The Wife Upstairs

by Rachel Hawkins

  “She did know how to put things together,” Campbell agrees at last, coming to stand next to me at the kitchen counter, propping her elbows on the granite. “But you know what? I always thought Blanche’s place was even cuter. No offense, Jane,” she hurries to say, and I wave it off even as I think back to the Ingrahams’. There was some cute stuff there, for sure, but maybe Tripp had made everything so grubby I hadn’t been able to see it.

  “God, remember how pissed Blanche was when Bea’s living room got the big Birmingham Magazine spread at Christmas?” Campbell says, and I see Emily look over at me for just a second.

  “Blanche was funny about Christmas,” she replies delicately, and Campbell pulls a face.

  “Blanche was funny about Bea.”

  Turning to me, Campbell tucks her hair behind one ear. “Sorry. We’re just here in your kitchen rehashing old gossip, aren’t we?”

  “I don’t mind,” I say, and I really don’t. I feel like I keep getting these glimpses of Bea and Blanche that don’t line up with what I thought I knew, and I want more of them. Maybe if I can paint a full picture of Bea for myself, I won’t feel like she’s still here.

  Like she could just appear around any corner.

  Sometimes it feels like she has. Just last week a delivery truck showed up with fresh flowers for the house. A standing order from Bea, one that Eddie had never canceled.

  She’s been gone for nearly a year, but the arrangement of lilies and magnolias on the front table of my house were hers, and every time I walk past them, it’s like I’ve just missed seeing her, that she’s just stepped out for a second.

  But now both Emily and Campbell shake their heads. “No, we’ve imposed enough on you today.” Emily comes around the counter, kissing my cheek. “Thank you so much for hosting!”

  “Happy to do it anytime,” I reply, and Campbell smiles, patting my arm.

  “You are so sweet. Be sure to tell Eddie how much we appreciate him letting us meet here today!”

  Aaaand there it is. They don’t see this as my house, either.

  My smile is tight when I walk them to the door. I didn’t want to have to be this unsubtle about it, but I’m not sure I have a choice anymore. I can feel all this starting to slip away, slowly, sure, but still. If we’re not engaged soon, any of the ground I’ve won with the neighborhood women will be lost.

  So when Eddie comes in, nearly an hour later, I’m on the couch, iPad in hand.

  As I’d known he would, he leans over the side of the couch to kiss my temple. “There’s my girl,” he murmurs, and I can actually feel when he looks at the screen.

  Behind me, his body goes tense.

  “UCLA?”

  I shrug, making no effort to hide the iPad or look sheepish. If I want this to work, he has to think I’m very serious about it.

  “I told you I was thinking about grad school.”

  He stands up straight, his hands still on the armrest of the couch, knuckles white. “In California?”

  I turn, putting my feet down on the floor, and look up at him. “Eddie, I love you, and I love staying here. Love being with you. But I have to look out for myself. You understand that.”

  He steps back, his arms folded over his chest. “I get that, but I thought … I thought I made it clear that I want you here. That you belong here. With me.”

  Standing up, I face him, tilting my chin up. “I’ve been depending on myself for almost my entire life. I have had people say they love me and make promises they couldn’t keep in the end.”

  Another step closer. I lay my hand on his wrist. “I’m the only person I can trust, Eddie. I learned that the hard way. You can’t blame me for making plans. It’s what I do.”

  A muscle works in his jaw, and I wait, almost holding my breath.

  He turns away, stalking toward the bedroom, and everything in me sinks.

  I’ve fucked it up. I pushed too hard too fast, and now he’s going to throw me out. For fuck’s sake, I can’t even go to grad school, I never finished college, what am I—

  Eddie comes back into the room, and I see the little velvet box in his hand.

  I’m almost dizzy from the emotional whiplash of it all, but suddenly he’s in front of me, he’s dropping down on one knee, the box is opening …

  “Marry me,” he says, his voice gruff.

  My eyes are fixed on the emerald ring sparkling in front of me, a huge green stone surrounded by a halo of diamonds.

  “I should’ve asked you weeks ago,” he goes on. “I’ve been wanting to.”

