The Golden Couple(37)
“We had dinner together after we fixed her up—the four of us. But it was like Matthew was the only one at the table. It’s always like that with her.”
“Come on, Marissa. That’s ridiculous.”
They’re on the cusp. Then Marissa gathers herself.
“I admit it; I’m a little jealous.… And, yes, Matthew is perfectly free to have lunch with whomever he wants.” Marissa bows her head. “I know we’re not here because of Natalie.”
It’s as if she took a pin and popped a balloon; the swelling pressure in the room immediately evaporates.
“Marissa, I’ve never given her any reason to think she has a chance with me.” The annoyance is gone from Matthew’s tone.
“I know. And I’m sorry. I’m having an issue at work myself, and I’m a bit out of sorts.”
Matthew claims Marissa’s hand again. “What is it?”
“Polly”—Marissa glances at me—“she’s my new assistant, and I’m thinking about letting her go.”
I casually lift my pen and write down the name.
“What? I thought she was doing a great job.”
“It’s complicated.” Marissa’s fingers are moving; she’s gently massaging Matthew’s hand. “We can talk more about it later. I’d love your advice, actually.”
Well done, I think, watching Marissa smile at her husband. Marissa defused their fight and owned her issues. She snatched her husband back, luring him away from the tantalizing words I dangled about his imagining Natalie in bed.
She was almost too perfect.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MARISSA
MARISSA ENVISIONED A DIFFERENT SORT of evening after the conclusion of their third session with Avery. She thought she and Matthew would enjoy a late meal at home, perhaps dining by candlelight. She’d purchased fresh salmon fillets and sweet potatoes, something she could assemble quickly while they sipped a glass of wine.
But Matthew had said he needed to return to the office for a couple of hours. So after paying Hallie and putting Bennett to bed, Marissa ate leftover spaghetti at the kitchen island.
She finishes wiping down the counters and turning on the dishwasher as rain begins to patter down softly in the night. Marissa cracks open the window above the sink; her skin feels dry, and she welcomes in the natural humidity.
She pours another two inches of red wine into her glass, then dims the lights and walks into the living room. Matthew won’t be home for another hour or so. He’d called to say good night to Bennett and had told Marissa that he wanted to have breakfast as a family in the morning. I love you, Marissa had told him.
Sending you a hundred kisses, Matthew had replied just before he’d hung up.
She’d cringed, grateful he couldn’t see her face.
Those words were the precise ones her husband had uttered on the phone on that other night, when he’d been in New York on business—just a few hours before she acted so recklessly, so thoughtlessly, so hurtfully, that she imperiled her marriage.
Marissa steps into the family room and places one hand on the back of the light gray sectional sofa.
She lifts up her wineglass, then tips it, splattering the dark liquid onto the middle cushion. She watches as the last drops slide out of her glass and join the widening puddle.
It looks like a bloodstain.
She walks unhurriedly back to the kitchen, grabbing a wad of paper towels, and after giving the stain a moment to set, she dabs at it.
The replacement couch—the one she ordered the morning after Avery conducted a session in this room—won’t arrive for another week.
Tomorrow she’ll show the ruined cushion to Matthew, lamenting that they won’t even be able to donate it to Goodwill.
There are downsides to this plan. Matthew might be annoyed by her carelessness. He’s the one who insists they only serve white wine and champagne for their indoor parties. Plus, she feels guilty about ruining a practically new piece of furniture, but Matthew would certainly question her if she said she simply wanted to redecorate.
It will be an enormous relief to have this sofa gone. She imagines the heavy-trash-receptacle collectors hoisting it up and feeding it into the crushing jaws on the back of the machine; the wood and metal frame splintering and the cushions collapsing.
Erasing the physical link to that night, but not her traitorous memories of the illicit hours she’d spent on it with the man she’d invited into their home.
You are even more beautiful now than you were as a teenager, he’d said, holding her eyes above the rim of his wineglass as he’d taken a sip.
Those words had sent a charge through Marissa; they’d filled a space inside her that she hadn’t even recognized as being empty.
Stop! Marissa had laughed, leaning her head back on the sofa. She was in faded jeans and an old, oversize sweater, clothes she’d worn to Bennett’s Cub Scout meeting that night. Her hair was up in a twist, and the light makeup she’d applied that morning had probably worn off. She hadn’t planned to have anyone over that evening. Bennett was asleep upstairs. Matthew was in New York, and she’d had a long day.
It’s true, he’d said, flushing slightly as he fiddled with the slim woven white rope Bennett had been given by the scoutmaster to practice his square knots.