The Ruined Wife: Psychological Thriller

by Marin Montgomery

  She’s shifting from one foot to the other standing with her teacher’s aide when I pull up. I’m a few minutes late. I give Bridget an apologetic wave and smile at Liv. Her face scrunches when she sees the back end of my vehicle. We had run errands yesterday, and it had been pristine, both of us drinking milkshakes as we took it through the car wash.

  “Hi, love bug,” I jump out, seeing the look of confusion. “Mommy had an accident.”

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Adams?” Bridget asks.

  “Yes, thanks for asking. Sorry I’m late.” I grab Liv’s backpack and lunch bag and help her in, trying to hide the fear in my eyes. “Sit in the front this time honey.” The back ends smashed, her eyes wide as she looks at the damage before getting in. “Mommy, are you okay?”

  “Yes.” I buckle my seatbelt into place. I don’t want her to see my hands trembling.

  “Did someone hit you?”

  “Yep.” I’m tight-lipped, my jaw set.

  “Daddy’s gonna be mad.” She reaches out touching my shoulder. “We won’t tell him.” I groan, thinking of how we’ve both said that to her over the years, we better not tell mommy, we better not tell daddy. It had never been anything serious—surprising him with dessert, Steven hitting a pole when he first got his truck, me taking her on Mother/Daughter Day when I was working. Except I picture him saying it now, the secrets, confidences he’s holding.

  My mind drifts to the DNA test, to his emails with Mara. Is she reaching out to him on behalf of me? I think of Veronica. Is he having a baby?

  There are so many unknowns, my head spins.

  Steven freaks out later about my vehicle until he hears what happen, then he goes speechless. He asks if I’m okay and hugs Liv. I see something in his eyes, fear, a look of trepidation. He tells me he’s sorry, and we’ll get it fixed, but there’s a vacant look in his eyes.

  I want to talk about the other women, but he locks himself in our office, refusing to come out. I rest my head on the pillow, playing mindless games on my phone as I consider his reaction.

  What is my husband hiding?

  15

  At work the next day, I toggle between work emails and checking Steven’s. I’m waiting for confirmation he’s going to meet Mara. It’s on the table, I just need a time and place. I never did speak to her to find out the reasons why my husband would have drinks with her if it is indeed the same Mara. Is she going to chastise him for hurting me or is there another angle?

  I look up her attorney website and notice the snapshot of her leaning against her desk, arms crossed, a bulldog that handles complicated divorces, division of assets, and child custody disputes. Her bio flashes across the screen, the words swim in front of my eyes. Holy fuck, did he retain Mara to represent him in our divorce?

  She would’ve said something. I crack my knuckles, my face flushing. She’s ruthless, her climb to the top not because she sat at a desk and looked pretty. She’s hungry when she sinks her teeth into a case, she makes it known she will shred the other party if need be.

  When we had drinks the other night, I never considered she might’ve had privy information because Steven had told her. That sonofabitch, heading right for the jugular.

  A new message in bold appears. Shit, it’s just spam for some natural Viagra pills that promise eighteen hours of good sex. I leave his email up.

  Brynn comes in my office sulking since the day in her apartment. “Hi, Alastair. I just wanted to apologize for being sick the other day.”

  I wave my hand at her. “It’s no problem. I hope you feel better. Pregnancies can get rough.”

  “Do you think one day Liv will want to babysit?” It’s an odd question, Liv’s nine, and by the time she’s thirteen, her child’s a toddler. I have no idea, I pause, glancing up from my screen. “I don’t know. We can cross that bridge when the time comes.”

  She looks like she’s been slapped, a blush creeping on her pale skin. She licks her lips. “Do you need anything else right now?”

  I glance up from my computer, and another message pops up in his email. I’m distracted. “Uh, I think I’m good on this end. I’ve got a meeting to run to.”

  “A meeting?” She’s curious, digging the toe of her flats on the tile. “I didn’t see it on the calendar.”

