The Loyal Wife_A gripping psychological thriller with a twist

by Natalie Barelli

  We may live comfortably, but half a million bucks is not pocket change, that’s for sure, and we didn’t have that much money in cash lying around, and after a couple of hours of recriminations, tears, and begging for forgiveness, we came to the conclusion that we had to sell the Badin Lake house as quickly as possible.

  He kissed me, full on the mouth, and he tasted like rain. We made love, right there on the rug, and he held me tight and whispered words that were so sweet I was delirious with happiness. It reminded me of when we first met, that obsessive love, and for a while, I actually thought that betrayal was a godsend. We had come through the biggest crisis of our marriage, stronger than ever. We were a team, Mike and I, and we were going to get through this together. I remember thinking that night, as I lay in his arms, my head on his bare chest, that you can’t fake that kind of love.

  Then he said, there’s one small thing, and I need you, my darling. I need you so much, and you’re the only one who can help me.

  What is it? I asked.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Was it really just once? As if. More like the duration of her employment. And I bet she hadn’t been the first, either. Nor the last, as I now know, in spite of his tearful, pseudo-heartfelt promises.

  We booked her in for the abortion; it was the end of the internship by that stage. We sold the Badin Lake house and Mike bought her a plane ticket back to Austin.

  When he sobs in my arms in the middle of the night, and he says that he doesn’t understand what’s happening, I can’t help wondering whether he was under some kind of spell that night. What he did to her was so sickening that he has wiped it from his mind. Because it’s like he literally does not remember.

  I am going to church. Not to pray, because I don’t need to go to church for that, but to see Pastor Frank. I need his help. I tell Mike I want to get his advice and he thinks that is a great idea. He would go himself, but he doesn’t want to get out of the house right now. He doesn’t want anyone to take his picture and plaster it all over the internet. Not until we’ve planned exactly what we’re going to say.

  But it’s not Pastor Frank’s advice that I’m after, it’s his help. Because I’m sick and tired of Mike digging his heels in, and I don’t have time for this. He had the affair; she had the abortion, and it never occurred to me he would straight up deny it when confronted by the cops. Or the press. If I can’t prove it to Fiona Martin, it’s all been for nothing, and there’s no way I’m going to let that happen. This is not a freaking tale of redemption, it’s a revenge story.

  * * *

  So now I’m here, because let’s face it, Pastor Frank is up to his neck in this almost as much as Mike is.

  Apparently, it was Pastor Frank’s idea that Mike run for governor. I’m not completely sure why; I think it has to do with state tax laws or something equally selfish and non-Christian. Mike thought it was a stroke of genius, or maybe an order from God, and he put everything in motion. They wouldn’t announce it until the campaign, which at that stage wasn’t for another eighteen months at least. But then Charlene told him the happy news: that she was going to have his baby. And that, was not part of the strategy.

  So when Mike confessed his sins to Pastor Frank, Pastor Frank told him that it took two to tango, and it happened all the time, and as long as no one found out, there was no reason for him to change his plans. Mike told him about Charlene’s offer—half a mil, and the little problem would go away. Pastor Frank said he knew just the place. A clinic that could take care of everything, and they were very, very discreet. In fact, so discreet that no official records would be kept at all.

  Maybe I should have been shocked that Pastor Frank could be advocating such a thing, but it was quite the opposite. It made me feel like we had been validated. If Pastor Frank was going to help us put this sorry business out of our way, then she must be the devil incarnate, and he should know. That was his business, after all.

  * * *

  “You’ve seen the article, I take it,” I say to Pastor Frank now. We’re sitting in his office, I in the armchair and he behind the desk, his fingers together in a steeple.

  He nods. “It’s a terrible business, all this. Just terrible. Do you have any idea who leaked it?”

  Leaked it. What an odd thing to say.

  “Not yet. But the police came to see us.”

  He jumps. “Did my name come up?”

  “No. Of course not. Why would it?” Actually, come to think of it, there are very good reasons why it would.