  “Obviously,” I say, my voice shaky, and that makes him laugh a little, too, his features relaxing as he reaches out and takes my hand.

  “Please, Jane. Be my wife.”

  He slips the ring on my left hand, the metal silky and smooth, burnished with age, and even though it’s a little snug, it’s perfect.

  I stare at it there on my hand. This gorgeous piece of jewelry on my plain, small fingers, my nails still a little ragged, pale pink polish chipped, and it’s like there’s no breath in my lungs, like my heart is trying to leap out of my chest. I want to tell myself it’s satisfaction, victory, fuck yeah, I won, but it’s more.

  It’s so much more. And that scares me, but for the first time, I feel like I’m allowed to want this much.

  That I get to have this.

  “Oh, shit,” I whisper, and Eddie grins at me, still there on one knee.

  “Is that a yes?”

  I look at him, at his handsome face, and his blue eyes, kneeling on that gorgeous hardwood floor, and I nod.

  “Yes,” I say, and he surges up from the floor, gathers me up in his arms, and kisses me hard. It sparks something inside me, that kiss, and soon I’m tugging him down onto the couch, pulling at his clothes, arching up against him.

  Afterward, we lay there in a slightly sweaty heap, our clothes half-off, half-on, and I play with his hair, damp at the nape of his neck.

  “I should’ve asked you somewhere nicer,” he mumbles against my collarbone. “Taken you out to dinner.”

  “But then we couldn’t have done this,” I remind him, nudging him with my thigh. “Or we could have, but I feel like the restaurant would’ve asked us to please leave and never come back.”

  He laughs lightly, then lifts his head to stare down at me.

  “You’re sure about this?” he asks. “About marrying me, even though I’m a disaster?”

  I lift myself up to brush a kiss over his lips. “I’m marrying you because you’re a disaster,” I reply, which makes him laugh again, and as he settles back against me, I catch a glimpse of my ring over his shoulder.

  Mrs. Rochester.

  16

  I’m engaged.

  Motherfucking engaged.

  I can’t stop looking at the ring, the way it sparkles in the sunlight, the heavy, cool weight of it on my finger.

  But weirdly, it’s more than just the ring, gorgeous as it is.

  It’s knowing that Eddie bought it before I even knew I wanted him to propose.

  He wanted this. He chose me.

  No one has ever chosen me before. I’ve spent my life being passed around and looked over, and now this.

  I’ve passed it dozens of times before, the village bridal shop that’s a world away from the big dress emporiums in strip malls and shopping centers. I’ve looked in its plate glass window at the delicate bits of lace and silk on display, and even though I’ve never been a girly-girl, I’d always felt a little … wistful, maybe.

  And even now, as I open the door, the little bell overhead jingling, something flutters in my chest.

  There’s no overhead lighting, only strategically placed lamps, huge windows, and a skylight. And the dresses aren’t just hanging up on crowded racks, row after row of heavy skirts and beaded bodices, all so jumbled up you can barely tell what’s what.

  Instead, some dresses are displayed on old-fashioned wire dress dummies, and others are draped over bits of antique furniture, like the bride just
slipped out of her dress and tossed it casually over the nearest armoire.

  It’s the kind of place where they’re not scared of anyone getting something on the dresses or messing them up somehow—no one who shops here would be that gauche. So there’s no need for the miles of plastic that protect dresses from all the grubby hands at those cheaper bridal places.

  The woman who approaches me has soft blond hair arranged in an elegant chignon, and she’s wearing an outfit that reminds me of the things I’ve seen Bea wear in pictures. It’s elegant but feminine at the same time, a sleek black sheath dress and pearls paired with houndstooth pumps that have a tiny hot pink bow on the back.

  Her name is Huntley, because of course it is.

  I see the way she clocks my ring, and while I’m sure Huntley here would never be so crass as to actually start adding up numbers in her head, her smile definitely warms a little.

  I know plenty of girls dream about their wedding day, but I never had, not really. Maybe it had just seemed like something so far out of the realm of possibility for me, or maybe I just had bigger things to worry about.