  “It’s not,” I say. “Last minute.” My eyes divert to the email from Mara to Steven where they agree to meet in thirty minutes. Crap. It’s my turn to pick up Liv from school. I shoot Cami a quick IM to see if she can grab her since she’s on the approved list for pick-up and drop-off. Cami will bring her back here so she can hang out in my office while I work, finishing her homework or playing on my iPad.

  She jokes, “Did your husband decide to surprise you last minute with a happy hour?”

  “Hmm…” I barely glance up at her. “In fact, he did. All you can eat sushi downtown.” I glance from the monitor to Brynn. Instead of the bubbly personality with a lighthearted smile I’ve become accustomed to, overjoyed that I have such a great husband, she looks crestfallen, her smile withering. Her eyes harden, the blues of her eyes dilated. Meekly, she says. “That sounds nice, when will you be back?”

  “I’m just kidding. Just meeting an old college pal.” I rise, my phone buzzing. “All right, Brynn, I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Liv will be coming back with Cami. She’s fine to start her homework in my office.”

  Relief is palpable on her face, the smile plastered back on.

  Grabbing my purse and sunglasses, I make my way down to the crumpled roadster, peeling out of the parking garage. I’ve only been to The Parlor once. It’s an old-fashioned swanky antique store that was turned into a bar, complete with a lot of the old furnishings—fainting couches, velvet settees, mannequins dressed in various eras from flappers to WWII Rosie the Riveter garb. Each area of the bar is decorated from a certain period in history. I wonder what they’ll decide on. The 1900s with Henry Ford Model-T memorabilia or the Roaring 20s and show tunes?

  I make a couple of wrong turns before using the navigation on the one-way streets. They confuse me, and I’ve already driven into incoming traffic once down here. The place isn’t too far, Mara’s office is a quick five minutes, and it’s near there. I circle the block. There’s a small parking lot, but my roadster has personalized plates and a smashed in rear end, a dead giveaway. If my husband or Mara saw a TT, they would be suspect. I don’t want to blow my cover. I see her Caddy coming my way, her mouth moving, inevitably talking to one of her clients. Shit. I wish I had asked a friend to come down who has never met Mara or Steven. They could sit next to them and overhear the entire conversation.

  After I find metered parking, I hastily dump out my purse looking for some quarters and loose change. I shove it into the meter almost missing the curb as my black pumps catch the side of the concrete. Get it together, Aly. As I walk toward the bar, I have to consider what I’m going to do when I walk inside. If they’re right inside the door, they will notice me. Should I confront them?

  I wish I had a hat or something to cover my hair. I’m dressed in cream pants and a red silk top, not exactly the outfit to blend in. The bar, if I remember correctly, is dark, the lights dimmed. The bar itself is somewhat secluded—there’s a wooden door and some stained-glass windows in front but not a lot of natural light. I decide to stand around the side of the building, the opposite side of the parking lot. The building across from me is all glass. I can see the reflections of those behind me that are coming up toward the entrance to The Parlor, without them necessarily seeing me if I stand in just the right place. My legs shake, my feet are killing me, and my hands tremble. Are they meeting to discuss our forthcoming divorce?

  Leaning against the building, I consider the options. Is getting a divorce the worst option? For Liv, maybe. Financially, yes. Trust wise, a sense of relief is palpable. I’m tired of wondering what my buttoned-up, outdoorsy mountain man is doing.

  My phone chimes. I sigh, pulling it out of my purse. I’m not in the right mindset to answer work e
mails or calls, tunnel vision on this afternoon drink. It’s a text from Sara.

  Sara: Hey, Alastair, I got a bite. S and I’ve been chatting through the app, and he gave me his #. We’ve been texting 4 a cple of days, and he asked me to din. I wanted 2 check with you on time and where.

  Fuck.

  I shoot her quick text back, fingers flying, eyes never leaving the glass in front of me. Mara, I presume is already inside, but I catch Steven’s reflection in the glass, his red and orange striped long sleeve shirt, rolled up to his elbows, dark jeans, and navy suede Cole Haan shoes. It’s now or never.

  Aly: Give me a bit, and I’ll get back to you. In meeting.

  I watch him turn and go through the heavy oak door, a quick glance at his Apple watch.

