I considered her argument. It was a good one. After all, it was the same one I used to use. "Well," I began admitting, "the truth is most people don't exactly see it the way you do...at least not right away. I mean, gratitude is hard to come by in this job. It's an assumption you have to make on your own. So if you're looking for instant gratification, this isn't the place to find it."
I paused. "Plus, it's a very difficult thing to go through with."
"I realize that," Lauren said. "But I can do it. I know I can. I mean, if I can fix outsourced programming code for a customized app without ever learning the business process, I can certainly handle this."
I shot her a puzzled look.
She continued. "Sometimes at night, when I'm lying alone in my bed, I think about how if it weren't for you I would have married that guy. And God knows how many times he would have done exactly what he did. While I stood by, faithful, loyal, and completely naive. I can't not do this."
She looked at me with a determination that I hadn't seen in anyone in a long time. A determination I used to see in myself. Every time I looked in the mirror. Give people the gift my mother never got.
It was what had kept me going every day. What had gotten me out of bed every morning.
And then suddenly, as I listened to her familiar words and sympathetic quest for purpose, I came face-to-face with a cold, hard realization.
What was going to get me out of bed now?
What would be my purpose...now?
"The truth is," I began, "I retired a week ago."
Her ears perked up. "You did? Why?"
I should have told her everything. All the ugly aspects of this business: the lies you have to maintain, the secrets you have to keep, the double life you have to lead, and even the revenge that some people will seek. Because believe it or not, not everyone thinks of this as a service to humanity. A lot of people – people like Raymond Jacobs – think of it as grounds for retribution.
But I didn't tell her any of these things, because I felt it wasn't my place. And I knew that when I was in her shoes, when I had come face-to-face with the decision to sink or swim in my sea of regrettable mistakes, I had chosen to swim. I had chosen to find purpose in those mistakes. And if someone had warned me of what was to come, I doubt I would have listened. I doubt it would have put me off my mission for even a second.
I saw that willpower in Lauren's eyes, and I wouldn't have done anything in the world to try to take that away from her.
"It was just time to stop," I said simply, in response to her question.
"So, do you have any advice for me? A place to start? Where to begin?"
I almost had to laugh. It was as if she were seeking business advice from a tax attorney. Should she set up an LLC or a corporation? And in that case should she opt for an S corp or a C corp? And what the hell did I know about C corps?
I had stumbled into this job... and in all honesty, I had stumbled out as well.
I shook my head. "Not really. I don't really know what to tell you. I can refer all my future business to you, if you'd like."
Lauren's eyes lit up like a car's headlights illuminating a dark country highway. "That would be perfect. Thank you!"
I smiled back at her, but frankly, the whole thing just felt very odd. Like I was being asked to pass on my legacy key to the next lucky recipient. Although I honestly wouldn't use the word lucky to describe her.
But I suppose legacy was accurate enough.
Ashlyn had certainly left her mark on the world. And I suppose it would be difficult to follow in her shoes. But as I left the café that night, I felt a pang of emptiness. Like a part of me was missing. A part of me that I had gotten very used to over the years. And I supposed I truly would miss Ashlyn from time to time.
She did have some really nice shoes.
WHEN YOUR entire house is decorated in white, you would think that one, tiny out-of-place object would stick out like a sore thumb. A red stain on a white sofa. A piece of black lint buried inside the white Burberry carpeting. An unsightly blue pen mark stretched across a whitewashed wall.
So the fact that I hadn't noticed the small, mysteriously misplaced object under my dining-room table until that night, when I came home from the coffee shop, was somewhat surprising to me.
I tilted my head in bemusement as it caught my eye all the way from across the living room. When you live in a place as immaculate as mine, strange, unfamiliar articles don't go unnoticed for long. So I immediately wondered why I hadn't seen it earlier, like when I was leaving. Or the other day when I came home from Raymond Jacobs's office. Or the morning I arrived home from Paris. (Although that day should be omitted given the nature of my condition at the time – I probably wouldn't have noticed a herd of elephants sitting around my table smoking cigars and playing poker. Or rather, I probably wouldn't have cared.)
But I certainly noticed it now.
Granted, it was mostly white itself, thus lending an obvious rationalization to its extended oversight. But as I drew closer, crouching slightly to get a better look at the peculiar trespasser, I noticed that it wasn't completely white. It was speckled with some type of black markings. And upon even closer inspection, I concluded that the markings consisted of handwriting in black ink.
As I approached the dining room, I stuck my foot far beneath the glass table in an attempt to trap the item under my shoe and drag it out into the open.
But my foot couldn't quite reach it.
So I reluctantly got down on all fours, crawled underneath the table, and retrieved the object by hand.
As I pulled myself to my feet and casually flipped the item over in my hand, I immediately felt a strong wave of nausea flow over me.
It was Jamie Richards's business card, showing up once again at the most inopportune time. Evidently (and appropriately) knocked from its coveted place atop my glass table and landing facedown on the white carpet.