  Turns out, I fucking love this shit.

  We move around the store, talking about shades of white and ivory, the difference between eggshell and cream, whether I’d like my hair up or down, what kind of veil options that might entail.

  When Huntley brings out a book full of fabric samples for me to look at, I almost swoon.

  By the time I leave the shop, my head is swimming, but I’m pleasantly high, and not just on the two glasses of champagne I sipped while Huntley and I talked.

  I’m marrying Eddie Rochester.

  I’m going to be his wife, and live in that gorgeous house, and afternoons like this, afternoons not spent walking dogs or waiting tables or driving for Uber or making someone else coffee, aren’t just a temporary reprieve—they’re my future.

  “Jane?”

  Emily is standing there, paper cup of coffee in hand, her face hidden behind those huge sunglasses.

  She glances up toward the striped awning of Irene’s, and her mouth drops open. “Girl. Tell me you were in there for a reason.”

  My smile is not even a little bit faked. “Turns out he did put a ring on it.”

  She squeals at that, rushing forward to throw her arms around me, pulling me into a hug that smells like Santal 33.

  I smell like it, too, since I stole a bottle from her bathroom just two months ago.

  “Let me see, let me see,” she says when we pull apart, flapping her hands toward mine.

  Another rush of what feels suspiciously like joy, but is probably just the adrenaline rush of winning.

  I haven’t perfected this move yet, the ring display, and I fight the urge to mimic girls I’ve seen on TV, all arched wrist like I’m waiting for her not just to ogle the ring, but to kiss it.

  As a result, I feel like I just sort of hold my hand out for inspection, awkward and suddenly very aware of how ridiculous that sparkly emerald looks on my stumpy fingers with their raggedy manicure.

  But Emily just sighs. “It’s gorgeous. And so you!”

  I raise my hand again, studying the ring myself. “I still can’t get used to it,” I say. “I mean, all of it has been kind of a whirlwind, but the ring makes it feel real, you know?”

  I give her a smile.

  “I remember feeling like that,” she offers. “The ring definitely cements it.”

  Raising her eyebrows, she asks, “Did you pick that one out?”

  I shake my head, looking back at the emerald surrounded by its halo of diamonds. “No, Eddie did. It’s bigger than anything I would’ve chosen, but I love emeralds, so I can’t complain.”

  She nods. “He has the best taste in jewelry. I always thought—”

  Her words break off, and she presses her lips together, and I know there’s a comment about Bea there, caught in her throat. I don’t want Bea’s memory to ruin this moment, so I rush in.

  “I was just in there peeking around, we’re not sure when the wedding is going to be yet,” I say lightly, and her shoulders loosen a little.

  “Are y’all doing something big?” she asks. “Lots of family?”

  Until that moment, it hadn’t really hit me what a wedding with Eddie would look like. I’d been so caught up in the idea of marrying him, of being Mrs. Rochester, that I’d basically skipped the wedding part of things.

  But now it’s all I can see, a giant church, Eddie’s side of the church full, his family from Maine all turning up, mine completely empty except for John Rivers sitting there, eating a bowl of cereal.

  The image is so grotesque and awful that I literally shake my head to will it away, which apparently looks like an answer to Emily.

  “Small, then!” she says, smiling. “I love it. Classy, elegant. Appropriate.”

  Eyes on my hand again, and this time, I do rearrange my bags so that they’re covering the ring, and I give her my best bland smile, the one I actually learned from her and Campbell and Caroline McLaren. “Exactly,” I say, all sugar, then I gesture back up the road. “Anyway, I have more errands to run, so—”

  “Oh, sure,” Emily says, waving a hand. Her own engagement ring is a princess-cut diamond, at least three carats, and it sparkles in the sunlight. “And my lips are sealed!”

  “They don’t have to be,” I reply with a little shrug. “It’s not a secret.”

  The truth is, I want her to spread this news like wildfire, I want everyone in Thornfield Estates to be talking about it by dinner.

  We make vague plans to get coffee one of these days, and then go our separate ways, Emily already texting on her phone. By the next Neighborhood Beautification Committee meeting, everyone will know, and I’ll be the center of attention.

