AHMM, June 2012

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AHMM, June 2012 Page 3

by Dell Magazine Authors


  The worst part was that she hadn't married him for his money, not really. She'd married him, more or less, for love.

  Even so, almost from the beginning, it had been hard. The first year or so was fine—not exciting, she'd never expected that, but pleasant and companionable, with his big new house to decorate and the fun of having a clothing allowance so large that she usually had something left over at the end of the month. As often as he could manage, he'd come shopping with her. He never begrudged her anything, always urged her to get more; he seemed to enjoy buying things for her, just as he enjoyed getting things for the house. But then, for no reason she could see, she felt him drawing away, seeming less pleased with her, less open. Before the second year ended, he was making the joke. Then he started bringing young men home.

  Scott Crawford, a junior partner at Edward's law firm, was the first. Edward invited him to dinner but didn't ask Thea to cook, even though she liked to cook, even though she'd started cooking at her parents’ restaurant as a teenager and was at least as good as the personal chef Edward now shared with two other senior partners. Clearly, though, Edward didn't want Scott Crawford to see her as a cook. Before he left for the office that morning, Edward gave her instructions. She was to have her hair and nails done and to wear the red silk dress he'd special-ordered from the designer in Hong Kong. She was to wait upstairs until after Edward arrived with Scott Crawford, and then, while they were drinking Scotch in the great room, she was to walk down the broad, highly polished staircase and join them.

  She played her part. He won't make the joke tonight, she told herself. It would be ridiculous—Scott Crawford obviously knows him already, so there's no reason for Edward to introduce himself. The men stood by the fireplace; Edward was pointing to the new Picasso sketch above the mantel, and Scott Crawford, glass in hand, was nodding in admiration. When she was halfway down the staircase, both men looked up at her, and Edward swept out his arm to take Thea in.

  “At last!” he said. “Scott, this is my lovely wife, Thea.” He paused. “And I, of course, am Thea's first husband.”

  Scott Crawford got it instantly; Thea could see that in his eyes. But he didn't comment, and didn't chuckle, and didn't give her a pained look.

  At dinner, Edward told Thea about Scott's charity work. “His mother runs this remarkable foundation, Music Matters. It provides free after-school music lessons for inner-city young people. And on Saturdays, it brings them together for choral and instrumental groups. Scott coordinates the Saturday programs himself.”

  “That's wonderful,” Thea said, smiling at Scott Crawford. He was about Thea's age, and nice looking—perhaps not handsome, not technically, but there was nothing wrong with the way he looked, and Thea felt glad about having him at the table, about being able to glance at him from time to time. “That must be very satisfying.”

  “It is,” Scott said. “Those kids—week after week, they surprise me with what they can do, with how dedicated they are.”

  “Maybe you'd enjoy getting involved in that, Thea,” Edward suggested. “I'm sure Scott could use some help on Saturdays—with making phone calls, and filing, and so forth. You could do that.”

  I can do more than make phone calls and file things, she thought, but smiled. “You've always said you don't want me to work.”

  “I haven't wanted you to work for a salary,” he said, “since there's no need for that, and since it wouldn't be right for you to take a paying position away from someone who does need it. But volunteer work—that's perfectly appropriate. After all, Thea, you can't do nothing but shop all day, every day.”

  As if I've never done anything but shop, she thought; as if I didn't work fifty hours a week, more than fifty, until I married you. She smiled again. “That's true.”

  “So, how about it, Scott?” Edward said. “Wouldn't you like to have Thea help on Saturdays?”

  Scott looked at them, at the senior partner and his beautiful young wife. “Sure,” he said. “We're in good shape for volunteers right now, but we can always use more. If Thea's interested, my mother and I would be glad to have her help.”

