The Golden Couple(38)
More wine? She’d leaned over for the bottle on the coffee table and topped off his glass.
They’d been talking for nearly an hour, and the bottle he’d brought was nearly empty.
He reached out with his strong fingers and ran one over the faint scar on the back of her hand, creating an electric path on her skin.
She’d suppressed a shiver.
I remember when you got this, he said.
She hadn’t been touched that tenderly in so long.
He spoke her name softly, like a gentle invitation. His expression was filled with longing.
An invisible force seemed to pull them toward each other.
Just before their lips met, she closed her eyes.
* * *
It was breathtakingly intimate and passionate, Marissa thinks now as she stares down on the scar on her hand. And she’d never regretted anything so much in her life.
Marissa walks away from the ruined couch, toward the built-in bookshelves. She stands in the precise spot Avery had and also extends her hand to grasp a photo. Not the one of her and Matthew as teenagers on the dock, though.
Marissa chooses the one next to it. Her wedding photo.
She pulls the silver-framed image close as her eyes skim over the faces of her mom and dad; her brother, Luke; and Matthew’s parents and sister, Kiki. Her two bridesmaids and Matthew’s matching groomsmen flank the family members.
Marissa’s eyes fix on one man in the photograph, the guy with the broad shoulders and hazel eyes. He was always around, casting fishing lines off the long wooden pier, tossing a beer to Matthew at bonfires, game for any water activity, and pulling a first-aid kit out of his Jeep to bandage up the back of Marissa’s hand when she sliced it on an oyster shell by the water’s edge.
There was never a man from the gym.
This is the secret she still keeps: the man in the wedding photograph is the person with whom Marissa betrayed her husband.
PART
TWO
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AVERY
JUST A MAN I MET at the gym, Marissa had said during our first session.
It’s 9:45 A.M. right now, the time of day Marissa usually departs Pinnacle Studio and heads to Coco to open the store. I arrived early for Pilates and have been lingering on a mat, stretching, since the class let out. Pinnacle is quiet; the prework rush is over. A few guys lift barbells in the weight room, and another is tearing up the treadmill. The friendly manager, who came over to introduce himself yesterday when I was bending over the water fountain to get a drink, is in his office chatting on the phone.
They all seemed like possibilities at first. But nothing is clicking.
The manager told me his husband taught a HIIT class that I had to try. The weight room guys—who barely look thirty—seem hyperfocused on their routines. And the runner doesn’t even shift his gaze when an attractive woman in a crop top and leggings saunters by in front of his treadmill.
It’s more than that, though. I’ve gotten to know Marissa, and my gut tells me she isn’t the kind of woman to have a one-night stand with a mere acquaintance.
I’ll bet anything she’s still holding a big secret or two.
I hurry into the locker room and shrug on my light jacket—the first hint of spring is in the air, which I was especially grateful for on my early-morning walk with Romeo—then wave goodbye to the front-desk clerk (a college-age guy with a tattooed neck; Marissa would never go there) and push through the door, scanning my surroundings as I head back to my car.
As I pull into a parking spot across the street from Coco, I imagine I am Marissa Bishop: I’ve risen with the sun to make breakfast for my family in our luxurious kitchen. I’ve exercised and showered, and now I’m dressed for the day—let’s say in a casually chic pair of dark-rinse jeans, suede ankle boots, and a fitted blazer. I’m about to enter my charming boutique—my favorite creation, after my son—where I’ll chat with customers and select new inventory from vendors around the world. I’ll likely run out to pick up a salad for lunch, and during slow moments I’ll catch up on paperwork.
It’s not the kind of life I’d ever want, but I know it’s an enviable one for many women.
I’ve chosen this time of day to visit Coco because during our session last night, when I posed questions designed to better understand their daily routines, Marissa lamented that the upcoming school auction was infringing on her finely calibrated schedule. My cochairs want to meet after drop-off tomorrow, but that means I’ll probably get to Coco late.
Matthew had pointed out that although Marissa was feeling increasingly annoyed by Polly, this was another reason to keep Polly employed, at least for a little while longer.
Polly should be here alone. It will be simple enough to say I’m searching for a present for my stepdaughter.
I stroll down the sidewalk, past a coffee shop and a dry cleaner’s, my ears filling with the rush of cars passing by on Connecticut Avenue. I spot the royal-blue logo of Marissa’s store painted on its glass-front windows and step inside, triggering a bell that jingles merrily. A young woman who must be Polly is talking to a male customer toward the back of the store. They’re partially obscured by a pillar.
“Be right with you!” Polly calls, and her customer—tall, blond, wearing a dark suit—turns around.