  “Good, good. I can’t be associated with this sordid business, you understand? Who spoke to the reporter in the first place, do you know?”

  “No.”

  He says nothing for a moment, but he looks worried. He should be, but he has not mentioned that she was dead yet, not once.

  “Pastor Frank…”

  “I think you can drop the Pastor for now.”

  I nod. “Mike doesn’t want to admit to the abortion.”

  He scoffs. “I hope not! He’s absolutely right! He mustn’t admit to anything! Can you imagine what would happen if people found out? It would end his career!”

  And yours, too, Pastor, don’t forget that, I think, although I don’t say it out loud.

  “But it’s out in the open now. Someone with information has told that reporter. The police are going to want to talk to that person, and at some point, it’s going to come out that it was true, don’t you see? This is what I’m worried about! How is it going to look if that happens, and Mike has been trying to bury it? It’s better if he talks to the police. And I’ll be by his side. If we’re upfront. Then we can control the story. Right now, it’s completely out of our hands. Mike won’t listen to me. You have to talk to him and convince him.”

  “No. Absolutely not. I’m with Mike on this one, Tamra. There’s nothing to be gained by bringing up the whole sordid mess.”

  “Except it’s been brought up already.”

  “And it will go away. I’ve seen it happen many times, you’ll see. Just sit tight, that’s what you have to do, the both of you. You’re not thinking of taking matters in your own hands, are you?”

  I cock my head at him. There’s a bit of perspiration on his top lip. I wonder if I’m making him nervous. “She’s been murdered, Frank. You honestly believe that it will go away?”

  That makes him wince, and I honestly can’t tell if it’s because I brought up her murder, or because I used the Lord’s son’s name in vain. “I really think Mike should own up.”

  He stands up, walks around the desk and sits beside me, in the other armchair. “All of us are sinners,” he says, his tone soothing. Reasonable. “Our faith, our evangelical faith is based on forgiveness. As you well know. It’s not our place to judge. Not yours, not mine.”

  “But the girl is dead! Why is it you can’t see that? Either of you! It changes everything, don’t you see?”

  “It would ruin Mike’s chances, completely and categorically. He would be out of the race before it even started.”

  “In the scheme of things, does it really matter?”

  “He’s the best we’ve got. We need men like Mike—strong, principled men,” he says, and with a straight face, too. “We can’t let this incident ruin his career. Let it be, Tamra. There’s nothing to be gained from stirring up trouble. God can forgive small transgressions.”

  “Small transgression? Is that what you call it?”

  He sighs, reaches for my hand and pats it. “It takes two to tango, you know. Don’t forget that.”

  I pull it away. “So I heard. She was twenty years old. Can you imagine how her parents must feel?”

  “But her untimely death has nothing to do with us. The police will find out who committed this terrible crime, but it has nothing to do with Mike!” Then it’s like a shadow passes over his face, and he says, “Doesn’t it?”

  I raise my eyebrows and my eyes are big and round. I mean to convey something like, Oh Lord, could Mike be mixed up in this? But he
misunderstands me because he pats my hand again and says, “I see I’ve shocked you and I apologize, I shouldn’t have asked that. But you see? It would do no good to muddy the waters.”

  Then he stands, and I know that I’ve lost that battle.

  “Don’t worry, please, Tamra. Everything will be fine. Just pray that they catch the man who did this.”

  Don’t pray too hard, I almost say.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I don’t go back home right away. I can’t stand it anymore, being cooped up with those two and their miserable faces. But I need to see Lauren. I really need a friend. Plus, I need to ask her something.

  “Oh, my God. Are you okay? Come in!” She throws her arms around me, breathless, big and loud, and engulfs me. I can barely breathe, and I love it.

  “You don’t mind I just showed up on your doorstep like that?” I finally ask once she releases me from her iron hug.

  “You’re kidding? Come here!”

  We sit outside, in her lovely garden; she brings me a tall glass of ice tea.

