* * *
Eddie came in as I was writing that last entry. I was able to shove the book under the bed before the door was open, so he didn’t see that I was writing, thank god. I’m going to have to be more careful in the future.
It’s not much consolation, but he looks awful. Eddie has always been so polished, but today his eyes were red and his skin looked a little slack, almost gray. And as insane and fucked up as it is, for a second, I felt sorry for him. I wanted to help him. That’s how our marriage had always gone, after all. I was the planner, Eddie was the doer.
I waited for him to say something, for him to at least try to explain what the fuck is going on. I probably should have screamed at him, rushed toward him, hit him. Anything.
But I just sat there, frozen.
I’d like to blame it on the lingering effects of whatever drug he slipped me and Blanche, but from the second he’d walked in, I’d felt paralyzed with some combination of fear and shock.
All I could do was watch as he put bottles of water and packets of peanut butter crackers, plus a couple of apples and a banana, on the table near the door, his back to me.
Eddie killed Blanche.
He killed her, and he could kill me.
Eddie, my husband, my partner. The man I thought I knew so well. Who smiled at me the day we met with such sweetness in his eyes. Who always listened so carefully when I talked about my day, my business, my dreams. Who remembered little, silly things—like my favorite hot sauce or how I always liked my coffee with one regular sugar, one Splenda.
That man, my Eddie, was a murderer.
If I think too much, I feel like screaming, and I’m afraid if I start screaming, I’ll never stop, so instead, I’m taking deep breaths, even though the pattern—in for four, hold for four, out for six—reminds me of the yoga class Blanche and I took together just last month.
God, one month ago. It already feels like another lifetime.
Eddie didn’t speak to me, just set the food and water down, then went back out the door, and when he was gone, I laid down on the floor and cried, shaking so hard that my teeth chattered together.
How had I married a monster and never seen it until it was too late?
* * *
FOUR DAYS AFTER BLANCHE
Today, Eddie came in again, more water, more food, and this time, I tried to talk to him, but as soon as I said his name, he held up a hand, his face closed to me.
It was like looking at a stranger who shared Eddie’s familiar features. This cold, dangerous man was no one I knew, and when he left, all I felt was relief. This time, there were no tears, no shaking. Maybe writing all this down is helping after all.
* * *
SIX DAYS AFTER BLANCHE
It’s been two days since Eddie was last here, and in that time, I’ve felt myself growing calmer, saner.
I still don’t understand what his plan is, or why he’s keeping me here, why I’m not at the bottom of the lake with Blanche. But there has to be a reason, and I’m going to figure it out.
I have to be smart.
Smarter than Eddie.
It’s the only way I’m getting out of this alive.
Bea didn’t mean to be late, but traffic was bad and the rain hadn’t helped.
By the time she slides into the booth opposite Blanche at their favorite restaurant, La Paz, Blanche is already on her second margarita and the chip basket is nearly empty.
As soon as she sits down, Blanche signals the waiter, pointing to her glass, then to Bea, who tries not to be annoyed. She does usually get a margarita, it’s just that tonight, she hadn’t planned on drinking.
And she clearly doesn’t do a great job of hiding that annoyance because her voice is sharper than she’d intended when she says, “A three margarita Tuesday, huh?”
Blanche just shrugs and drags another chip through the little blue dish of salsa. “Smoke ’em if you got ’em!” she says, bright and, to Bea’s ears, fake.
Something has been off with Blanche lately, but Bea can’t figure out what it is. It might be Tripp; he and Blanche have only been married a year, but there’s already a brittleness there, a tension. Just last week, Bea went over to their house for drinks, and had to sit through two hours of the two of them steadily chipping away at each other, flinging little barbs, little insults wrapped in affection.
And sitting across from Blanche now, Bea sees that Blanche’s eyes look a little puffy, her skin a little dull. She wishes she hadn’t made that crack about the third margarita.