I fought back the queasiness in my stomach, and with a deep, surrendering sigh, I walked into the kitchen, opened the trash compactor, and held the card dangerously over the top. Then, with one last look at the name I'd read and touched a thousand times, I released the card, and watched it float aimlessly into the bin.
And just as I was about to close the trash compactor drawer once again, flip the switch, and bring it to life, I stopped and thought back to all the times I'd picked up that card. Some had been to call Jamie for a confirmation, some had been to attempt to cancel a date, and some had just been for the sake of staring at his name on a piece of a paper.
But there was one thing all of those times had in common: never once had I noticed writing on the back.
As I reached into the trash and picked up the card again, I thought back to the day I had first received it:
"I think it's my last one. I've been saving it for you," Jamie had said, handing it over. "Look, it's even got some of my random scribbles on the back from when I ran out of scratch paper."
I flipped over the card and read the so-called random scribbles.
September 26th. 11:00 a.m. 1118 Wilshire Blvd.
I scrunched up my face in confusion. Why did that date and address sound so familiar?
September 26, 1118 Wilshire. September 26, 1118 Wilshire.
I quickly fished my Treo out of my bag and navigated to last month's calendar page. September 26: Recall on Range Rover. Eleven A.M. Location: 1118 Wilshire.
I scratched my head and looked again at the back of the card.
That was weird. Jamie and I had the exact same car appointment time. At the exact same location. But I guess I already knew that because that's when and where I bumped into him. My surrender to the universe.
Well, the universe certainly had had its fun with me, hadn't it?
I shrugged and turned back toward the trash compactor, ready to flick the now slightly grimy card right back where it belonged. But then I caught sight of the oven in front of me. And my mind flashed back – just for a moment – to the day I was
told about the recall appointment.
Marta had been cleaning the oven when she informed me that the Range Rover dealership had called to schedule an appointment. And oddly enough, I wasn't even in the appointment book. And come to think of it – even more oddly enough – my car model wasn't even marked for a recall.
I suddenly froze: the card in one hand, my phone in the other, as everything slowly started to make sense.
That business card had made its way from the back pocket of my jeans where I had placed it the minute Jamie had handed it to me to the top of my kitchen counter, where Zoë later picked it up and interrogated me on it. And there was only one person who'd had access to it in the meantime.
Marta.
She had found the card in my jeans pocket, noticed the handwriting, told me about a bogus recall appointment, all so I could bump into Jamie again?
It was almost too orchestrated to fathom.
I sounded like I was reading what I hoped to be the winning combination during a game of Clue. Marta Hernandez, in the kitchen, with the business card.
And I didn't even know she knew the word recall.
And what interest did she have in whether or not I bumped into Jamie again?
Then suddenly another idea hit me. I sprinted into the laundry room and started searching frantically through the cupboards and cabinets. I felt like I was on a wild-goose chase, hunting for clues to lead me to my next destination. And God knows what I would find there.
But what I found in here was exactly what I thought I might.
In the cabinet under the sink, carefully hidden behind the Drano, the Windex, and the roll of spare paper towels, was the laundry detergent I thought I had never bought. The laundry detergent that Marta interrupted me for while I was in the middle of trying to place a very important phone call, one that would have put an end to my third date with Jamie before it even began.
The laundry detergent she convinced me I didn't have.
There it was. Way, way in the back. And I certainly hadn't put it there.
Marta Hernandez, in the laundry room, with the detergent!
This whole thing was mind-boggling. How did she even know who Jamie was? Had she tapped my phones? Bugged my house? Implanted some type of mind-reading device in my brain while I was asleep?
Here I was tiptoeing around big words and complex English phrases so I could be sure that she would understand me when I spoke to her about how to wash my favorite pair of jeans. But all along she'd been devising complicated masterminded plots to intervene in my love life.
And all I could think was, What else?
What else had she been intervening in all this time?
I stood in the middle of the living room and walked slowly in a complete circle, surveying every inch of my immaculately clean house. And just when I'd almost made a full rotation, my eyes stopped at the TV.
The TiVo!
Desperate Housewives in Spanish?
Or more important, the one Desperate Housewives episode that happened to feature a plot to expose and incriminate one very dishonest husband?
Oh, this was just too much!
And I couldn't decide if it was comforting or just plain creepy, but Marta had single-handedly been responsible for not only initiating and later preserving my relationship with Jamie, but also for leading me to my victory against Raymond Jacobs.
"She saved me," I said aloud.
This whole time, she knew everything. And she saved me from it.
She was like my guardian angel. Watching over me. Protecting me from afar. Not just from the city's dirt and grime that I dragged in on my heels every day, but from the city itself.
Batman may have had Alfred.
But I had Marta.
I sunk into the couch in a stunned silence, Jamie's business card still clenched between my fingers. I felt like a hurricane had just swept through my life and all I had been left with was this little white card.
