Reputation

by Sara Shepard

  “Fine,” I say, standing up, ready to go. “Just tell me when.”

  26

  WILLA

  THURSDAY, MAY 4, 2017

  I squint in the early afternoon sunlight, shading my eyes to get a better view of the apple trees. A tractor pulling an empty trailer filled with hay rumbles over the pitted ground. It stops close to where Paul and I are standing. A man in muddy jeans, a plaid shirt, and a Pirates ball cap jumps out of the cab and undoes the back latch so we can climb aboard.

  I turn back to Sienna and Aurora, who are poking around the huge bin of leafy broccoli at the farm stand. “Are you sure you don’t want to come on the ride?” I ask them for the third time. I’d invited Paul to come along to discuss some things I’d found out about the case, but at the last minute, I’d invited Sienna and Aurora, too, figuring a trip to Round Acres Farm would at least get them out of the house.

  “At least go into the butterfly tent.” I gesture to a little structure behind the bin of pumpkins. Years ago, when my mother used to bring Kit and me here, we would spend hours in that little tent, letting all sorts of butterfly species land on our arms. It’s why I wanted to come to the farm today: It’s a good connection I have to my mother’s memory, and thankfully, very little about the place has changed aside from the fact that they finally take credit cards and they now have a donkey in the petting zoo.

  With that, Paul and I climb onto the trailer behind the tractor and sit on spiky hay bales. I wish Kit could be here, too, but she seemed determined to go to work. That’s ballsy of her, considering that she found out a colleague, Lynn, slipped her a pill at the benefit. How Kit found this out, I’m not sure—but when Kit told me that news, it took me a long time to respond, so long that Kit asked if there was something wrong. “People are shitheads,” I finally croaked out. My voice sounded strange. My hands, I realized, were curled into fists.

  And yet it made sense. It never quite added up how drunk Kit had become that night on only one cocktail. Now at least we know why.

  I’d asked Kit if we should report Lynn to the cops. Kit thought it over and said she wasn’t sure—which surprised me. I would go after a person who spiked my drink for their own professional gain—it violates all sorts of workplace bullying regulations. But Kit seemed distracted, almost like it was an annoying side problem.

  Then I looked up Lynn on Facebook. I found tons of photos of her—she’s one of those people who posts about everything. It took me mere seconds to know why she looked familiar: She’s the wife of the man Kit was talking to outside the funeral. His name, Facebook tells me, is Patrick.

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t put Lynn on our suspect list?” I asked Kit pointedly, later that day. Was there more to this Lynn-Kit-Patrick triangle than met the eye? I flash again on the charged way Kit and Patrick were staring at each other in the parking lot after the funeral. Was there something else for Lynn to be jealous of?

  “I made an inquiry about Lynn with Detective Reardon, and her alibi is clear,” Kit explained. “Dozens of people saw her at the benefit long after the coroner determined Greg had been stabbed. There’s no way she could have been in two places at once.” She shrugged. “It sucks that she poisoned me, and she’s crazy, but she didn’t kill Greg.”

  After that, the conversation ended. My sister didn’t offer anything more about Patrick. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask point-blank. For as much as we’d come together in this past week, it still felt like there was a barrier between us. Perhaps there are too many years to make up for.

  Paul seems nervous as the tractor jerks forward, gripping my arm to catch his balance. It gives me a pleasant tingle. Once he lets go, I smirk at him. “Never been on a tractor ride before?”

  “I already told you no.” Paul rights himself and brushes hay off his jeans.

  “You never came here as a kid?” When he shrugs, I add, “Actually, of course you didn’t. You were too cool for hayrides.”

  Paul raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to say I was cool when I was younger?”

  I turn away, feeling my heart flutter. “You’re kidding, right? You were Mister Cool.”

  “Mister Cool? Me?”

  I feel my eyelashes batting at him, but then feel a little silly. This is not me. I’m not flirtatious. I don’t put myself out there. I can’t believe I even invited Paul today—though, in other ways, it’s necessary. We’re here to brainstorm about Greg’s death. This is business.