  So every Saturday, for the next five weeks, Thea joined Scott in the cramped office of the community center where the choral and instrumental groups met. They were never alone together for long: His mother would pop in often, and so would his sister, and his friends, and the wives of his friends. Usually, they didn't have any particular reason for popping in; Thea got the feeling that Scott had asked them to pop in, that they were popping in to make a point. But she enjoyed those Saturdays, enjoyed doing the simple tasks Scott found for her, enjoyed listening to the music groups practice, enjoyed chatting with the children when there was nothing left for her to do. On the fifth Saturday, when for once she and Scott were alone in the office, he turned away from his computer and smiled.

  “How did you and Edward meet?” he asked.

  She laughed. It was the first personal question he'd ever asked her. “Oh, I was tending bar at this place in the Flats. And he started dropping by, almost every night. I don't know—maybe he thought it had local color or something, but really it was just a dive. Anyhow, we'd talk, and he was so smart and funny; I liked listening to him. Then he asked me to dinner, and then—well, that's how it started.”

  Scott nodded. “And he was already divorced?”

  “Oh, yes,” Thea said. “For years and years. Did you know, he invited his ex-wife to our wedding? That seemed odd—it was such a small wedding. But she came, with her new husband. Well, not so new—they've been married for years and years, ever since the divorce. Anyhow, I talked to her after the ceremony. I thought she might be mean to me, but she was nice. She seemed really smart.”

  He grimaced. “Another slick, overeducated lawyer. The world probably has too many of us.” He was silent for a moment. “I've been thinking, Thea. There isn't much for you to do here on Saturdays. You must be bored. How about coming on Thursday afternoons instead? I won't be here—I'll be at work—but you'd be a big help to the administrative assistant, Sharon. You'll like her. How does that sound?”

  It sounded a little sad. She'd come to look forward to these Saturdays, to listening to the children play and sing, to spending time with Scott, who was always so nice to her. But she felt this was a good decision; for reasons she couldn't quite understand, she felt relieved. “Of course,” she said. “If I can help more on Thursdays, that's when I'll come. I won't come on Saturdays anymore.”

  But Edward didn't like having her go to the center on Thursdays. After two weeks, he decided it was a bad neighborhood, and sooner or later someone was bound to snatch her purse. That was the end of volunteering for Music Matters. Over the next few months, Edward brought more young men home for dinner, young men who worked for political candidates he contributed to or charities he supported. Always, Edward offered them Thea's services as a volunteer; always, she found a way to say no. She was irritating him. She could see that, but she felt saying no was the smart thing to do.

  Then, one morning at breakfast, Edward put down his newspaper. “You should get a personal trainer,” he said.

  She pressed down her spoon, easing out another section of grapefruit. “I don't need one. I've got my spinning class, my yoga class—I go to the club every day to swim and work out on the machines. I weighed myself this morning, Edward. I'm eight pounds lighter than on the day we got married.” She knew being thin was important, even though he'd never said a word about it, even though she'd always been thin. After he'd started drawing away from her, she'd worked hard to lose those eight pounds, even though she hadn't needed to. She'd thought, somehow, it might help. It hadn't.

  “Oh, I know,” Edward said. “And you look fine. But all my friends’ wives have personal trainers.”

  So this was about having the things his friends had. She understood about that. She sighed. “All right. After Andre comes here for his sessions with you, he can work with me.”

  “No. Andre works with men; he doesn't have mu
ch experience with women. And the gym downstairs isn't set up for you—the weights are too heavy. You should have a personal trainer at the club.”

  Maybe she could use this. “You're right. My sister's wedding is barely three months away—I want to look my best for that. Maybe, if I lose five more pounds before the wedding, you'll think about—”

  “This isn't about your weight, Thea.” Edward snapped his newspaper back into position. “And it certainly isn't about your sister's wedding. We've been over that. If you feel you must attend, you may, but I have no intention of going. I loathe Buffalo, and weddings bore me. Now, I've heard good things about a trainer named Tony; some of my friends’ wives use him. I'll set up a session for this afternoon.”

