I gasp, my eyes widening, the glint of a sizeable diamond attracting the flicker of light from the candles bouncing off the walls as it catches the facets. My engagement ring. This upgraded and new version I’d only had for a couple of years. When we got married, we were young and poor, my small half-carat diamond massive when he popped the question. At the time, love and his question of will you marry me?—the only question that mattered—the ring just a band to seal the deal. The large four-carat pear-shaped diamond, our birthstones flecked on either side, emerald and ruby, shine back at me.
My eyes widen, the ring that disappeared mysteriously from my jewelry box, my husband certain I’d tossed it, angrily thrown it somewhere, convinced I’d flushed it down the drain, the way he trashed our marriage and managed to shit on everything we’d built over seventeen years in seven months.
I noticed my ring missing a couple of months ago. I’d given it back to my husband, tossing it angrily at him during an episode, a term I started using to distinguish our fights, our easy banter and fairly happy marriage now an explosion of fiery tongues and narrowed slits as we stare each other down. Or look away. He tried to give it back, I refused, telling him he didn’t deserve me as his wife.
Would he give my ring to another woman?
No way in hell. He’d exhibited despicable behavior lately but giving your wife’s ring to your mistress is a little overboard. I can’t imagine a conversation where he’d bust out my ring and suggest she try it on and wear it. My ring prominent in family pics, she’d know it wasn’t hers, it had belonged to me.
She stole it.
I grip the counter slipping my ring back on my left hand where it belonged. Not that it mattered now. I close my eyes, seeing red, a haze of anger, one that’s on another level from what I’ve experienced before.
I’ve been annoyed, sure. Pissed off, definitely. My ire has been rising lately with the upset in my marriage, an affair I didn’t stumble upon, the bits and pieces thrust upon me, enveloping me in their sordid details. My emotions are complex, or maybe not, maybe they’re simple but fleeting, hot and cold as I teeter between confused, jealous, irritated, disgusted, and then back and forth, a see-saw of feelings that seem to spew out in tears or rage.
I shake, my body trembling, my hands balled into fists. How dare she? She convinces my husband to file for divorce, and that’s not enough? She ruins the faith I have in marriage and fidelity and that stupid romantic notion that we’d be together, buried next to each other, and that dirty ‘d’ word never uttered in our household.
Not until a month ago.
Thirty-six days ago, to be exact.
Telling myself to calm down, I walk down the hall toward the back of the house. Our home was built in the sixties, the typical floor plan not segregated, a master at the back of the house, smaller bedrooms we’d had to expand, especially the master bath and closet space. Our home was originally three bedrooms and two small bathrooms. We’d added an additional twelve hundred square feet with another bedroom and bath, enlarging our bedroom and bathroom, the kitchen, and moving the outdoor washer and dryer into an actual laundry room. It had previously been in a shed and required you to exit the house to do your wash. I wasn’t trying to time travel back to where women were poised over a washboard.
Both of the back rooms have a sliding glass door—one is our office, the other our master. Our master goes onto a patio, the office straight to the hot tub. The hot tub was already situated when we bought the house so we left it, adding a walkway so we could make it to the hot tub from the master, the pavers winding their way to the concrete slab and patio furniture.
The office doors slightly open, a sliver of light coming from the patio into the room, washing over our desks, one on either side of the room, facing each other, the Mac desktops staring at each other, both silver and black. A chaise lounge is perched against the wall, a bookshelf overflowing with detective fiction, dictionaries, science journals, a dog-eared children’s book, a singular copy of Amelia Bedelia. Framed movie theatre posters cover the walls with some of the oldies—The Godfather, Taxi Driver, Rocky, and Casablanca.
Our desks reflect our distinctive personalities. His desk is organized and neat, our family calendar Livvie made him for Christmas is hanging on the bulletin board behind him along with his school calendar, the holidays and off periods of the seventh-grade biology class he teaches outlined in yellow highlighter. A nifty organizer combines a pen holder, USB port, and Post-it notes. His desk chair is pushed in, orderly, just like him. On the opposite side, my midcentury desk is cluttered, random notes written on scraps of papers, finger smudges on the wood, reading glasses hanging off the edge, a framed photo of our family dusty as it stands upright in the corner. My chair is pulled out leaning against a wall.