  The tractor begins to ascend a bumpy slope toward the apple orchards. “So,” I say, my tone suddenly professional again. “Any luck with that data on snowstorms from last winter?” We’re trying to track down the exact date Greg came home drunk and stinking of perfume. Sienna said there had been a big snowstorm that day, so I asked Paul to look into last year’s weather history.

  Paul nods. “We had only three really big storms last year. One was the first week of January, one was the third week in February, and one was late March.” He nods thoughtfully. “I remember that late March one, actually—because of Greg. I was supposed to meet him to work on a piece I was ghostwriting for him, but then some of the roads were shut because of downed power lines, and we had to do a Skype session instead.”

  “And he never talked to you about anything personal?” We’re passing a huge patch of wildflowers now. I dwell on them, my gaze resting on the tangle of pinks and yellows.

  Paul shakes his head. “We didn’t have that kind of relationship. I told him more about myself, actually—I was in the thick of the divorce at the time, and I remember my lawyer kept calling with updates from her lawyer.”

  “Your wife thought to get a lawyer?” I ask.

  Paul’s face clouds. “Just because she was young doesn’t mean she was stupid.”

  His tone is harsh, defiant. I turn away, digging my fingers into the straw. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” Paul says after a beat, so quietly I almost can’t hear him over the roar of the tractor’s engine. “I should be used to people’s opinions about it by now. And I know it seems kind of . . . stereotypical—older guy, super-young woman. But I really did love her. And sometimes it doesn’t make much sense who you fall in love with. That’s happened to you, right?”

  I concentrate for a moment on the patches of sunburned skin on the back of the tractor driver’s neck and arms, suddenly feeling sad. There’s a lot Paul and I really don’t know about one another. “Not really,” I admit.

  “Oh.” Paul seems surprised, then awkward. He folds his hands in his lap.

  “It’s been . . . hard,” I hear myself saying. “Something happened to me when I was younger. Something that made me not trust people.”

  I can feel him watching me. Why have I just opened this door? It’s something I’ve told no one—and I’ve liked it that way. And now Paul is waiting for me to say more.

  The tractor chugs to a stop in the fields where, in the fall, there is a corn maze, a pumpkin patch, and a bunch of bounce houses. Today there are only a few plots of crops and a pick-your-own-flowers pavilion, which I intend to check out. I stand quickly, making my way toward the back to climb off. Paul follows me, and I can tell his mind is churning, formulating ideas about me. I paste a smile on my face and head for the flowers. “I love wildflowers,” I call to Paul over my shoulder. “You’re not too cool to pick some, right?”

  We buy bottles of water and pick some wildflowers until we have a big bunch. I’m pleased to see that Paul has gotten into it, arranging his bouquet by color and adding a few random weeds and sprigs of hay to “dress the whole thing up.” Afterward, he presents the sloppy bouquet to me, and I blush. “It’s really something,” I mock gush. “You’ve really outdone yourself.”

  “You think?” He grins. “Do I have a future as a florist?”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  We sit down on the logs that, in colder weather, would be in front o
f a roaring fire. I put Paul’s bouquet to my face, inhaling the sweet, springy scents. I can feel Paul looking at me with concern. Please don’t ask me any questions, I silently will. Please just pretend I never said anything.

  “Anyway,” he says, his gaze falling to the dewy grass. “If we could talk to Sienna again, see if we can pinpoint the month when she remembers Greg coming home drunk, then we could cross-reference that with Greg’s calendar. Maybe he put who he was out with on there. It’s not as if he thought the thing was ever going to be public.”

  “Sounds great.” I want to hug him for moving on so seamlessly. I pull out my phone, getting an idea. “Actually, we might be able to look through all those dates and see if there’s anything suspicious on his calendar right now.”

  But when I try to access the hack site, the little wheel in the corner of my phone screen just spins and spins. We’re too far out in the country to get service. I slip the phone back in my pocket. It will have to wait until later, then.

