbying.’
Along with Rob and Bethany, we also asked the Porters—Larry and Janis—because they’re also rich, and Larry told Mike that he sometimes plays golf with Rob, so what better way to break the ice but to be among friends.
By the time dessert arrived—white chocolate cheese cake with raspberry coulis—Bethany Wolfe was adamant this had been the best crab soup she’d ever tasted (it’s the dry sherry that makes all the difference) and Rob insisted the seared duck with pickled red cabbage and truffle cream would be the death of him.
“I sure hope not,” I quipped. “You haven’t contributed anything yet!” He guffawed till he was red in the face. Mike beamed at me, and his handsome face and crinkled smile made me feel all warm and tingly.
“Oh by the way, Tamra,” Janis Porter said as we accompanied them to the door, “I almost forgot!” She reached into her bag and pulled out a small white envelope, handed it to me.
“Of course! Larry’s wedding! How lovely. You must be so proud.” I knew already that Janis was bringing the invitation to their son’s wedding. But what brought me a small rush of pleasure was that it was addressed to Mr. & Mrs. Mike Mitchell in elegant script.
Mrs. Mike Mitchell. That’s me. Well, my name is Tamra but even after six years of marriage, I still get a thrill when people call me Mrs. Mike Mitchell. Not that it happens that often. Folks are pretty relaxed around here, even if we live in one of the nicest neighborhoods of Greensboro.
I’m still thinking about that as I help Sophia put things away in the kitchen. Mike has already gone upstairs to get ready for bed. He doesn’t like it that I do that, but I can’t help it. It’s late, Sophia will want to get home, and it won’t take long to tidy up if it’s the two of us.
When she’s finally left, I turn out all the lights and make my way up the stairs. I’m smiling to myself, knowing that I did a fine job tonight and Mike will be thrilled. We’ll stay up a while, no doubt, chatting in bed, going over the evening in minute detail, then we’ll turn out the light and Mr. and Mrs. Mike Mitchell will get down to an altogether different business.
And then he’ll snore softly beside me, and I won’t be able to sleep because fucking Madison is coming home tomorrow.
Chapter Two
Madison is home.
She parks her little Audi next to my SUV just as I open the trunk to get the groceries out. I plaster on a smile and ignore the flutter of anxiety in my stomach as I walk over and pull my stepdaughter in a hug—or try to. She’s so stiff and unresponsive it’s more like hugging a plank. I can feel the bones jutting out from every angle. When I release her, I keep one hand on her bony shoulder for a better look. She shrugs my hand away.
“How did the exams go?” I ask. What I really want to ask is, when’s the last time you ate?
“Fine, good.”
“Wow! That’s great news! Hey, can you give me a hand with these bags?” I sound like I’m auditioning for the role of the super-bouncy stepmom in a super-bouncy family sitcom.
We split the load and go inside the house. Immediately, and as usual, an awkward silence befalls us. I don’t know how to have a conversation with Madison. Even when she helps me put the food away, her gestures are heavy with reluctance. Or maybe I’m just imagining it. Maybe it’s my fault.
In my distant memory, it wasn’t always like this. A few short years ago, she would let her guard down, and we would share a laugh. Now whenever that happens, she’ll catch herself and sneer at me. As if the joke was on me.
She pulls out the packet of granola I picked out for her. “Why did you get this? I don’t eat this, it’s gross. So full of sugar.”
“Well, I do,” I lie.
She eyes m
e up and down. “Figures.”
I grab it from her and slam it on the counter, and she jumps.
“Jeez, Tamra! What’s up with you?”
Now I feel guilty. Already. How long did that take? Ten minutes? “Forget it.” I reach a hand out to her and pat her on the shoulder before she shrugs off my touch.
“Sorry, Madison. I have a lot on my mind. Tell me about college.”
She continues to put the rest of the groceries away, as if I hadn’t spoken. I sigh.