Our personalities always on opposite sides of the spectrum. But somehow, we made it work—we met in the middle.
Vertical blinds cover the sliding glass door, the large slats of light sliding in the empty space between each opening. I glide to the door, the hardwood cold under my bare feet. I shiver uncontrollably, though my forehead is flushed like a fever is forming on my face while the rest of my body radiates ice cold energy.
My hand grabs at a blind. I don’t have to open it to see out, my eyes scan to the hot tub directly in front of me. She’s now topless, seated on his lap, turned away from me, her hands gripping the hard, plastic walls on either side of him. His hands are on her shoulders, bare skin glistening, her body moving violently up and down as if he can thrust her straight out of the water.
I’m going to be sick.
The glasses of wine I had on the plane regurgitate. Before I know it, I crumble to the ground heaving on my knees as my dinner of pita chips and hummus is brought to the surface drenched in red liquid. My palms press on the light oak hardwood, the ring glinting, teasing me. In my mind, I see her face, pretending to care about me, invest in my marital problems, her hands grabbing my ring, swiping it from my jewelry collection, slipping it into her purse. She probably tried it on hundreds of times standing in front of her mirror admiring it.
Wiping my mouth, hands shaking, I stand up.
Her moans echo throughout the backyard, the sound of Nina Simone wailing can’t even drown her out. I cover my ears with my hands wanting all this to stop.
The glass is cold to the touch. I undo the clasp, pulling the lock up, and the door glides as it opens. They are lost in the moment, consumed with each other, neither facing my direction, as I step outside, the concrete pavers are cold to my feet.
Walking closer, she’s saying his name over and over. Steven... Steven. It’s on repeat.
Except it’s not her. It’s not her at all.
2
Four months before, September
I’m sitting in my corner office staring out the window that gives the best view of downtown, or what you can see through the smog. It’s still hot, the summer heat not quite giving up on the Phoenix landscape, though it has cooled off substantially, no longer triple digits. It’s always hotter downtown, the sun radiating off the concrete and high-rise buildings. Labor Day weekend just passed, time to get back to the grind. I love people and the media, the ‘spin’ on stories, the slip-ups, the cover-ups, the way psychology dictated our actions and words and how they’re perceived.
A new client has just signed, and my hands steeple as I consider the ramifications. This one slightly risky, a company using biohazardous products and lying to customers about the somewhat questionable ingredients.
I’d just had a PR nightmare six months ago myself, a well-known daycare chain that had a three-year-old child drown in their care in a backyard pool. It was at the end of March, and the child had managed to get into the locked gate of the three-foot-deep wading pool out back. I sigh, imagining if it were my child. I don’t look at potential clients that come across my desk that way—guilty or innocent. Their guilt on some level has been established whether they had bad press for something they did, statements they ma
de, or reasons to be sued. I merely manage the expectations of perception. They need to be humanized in the eyes of the media and public consumption. I’m not a judge or jury prosecuting them or making a decision on their future. I’m merely the intermediary between their fuck-up and the public’s view of them. Like a lawyer who’s versed in defending his clients, I do the same. Protect them with carefully worded public statements and by turning nightmares into a series of events that aren’t ideal but are guarded secrets. I’m a watchdog in a tower looking out for the torch-yielding peasants setting fire to their castles or in this case, their reputation. In an age where social media can help or hinder you, make or break you, I have to be the monitor.
The child drowning had given me plenty of bad publicity. I’d been called every name in the book, and my favorite, a news article entitled the ‘Devil wears Diane Von Furstenberg,’ implying another new wrap dress was the only inclination I had for protecting ‘child killing in daycares.’ It had been a tough pill to swallow.
My phone buzzes, the red light blinking. I snap out of my thoughts, my chair squeaking as I move it closer to the tempered glass desk to pick it up. “Hello, Camille.” I smile into the receiver.