  The air smells like dirt and manure, and I’m transported to the last time I was here. I was twelve, maybe thirteen; we’d picked apples. I have glimpses of my mom in my memory, but I can’t remember a thing she said to me. We must have talked about something. I hate how cruel memory can be, hanging on to the things you’d rather forget, dropping those you’re desperate to hold on to.

  “I didn’t mean to get all intense with you before,” Paul says suddenly. “About my ex, I mean. I get too sensitive about it, I guess.”

  “It’s okay.” I hug my knees, feeling my body tense. “We all have our things.”

  “Yeah, but I have too many things, probably.” Paul stretches his arms over his head. His T-shirt rises up just a little, and I get a peek at his taut, smooth belly. I glance away before he notices. “I take myself too seriously. Just like I did in high school. I should have been doing more bullshit like this, but you’re right—I was too cool.”

  “We all took ourselves too seriously,” I tell him.

  “You didn’t.”

  I stare at him. Who was I, to him? “Of course I did. I mean, maybe I didn’t scowl as much as you did, but I was still . . . me. I was a personality. I fit into a box. There wasn’t much leeway for that back then, being too many things, especially when they were contradictory. It was weird for me to be in lit mag, actually, and also do sports.” Paul nods, thinking about this. “I remember agonizing about the first meeting before going. Thinking, Shit, they’re going to see me as this jock; I’m not going to be welcome.”

  “We wouldn’t have done that,” Paul says emptily. I’m not sure he believes his words, though. He looks unsettled by the conversation.

  “It’s why most people stay in their little box and don’t venture out. And by the way, it follows you into adulthood, if you let it. Especially around here.”

  “Especially anywhere,” Paul says.

  I think about the women at the country club, with their set personalities and little boxes. But maybe Paul is right that everyone falls prey to getting stuck in a rut. After what happened to me happened, I didn’t change. I remained fixed, stunted, unable to move on.

  “But I believe people can change, too,” Paul adds. “People can grow. They can become better versions of themselves. You just have to be bold sometimes; you just have to get up and shake yourself off and be like, Okay, I’m going to do this even though it goes against every ounce of who I think I am. Because I want to try. Or because I think it’s right.” His eyes lower. “That’s the pep talk I gave myself before talking to you at the funeral reception.”

  I burst out laughing. “You had to give yourself a pep talk to speak to me?”

  He shrugs. “My marriage burned me. And honestly, I didn’t think you liked me much. But I’d always wanted to get to know you. For the record, when you came into that first meeting a zillion years ago, I noticed you right away. I didn’t think you were a jock who didn’t belong. I found you interesting. Thoughtful.” He looks sheepish. “And beautiful. You’re still beautiful.”

  The wind shifts, blowing my hair into my face. It’s been a long time since someone’s called me beautiful—or maybe, since I’ve wanted to accept the compliment. When I look up, Paul is staring at me adoringly. My breath catches. I glance to the right and left, but we’re pleasantly alone, the tractor having disappeared down the hill. I meet Paul’s gaze again, my heart suddenly pounding. He cups my chin and brings his face closer to mine. The touch of his lips on mine feels surreal, like something out of a dream. I probably have dreamed something close to this. He shifts his whole body closer and places his hand on my arm. His other hand wraps around the back of my neck. And that’s where something snaps. My brain doesn’t reject the touch, but something in my body does.

  But then I jolt away. Paul is breathless and looks confused. “What?” he asks, searching my face. “Are you okay?”

  My face is hot—with embarrassment? Passion? Shame? I try to push the spiky feelings and memories away, but they’re flooding in anyway. This angers me. Paul didn’t do anything wrong. And I want this. I gave permission.

  But still, I just . . . can’t. “I’m sorry,” I say in a small voice, standing up. “I should go.”

  He blinks, blindsided. “W-Why?”

  “I . . .” What can I say? What can I do? “I don’t live here, Paul,” I blurt out, grasping for something, even if it’s bullshit. “I shouldn’t string you along.”

