I Love You More

by Jennifer Murphy

  Beautiful, lucky, sorry, gun, motive, liar.

  Picasso

  My favorite dictionary says that a rumor is “a currently circulating story or report of uncertain or doubtful truth.” That definition makes a rumor sound about as harmless as a campfire story. It’s been two years since Daddy died and people are still whispering. Whereas once the rumors might’ve been somewhat factual, over time they’ve rolled around so much they’ve grown into a big misshapen and unrecognizable blob, which, like in that black-and-white horror movie that Daddy used to love, has sucked much of the life out of Mama and me. I’m thinking that there needs to be a new word for rumor, or at least a more fitting definition. Something that more accurately describes the ugly, vicious, and hateful stories people spread, mainly because they don’t have anything better to do, and because they’re ugly, vicious, and hateful themselves. In my mind there’s a difference between a rumor and a lie: intent.

  People tell rumors to hurt someone else. People tell lies to save themselves.

  Or someone they love.

  TWO

  Lies

  (The Events Preceding the Murder)

  A lie told often enough becomes the truth.

  —LENIN

  The Wives

  It’s hard to remember when the three of us became we. Perhaps it was that day we first met at Rainy Cove Park. We’d chosen the setting because it was centrally located between Hollyville, Raleigh, and Boone, and because a trek through nature on a lovely autumn day seemed safe, neutral. We’d chosen the day and time, Wednesday at noon, because it accommodated our varied work and child-care schedules. It was odd how we all drove through the entrance at the same time—Diana in her silver Toyota crossover, Jewels in her bright blue Porsche Carrera, Bert in her rusty and dented Chevy Blazer—and then proceeded to park, get out of our vehicles, and walk toward one another, naturally, no huge smiles or feigned politeness, no nervous chatter, as if we’d been doing it our entire lives, as if we’d seen one another yesterday and would do so again tomorrow.

  As if time was our friend.

  We followed the worn dirt path deeper and deeper into the dense forest. The sound of swishing water made us pause. Peering through the trees, we saw a lone kayaker paddling in the distance. The dirt path led on, but without asking one another, we veered onto untamed ground. Twigs crinkled and snapped beneath our shoes. Tall grasses and wildflowers brushed our calves. After some time, we came upon the spot that would become our home away from home, a lovely private clearing nestled in the woodland. We marveled at the quietude. None of the noises of civilization were present: no hustle and bustle, honking horns, or squealing children. There were only the sounds of nature, the singsong wail of the cool autumn breeze, undulating drum of the cyan lake, high-pitched chirp of the graceful birds. We decided it was our place, a place that promised shelter and comfort. Perhaps, ultimately, that was what had glued us together in time and place: We all needed comforting.

  We hurt.

  Diana had brought along a plaid wool blanket and picnic basket, Jewels a brown paper grocery bag with two bottles of chardonnay in it, Bert a brightly woven tote with pink terry-cloth fabric spilling over its edge. We didn’t speak as we prepared our space. Diana opened the blanket, snapped it in the air, its center billowing for a moment like a parachute then reluctantly falling to the ground. We smoothed out its edges, set the basket, bag, and tote in its center, claimed our corners, sat, crossed our legs Indian style, breathed in the musky scent of pine, spruce, and hickory.

  It was Bert who broke our silence. “I brought towels. I thought we might want to swim.”

  We looked at one another, smiled, and as if we’d grown up together, seen one another naked a thousand times, as if Bert’s swollen belly was as natural and beautiful as a bird’s breast, began taking off our clothes. We ran to the water’s edge laughing and screaming like children, stretched our arms toward the sky and dove, kicked our legs, went down deeper and deeper, watched each other’s bodies—Diana’s slim sensuous contours, Jewels’s sharp athletic angles, Bert’s round voluptuous curves—bending and floating and twirling: yellow, black, and brown hair streaming like mermaids. Then we straightened, thrust our arms to our sides, shot to the surface, and paddled back to shore. We wrapped ourselves in the plush pink towels, dried our skin, our hair, lowered our backs to the blanket, and slept naked under the warm autumn sun.