“Hi, Aly, we have a new temp starting today. Thought you’d like to make the rounds.”
“Thanks, Camille.” I smile into the phone, “I’ll stop by in a few. Name?”
“Brynn Bard. She’s filling the admin assistant position for Lisa.” Lisa is our permanent Administrative Assistant who left on maternity leave. When we have new employees start, permanent or otherwise, I like to introduce myself and make them feel welcome. It’s always important to know who works for and with you. It gives a name to a face and makes people feel less invisible. I remember my days interning at a PR firm for this nightmare named Gena. She was the spawn of Satan but in a Jill Stuart pantsuit. Her face always grim, hair always twisted into a severe bun, and not a nice word escaped those lips, but how would I know? She never talked to me.
I swore I’d be different as the boss lady.
Standing up, I smooth down my black skirt and white blouse, twisting the necklace my husband gave me last week for our seventeenth wedding anniversary around my finger. It’s gorgeous, elegant, and classic, the way I like my clothes and jewelry. The necklace is a pearl enclosed in an oval shape of diamonds, the sunlight sparkling off them and my wedding band, the engagement ring upgraded a few years back. He had saved to do that, a thoughtful gesture I hadn’t seen coming. My simple one replaced by a four-carat pear-shaped diamond, breathtaking when light reflects off its facets, our birthstones on either side of the massive diamond.
We spent the long weekend in Napa, just the two of us, tasting wine and getting drunk off of the taste of grapes and our time together. We made love at least twice a day, his hands grabbing at me like we were seventeen. I blush as I think of the rented yellow Camaro and the backseat, a stop along the route for a quickie as cars honked when they passed. A nice change of pace from the monotonous routine our lives had become. We clinked glasses to another year, the adoration strong on both of our faces. We had had some rough patches and were on an uphill climb, this battle called life and marriage. Over the summer, he’d been pulling away, or maybe I had, the divide between us an ocean, the trip a surprising suggestion on his part. I thought he was stressed, his actions jerky and his even-tempered manner had been snappish over the summer. He mellowed out toward the end, and I thought his mid-life crisis might be approaching the end.
I grab my brown leather Gucci bag and Versace shades, the sun scorching, another ninety- degree day on the books as I close my blinds. My nude heels click against the slate tile flooring, my office decorated with contemporary furniture except for the plush couch. I had to have a comfortable spot to rest in, the perfect place to drink chai tea or giggle to my best friend back home in Georgia.
The closet in my office houses gifts for newcomers and ‘bonding’ presents I call them, little knick-knacks I give to clients or colleagues. I reach into my pocket for the key, a small brass one that only works on this door. A ceramic mug with our logo and a gift card to the coffee shop downstairs a welcome gift for Brit. Wait, Brynn, I repeat in my head. I’m usually great with names, but my mind is consumed with how to help the all-natural product company with their PR nightmare. It’s tricky when you are dealing with organic products. The public expects higher standards and avoiding responsibility is equally destructive.
Lisa is the administrative assistant shared between myself and my VP, Craig Connell. He’s out on vacation today, a last-minute trip with his wife to see her mother who was just diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Her desk is positioned between our two offices. She has been a lifesaver for us both, a peppy and upbeat Asian woman with a flair for bold prints and bright orange lips. She’s efficient and cheerful, one of my favorites to work with.
I hear Brynn’s voice on the other end of a phone line, murmuring, as I walk up to her. She hangs up immediately as she watches me approaching, her eyes the color of big blue aquamarine stones.
“Hi,” I reach out a hand, “I’m Alastair Adams.”
“I... uh, I know who you are,” she stutters, her face flushing crimson. “Nice to meet you. I’m…” she points to her nametag, “… clearly flustered. You’re taller than your picture,” she blurts, her hand covering her mouth as it soon as it left her lips.