When their drinks are set in front of them, Bea picks up the heavy glass with its salted rim and touches it to Blanche’s. “To us,” she says. “And not drinking those sugar-bomb monstrosities from El Calor anymore.”
That makes Blanche smile a little, as Bea had hoped it would. El Calor had been the cheap Mexican place near Ivy Ridge, the school she and Blanche had both attended as teenagers. They’d gone in nearly every Friday night, long before they’d turned twenty-one, and ordered the most obnoxious margaritas on the menu, frozen concoctions that came in giant bowls and were bright red or blue or neon green, colors that stained their lips and teeth.
Bea still has a picture of her and Blanche their senior year, sticking out their tongues for the camera, Blanche’s purple, Bea’s scarlet, their eyes shining with alcohol and youth.
She loves that picture.
She misses those girls.
Maybe tonight is the chance to recapture a little of that?
But then, Blanche lifts her menu and Bea sees the bangle around her wrist.
Without thinking, she reaches for Blanche’s hand, and examines the bracelet. It’s pretty, a thin silver circlet with a dainty charm—Blanche’s zodiac sign, Scorpio, picked out in diamonds.
“We have something similar to this coming out next year,” Bea says, turning Blanche’s wrist so she can better see the bracelet. “But we did an enamel backing on the charm, and we’re offering colored stone options. I’ll get you one.”
Blanche jerks her hand back, her elbow nearly upsetting her drink, the movement so sudden, so aggressive, that for a beat or two, Bea doesn’t pull her own hand back and it just hovers there over the chips and salsa.
“I like this bracelet,” Blanche says, looking at the menu and not meeting Bea’s eyes. “I don’t need another one.”
“I just thought—” Bea starts, but then she drops it, picking up her own menu instead, even though she always orders the same thing.
So does Blanche, but you’d think the secrets of the universe were encoded among the various descriptions of burritos and enchiladas, that’s how intently Blanche is staring at her menu now.
The silence between them is heavy and awkward, and Bea tries to remember the last time she felt this way around Blanche. Blanche, who’s been her best friend since she was a nervous fourteen-year-old, away from home for the first time, trying to fit in at a new, fancy school.
Once the waiter has taken their orders—the usual for both of them, Bea’s enchiladas verdes, Blanche’s tortilla soup—that same silence returns, and Bea wonders if she’s going to be forced to scroll through her phone when Blanche says, “So, how’s the guy?”
Another spike of annoyance surges through Bea.
“Eddie is fine,” she says, putting extra emphasis on his first name, which, for some reason, Blanche never wants to use. He’s always “the guy,” occasionally “that guy,” and once, at a lunch with some of their friends from Ivy Ridge, “Bea’s little boyfriend-person.”
It was something Bea had heard Blanche say a lot over the years, her go-to dismissive phrase, but Bea had never had it directed at her before, and she’d ended up leaving lunch early.
Now Blanche drains the rest of her margarita and repeats, “Eddie.” Folding her arms on the table, she leans forward, the sleeve of her tunic coming dangerously close to a splotch of salsa by her wrist. “I never trust men who go by nicknames like that,” she says. “Like. Grown men. Your name is Robert, don’t be Bobb
y, for Christ’s sake, you know? Or Johnny for John.”
“Right,” Bea can’t help but reply. “Like when a guy is ‘the third’ but goes by ‘Tripp.’”
Blanche blinks at that, but then, to Bea’s surprise, laughs and sits back. “Okay, touché, you bitch,” she says, but there’s no real heat in it. Bea feels some of the tension drain away, and wonders if this night will be salvageable after all.
But then Blanche leans forward again to take Bea’s hand. She’s drunk now, Bea can tell, that third margarita finishing the job the first two started, and her grip is surprisingly tight.
“But seriously, Bea. What do you know about this guy? You met him at the beach. Who comes back from vacation with a boyfriend?”
“A fiancé, actually,” Bea says, looking Blanche in the eyes. “He asked me to marry him last week. That’s why I wanted to have dinner with you. So I could tell you. Surprise!”