  Perhaps we slept for only minutes, perhaps it was longer, but when we woke it felt as if hours had passed. We felt rested, refreshed, prepared to face a new dawn. We dressed, gathered ourselves into what would become our sacred circle.

  Diana opened the picnic basket. “Egg salad?”

  “Sounds divine,” Jewels said. She uncorked one of the wine bottles.

  “To us,” Jewels said.

  “To us,” Diana and Bert said in unison. The sound of glass hitting glass rang through the air.

  We sipped, assessed one another. These were the other women our husband had married? Didn’t most men prefer a type? Our height, weight, facial features, hair color, skin tones, mannerisms, speech patterns, everything appeared dissimilar. It would be awhile before we understood that Oliver’s initial interest had more to do with our mental states than physical characteristics. At the time each of us met Oliver, we were perfect prey for a man who thrived on the game, the victory, and the foil: We were broken. And Oliver preferred to keep it that way. But that day, our first rendezvous at Rainy Cove Park, we were yet to recognize the extent of our codependence. We still hid behind a veil of lies, secrets, and confusion. Rather than blame Oliver or ourselves, we blamed circumstance and one another. If asked why we’d agreed to meet, we would have said, and believed, that our decision had been based on some virtuous combination of concern and curiosity, when in fact our sole motivation was fear: fear of losing Oliver, fear of one another, fear of the unknown. Keeping one another close meant keeping control. And yet that day, though we’ve since wondered at the ease in which we did so, we opened our hearts and souls to one another. We talked and talked, and listened and listened, and not because we were eager to know one another’s stories, on some level we already knew them, we’d lived them, but because we needed to know who the others were. Because, you see, we no longer knew who we were. We were lost. It had always been Oliver’s story. While none of us had chosen to be part of the sordid tapestry we found ourselves in, we’d unwittingly become threads of its cloth. What was odd is that we didn’t discuss our children or Bert’s pregnancy. We didn’t pull pictures from our handbags, brag of such feats as strong heartbeats, first steps and words, or academic accomplishments. Perhaps this was because, intuitively, we understood that our children were the one pure, uncomplicated part of our lives.

  We felt numb as the details of Oliver’s three lives unfolded. How had he pulled it off? He’d juggled three offices, three families, three wives, yet never once had he confused our names, not even in the heat of passion. There was the Oliver who golfed, grew up Episcopalian, and had no interest in the arts in Hollyville. There was the Oliver who played bridge, turned his back on Catholicism, and collected fine art in Raleigh. There was the Oliver who read literature, was a devout Lutheran, and bought coffee-table art books in Boone. Yet, although Oliver had gone to great lengths to create distinct personalities, we discovered one similarity. He told each of us that he loved us more than anyone and anything in the world, and, as if he were slicing the palm of his hand with a knife and comingling our blood, he pledged his undying love with the same, now haunting words: I love you more than life itself.

  The first time we heard those words, we melted. It wasn’t just the words that caused our unexpected reactions; it was his eyes. They were unwavering. They contained an unmistakable sincerity. Tears welled inside them. Softened by his vulnerability, tears came to our eyes as well. He reached his hand behind our necks, drew us to him, and kissed us. We had been kissed before, but this was like no other. At that moment we wanted to give ourselves to him fully, co
mpletely, without hesitation. Without fear or doubt or concern for the outcome.

  And we did.

  Diana was twenty-five. She’d sworn off men and attachments of any sort. Her long-term relationship with her college boyfriend had ended badly, and she was suffering from the unique pain, distrust, and loneliness that can only result from his particular transgression: He’d slept with her best friend. She met Oliver in a martini bar a few months after she became single again. It was happy hour, prophetic she later thought, because at least in the beginning, she had never been happier than she was with Oliver. Diana and her social companion (she’d also sworn off friends), Lillian, sat at the bar drinking apple martinis. The stark difference between the two women, Diana’s elongated silhouette, blond hair, and white dress against Lillian’s petite frame, dark hair, and black dress was, given the situation, an asset. A handsome man with dark, curly hair sat with an attractive redhead at a table nearby. He wore a dark blue tailored suit and yellow tie; his crisp white shirt glowed against his tan skin. She wore a low-cut, sleeveless emerald green dress. They were deep in conversation, now and then laughing heartily. Diana couldn’t take her eyes off them, perhaps because they reminded her of what she once had, perhaps because they reminded her of what she would never have.