  It feels like hours, most likely a minute, as I wait. I don’t want to crash their party before they’ve even sat down. Will they talk at the bar which will be impossible to hear or snuggle next to each other in a booth?

  Taking slow steps, my heart feels like it’s going to leap out of my chest. I take a couple of deep breaths as my hand clasps the metal doorknob. I don’t open it, just freeze, unsure if I want to go through with this. I feel betrayed by both of them. For her not informing me he was obtaining a divorce lawyer and for her not turning him away. Isn’t this a conflict of interest?

  A couple comes up behind me, their bodies almost crashing into me as my indecisive gesture waits for me to enter. “Sorry,” I murmur. “Let me get the door for you.” I open it. This way I can dart my eyes around, the difference between the sun and darkness of the room blinding. They go in front of me, a shield. The hostess stand is in front. I look to the right, then the left, scanning the crowd. It’s not very busy as it is only the early afternoon. It will pick up during happy hour. I can pick out the silver bangles on a tanned arm, the small light next to the booth casting Mara in an otherworldly glow of green. She’s always in black, this time it’s no different. Steven’s head is down, glancing at a drink list, and he doesn’t look up.

  The couple in front of me is starting to follow their waitress. I no longer have anyone in front of me to cover me. All it takes is Steven glancing up, seeing my red blouse and my long, dark hair, and I’ll be busted. His eyes raise from the menu, and he starts to turn. I quickly see the restrooms to the right, and I scoot into the hallway. There’s an old pay phone, I assume unusable, and I stand beside it.

  Counting to twenty, I see a waitress approaching their table. Mara’s laughing, a loud guttural sound as she points to something in front of her. I make my move. If I slide into an empty barstool on the opposite side, I’ll be covered and can watch them from across the bar. As long as I position myself behind a shelf of liquor, I should be okay.

  Picking up the pace, I take quick steps, my pumps clicking on the tile, an echo that screams in my ears. I keep my head down, grab a menu from the hostess stand, and use it to cover me as I head to the worn barstool. A man, college aged, baby-faced and built, turns to nod at me. “What can I get for you, Demi?” Demi Moore has the same eye condition, heterochromia. I’m not sure which surprises me more, that he noticed in the dim lighting or that he’s familiar with the actress in his post-adolescent phase.

  “Demi?” I give a nervous laugh. “How’d you know?”

  “Dead ringer.” He leans his elbows on the counter and considers me. “You look like a hard liquor type. No fruity martinis for you.”

  “Today…” I whisper, “… I need a vodka with lime.”

  “Done.” He throws a towel behind the bar, grabbing the vodka and a glass. I peer across the dimly-lit bar making sure it’s not obvious I’m sitting right there. I scoot my barstool a couple of inches over, the metal grating as I move it to the left.

  The bartender brings me my poison. “It’s early in the afternoon. Bad day?”

  “Very.” I raise my eyebrows.

  “Sorry to hear. I’m Tobey.” He reaches a hand to shake mine, nods approvingly. “Very nice grip.” He puts his hand down and replaces it with my drink. “Here you are, my Demi doppelganger.”

  I grab the drink and try not to inhale it, taking a few sips. Tobey keeps pausing near me, the bar mostly empty, but my body language is still and focused. He gets the hint after he attempts to start a conversation, and I give a one-word answer. I’m on a mission.

  A few minutes in, my drink depleted, I watch Mara get up from her spot on the opposite side of the booth and come over to sit on his side. They’re in close proximity, bodies too close for comfort, arms touching. Her tan arm is drowning out his fairer one, a sharp contrast between the two. Was this his one-night stand? I almost spit up the last gulp I swallowed. He said it wasn’t anyone I know. Does he know I know Mara? She and I had crossed paths, but she hadn’t spoken to Steven that I knew of, and I doubt he’d recognize her out in public. We do happy hour sometimes or lunch, but it’s a few times a year, life getting in the way, being a wife and mother taking precedence. I’d assumed a teacher since it was after a conference. Maybe they ran into each other at the hotel bar. I’d Googled the meeting he went to that day, and it was at a pretty high-end hotel. She very well could’ve been the one.