  On the way home, I decide to stop at the Whole Foods and pick up some groceries. I haven’t cooked a single meal for Eddie since we’ve met, and that might be nice. It’s a pretty late spring day, and we could go full suburban basics and grill out.

  The idea makes me smile as I turn into the parking lot.

  The store is soothing, all wide aisles and calming Muzak, a world away from the Piggly Wiggly where I used to shop.

  I push the cart down the aisle, wondering if Eddie would notice if I picked up some junk food. I love the fancy shit as much as the next girl, but truth be told, I’m getting a little sick of it. The other day, I found myself longing for macaroni and cheese—not the Annie’s Organics kind, not even the frozen kind that’s halfway decent, but the blue cardboard box kind that costs a dollar.

  Snorting, I turn down another aisle. Who am I kidding? This is a nice grocery store, not the Pig. So instead, I stare at the fifty varieties of hummus and olive tapenades, wondering if I should also make a gas station run on my way home. Maybe they’d have macaroni and cheese there?

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  I recognize the voice without turning around.

  Tripp Ingraham stands behind me in a polo shirt and khaki shorts, a basket slung over his forearm.

  A quick peek inside reveals cans of craft beer and a bunch of frozen but ostensibly healthy meals.

  Tripp looks a little better than he did the last time I saw him. He’s still bloated, the pink polo stretching over a disturbingly round and smooth belly, but his face isn’t as puffy, and his eyes aren’t red. He’s even brushed his hair.

  Maybe he’s managed to make it all the way to noon without a drink.

  Smiling tightly, I give a little wave. “Hi, Mr. Ing—Tripp.”

  One corner of his mouth lifts, half attempted smile, half smirk. “That’s right, you don’t work for me anymore,” he says, then adds, “and I hear congratulations are in order.”

  Jesus, Emily worked even faster than I thought.

  “Thank you,” I say. “We’re very happy. Anyway, it was nice to see you—”

  I move to scoot past him, but he’s still standing there in the middle of the aisle, and even though it would be deeply satisfying to clip Tr
ipp Ingraham with my cart, I stop, raising my eyebrows at him.

  “So, when exactly did all this happen?” he asks, waving his free hand. “You and Eddie? Because I gotta say, I never saw that one coming.”

  “Neither did we,” I say, still smiling, remembering that I need to be the girl Tripp thinks I am, the innocent barely-out-of-college dog-walker who made good. I wonder when I’ll feel like I can drop that act, when it will feel normal to just … be me.

  “You know, I never got the whole Eddie ‘thing.’”

  He actually raises his hands to make air quotes, the basket dangling heavily from the crook of his elbow.

  I don’t bother asking him what he means because for one, he clearly wants me to ask him that, and for another, I just want to leave, but a little thing like lack of interest has clearly never stopped Tripp Ingraham where a woman is concerned.

  “I mean, he’s good-looking, I guess, and he’s charming in that used-car-salesman way, but Jesus, from the way the women in this neighborhood acted, you would’ve thought the dude had a twelve-inch cock.”

  Okay, maybe I misjudged how not-drunk Tripp actually is.

  But this is good—now he’s given me every reason to push my cart past him, head held high, like I’m mortally offended and embarrassed instead of just kind of irritated.

  He steps aside right before my cart actually hits him, and as I reach the end of the aisle, he calls after me, “Just hope you don’t like boats.”

  When I glance back at him, his expression is curdled and nasty. “Women have bad luck around Eddie Rochester and boats,” he adds, before turning and trudging away.

  I get all the way back to the produce before I abandon my semi-full cart and head for the doors.

  The drive home isn’t long enough for me to shake the unease, the sudden fear that Tripp Ingraham—fucking Tripp Ingraham, of all people—has instilled in me, and again, I see Bea pale and greenish under the water. My stomach lurches as I pull into the driveway.

  “Stop it, stop it, stop it,” I mutter, my hands over my face. Eddie’s wife drowned in an accident with her best friend. Eddie wasn’t even there, and the women were drunk and possibly had some unresolved drama. Shit happens.