  “He’s a dream, isn’t he?” Lillian asked.

  “Who?” Diana asked.

  “Ten o’clock,” Lillian said. “Mr. Bedroom Eyes.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Diana said. At the time, she believed that.

  “You can’t be serious,” Lillian said.

  Diana hunched her shoulders. “He’s okay, I guess, but as you can see, he’s with someone.”

  “Her?” Lillian asked. “No future there. Besides, she’s not even with him. She came from that table over there. See? The Sex and the City foursome? He’s been checking you out for the past hour.”

  “No, he hasn’t,” Diana said.

  “Trust me, he has,” Lillian said.

  “Let’s go,” Diana said. “I’m just not into this.”

  “Okay,” Lillian said. She chugged the rest of her martini.

  Diana felt a tapping on her shoulder as they passed through the door, and when she turned she found herself face-to-face with Oliver. Diana was five foot nine and wearing four-inch heels.

  Oliver’s smile was disarming. “I’ve been admiring your lipstick.”

  “My what?”

  “Your lips, actually,” he said. “But I thought that might sound too forward. If it is, I apologize.”

  “I’ll get a cab,” Lillian said. “See you tomorrow?”

  Diana thought she protested, but she wasn’t certain. She wasn’t certain about much that happened that evening. Perhaps Oliver bought her another drink, perhaps two, before he drove her home. But there was one thing she was certain of: She remembered what happened when he walked her to the door of her apartment. He’d stood staring at her for a while, his eyes moist, and then he put his hands on her cheeks, kissed her long and hard. Like a gentleman, he stopped, stepped back.

  “I need to go,” he said. He must have seen the confusion (and disappointment?) in Diana’s eyes, because he added, “Believe me, I don’t want to. But we’ve both had so much to drink. I want this to be right. The moment I saw you I knew you were the only woman for me. I knew I would love you more than life itself.”

  In six months they were married.

  Everyone said that was way too fast for marriage. Generally you should wait a year, get to know the person. Diana scoffed. She knew Oliver. All of Oliver. Their minds and bodies fit perfectly. They were in sync. Soul mates. They finished each other’s sentences, wanted the exact same things out of life, loved the same movies and food. Their eyes met every time they made love, and when they did, she saw true love in his. She couldn’t mistake that look, could she?

  “Don’t be hard on yourself,” Jewels said. “I thought the exact same thing. Eyes don’t lie. One of the signs you’ve been in a relationship with a sociopath is that even after you know you’ve been burned, you still love him. And sociopaths are expert chameleons. Look at those women in Florida who were swindled out of their life savings. Police caught the guy, but none of them are pressing charges.”

  “Sociopath?” Diana said. “Oliver may be a lot of things, but he’s not violent. He’s never so much as raised his voice to me.”

  “Not all sociopaths are serial killers,” Jewels said.

  “That’s true,” Bert said. “I read this book that said we’d be surprised how many lead normal lives.”

  “Look up the characteristics, Diana,” Jewels said. “It’s all about winning and manipulation with Oliver.”

  Jewels was thirty when she and Oliver met. Their relationship began with sex. Steamy, wanton, primal sex, the likes of which she hadn’t experienced before, that she’d only read about in novels or watched in X-rated movies. They had sex on the bedroom carpet, sex on the dining-room table and kitchen floor, sex in the shower and bathtub, sex on the sofa, sex on the cold, hard concrete of her townhome balcony, sex almost anywhere but in bed.