  My heart sinks. The images of dating profiles. Her connection to Sara. Was she trying to fish for info on both Steven and me? See if we were at the end of our rope so she could swoop in? I’d never pegged Steven as her type. She liked younger men, ones she could control, boss around, errand boys. Yet, Hal is older. Did she do some soul-searching and decide she wanted a man her age?

  He pulls a phone out. Laser-eye focus as he shows her something on his phone. Except… I squint, it looks like a plain black phone, not the one with his Arizona Cardinals case that has the Big Red mascot on it. I motion to Tobey. “Hey, can you do me a favor?”

  “For the number one lady at the bar right now, yep.”

  “I’m in the market for a new phone. Love my Apple, but that looks like a different kind.”

  “What does?” he’s confused.

  “The one the man in the booth across from us is looking at.”

  He shrugs. “Okay, you want me to ask him about it?”

  “No,” I answer quickly. “Can you just walk to the other side and see what type it is?” He gives me a questioning glance. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m only familiar with a couple of types.” I hold my breath as he walks to the other end, wiping some glasses with a rag, turning away from me. I keep my head down, in case he decides to open his mouth, admiring the smooth wood on the counter and a chipped nail.

  I hear footsteps and look up. “Definitely not an iPhone.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “It looks like a cheap burn phone.”

  I don’t dare ask if he can see anything on the phone.

  Is this his secret phone for her?

  “Another drink, please.” I sigh. “Same.”

  Keeping my eyes trained on them, their heads are bent together, and the phone is shared between them. Is this how they communicate? They decided emails were too risky?

  She lays a hand on his arm, applying pressure. He nods, his eyes not meeting hers. She whispers something in his ear. At the same time, I want to smear her red lipstick all over her face.

  The jealously unfurls in my stomach, a tight ball. Only Steven and I sit together on the same side of a booth. She leans down. I catch cleavage, lots of it, a V-neck black dress and a long silver chain that stops right at the bottom of the V, screaming at men to let their eyes drift as far down as they can go. I want to pound on the counter and scream. I twist my drink in my hands, the urge to toss it over the bar, smash it at their faces, watch it break into pieces, a surprise visit from the wife.

  She’s got a big black tote. She pulls out some paperwork, and I see a file with a stack of papers. He’s divorcing me and getting with her. So much for attorney-client relations. Tobey’s eyeing me with curiosity, he’s noticed my fixated stares on the couple. “You know ‘em?” he asks, wiping down the counter.

  “Th
ey look familiar.” I shrug. “I think I’ve done business with her.”

  “What’s your line of work?” He gives me a toothy grin. “Acting?”

  “Nah, fashion. I run a specialized boutique.” The lie is necessary.

  “Women’s clothing?”

  “Sex toys and some lingerie.” I give him a mega-watt smile as his eyes widen, sliding a crumpled fifty across the bar to him. I’ve seen enough. I wink, stand up slowly, the alcohol feels heavy in my empty stomach. I don’t want to risk them seeing me so I walk as far away from the bar as I can before turning and heading out the front door.

  Something in me snapped—the divorce papers, Mara, Veronica, the emails, the other phone, the dating sites. I couldn’t do it anymore. I tapped my fingers all the way home, not making it back to the office, sitting in the backyard with a glass of wine as I thought about my future. Liv’s future.

  Steven and I were over.

  That was the only truth I knew.

  The rest would unravel itself in time.

  Part II

  Steven

  16

  The previous summer

  I fucked up one of the biggest rules of marriage—adultery.

  It happened one time. One time.

  I’m a high school biology teacher, and there was an educator’s conference for those that focus on STEM education. It was an all-day event at a local hotel, speakers engaged us, and we broke off into small groups for workshops. It’s June, hot as hell outside, and between the monotone voices and the overzealous air conditioning, I was antsy. At the end of the day, I needed a drink. A stiff drink. I’m a beer guy. I like trucks, hunting, plaid, and looking through a telescope at the stars. I’m fascinated by how gadgets work, detest reality television, and working with my hands is my favorite pastime after teaching my favorite subject.