Madison is in her second year of a business management degree at Columbia. She’s actually really bright—smarter than either of her brothers. She’s also fiercely independent, which I’m secretly quite impressed by. She shares a small apartment in Midtown with one of her girlfriends, and Mike contributes a little money toward her expenses, but less and less each month because she has a part-time job. She is gradually shouldering more of the rent and told him that next semester she won’t need his help anymore, although she did let him buy her that little Audi. Her mother lives in Connecticut now, and no doubt she pitches in, too.
“You’ve lost a bit of weight,” I tell her, and confirm right there what a moron I am. She’s disturbingly thin. Saying she’s lost a bit of weight isn’t just pointing out the bleeding obvious; I sound like I'm making fun of her.
“Whatever. I’m going to take my stuff to my room, okay?”
“Of course.”
And she’s gone.
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We don’t have children together, Mike and I. He has three fully grown ones from his previous marriage, and he didn’t want to go through all that again. What he actually said, when I brought up the possibility of having kids early on in our marriage, was that he didn’t want to share me with anyone.
I knew what he meant, but still—I thought it was a really sweet way of putting it.
Madison is his youngest. She has two older brothers, Jack and Zach. We don’t see them much but that’s only because they have their own lives, far away from here.
Madison was fourteen when Mike and I became engaged. I used to fantasize about the kind of relationship she and I would have. I was going to be like a wise older sister to her. I could advise her about all sorts of stuff, like fashion: can you get away with Tartan? Probably not. Boyfriends: should you have sex on the first date? Hell, yeah. I couldn’t wait.
Even before I met her, Mike would tell me wonderful things about her. “Maddie has a real big heart, she’s a real sweet girl. You’ll see.”
I imagined her growing up as a young woman under my watchful eye (even though she only lived with us some weekends and half the summer). I’d help her with her homework, make sure she got good grades. I could picture myself beating pancake mix on a Sunday morning, the large white bowl tucked securely under my arm while I whisked and talked at the same time, a pretty apron fitted around my waist.
“How’s school going, Maddie? Do you need help with your homework?” I’d ask, and she’d be sitting at the kitchen table biting the end of her pencil, struggling with her English essay. And because she was so kind, she’d take a year off before starting medical school to travel to third-world countries as part of a volunteer program. I imagined her receiving some incredibly important international award for her good works, Mike and I in the audience looking on, proud as Punch. In her acceptance speech, she would thank me, from the bottom of her heart, for inspiring her, and then we would go on Oprah together.
I’m such a loser.
She’s a young woman now, and she hates me. She thinks it’s my fault her parents split up, no matter how many times I’ve told her that they were going through a separation when I met her father. “Yeah, right,” she’d snort.
But now, she’s in college studying for an MBA, “just like Daddy.” Once, I told her that I, too, have an MBA. And that mine has with honors attached to it. I didn’t mean to lie, it just came out, because in that moment I was sick of feeling excluded by the two of them, but it didn’t matter, anyway. She merely shrugged. “Whatever,” she replied, reminding me that I don’t count.
I hear the front door close, and I’m relieved that Mike is home. Madison runs down the stairs, and I push myself away from the kitchen counter and walk out into the entryway just as she throws her arms around his neck, like a little girl again.
“Daddy!” she squeals in a voice too high-pitched for her age.
His face lights up at the sight of her. Funnily enough, I’ve never been jealous of their relationship. Good luck to her. She’s lucky to be loved like that—by both her parents, I might add. Someone wise once said you can always pick the people who were loved as children. I used to think it was because they’d be confident and really well adjusted. Now I know it’s because they’re so fucking spoiled.
