by Beck, Jamie
After savoring my final swig of coffee, I took the empty plate and cup to the counter. “Have a great day, Hannah.”
“You too.” She waved before shuffling to the far end of her display case to straighten a tray of popovers.
And then, because Lyle’s hypocrisy irked me, I added, “See you soon.”
Outside, the brisk air fended off a food coma. I inhaled deeply and turned right to finish my walk home. Unlike the east end of town—where I’d grown up—the west side boasted herringbone brickwork sidewalks and iron lampposts with ivy-stuffed hanging baskets. The recent upgrades were part of an expansion due to increased tourism. Lyle and I loved the trendy shops and restaurants, but traffic on Saturdays wasn’t ideal.
As I left the commercial district and meandered onto Nukquit Lane, the uniformity of the new residential development relaxed me. We lived on Naeez Court. Each of the five streets that made up our little neighborhood came from the Nanticoke words for one through five. Better yet, the homes, while not identical, were all roughly the same size and style, each set in the center of a well-manicured half-acre lot.
Logic and structure made life easier to navigate.
The older areas where my mom and Erin still lived were populated with 1940s ranch-, cape-, and cottage-style homes, and weak zoning restrictions. Not that I’d noticed when I was young. When I hadn’t been at one of Kevin’s Little League games or helping my mom bake cookies, I’d been reading books in the hammock or running through the neighborhood on warm summer evenings. But as I grew up, my preference for order over chaos solidified. I’d worked hard and made smart choices to help afford a home on this side of town.
In contrast to my place, Erin’s antiquated brick apartment building resembled a crumbling fort, but even that looked more impressive than her cramped apartment. Some nights I’d sit straight up in bed, concerned about how she’d escape that mousetrap in a fire. But anytime I offered to reorganize the clutter or suggested she brighten it up with fresh paint, she’d smile and dismiss me. The pretty Pottery Barn drapes I’d picked up for her this past Christmas remained in a box buried somewhere in that mess.
Despite my best intentions, I never quite did the right thing where she was concerned.
I entered my home through the garage. We’d bought it almost five months ago, yet hadn’t nearly finished decorating. Lyle had suggested we get rid of the mishmash of his old-condo furnishings and the things I’d kept from my apartment once we’d married. But our fiscally responsible nature restricted us to purchasing only the essentials to date—a kitchen table and chairs, a Restoration Hardware sofa set from the Maddox Collection and the flat-screen TV that hung above the fireplace, bedroom furniture from Lillian August, and two area rugs to help muffle the echo of the hardwood, tile, and glass throughout the home. We’d selected crisp, clean lines and colors—white, gray, navy. Soothing.
Usually. Today it seemed a little cold and empty.
I twisted my neck from side to side, then sat at the kitchen table and dialed Lyle’s number. Straight to voice mail, like it had earlier this morning. I glanced through the french doors that led to the deck and firepit. The night before he’d left, we’d sat by the blaze, discussing baby names.
I’d lobbied for “Willa” in honor of my late father, William Turner. It broke my heart that, thanks to an unexpected heart attack last summer, he wouldn’t be part of my growing family. And aside from Willa also being an adorable name, it’d be unique. As a teacher, I’d met more than my fair share of Caitlins, Katies, and Ellies.
Lyle had simply raised his brow at me and pushed for “Penelope,” which he thought better suited the blonde curls and blue eyes he expected our daughter to inherit from me.
Penelope Foster . . . Penny. No matter how often I turned that over in my head, it didn’t sound right.
Still no word from Lyle, so I called his friend Tom, with whom he was staying while in Miami.
A woman answered, “Hello.”
“I’m sorry.” I paused. “I might’ve misdialed. I’m trying to reach Tom Cantor.”
“This is Tom’s phone, but he just ran out. Can I take a message?” The woman sounded younger—maybe twenty-three or twenty-five.
Not once all week had Lyle mentioned any women at the house. “Um, well, I’m actually trying to track down Lyle Foster. He’s staying with Tom.”