Bea holds her hands out awkwardly to either side of her face, wiggling her fingers, and smiling, but she knows she’s not going to get it, the moment she’s seen other women have, the moment she gave Blanche. That pause and then the squeal and the tear-filled eyes, the inelegant hugging, the immediate plans for showers and parties, questions about rings and dresses and honeymoons.
No.
Blanche, her best friend in the entire world, doesn’t give her that.
Instead, she sits back against the booth, her lips parted in shock. Blanche is blond right now, and the color is well done, but it’s too harsh on her, and for a second, she could almost be a stranger sitting across from Bea.
Then after a moment, she gives another shrug, rattles the ice in her glass. “Well, at least let Tripp set you up with a prenup.”
Their food arrives then, and as the waiter sets their plates down, Bea can only stare at Blanche, waiting until they’re alone again to lean closer and hiss, “Thanks for that. Really supportive.”
Blanche throws up her hands, that silver bangle sliding up her skinny arm. “What do you want me to say, Bea? That I’m happy for you? That I think marrying a really hot guy who just strolled up to you on a beach is a great idea?”
“It wasn’t exactly like that,” Bea says, putting her napkin in her lap and glancing around. They’re keeping their voices low, but she still feels like they are just a few seconds away from creating a Real Housewives of Birmingham scene, and that’s the last thing she wants.
It’s the last thing that the old Blanche would’ve wanted, too, but with this new Blanche—too thin, too drunk, too blond—who knows?
“You don’t get it,” Blanche insists, and now, okay, yes, a woman at another table is glancing over, her eyebrows slightly raised. “You’re rich now, Bea. And not, like, normal person rich. You aren’t a successful lawyer or doctor. You are on your way to having Fuck You Money, and this guy knows it.”
“And that’s why he’s interested in me, right?” Bea says, feeling her face go hot even as every other part of her seems cold. “Because I’m rich. Which, coincidentally, is also what bugs you. Obviously, being my friend was a lot easier when I was some … some fucking charity case for you.”
Blanche scoffs at that, sitting back in the booth hard enough to rattle it. “Okay, fine. I’m just trying to look out for you and remind you that you can’t just attach yourself to anyone who’s nice to you, but seeing as how that’s your entire deal, I guess I’m wasting my breath.”
Bea is almost shaking now, can’t even conceive of eating her dinner, and she pushes the plate away and picks up her drink. The ice has melted, the margarita has turned salty and sour and too strong, but she downs it anyway.
“I just want you to be careful,” Blanche says, her expression softened. “You hardly know him. You’ve been together, what? A month?”
“Three months,” Bea replies. “And I know everything I need to know. I know he loves me, and I know I love him.”
Blanche’s face twists. “Right. Because love is definitely all that matters.”
“I know things are rough with Tripp right now—”
“They’re not ‘rough,’” Blanche argues, making air quotes with her fingers. “It’s just that marriage is a lot more work than you’re thinking.” Then she shakes her head, puts her fork down. “But then again, he’s hot and you’re rich, so hey, maybe it’ll be easier for you two. Maybe that’s the secret.”
Anger drains out of Bea so quickly it’s like someone pulled a plug.
Blanche is jealous of her.
That’s what all this is about.
Blanche is jealous. Jealous of her money, jealous of her success, and now, jealous of her man.
Bea never imagined that Blanche would ever want anything of hers. And now, she wants everything.
Which makes it easier for Bea to gently take Blanche’s hand. “Can we declare a truce?” she asks softly. “Because it’s going to be super awkward to have you as my maid of honor if we’re not speaking to each other.”
Blanche snorts, but after a minute, she squeezes Bea’s hand back.
PART III
JANE
10
I didn’t know sheets could actually smell soft, but Eddie’s do.
Every morning when I wake up in that big upholstered bed, I hold the sheets up to my nose and inhale, wondering how I got this fucking lucky.
