The Stillwater Girls(7)
“She dates women,” Marin adds. “And only women. Anyway, here comes trouble.” She moved back into the crowd.
I glance past her to find my husband headed in my direction.
“You doing okay?” he asks when he arrives at my side. I choke on the familiar cologne that invades my lungs, the same sensual, woodsy cologne that once brought me comfort because it smelled like home.
Smiling, I offer a quick nod because I’m more okay than I was five minutes ago. “Of course. You?”
“Of course.”
My husband examines me.
“If you’re not feeling well, just say so,” he says. “We’ll leave right away.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is your night. And I’m fine,” I lie.
Brant’s face lights, though not half as brightly as it lit for Clara. At least I know now that he’s not her type.
“You know, this night is beautiful, and it’s been a long time coming,” he says, “but I can’t stop thinking about how the most exquisite thing in this room is standing right here in front of me.”
He leans in, his lips grazing mine as his fingers lightly trace the side of my cheek.
“You’re not just my muse,” he says. “You’re my everything. None of this would’ve been possible without you.”
A year ago, I’d have believed him—as I always have.
But after finding the photograph of a towheaded little girl with Brant’s sea-green eyes hiding beneath the leather organizer tray of his sock drawer last month, I don’t know that I can.
Brant kisses me once more before dragging the tips of his fingers down my arm and stopping to give my hand a squeeze. “Moffatt just walked in, and his pockets are looking a little heavy. Should probably say hello . . .”
He smiles at me, expecting a knowing chuckle, which I force myself to give him, and my chest tightens.
Extending his bent arm, he nods. “Come with me. I’ll introduce you.”
I’ve spent the majority of my adult life following this man through Moroccan souks and over Grecian cliffs, through ancient Mayan ruins and lush Amazonian paradises. I left Manhattan—the only home I’d ever known—because he asked me to. And then I made us our own little domestic nirvana in his depressing, hole-in-the-wall hometown of Stillwater Hills, New York, ignoring the gnawing homesickness that never quite passed. I cooked his favorite gourmet meals each night and learned to like his beloved jazz standards. I made love to him when I sensed he needed a release, even if I wasn’t exactly in the mood myself. I brought him coffee when he pulled all-nighters, and I massaged his shoulders when he’d spent too many hours hunched over his computer, knee-deep in edits.
But the one and only thing I could never give him was a family.
It kills me that someone else may have.
Slinking my arm into his and burying my unease, I feel like a fraud as he introduces me to real estate mogul Robert Moffatt and his stunning young wife, pedigreed and pregnant socialite Temple Rothschild-Moffatt, who clearly hasn’t let her third trimester keep her from dressing in head-to-toe Versace and six-inch stilettos.
Brant and Robert’s conversation fades to the background, and Temple excuses herself as I scan the gallery once more, my gaze landing on every pretty face in the room.
The cigarette-thin blonde with the faux fur stole.
The bookish brunette with the red-painted lips and clear-frame glasses.
The lavender-haired socialite who steals glances at my husband when she thinks no one’s watching.
It could be any of them.
And it could be none of them at all.
The only thing I know for sure is that needing to know exactly who she is is beginning to consume my every thought.
Brant’s hand slips to the small of my back, and he pulls me closer. The room spins, my breath shortens, and a prickle of sweat collects across my brow.
“Excuse me,” I say, interrupting their conversation and showing myself outside. I’ve never had a panic attack before, but I’m quite certain I’m standing at the water’s edge of my first one.
It’s mid-December, and the sidewalks are dusted with powdery snow. A few nearby shops are closed for the evening, but their holiday lights flicker in the windows, and holly wreaths hang on their glass doors. These things used to send a blanket of warmth cascading through me when I’d see them.
Now I feel nothing.
Gasping for air, I close my eyes and try to focus on the sensation of the chilled air in my lungs, and then I count backward from ten, telling myself that when I get to one, I’m going to be fine . . . at least for now.
Ten . . .
Nine . . .
Eight . . .
Seven . . .
“Nicolette.”
I open my eyes to find my husband standing outside the door to the museum, his hands shoved in the pockets of his Prada suit. The casualness in his pose is an insult.
“Talk to me,” he says before he strides toward me, head cocked ever so slightly. He looks at me like I’m an impossible riddle he can’t quite solve. “You’re not you, and you haven’t been all night.”
My lips part in response, but I don’t know what to tell him.
I’m still trying to figure out where to go from here—when to confront him, how to confront him, not to mention how I’m supposed to feel given the fact that I’ve conjured up some worst-case scenario over a single photograph.