“Yeah, I know Lyle, but you missed him. He and Ebba left yesterday afternoon.”
I blinked. Ebba? I’d heard that name only once before in my life.
“Hello?” came the younger woman’s voice.
“I’m sorry.” I shook my head in a futile effort to settle my spinning thoughts. “May I ask with whom I am speaking?”
“Gigi . . . Tom’s girlfriend.” She sounded bored and slightly annoyed, like I’d interrupted her while she was painting her nails.
“Oh.” All morning I’d been worried about my husband, but now my thoughts veered in a different, more disturbing direction. “Is Ebba working on the deal with Lyle?”
“No idea. You’ll have to ask him.”
“I would, but I can’t reach him.” My voice shot upward, so I cleared my throat. “When will he be back?”
“You know what, I probably shouldn’t be giving out all this information about Tom’s friend without permission. I don’t even know who you are.”
“I’m Lyle’s wife!” I clapped my palm over my mouth, mortified. Only the sound of my heartbeat broke the ensuing silence.
“Sorry.”
Then the line went dead.
Gigi’s discomfited tone resounded in my thoughts. If I weren’t sitting at my kitchen table, I’d swear someone had shoved my head underwater and was holding it there.
After a minute I dialed Lyle’s cell phone once more, straining to speak through my tightening throat. “Lyle, it’s Amanda. I haven’t heard from you since yesterday morning. I tried Tom’s and was told you left the house with someone named Ebba. Is she also working on the deal? Please call me.” One heartbeat. Two. “I miss you . . .”
I set the phone down and stared into space, mentally walking myself back from the accusations forming in my mind. It could be a coincidence. Sure, Ebba wasn’t a common name, but there had to be a reasonable explanation.
I hugged myself. Days ago, we were picking baby names and planning a trip to see the Phillips Collection in DC. Suddenly he’s dodging calls and running around with women he failed to mention. What was happening?
Craning my neck to get as close to my belly as possible, I murmured, “Don’t worry, Muffin. Mommy will figure everything out and make it right.”
I picked up my phone and scrolled through the contacts to find the main number for Lyle’s former employer. I stared at it, recalling the one and only time I’d met an Ebba.
Ebba Nilsson. Tall and lithe, blonde and buxom, with a tinkling feminine giggle. She’d laughed often, mostly at anything Lyle had said at the company’s most recent holiday party. I’d teased him about his new fan that night but then never mentioned her again. Why would I? I hadn’t felt genuinely threatened. We were in love and pregnant. Only good things were happening for us.
A couple of weeks later, on Christmas morning, Lyle had given me my favorite gift: a Foster family memory jar, like the tradition my mom had started years ago in my childhood home. We’d fill it annually with special memories and then, on each New Year’s Eve, reread them. Afterward, we would choose our favorite from that year, which would then be kept in a special box for the future.
My eyes closed on that thought, praying that my qualms about Ebba were wrong. Then I dialed the number.
“Chesapeake Properties. How can I direct your call?”
I coughed once so my voice wouldn’t squeak. “Ebba Nilsson, please.”
“Ebba is no longer with our firm. May I direct you to someone else?”
Without thinking, I hung up and slid the phone away.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I pushed myself out of the chair and paced.
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All around me lay evidence of our happy marriage. The striking wedding photo on the sofa table, the embellished throw pillows we’d chosen together, the ultrasound photo pinned to the corkboard above my built-in desk in the kitchen. Sure, career demands and familiarity had rubbed the brand-new shine off our romance and made some days harder than others. But Lyle loved me as I loved him. I knew that with every bit of my being.
He would not destroy the life we’d built together these past three and a half years for a Swedish bimbo.
A sharp knock at the door startled me. I wouldn’t have answered, but my mother’s voice called, “Amanda, honey! It’s me.”
I lumbered to the door and flung it open. “Mom . . .”
She looked surprised when I fell into her arms.
“Oh my!” She held me tight, patting my back and stroking my hair. For a second I felt like a kid again, seeking the security of her love, confident that she could fix my problems. “What’s happened?”
