“Huh?”
“You called after me. Did you need something?”
“Oh no, no.” She bit her lip as though she hesitated for a reason. “Well, I saw Mr. Gilmore leave your office and wanted to know what he said to you.”
While Marlene wasn’t a rival, she wasn’t a trusted friend, either. Sure, we had lunch together at least once a week and had fun girl afternoons with shopping or spa days, but when it came to me sharing my personal life with her, I often found myself biting my tongue while she spilled her guts. Her countless stories of her single sex life, her party life, and everything in between, far surpassed my boring married life, leaving some to wonder who had it better? Television shows and movies certainly portrayed both with a sense of superiority, but then in my line of work, I was surrounded by hundreds of thousands of books about the notion of forever love and romance, not just a single fling and the notorious walk of shame the next morning.
No matter the answer, however, the thought of telling Marlene the truth about my talk with Mr. Gilmore and my suspicions turned in my stomach—especially with a possible promotion within my grasp. I didn’t need an overconfident rumor getting back to my boss before we had a chance to discuss the matter.
“He just wanted to know about the manuscript I was reading.”
“You’re so lucky when it comes to submissions. I swear I’ve gotten nothing but slush pile junk for the last three weeks. What’s your secret?”
“Um, I don’t have a secret. I guess I’ve just been blessed.”
“So, is it true Susan Bradbury is talking about a contract buy out?”
“I don’t really know. He mentioned something of the sort, but I don’t know the specifics of the deal she’s trying to make or what Mr. Gilmore plans to do about it. I believe her publisher wants a large chunk of money for her contract.”
“How many novels is it for?”
“I think the last ten she’s written and the next five she has yet to write. However, again, I don’t really know the full details.” The elevator dinged and the door opened. I laid my hand against the frame as I stepped inside the small box, holding it open until I could press my thumb into the yellow circle button. “I’ll know more when I get back from my mini vacation.”
“Oh, I forgot, today is your anniversary, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” My finger pressed against the door open button so hard my skin turned white. “We’re headed to Martha’s Vineyard this evening, so I’m leaving early to finish my packing.”
“Is Paul waiting for you?”
“No, I’m surprising him. After I finish packing, I’m going to have a couple of his favorite sandwiches delivered. I plan to pack them up so we can have a picnic along the beach.”
“Sounds so romantic.” She clasped her hands together and brushed them against the side of her cheek as she pretended to swoon.
“Oh, stop it.” I laughed. “I’ll talk to you Monday, all right?”
“Okay, well, have fun. See you Monday.”
I released the button, waving to her as the doors shut.
In just a few hours, I’d be at my in-laws’ beach house for a weekend of sunbathing, drinking countless bottles of wine, sleeping in as late as I wanted, having tons of sex with my handsome husband, and relaxing without a care in the world.
And I would leave my computer at home.
THREE
As I tossed my keys on the table in the foyer, soft music floated down the staircase from our bedroom. The classical tunes of saxophones, a piano, and strums from a guitar beat the jazz hum through the walls---music Paul listened to, either after a long, hard day of work or while he cooked. His habit of finding the fun when needed, he would dance around the kitchen, banging on the pots and pans to the drum beat or pretend his wooden spoon was the end of a trumpet or had strings like a bass. His manic mind found peace in the chaos of the compositions. I never understood his love for it. Far too all over the place for my taste, however, I still enjoyed watching him take pleasure in it.
Home early, he now ruined my surprise plans.
Oh, that husband of mine.
With a slight snort of laughter, I dropped my briefcase near the legs of the table in the foyer and slipped my feet from my high heels. The stress and weight of the day cooled along with my skin against the hardwood floor. In just a few hours they would be slipping through the sand while the red paint from my toenails glistened in the sun setting across the ocean water.
Granted our weekend getaway wasn’t an escape like most take when they can break away from everyday life and responsibilities, enjoying weeks of alone time while they visit some far-off place. I would have preferred a long trip to the tropical islands of Jamaica or Tahiti or a destination with history and culture like the isles of Scotland or the city lights of Paris. However small our two days and two nights were, though, they were still a weekend away from all the cares of our world.
I would finally have the chance to read for pleasure, enjoying a few books I’d ordered months ago hoping I could finish them before the year was out, while Paul could finally not think of merging companies, bottom lines, or the points on a number line. As a stock trader, he saw little time for vacations, so a weekend away, even if it was only a few hundred miles, was everything to us. Not to mention, a trip to Martha’s with a free house was the only holiday we could afford to take, after sinking Paul’s inheritance from his late grandparents into our rather expensive Manhattan brownstone.
Climbing the stairs, my foot kicked one of Paul’s shoes. It nearly tripped me and I clutched the railing for balance. A slight growl gripped through me. How foolish of me to not see the brown leather loafer? I glanced down to fetch it for him when I noticed the other one on another step above, followed by a pair of strappy, red sandals a size too big for me. I reached out to touch them, but my fingers paused an inch from the ruby leather straps as my eyes traced up a few more stairs. A pair of black slacks, a white dress shirt, and an untied necktie lay strewn on the floor along with a white dress, a black leather belt, and a white lace bra joined the shoes.