It’s been two weeks since I more or less moved in with Eddie, two weeks of soft linens and sinking into the plush sofa in the living room in the afternoon, watching bad reality shows on the massive television.
I’m never leaving this place.
I get out of the bed slowly, my toes curling against the plush rug awaiting my feet. The bedroom is luxurious in all the right ways—dark wood, deep blues, the occasional splash of gray. Neutral. Masculine.
This is one space where Eddie scrubbed out Bea’s style, I can tell. Before, I bet it was decked out in the same swirling, bright shades as the rest of the house. Peacock blue, saffron yellow, brilliant fuchsia. But here, there’s just Eddie.
And now, me.
Eddie is in the kitchen when I wander in, already dressed for work.
He smiles at me, a cup of coffee already steaming in his hand.
“Morning,” he says, handing it to me. The first morning I’d woken up here, Eddie had made me a plain black cup of coffee, like I’d had the day we met. Sheepishly, I’d confessed that I actually didn’t like black coffee that much, and now I have an expensive milk frother at my disposal, and all kinds of pricey flavored syrups.
Today’s cup smells like cinnamon, and I inhale deeply over the mug before taking a sip. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m only sleeping with you for the coffee,” I say, and he winks at me.
“My ability to make a great cup of coffee really is my only redeeming value.”
“I think you have a few others,” I say, and he glances at me, eyebrows raised.
“Just a few?”
I hold my thumb and forefinger up, putting them close together, and he laughs, which warms me almost as much as the coffee.
I like him. There’s no getting around that. This isn’t just about the house or the money, although I’m fully into those things, trust me. But being with Eddie is … nice.
And he likes me. Not just the me I’ve invented, but the flashes of the real me I’ve let him see.
I want to show him more of the real me, I think. And it’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way.
Turning back to the sink, Eddie rinses out his own coffee cup and says, “So, what’s on your agenda today?”
I’ve been waiting for this moment for the past two weeks, hoping he’d ask what I was doing all day. Because I am still walking those damn dogs. I may stay in Eddie’s house, I may eat the food Eddie buys, but I’m still on my own for everything else. Gas for my car, clothes, odds and ends. I still technically have rent to pay.
“Dogs,” I reply shortly, and he looks up, frowning slightly.
“You’re still doing that?”
&
nbsp; Some of the warmth I was feeling toward him fades a little. What did he think I was doing all day? Just sitting around, waiting for him to come back?
I hide that irritation, though, standing up from the stool with a shrug. “I mean, yeah. I have to make money.”
He pulls a face, wiping his hands on one of those Southern Manors towels that are all over the kitchen. This one has a slice of watermelon printed on it, a perfect bite taken out of one side. “You’re welcome to use my card to get whatever you need. And I can add you to my checking account today. My personal one, not the Southern Manors account. Lot more fucking paperwork to that one, but we can get that worked out eventually, too.”
I stand there as he turns away again, balling up the towel and tossing it into the laundry room just off the kitchen.
Is it that easy for men like him? He’s handing me access to thousands and thousands of dollars like it’s nothing, and I could just … take it. Take everything, if I wanted to.
Maybe that’s what it is—it would never occur to him that I would do something like that. That anyone, especially any woman, could do that.
But since this is exactly what I wanted, I smile at him, shaking my head slightly. “That would … that would be amazing, Eddie. Thank you.”
“What’s the point of having it if my girl can’t spend it, hmm?” He comes around the bar, putting an arm around my waist and nuzzling my hair.
“Also,” he says before pulling away, “why don’t you go ahead a pick up your things from your old place, bring them back here? Make it official.”
Pressing a hand against my chest, I give him my best faux-flirty look. “Edward Rochester, are you asking me to move in with you?”
Another grin as he walks backward toward the door. “I think I am. You saying yes?”
“Maybe,” I tell him, and that grin widens as he turns back around.
“I’ll leave the card by the door!” he calls out, and I hear the soft slap of plastic on marble before the door opens and closes, leaving me alone in the house.
The Wife Upstairs Page 6