  For the longest time, they saw each other only on Mondays. Their only communications outside their weekly trysts were through e-mail or at the gym. That was how they met. She’d noticed him in her building’s workout space. He spent most of his time working his wrapped knee on the leg-lift machine. She found him handsome—no, more than handsome, alluring. Was that the right word? There was just something about him. Though they’d never spoken, or even made eye contact, she felt an odd sensation of recognition, as if she’d known him always, as if they’d been intimate, powerfully so, as if she knew his touch and his smile and would again, as if—dare she say—he was her destiny. Sometimes this sensation was immediate; she’d be concentrating on her run, would look up, and he was there, on his machine. When did he arrive? How long had he been there? Other times the sensation came over her slowly, like a wave flowing across her body, and within moments he’d enter the gym. When he wasn’t in the room, she insisted to herself that she felt nothing, and she’d scoff at the absurdity of her girlish crush. He was just a man she’d conjured into a silly fantasy to pass the time, to take up space in her lost, hollow heart. That was her state of mind the first time he spoke to her.

  “I see you like goldens.” The voice came from behind her. She’d just gotten off the treadmill and gone to the drinking fountain.

  She had heard it described as butterflies or nervous flutters, that warm yet dangerous feeling way down. Fear and desire combined. Up close, he was a bigger man than she had thought. More than six feet tall. Big arms. Broad shoulders.

  She was taken aback. “Goldens?”

  “I saw you with a golden retriever the other day.” He paused. “At the dog park? It was you, wasn’t it?”

  She wasn’t exactly a regular at the dog park, she’d been there maybe twice in the last few months, but one of those times was fairly recent. Perhaps she should have asked When? Or, Where exactly did you see me? But her brain was working overtime to make sense of what was happening, and the rest of her was flattered, so all she said was “Yes.”

  “Best dogs in the world,” he said. “My family had them when I was growing up.”

  “Mine too,” she said.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Frank,” she said.

  “Frank?”

  “After Frank Lloyd Wright.”

  “Commercial or residential?” He noticed her questioning glance. “You’re an architect, right?”

  “Residential,” she said.

  He bent to take a sip from the fountain. She was so close to him that she could see the freckles on his neck and smell his sweat. She marveled at the scent; like him, the man she’d spied from a distance, she was certain she recognized it. He rose, lifted his T-shirt to wipe his mouth. His hands were large, his stomach lean but not hard. Love handles. Her hands cupped them in her mind.

  “Hey?” he asked. “Do you want to get a drink after work toni
ght?” He smiled, a friendly smile. Deep dimples. Warm eyes. Boyish charm. “Come on. One drink? We could talk about all our childhood goldens.”

  She felt immediately anxious. She knew she should say she was busy; that was what the book said to do. She’d bought it in New York after her five-year affair with her married boss ended. Don’t say yes the first time. Make him chase you. Men love the chase. She hadn’t played hard to get with Jonathan; she’d jumped whenever he called and look where that had gotten her. Would he think she was easy if she said yes? Would he see through her ruse if she asked for a rain check? Either way, he might lose interest. What would Cruel Jewels do?

  Her nickname, Jewels, had been her father’s idea. Her parents had been trying for several years to have a child, so when she arrived he called her his precious jewels. Her mother preferred she use her given name, Julie, at school, but, as loners often are, she was the brunt of bullying and name-calling. Ghouly Julie was born in kindergarten. Granted, the name was somewhat warranted. As the only child of older parents, Jewels spent most of her time with her mother and father, or in the interior landscape of her mind. Barbie dolls were her best friends. Her large and assorted collection led a fascinating life filled with drama, love, romance, marriage, more drama, children, and death by weird and extraordinary circumstances, such as Ken having the awful misfortune of falling asleep in an old car that was due to be crushed for scrap metal, or slipping while hiking and falling two hundred feet to his gory death. Ken died regularly and creatively. This allowed Barbie the opportunity to start all over again with drama, love, romance, marriage, more drama, children, and death by extraordinary circumstances. Sometimes, especially when she was nervous, the name Ghouly Julie and the embarrassing feelings that had gone with it popped into her head. To ward it off and keep control of situations, she’d adopted her own alter ego, Cruel Jewels. But Cruel Jewels didn’t help with Oliver. She was mush.