I froze.
No, no this is not happening. This is not what I think it is.
As if to argue with me, a woman laughed behind the closed door of our bedroom. Her giggle soon turned into moans of pleasure that not only stole my breath, but also stole my ability to think or to place one foot in front of the other. Petrified, I just stood there.
“Paul, wait, Paul.” The women giggled again, jerking my attention. “Paul, we really need to talk about this.” Her tone hummed between seriousness and passion as though she desperately fought against not only his advances, but also her own pleasure for the sake of the conversational words sitting on the tip of her tongue.
“What’s there to talk about, Sarah? Nothing. Now come here.”
“There is a lot to talk about.” Fits of even more giggles laced in and out of her words. “What are we going to do about our situation?”
“I already told you what I plan to do.”
“Do you really think it will work out?”
“Yes, hon, I do. I meant what I said.”
My husband’s voice iced through my veins. I closed my eyes and held my breath until I finally heard the noises I had been dreading coming from the both of them. Listening to my husband engage in foreplay and flirty banter was one thing but listening to him please and take pleasure in another woman, the exact way he sounded when he was with me, was another.
In my home. In my bed. In the one place that proved my only solace from the world. In the one place I could shut out the stress of the world around me and feel safe.
The walls around me suddenly felt like a bad dream I couldn’t wake from, like a hell I couldn’t escape. I knelt on the hallway floor as tears welled, blinding me before they cascaded down my cheeks. I slapped my hand over my mouth to hide my sobs.
Minutes passed—five then ten.
Frozen with utter humiliation and horror, I tortured myself by listening to the
m. My mind so numb, not one of the never-ending questions I should be asking myself popped into my head. Devoid of thought, it wasn’t until they both finished, I finally mustered up the courage and rose my feet.
Two choices lay out in front of me—either open the door quietly and wait for them to notice me or fling the door open so hard, it would bang into the wall behind it with a loud thud, scaring the crap out of both of them.
“I love you, Paul,” the woman’s voice purred.
“I love you, too.”
The words, ever so slightly whispered from his lips stabbed my heart. The deep wound mutilated my insides and twisted in my stomach until I thought I would retch my lunch all over my beautiful hardwood floor.
He wasn’t just having an affair to sleep with some cheap whore.
He loved her.
With his words, the faceless woman rose up on an imaginary pedestal next to me, sharing more with me than just his body. She shared his mind. She shared his heart. And if she shared those things, she could possibly share his hopes and dreams. Everything he’s ever told me; he could have also told her.
I glanced up at the wall of the hallway to the sea of framed wedding photos and my eyes traced along his oval face in the pictures. So full of love, so full of kindness, so full of hope, his brown eyes gleamed with happiness.
And so did mine.
Two young people in love and looking forward to forever.
I thought of our life together. He hadn’t changed since our wedding. He hadn’t turned into an uncaring jerk as someone would when they’d found another. He called me all the time. He sent flowers. He bestowed me with gifts. He spent time with me. And he told me he loved me. We laughed. We played. We still shared a home and a marriage as though we both still felt every inch of happiness we did when we said our vows.
The vows now tarnished with betrayal and lies.
It was almost as if the day never even happened.
A spark flickered in my chest. Hot with fury, it burned from a single candle flame before turning into a thousand-acre forest fire, blazing through my body. What had happened to the man who kissed me goodnight last night? What happened to the man who gazed into my eyes this morning and told me how beautiful I was? Was he acting? Had he lied? Had he been lying to me for days, weeks, perhaps even months? The once paralyzing devastation transformed into a sudden, confrontational courage, exploding through my arms as I shoved the door open, slamming it as hard as I could into the plaster behind it.
“What the . . . Rachel?” As Paul jumped from the bed, the woman screamed and dove for the floor, grabbing one of my pillows to hide behind. Her fingers gripped tight around my expensive Ralph Lauren shams and her blonde hair bounced with her movement as she ducked her chin, covering her eyes. A few years younger than me, her beauty formed a lump in my throat.
I suppose the last few minutes were hardly enough time to envision the woman who had stolen my husband’s attention away. However, I’d be lying if I said her attractiveness didn’t catch me by surprise.
Paul yanked a blanket off the end of the bed and wrapped it around his naked waist. Sweat still glistened off his chest. His hair still disheveled from her hands, stuck out in a few directions the exact way it did after I played with it.
“Hello, my dear husband. Oh, by all means, don’t think you have to cover up on my account. I mean, I saw you naked just last night after you slept with me. It’s not like there is anything new to see.” I folded my arms against my chest, pinching my arms to help control myself. “I don’t believe I know your . . . friend. Hello, I’m Rachel . . . his wife.”
Paul glanced at the woman who crouched on her hands and knees next to the bed, still hiding. Her gaze shied away from me, not even glancing in my direction once.