  It was settled. At three o’ clock, she went to the club and had her first session with Tony. He was just her age—thirty-two—and he was magnificent. He was muscular, but not in an exaggerated way. His chin-length light brown hair was streaked with gold, so subtly that it must be natural, or at least expensive; and any attempt to find fault with his eyes, nose, mouth, or chin would just be silly. They met, five times a week, in a small room near the main gym. When Thea leaned over to touch her toes, his hands rested lightly on her hips, then moved down to close on her thighs; when she reached up to stretch, his hands followed the movement of her body, brushing softly against her breasts. He never said much. He didn't have to. By Monday of the third week, she wore a leotard instead of sweatpants, and she spent half an hour on her hair and makeup before heading for the club.

  That was the day that he paused when she stretched, that his hands eased forward to cover her breasts, that he turned her around to face him and put his arms around her waist, drawing her close against him. She put her arms around his neck, tilted her head back, and closed her eyes.

  “Excuse me,” a man said, opening the door to the small room. He was short and dark and wiry, with sharp little eyes and a jutting chin. “Oops—am I interrupting? I thought I had a session scheduled in here, but maybe not. Say, you're Thea Hanover, aren't you? Hi—I'm Paul Addison. I'm a friend of Edward's. Gosh—it's been a long time since I've seen you. Can I buy you a lemonade, or a green tea, or whatever they serve in that café downstairs?”

  “Fine.” Thea backed away from Tony. Paul Addison—the name meant nothing to her, and his face didn't register. But Edward knew so many people; there had been so many introductions over the past three years, often so humiliating that she couldn't focus on the faces of the people she was meeting. Tony looked at her helplessly, then ambled off. Too bad—she'd been so ready, not necessarily for going all the way, though she'd taken note of two decent-looking motels on the drive to the club, just in case. Well, she'd be back tomorrow.

  She slipped into her jacket and followed Paul Addison to the café, smiling as he bought her a cranberry juice. “It's nice to see you again,” she said, sitting down across from him in a bright orange booth. “I'll tell Edward you—”

  “Don't do it, Thea.” He took a sip of his pomegranate yogurt shake and winced. He leaned forward, his arms folded on the table. “Not over a jerk like Tony Gleason. You handled the Scott Crawford situation real well—or maybe he handled it, maybe you just followed his lead. But at least you had enough sense to see the situation couldn't go any place good. You should've seen that this time, too—it's a lot more obvious this time.”

  She grasped her plastic bottle of cranberry juice in both hands. Damn, she thought. Damn, damn, damn. “Who are you? How do you know about Scott?”

  “Like I told you,” he said, “my name's Paul Addison. What I didn't tell you is I'm a private detective, and six months ago your husband hired me to watch you. So I watched you when you were with Scott, and I watch you when you're with Tony. I watch you pretty much all the time when you're not with Edward.”

  This was it—the disaster she'd dreaded vaguely for months, though she hadn't been able to put a name to it until now. “Bastard,” she said, and started to get up.

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her back into the booth. “Think about it, Thea. I didn't have to tell you. I could've let you make a fool of yourself with Tony, taken pictures, and collected a fat fee. But I didn't. I decided to help you—to warn you. You know how Edward found out about Tony, why he wanted you to work with Tony? It's not because his friends’ wives use Tony. His friends’ wives are too smart to go anywhere near Tony. Tony's a whore, Thea. He plays up to rich women—to wives of rich men. He screws them, and then he squeezes them for money by threatening to tell their husbands. One wife stopped paying, and sure enough, her husband found out. Edward's firm is representing the husband in the divorce. That's how Edward found out about Tony.”

  She pressed her hand against her forehead. Scott, Tony, all the young men who had come to dinner—was that why? But that's so mean, she thought. “He's been testing me,” she said. “But why? I've never given him one reason not to trust me.”

  “You came damn close to giving him a reason five minutes ago,” Paul pointed out. “But it's okay. I stopped you before you crossed the line. He never has to know.”