Uncertainty strangled my vocal cords.
“Come, dear. Let’s sit down.” My mother led me back to the kitchen table and made sure I was seated. Her kind golden-brown eyes shone with concern, but I was having a hard time looking into them. “Why aren’t you ready?”
My mother wanted us to go complete a gift registry for the guests she’d invited to the baby shower she was hosting next month. She’d worn her favorite Lane Bryant dress and kitten heels for the occasion.
“It’s Lyle.” I swallowed to loosen the knot in my throat. “I think maybe he’s having an affair.”
“What?” My mother’s face pinched while she shook her head. “No way. He dotes on you.”
“I thought so, too.” I folded my arms on the table and rested my forehead on my wrists, while Mom stroked my hair and squeezed my shoulder. Familiar, gentle reminders that I was not alone, although they did little to settle my stomach.
“Let me fix you a cup of tea, and then you can tell me what’s put this nonsense in your head.” She set her purse on the table and then absently opened and closed several cupboards and drawers.
“Cups are above the dishwasher.” I frowned—my mother had helped me set up my kitchen and visited me at least twice each week. If anything, she knew this kitchen better than I did.
“Oh, that’s right.” She fuddled around with the cup and tea bag, and eventually turned on the microwave, while I dissected the facts, which, admittedly, weren’t clear. Was my mom right? Lyle had never before given me any reason to doubt him. He’d never lied about anything . . .
Well, other than Sugar Momma’s.
My mother brought the tea to the table and sat beside me. “Now drink this and tell me what’s happened.”
I recognized the look on her face. The one she’d worn to convince us that there were no monsters under the bed. Nothing dark and scary had ever reached up to grab us, but that didn’t mean there weren’t monsters out there.
I couldn’t help but wish I had another cookie. “I haven’t heard from him since yesterday afternoon—”
She waved that off, wearing a relieved smile. “He’s busy working, honey.”
Mom had always respected the boundaries of work. As our town’s high school librarian, she’d made it clear we couldn’t run to her with personal problems during school hours. My father had been in sales, having worked his way up to a regional manager position within a small medical supply company. When we were kids he’d traveled on business one or two days each week. He hadn’t been in constant touch with her, and she’d been fine with that. He was always where he said he’d be, and he’d often come home with big hugs and little trinkets for us all.
“I know. But I called Tom, and a woman answered—Tom’s girlfriend. When I asked for Lyle, she told me he’d left yesterday—with Ebba.”
My mother frowned. “Who’s Ebba?”
“I’m not sure, but he used to work with a woman named Ebba at Chesapeake Properties. I called right before you showed up and learned that she no longer works there.” I held the teacup in both hands to warm them. It didn’t help.
“Well, there you go. Lyle told us he planned to bring partners into this deal so he could quickly repay my loan, right? Of course he’d choose partners he already knew he could work well with. He’s smart that way.”
“Maybe . . .” I mulled it over, recalling all his excitement about our future. But if he’d invited Ebba into the deal, why hadn’t that come up in conversation?
“Yes, honey. Trust me. Please don’t let your hormones play tricks on you.” My mother’s certainty reassured me. I had been a hormonal mess lately. “Lyle isn’t having an affair. He’s a good man and devoted husband. Be patient. He’ll call any minute now.”
The phone buzzed on the table, and I grabbed it.
Erin.
I set it down, unable to deal with her at the moment. It was hard enough to stay optimistic now without her wordless “told you sos” sowing doubts. Not that she’d say it. In fact, she’d brush her hands together, mutter “good riddance,” then suggest we get pizza or take a road trip.
“Come on.” My mom stood. “Go put on something pretty and let’s have our shopping day picking out a crib and bedding and all the sweet things. You’ll feel better, and after Lyle calls tonight, we’ll laugh about this. You’ll see.”
I went up to my room to change into a spring dress and flats. My mother’s faith had given me hope, and browsing baby clothes would certainly lift my mood. I brushed my hair, thinking about the way Lyle had kissed me goodbye. “Wish me luck!” he’d said.