With a loud groan, he stumbled over to the dresser and wrenched one of the drawers open, jerking a pair of shorts from the depths of the wood. With a few struggled movements, he drew the shorts up to his waist and tossed the blanket over to the woman. She quickly grabbed it, wrapping it around her entire body as she scooped up her lace panties.
“All your other clothes are strewn all over my stairs, in case you were wondering,” I said to her, pointing my thumb over my shoulder.
“Knock it off, Rachel,” Paul growled.
I spun to face him. My eyes burned into his.
“I’d ask you how your day was, honey, but I guess it would be a stupid question.”
“I didn’t think you’d be home until later.”
“Well, I’m sorry to have spoiled your plans.” I waved my arms in the air, then slapped my palms down at my sides. “I came home early to surprise you and pack for our trip. You know the trip we’re taking to celebrate our anniversary. It’s today by the way, so I guess I should also say ‘happy anniversary’.” My voice cracked, though I desperately tried to hide it. Who wants the person, who has just crushed you and shattered your world into pieces, to know what they have done?
I wanted him to feel the brunt of my anger, not the depth of my heartbreak.
He didn’t deserve my pain in this moment.
He didn’t deserve to know he had just destroyed my world and gutted me.
“Rachel, let me explain.”
“Explain? Explain what? Oh, you mean explain why you cheated on me or why you chose to bring your whore back to our house and have sex with her in our bed?”
“She’s not a whore.” Defensiveness stirred in his voice. He didn’t like me attacking her.
“Well, to me, she’s a whore that’s sleeping with another woman’s husband. Husband, Paul. You’re a married man.” I shoved my left hand in his face. The diamond on my wedding ring touched the tip of his nose. “What have you done? Why did you do this to me? Why did you do this to us?”
By the time I’d finished my sentence my screaming volume even shocked me. Surely, we’d had our fights, but I’d never yelled this loud.
“Look I never meant to hurt you.” He massaged his temples with his index fingers. “I was . . . I was going to tell you—”
“When? When were you going to tell me? This weekend on our anniversary trip? Next weekend? Next month? When were you going to tell me?”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know.” He exhaled a deep breath and rested his hands on his hips.
“How long have you been seeing her?” I motioned toward the woman.
He met my gaze, and his shoulders hunched, deflating from the honesty that appeared to sit on his tongue. He didn’t want to answer me, and by the look of him, it was because he knew how bad the admission was. With another stab to my heart, I pinched the back of my arm to fight off my tears and to keep from dropping to my knees. Gut instinct told me I wasn’t going to like what he had to say.
Did I really want the answer to my question?
“Nearly a year,” he said.
His words punched me in the stomach. I stumbled backwards a few steps until my rump slammed into the wall behind me. The past months replayed in my mind. New Year’s Eve, Christmas, Thanksgiving, date nights out in the city, weekends hiding away in our home, never leaving our bed, and the summer trip we took to Prince Edward Island just last year. Love and laughter dwelled in the past year of our marriage. How could he have been living this double life with me and with her through all of that?
“Nearly a year? Where did you meet her?”
“We met at a coffee shop in Manhattan.”
“You met getting coffee? What, was she standing in line behind you and you just thought, ‘hey she’s kind of sexy, I think I’ll have sex with her today and ruin my marriage’?”
“She works there.”
I closed my eyes as a faint disbelieving giggle vibrated through my chest and I waved my hands in the air again. “Yes, because that is so much better. Did you take her to a pay-by-the-hour hotel? Or did you just take her into the back of the storeroom at the coffee shop? Ya know, give it to her on stacks of packaged coffee grounds and filters?”
“Oh, don’t be such a
bitch,” he snapped. “It didn’t happen like that and I didn’t do it just to ruin our marriage.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“I don’t know. I was so unhappy, and she made me feel better.” He pointed toward her.
“I’m supposed to make you feel better, not another woman. I’m your wife. Through good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, and all that other crap you pledged, remember? Although, I suppose those vows mean nothing now.”
“How can you make me feel better when you’re the cause of my misery?” He pointed toward me, his face turned red with his heated tone.
“I cause you misery? I’m the problem? I’m utterly confused at how you can say those things to me. You’ve never acted unhappy including last night.”
“I guess I’ve just been forcing myself to make an effort.”
“Forcing yourself? So last night you were forcing yourself to be with me?”
“I guess so. But today, I just . . . I just can’t live this lie anymore.”
“What lie? You’ve never done or said anything to let me know you’re unhappy. How am I supposed to know something needs fixing if I don’t know it’s even broken?”
“I thought if I just tried, I could fix it, but I’m done trying.”
My head was spinning into a swirling, chaotic mess where nothing made sense. “Trying? How are you trying when you’ve been sleeping with the barista who makes you your morning latte?” The shrill sound of my words screeched so loud, surely the neighbors a mile away heard me.
Without saying another word to me, he marched to the closet and heaved two of the suitcases from the luggage rack. He threw them down to the floor in front of his dresser, and one by one, he jerked the drawers open and shoved his clothes in each bag.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m packing my things.”
“Where are you going?”
Another Yesterday Page 3