And I wondered if she had been right all along.
If she could save me from someone like Raymond Jacobs, maybe she had her reasons for making sure Jamie stayed in my life. And maybe the reasons were good ones.
A knock came at the door and I turned my head slowly toward it.
I didn't really have to open it to know who would be standing on the other side. Sometimes, in life, you just know.
"Hi," I said softly as I opened the door. "Do you want to come in?"
The visitor didn't respond. The visitor didn't have to. I knew that he would have plenty to say when the door closed behind him. And I knew that I had a few things to confess, myself. So I held the door open wide and watched as Jamie slowly made his way back into my house.
35
Gray Skies Ahead
THERE ARE some things in this world you can't read about in books. They won't teach you about them in school. Your parents won't even include them in one of their many speeches that are supposedly meant to prepare you for the real world.
You can't research them on the Internet. You can't interrogate them out of a close friend. And you certainly can't draw them out of a love song or a painting hanging in a museum.
And the reason you can't find these things through your normal sources of inspiration and enlightenment is because you don't know to look for them. Because you don't even know they exist until they walk through your door and sit down on your couch.
Jamie and I stared at each other for centuries. Our eyes spoke words to each other that our thirty-six years of combined education had never taught us how to say.
I didn't know who was supposed to speak first.
So I started. "It wasn't from the beginning," I said softly. It was the only thing I could say. The only thing I desperately wanted him to know. Because it was the truth. And I never expected the truth to be so hard to believe.
"I know," he replied. "Karen told me."
The sound of her name coming from his lips sent cold chills down my spine. I wanted to cover my ears with my hands and hum loudly until his lips had stopped moving.
"So it's true?" I asked, a part of me still wanting to believe that it was all just a big mistake. A terrifying nightmare. And that Jamie had arrived to wake me up and take me back to Paris.
He nodded solemnly. "But not in the way you think."
I looked at him, and without saying a word I offered him my undivided attention. I wanted to hear what he had to say. A few days ago I may not have been able to give him the same consideration. But now, after all that had happened, I was finally ready to hear it.
Jamie took a deep breath and launched into the story that I prayed would change my life. "We got married five years ago. It was good for the first three. Then things started to go downhill. We became distant from each other. We started to go to counseling, but it didn't seem to be working. I wanted to make things work. I thought that's what you were supposed to do. Fight for it. Sacrifice everything to save it. But I guess she didn't feel the same way, because about eight months ago she cheated on me with a guy from my work. And we separated shortly after.
"I filed for divorce, and it didn't take long for her lawyers to remind her that she would get nothing from me in the settlement except what the prenup had promised her. Which apparently wasn't enough, because she insisted her lawyers find a loophole."
"Infidelity," I said softly. Finishing the thought as if the answer had been inside me all along. The last puzzle piece, hiding behind the couch. Even though the picture had looked complete without it, it wasn't until you slid it into place that the entire image magically transformed before your very eyes.
"Exactly," Jamie said, bowing his head and rubbing his temples. "My lawyers made me aware of the loophole as well. Warned me not to engage in any sexual activity until the divorce was final. And it was supposed to be final months ago. But she kept dragging it out. Pushing back legal appointments, skipping settlement meetings. Anything to buy herself more time. I was sure the papers would have been signed before we went to Paris. But she pull
ed another one of her stunts at the last minute."
"And that's why you wouldn't have sex with me?"
"Believe me, it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do!"
I bit my lip and felt myself blush. "Really?"
"Look at you! You're irresistible! I thought about canceling the whole trip just so I wouldn't have to put myself through that kind of torture, but I wanted to go to Paris with you so badly that I thought it would be worth the sacrifice."
I giggled girlishly. "Thank you."
"I even thought about just forgetting all about her and making love to you, anyway. Let her have whatever she wanted. I didn't care, as long as I had you. But I knew I had come too far to give up at the last minute. And I knew that was exactly what she wanted me to do."
I nodded my understanding.
"And trust me," he continued, "I checked my messages every five minutes while we were there. Waiting for a call from my lawyers to tell me that they had the signed papers in hand so I could throw you down right then and there, in the middle of the French prison, and make love to you until those plastic guards threw us out."
I giggled again. "I wanted you, too. I wanted you so badly. I probably would have broken every rule in the book just to have been with you that night."
He smiled and reached out to touch my face. "God, I've missed you."
I lowered my head and fought back a small tear. "But why didn't you just tell me the truth from the beginning? So I wouldn't have had to find out that way."
Jamie gently touched my chin and lifted up my face. "Why didn't you?" he asked with a compassionate smile.
And there it was. The million-dollar answer to the million-dollar question. What constitutes cheating? The answer was, there is no one answer. There is no picture-perfect, clean, and simple solution wrapped up with a bow. There's only the answer that best fits the person asking the question. There's only the definition that makes someone feel loved, betrayed, guilty, innocent, deceitful, or deceived.
Fidelity Files Page 44