I laugh, my lips drawing upward into a smile. “Nice to meet you, Brynn.” She’s wearing navy pants and a matching blazer as the office air conditioning is blasting on high. Her strawberry blonde hair reaches her shoulders, and she’s got a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her ivory complexion. She looks to be mid-twenties though the freckles might be deceiving.
Setting the mug down, I point to Craig’s office. “Typically, we’re busier, but he’s out for a few days. I hope you’re not bored.”
“Bored?” Her eyes widen, “Not at all. The phone’s been ringing off the hook, media calling about the cleaning industry and the lax regulations.” She looks down at a yellow Post-It to confirm.
“Yes, the agency will be handling that.” I hear my cell buzzing in my pocket. She starts to thank me for the mug when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. “Hold that thought,” I mouth as she starts to speak. It’s my husband, Steven, calling.
“Hi.” I turn away from Brynn, clicking the answer button. “You on break?”
“Yeah,” Steven’s voice echoes through the phone, “… eating my pastrami on rye for the third time this week.”
I chuckle. “I’ll have to have Lola pack something different.” Lola handles most of our meals, a great cook who has taken on lunchtime duties as well. “Maybe give you a PB&J.” I can picture him, dark brown hair, light brown eyes, navy-rimmed glasses, his corduroy and striped blazers. School just started a few weeks ago, and though he’s not wearing suit jackets because of the weather, I always picture him in one, his regal stance, a teacher that carries himself astutely. His voice is soft, he never raises it, one of the qualities that attracted me most to him, unlike my household growing up, the constant yelling and screaming of my mom and her parade of boyfriends. If they weren’t howling and hitting, they were moaning and fucking.
He whispers into the phone, “I miss you. I loved SF.”
“San Fran was the best,” I agree, “… and Napa.” We both know what that means, a shout-out to our liaison, our bodies pressed together, both knowing what the other needed. The patience of almost two decades has paid off, we know each other’s bodies better than our own, how to get the other off, what each other enjoys. The car the background for an afternoon romp, the taste of Sauvignon Blanc on his lips, the sweetness as he caressed my face in his hands, the kisses deep and longing as I pressed him against the back of the burnt orange leather seat and rode him.
I turn my attention back to the present and contentedly sigh. “I hope you have a good day. You good on picking up Liv?” Our daughter had just started fourth grade, and it was hectic, her pr
ivate school not close to the middle school where Steven taught.
“Yep, all good there.” Steven clears his throat, “Love you, Alastair.” Steven refuses to call me Aly as most people do. He loves my real name and prefers to call me by that. He says that it’s too unique to shorten.
“You, too.” I click the ‘end’ button and turn back to Brynn who’s pretending to focus on her computer screen.
“I noticed a pic of you and your family.” Brynn blushes. “You have a beautiful family, your daughter’s a cutie.”
“Thank you,” I beam, thinking of Livvie who’s a dead ringer for Steven minus her eyes. She got my heterochromia, two different colored eyes, one green and one hazel. I felt like a freak growing up in grade school, kids making fun of me. I embraced my eye color by high school and grew to love the fact that my eyes made me stand apart.
“Any kids or pets that double as children?” I ask, sliding my phone into my purse.
“Um, maybe one day,” she’s hesitant, “… don’t want to jinx it.”
“Enjoy the other person before kids.” I smile, wanting to ask about her boyfriend or husband, a simple gold band on her wedding finger. I shouldn’t pry, so I let it slide. “Welcome to Adams & Connell, please let me know if you need anything.” She beams, her freckles darken as her smile reaches the small creases of her eyes. I make my way to the front to say hi to Camille before heading out to my 1:00 p.m. appointment with Dr. Robert Drexler, a highly respected neurosurgeon who has taken a beating in the press for comments he made at a seminar regarding Alzheimer’s. He’s been accused of plagiarizing from a well-known author for his book, and he’s asked for a sit-down meeting.
My car is parked underground. Part of the reason I chose this building is because I wanted more than just covered parking or a carport. I reach my silver Audi TT roadster wishing it were just one month later, and I could put the convertible top down.
The Ruined Wife: Psychological Thriller Page 2