  “Dwayne is still away?”

  “Yep,” she says. Something passes over her eyes, she looks sad.

  “Everything okay?” I ask, just as she asks, “How are you holding up?”

  We burst into laughter, in the way only close friends do, and it takes a while to breathe, but it’s so nice to laugh.

  I never told Lauren what happened with Charlene. I thought about it, but I didn’t say anything because I was embarrassed. I had worked so hard to become the wife I thought Mike wanted.

  When Mike met me, I wore miniskirts and chewed gum. I’ll never forget our engagement party. It happened in the ballroom of an elegant hotel. I was twenty-six years old and probably old enough to know better. I wore a one-shoulder gold sequin top and a black leather miniskirt, black stockings with the seam at the back, and a pair of Giuseppe Zanotti gold sandals with five-inch stilettos. I thought I looked like a million bucks. Then, when I saw how everyone else was dressed—his friends’ wives in their designer evening clothes, stylish and elegant—I felt the wave of shame engulf me.

  I ran into the ladies’ room. When I caught sight of myself in the mirror, I looked like a sad clown, with my mascara smudged under my eyes and my bright red lipstick smeared across my mouth. I pulled off my Cartier Trinity Ruban engagement ring, threw it in the toilet, and locked myself in a stall.

  I heard someone come in, and there was a knock at the door in front of me.

  “Go away!” I sobbed.

  “Hey girlfriend, you’re gonna woman up? Or what?” a voice said.

  She spoke like me. I was so shocked, I had to see what she looked like. I opened the door, and there was Lauren, in the most gorgeous evening gown, waving a joint right in front of the no-smoking sign. She handed it to me, and I took it, gratefully. In her other hand she had a bottle of Moet & Chandon and two flutes. We squeezed ourselves into the stall, and I sat on the toilet seat while she leaned against the door.

  “I feel like a piece of trash,” I wailed between champagne refills. “You can take the girl out of the trailer, but you can’t take the trash out of the girl,” I added. “I bet that’s what everyone is saying about me, right this minute.”

  “No, they’re not,” she said, the joint between her lips. “They’re not bad people. And anyway, look at you! You look fantastic.”

  I don’t know how she did it, but she convinced me that I looked wonderful, that I looked alive, unlike some women out there who looked like cadavers, she said. No wonder Mike fell head over heels for me. Everyone could see how enraptured he was with me. We were very lucky to have each other.

  “What did you do with your ring?” she asked, looking at my hands, eyebrows knotted together.

  “I’m sitting on it,” I said.

  Fortunately, I hadn’t flushed. She made me reach in and get it. We laughed so much I almost peed myself. Then she brought me in front of the mirror, fixed my makeup, and told me to woman up.

  Needless to say, we’ve been friends ever since.

  Now it feels like that was a million years ago, as I tell her everything that’s happened. I tell her that Mike thinks he will get a retraction, but the cops are beginning to suspect him. I watch the shock mount over her face until it’s me who embraces her.

  “Oh, girlfriend, that must be horrible, having the cops in your house like that, asking all these vile questions. Is there anything I can do?” She moves a strand of hair away from my face.

  “Actually, there is.”

  “Shoot,” she says, inappropriately.

  “You remember the other night, I told you Mike and Madison went out and I stayed home? Well, the problem is, it would make my life easier if you could verify that. It’s the only night I can’t prove where I was and the cops won’t stop bugging me otherwise.”

  “You’re kidding! Why?”

  I explain to her about the body having been dug up. “They don’t think it’s me!” I laugh, more like a bark really, “It’s just that I was on my own. Oh, Christ, I can’t believe I just said those words.” I bite my bottom lip. “Can you say that you came by, if they ask?”

  She flicks a hand in the air. “Is that it? Yes, of course.”

  I let out a breath that makes my body deflate in relief. I hadn’t realized how stressed I’d been about that.

  “Is it true?” she asks in a voice almost conspiratorial.