  “Not if I pay you.” Thea started to get angry again. “That's why you stopped me. Instead of paying Tony, I pay you.”

  “Nah, you don't have to pay me.” Paul gave his pomegranate shake another try before pushing it aside. “Edward pays me plenty. As long as you don't actually screw anyone, this job could go on forever. And in lots of ways, it's easier than most jobs I've done. Not in all ways. I'll tell you the truth, Thea. In my line of work, lots of the jobs I do sort of turn my stomach. This one turns my stomach more than most. I hate to tell you, but your husband's a son of a bitch.”

  “He's not.” Ridiculously, she felt tears coming to her eyes, and wiped them away with her fist. “He's nice. At least, he used to be nice. And then—I don't know why things changed. I don't know what I did wrong.”

  Paul looked at her for a long time; she thought she saw real sympathy in his eyes. “I don't think it's anything you did,” he said at last. “I think it's what he did; I think it's who he is. His mother lived too long. Edward had to wait too long to be rich.”

  She shook her head. “He's always been rich.”

  “By your standards, sure,” Paul said. “By my standards, definitely. Successful lawyer, big practice—and his first wife made even more than he did. They lived pretty well. And when she left him for another man, she didn't ask for a penny. Lucky guy. But he didn't come into the real money until his mother died four years ago. By then, I think he felt entitled to—well, he's an interesting guy, I've spent lots of time trying to figure him out, but you don't want to hear my theories. The point is, I don't think all this has much to do with you. I think it has to do with his first wife cheating on him, and with him going a little overboard when he finally got his mother's money, and with him afterwards feeling like maybe he'd been a fool.”

  She tried to fit all that in with the way Edward had treated her. The money part didn't make sense; Edward had always been rich. And the other part wasn't her fault. “I knew his first wife cheated on him,” she said. “I'm sure that hurt him, and I'm sorry. But I never cheated. I mean, Tony, yes, but that wouldn't have happened if Edward hadn't pushed me to—I mean, why did Edward do that? It wasn't fair.”

  “No, it wasn't,” Paul agreed. “If you left him, I wouldn't blame you.”

  She thought about that, not for long. “No, I don't want to leave him.”

  “I figured you wouldn't. I know about the prenup. If you get divorced, you get just about nothing. If you stick it out, you get just about everything.”

  “It's not just the prenup,” she said, though she had to admit she'd come to love living in that house, and not going to work, and having the clerks in all the stores be nice to her. But it was also not wanting to go to her sister's wedding as someone whose marriage hadn't worked out, after her parents had told her to be careful, after her sister told her flat-out she was making a mistake. And Edward could still be nice, especially whe
n it was just the two of them, at night, when he could still make her feel so pretty and special. “I like my husband—I love him. I want to make things good again.”

  “So confront him. Don't mention me—just say you figured out what he's been up to with Scott and Tony and the rest. Say you resent it, and he'd damn well better stop.”

  Confront Edward? No. He'd make her feel stupid—he could always turn whatever she said against her. Or he'd get mad and silent, and that would be so unpleasant. She shook her head. “I can't. He's too smart—it'd be too hard.” She looked at Paul more closely. “You've really been watching me for six months? But I never even saw you before today.”

  “That's pretty much the goal when you're watching someone.” He smiled at her, his sharp little eyes sparkling. “Thanks. You just paid me a nice compliment.”

  “And you really don't want money from me?”

  “I really don't. Like I said, in lots of ways, this is an easy job. Now that I won't feel like I'm setting you up, it'll be easier. I'll just keep following you around to all the fancy places you go, drinking espresso and every so often taking pictures of you doing nothing in particular. It's safe, it's pleasant, and Edward pays well—I got no complaints.”

  She thought that over. “It sounds a little creepy.”

  “A little,” he admitted. “But you'll get used to it. So, what'll you do about Tony?”

  “I'll never see him again,” she said promptly. “I'll report him to the club for trying to take advantage of me. I'll tell Edward—”

 

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