My mother was right. He’d never shown any interest in other women, including Ebba. He could be moody, but he’d never lied.
And then Hannah’s laughing face resurfaced from when she’d innocently revealed, “That’s exactly what he always says.”
I stared into the mirror, expecting it to crack as the reckoning that I may not know my husband as well as I’d thought returned.
What if cookies weren’t the only secret Lyle was keeping?
CHAPTER TWO
ERIN
Until my dad died, I’d given less than zero thought to my future. Those of us hovering around an average IQ were less burdened by big aspirations and expectations—and that freedom had kept my life spontaneous and interesting. My siblings, Kevin and Amanda, proved my theory that the smarter a person is, the more trapped they get in the whole “big thing,” like finding the right school, the right job, the right partner, the right house.
The family gene pool did funnel my dad’s zest for adventure and winning smile my way. As long as there was a roof over my head, most days I had all I needed to be happy. Lately, though, that roof thing was looking a bit precarious.
If I’d been smarter, maybe I could’ve become a veterinarian—the perfect job for someone who loves animals more than I do most people. That income would’ve exceeded what I cleared from the combo of teaching yoga and my budding Etsy business. Still, odd jobs gave me flexibility and autonomy, as well as immediate satisfaction.
But if I’m being completely honest, the specter of my thirtieth birthday had me thinking it might be time to do some adulting and take a few steps away from the poverty line. Lately I’d felt stuck somewhere between where I was headed and where I wanted to be. Without my dad to talk to, I was putting my faith in tomorrow’s meditation and yoga retreat as my best hope for answers.
“Let’s leave for the institute at six tomorrow.” Lexi, my BFF and fellow instructor, rolled up her mat and strapped it onto her yoga bag. She had the face and body of a young Angela Bassett, and rocked short hair just as well.
All around us, women in various states of undress banged around their lockers, blow-dried their hair, and chattered like chickens in a henhouse. The recent influx of young families to town had brought to the studio more women who all looked alike, with their shoulder-length, straight hair, Alala yoga wear, and Céline handbags. Even their freshly plucked eyebrows and real gold jewelry set them apart from me.
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nbsp; My multicolored cocktail-pattern yoga pants had raised more than one eyebrow at Give Me Strength, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. They’re hilarious, though not as funny as my pair covered with Nicolas Cage’s face.
“We don’t need to be up in Rhinebeck until noon.” I shut my locker. “Seven’s the perfect time to go.”
“Unless we hit traffic, need a bathroom break, or anything else crops up. We’ve spent a lot for this weekend, so let’s not miss anything. Tony’s already busting on me for going on this retreat when I’m a yoga teacher.”
He had a point, but her boyfriend didn’t get restless when life got humdrum. I did, hence my justifying the trip I couldn’t afford as a necessity for my future. It could give me an edge if I ever found a way to open my own studio, one of many business ideas—along with expanding my Shakti Suds soap products and dog grooming (once I learned how)—that required money I didn’t have to spare.
“Max won’t be thrilled if I wake Mo up that early.” My boyfriend had never been a morning person. Or much of a dog person, frankly. And once freed from his crate for the day, Mo stuck by someone’s heels at all times.
“When is Max ever thrilled about anything?” Lexi quipped.
I could only shrug. Max hadn’t been excited about writing, art, music, or even interesting food since his regular Sunday brunch solo gig at the East Beach Café got canceled five months ago, and I’d rather not think about the effect his apathy had on me. “Fine, fine. I’ll pick you up at six fifteen.”
“Good.” Lexi shouldered the gym’s heavy glass door open. Like everything else around here, this trendy fitness center looked like something straight out of a magazine. Glass, brick, metal. A.k.a. sterile, unoriginal, and unimaginative.
Silly, really. No one needed upscale finishes to enjoy a rewarding yoga session. Give me a cozy space with soft lighting and some hand-rolled natural incense sticks any day. Better yet, small groups of students who weren’t competing with each other to see who could hold a pose longest or best. Hello, people! Kinda missing the point of yoga!