  I flinch. “Of course! How can you ask me that? Where do you think I was—”

  “No, no, no.” She waves her hands in front of her face. “He had an affair with this girl? Is it true?”

  I look at my hands. “Yes.”

  She snorts, and when I look at her, I’m surprised to see tears in her eyes.

  “Hey, Lauren, what’s wrong?”

  She quickly brushes her fingers over her eyes. “Sorry. I’m really emotional at the moment.”

  “You’re okay?”

  “I should be asking you that,” she says, chuckling.

  “I’ll be fine.” I pat her knee, squeeze her hand.

  “And the abortion?”

  I hesitate, but only for a second. “Yes.”

  “Oh, Tamra! How did you find out?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “You won’t tell anyone what I just said, will you?” I ask.

  “It’s on the front page of the Tribune, Tamra. Who can I possibly tell?” She lets out a small puff of air. “I can’t believe that he had an affair, got her to have an abortion, and then he told you all about it! That’s just too much. What a piece of shit.”

  “What makes you think he told me?”

  She scoffs. “How else would you have found out?”

  “She might have told me.”

  “Except she’s… you know… dead,” she says. “You need to move out. You can’t stay there. It’s getting from bad to worse, girlfriend. You have to come and stay here.”

  Is that what I should do? I don’t think so. Keep your enemies close. That’s what they say. I can do more at home to get what I ultimately want than if I move out.

  “Are you listening?” Her face is inches from mine. She’s looking intently into my eyes.

  I shake my head. “Sorry. What did you say?”

  “Where were you the other night? When I came by?”

  “I told you. I went to sleep really early.”

  “For real? Because you know, it’s not like you. You can tell me, you know,” she adds. Obviously she’s not thinking that I went out for a bit of body retrieval. Maybe she thinks I went to a bar, or something.

  “There’s nothing to tell! So much going on, I was out to the world. That and a couple drinks.” I smile, sheepish. “Okay, maybe more than a couple.” I take a sip of my iced tea.

  She nods.

  “So if they ask—”

  She puts a hand on my arm and pats it. “Relax. We spent the evening together.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I bring
up Madison. Why? Because I can’t get her out of my head.

  “Mike might think it’s great and she looks great and she’s a young woman, that’s what they do, but it wasn’t that long ago that I was a young woman, not unlike Madison. I know an eating disorder when I see one. I did a bit of googling and as it happens,” I pull up my phone and show Lauren a webpage, “Look at this. It’s a treatment center, for eating disorders. Just a few miles from here, see? It looks good. We’d have to check it out, and she’ll need to be assessed I guess, but–”

  “You’re crazy. Madison is never going to speak to you again if you show her that.” She points to the phone. The page that shows a healthy young woman, all smiles and ruddy cheeks.

  I sigh. “Will you talk to her?” I ask, reluctantly.

  “Of course. I’d be happy to,” she replies, and I don’t know why but I feel a touch of annoyance. I think because she so readily accepts that she’s better placed than me to do so. And then she adds, “But I’m not convinced she needs it.” And I want to ask, so what do you suggest? Because that girl is not well, and everyone putting their head in the sand isn’t going to change that.

  In the end, I decide to go and check out the treatment center on the way home, and mull over the likelihood of success all the way there. Because Lauren’s probably right. I can’t imagine it’s going to do any good, but I’m hoping the Rule of 7 really does work. I read it on a marketing advice blog, although why I was reading a marketing advice blog is anyone’s guess. Anyway, from memory, by the time you’ve heard of some useless thing seven times, you want one. That’s the critical mass, the seventh time.

  Back home, armed with my pile of helpful pamphlets, I pop into the Room of Wise Sayings and pull open various drawers to find a book, or a magazine, anything that she might pick up to read, and where I can slip my pamphlets and hope she’ll find them. It will be only the first of seven, but you have to start somewhere. On her dresser I spot my Pandora bracelet. I know it’s mine because I recognize the charms. I haven’t worn it in years. I grab it and shove it in my pocket.