Mike throws his jacket on the back of a chair and in moments, they’ve settled themselves in the living room. He, getting comfortable and rolling up his shirt sleeves, she with her legs curled up under her. He calls her princess and asks about her studies. She tells him she’s enrolled in a new area of focus called Decisions and Risks Analysis, and that’s what she wants to specialize in. It’s been a hard decision because she just loves everything in the curriculum. He nods sagely and tells her it’s a good choice. He says he’ll have a place for her when she gets home next year, not in his office because that would be nepotism, but a good place in a good firm. She knows it already. He’s told her fifty-thousand times, she says, laughing.
Why can’t she talk to me like that? I asked the same questions in the kitchen this afternoon, but all I got was an impatient shrug.
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Upstairs in our bedroom, I tell myself to let it go. It’s only because she’s just arrived that her attitude gets to me. I’ll get used to it in a day or two. I always do. Sort of.
“Hey.”
Mike sneaks up to me from behind and wraps his arms around my waist. I lean my head back against his shoulder and let my body sink into him.
“Hey yourself,” I whisper, closing my eyes. He kisses the side of my neck. I take in the scent of him and smile. He smells terrible, and that’s all my fault.
It was our third date, and I was already obsessed with him. I thought of nothing and no-one else. I’d stopped at Crabtree Valley Mall to pick up some of my favorite perfume, and on impulse I bought him a bottle of aftershave because I liked the ad. I liked it because the guy jumping from plane to sports car to dinner date reminded of Mike. I was flushed with too much wine and coyness when I gave it to him over dinner. He smiled, that gorgeous, sexy, knock my knees together crooked smile, and he kissed me.
I have since become aware that back then I had no taste, and that cheap bottle of aftershave was the last thing he would have wanted. Lord knows I’ve since splurged on the most expensive kind imaginable, but every now and then I’ll find he’s bought himself that one again, just to wear occasionally, privately almost, because it reminds him of me, he says.
“What, cheap?” I’d joked when he told me.
“That the girl I married thinks I can jump from plane to sports car to dinner table,” he’d replied.
So, I let him wear it. Very occasionally. Privately.
“You’re excited about tonight?” he asks now.
“Of course not. Why the heck should I be?” I reply. He laughs softly into my hair.
“I’m going to have a shower,” he says, releasing me, and I smile, pretend to rearrange things on the top of the dresser while in the mirror I watch my husband undress.
Chapter Three
It’s funny, the details that pop into your mind at the precise moment your life changes, isn’t it?
When I picked up Mike’s trousers from the bed just now, and I felt something in his pocket, I didn’t think anything of it. I thought it was a Kleenex. Then I pulled out the lace panties, and I held them up, staring at them dangling from my index finger, and for some completely unknown reason, I thought to myself, that blue would look lovely for the drapes in the living room. Then
I clenched my teeth, scrunched them up, and curled my fingers into a fist until it hurt.
To be fair, it’s a very nice blue. Soft and powdery, more sky than lavender. I turn my gaze toward the door of the master bathroom. I can hear the shower running, and I imagine Mike—his eyes closed, oblivious to the wave of fury welling up in the next room.
Really?
I relax my fist and let them unfurl in my palm. I hold the thong between two fingers. Nothing to it, really. It’s so light and delicate, silk probably, and so small it’s hard to imagine what purpose it serves, other than to titillate. I should be wearing something like that. Did he buy it for her? Whoever she may be? Did he order it online from Victoria’s Secret or some such place? Did she unwrap it from its soft paper, smile, and disappear for a little while, only to come back moments later wearing nothing but… this?
It should have been me he bought this for.
I clench my jaw so hard my teeth hurt. Then I take hold of the panties in both hands and pull hard at the fabric. I let out a grunt as I yank at both ends with all my strength, but they’re made of sturdier stuff and all I have to show for my efforts is a red welt on my knuckle, where the delicately sewn, silky edge, cut into my skin. I even try to tear them up with my teeth until it dawns on me she would have worn them before he stuffed them in his pocket. I spit them out, quickly wipe my tongue with the back of my hand.
The Loyal Wife_A gripping psychological thriller with a twist Page 1