  Paul looks confused. “What does living here have to do with anything?”

  But there’s nothing more I can say. I wave my hand and turn for the rutted path that leads back to the farm. Paul stands, too, but I turn away, indicating as best I can that I need space—lots of it. My boots squish in the soft earth as I walk away from him. I can feel his eyes on my back, and it’s then I realize, too—I’ve forgotten the bouquet he made for me.

  But I don’t turn to retrieve it. Really, he should give it to someone else.

  27

  LAURA

  THURSDAY, MAY 4, 2017

  After just an hour of my shift at the hospital, I step into the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. I’ve put on a lot of makeup to cover Ollie’s slap marks from three days ago, but I can still see the imprint of each red, angry finger. No one has asked me about it, though. I guess they all have their own problems.

  Suddenly, dread comes over me. Freddie, my intuition pings. Something’s wrong with Freddie. Maybe Ollie has done something terrible. I’ve been waiting for something to happen, for his stony, punishing silence to spill over into the anger he hinted at a few days before. And he knows Freddie’s my weakness. What if he decides to take out my betrayal on the baby? Would Ollie do such a thing? Days ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed of it. But now, I’m not sure. My husband is now both utterly himself—big, strong, relentless, emotional—and utterly a stranger.

  I need to get home.

  I tell my supervisor I don’t feel well and drive home so quickly I nearly rear-end someone on the parkway. As I open my front door, horrific possibilities of what I’m about to behold flood my mind.

  But then I see Freddie in his Pack ’n Play in the living room. His babysitter, Lucy, kneels next to it, waving a plush spider in his smiling face. Both of them glance up at me as I walk in; Lucy seems startled by the frantic look on my face.

  “Oh,” I cry, rushing toward Freddie and scooping him up. I’m swarmed with desperate, aching joy.

  “Is everything okay?” Lucy stands and brushes off her jeans. “I thought you were going to be back at five.”

  “I, um, I’ve come down with something,” I lie. “So I figured I’d come home. Sorry to drag you over here. I’ll pay you for the whole day.”

  I press Freddie to my cheek, inhaling his sweet baby scent.

  I write Lucy a check. She scoops up her things and heads for the door. “You need me here tomorrow, or do you think you’ll be staying home?�
�� she asks as she steps onto the porch. “I don’t have class until five.”

  I hesitate. “You should come, just in case.” It’s probably safer if I don’t tell the truth yet. I’ll call her tomorrow, early, and cancel.

  After Lucy leaves, I catch sight of myself in the round mirror in the foyer. On the surface, I look fine. My hair is clean. My makeup isn’t smudged. The thick foundation over the slap is doing its job. I bring my hand up to touch it, wincing at the tender ache.

  Time has stood still since everything went down. Ollie has barely spoken to me since he found out. For three nights, he has slept in our bedroom, while I’ve retreated to the pull-out couch in the office. This morning, he dressed quietly, babbled to Freddie, and then left without saying a word to me. The other shoe is going to drop—but when?

  And I have questions. Ollie knew. He knew about Greg and me this whole time, but he said nothing. Why? Is it really because he didn’t want to believe it was true? You really think I’m that stupid? he’d said. And then, later: I’m glad that guy is dead.

  He’d known when Greg’s Lolita e-mails broke wide. Hell, he might have thought I was Lolita. And he’d known the night he sent me to the benefit alone. What else did he know that night? And where was Ollie the night of the gala?

  I’d come home from my near suicide attempt at 2:00 A.M. Ollie hadn’t been here—I’d had to wake Lucy from the couch. I figured, of course, that he was still at the police station, working on the hack . . . but now I’m not so sure. If I’d idled my car for a little longer in Greg’s circle that night, might I have seen Ollie come along next?

  I imagine the rage roiling through him after finding out about Lolita. Reading those e-mails, presuming I wrote them, imagining Greg and me doing those disgusting things. I picture Ollie pacing the floor, breathing through his nose, groaning. Did he worry about being made a laughingstock, a cuckold?