The Wife Between Us(100)

“It wasn’t your fault.” She has no idea how true that statement is.

A loud ding emanates from Emma’s purse. She freezes with the flute almost touching her lips. We both stare at her bag.

She pulls out her phone. “Richard texted me. He just arrived at his hotel in Chicago. He asked what I’m up to and wrote that he misses me.”

“Text him and tell him you miss him, too, and that you love him.”

She raises one eyebrow but does what I ask.

“Now give me your phone.” I tap on it, then show it to Emma. “It’s tracking you.” I point to the screen. “Richard bought it for you, right? His name is on the account. He can access your phone’s location—your location—at any time.”

He did the same thing to me after we got engaged. I eventually figured it out after that day in the grocery store when I wondered if he already knew what I’d be serving him for dinner. It was how he discovered my clandestine visit into the city, and to the wine store a few towns over.

Richard was also responsible for the mysterious hang-ups that began after I met him, I’ve realized. Sometimes they served as punishment, such as during our honeymoon, when Richard thought I’d been flirting with the young scuba instructor. Other times I believe he was trying to keep me off-balance; to unnerve me so that he could subsequently reassure me. But I don’t tell this part to Emma.

Emma is staring at her phone. “So he pretends he doesn’t know what I’m doing even though he does?” She sips her drink. “God, that’s sick.”

“I realize it’s a lot to take in.” I recognize this is an extraordinary understatement.

“Do you know what I keep thinking about? Richard showed up right after you slipped that letter under my door. He immediately tore it up, but I keep remembering this one line you wrote: ‘A part of you already knows who he is.’ ” Emma’s eyes grow unfocused and I suspect she is reliving the moment when she began to see her fiancé anew. “Richard wanted to—it was like he wanted to murder that letter. He kept ripping it into smaller and smaller bits, then he shoved them in his pocket. And his face—it didn’t even look like him.”

She lingers in the memory for a long moment, then shakes it off and stares directly at me. “Will you tell me the truth about something?”

“Of course.”

“Right after the cocktail party at your house, he came in with a bad scratch on his cheek. When I asked him what happened, he said a neighbor’s cat did it when he tried to pick it up.”

Richard could have covered the scratch or come up with a better story for it. But conclusions would be drawn after my sloppy conduct at our party; it was more proof of my instability, my volatility.

Emma is very still now. “I grew up with a cat,” she says slowly. “I know that scratch was different.”

I nod.

Then I inhale deeply and blink hard. “I was trying to get him off me.”

Emma doesn’t react initially. Perhaps she instinctively realizes that if she shows me sympathy, I’ll crumple into tears. She simply looks at me, then turns away.

“I can’t believe I got this so wrong,” she finally says. “I thought you were the one . . . He’s coming back tomorrow. I’m supposed to spend the night at his place. Then Maureen’s coming to town. We’re meeting at my apartment so she can see my dress . . . then we’re all going to taste wedding cakes!”

Her chatter is the only sign that she’s nervous, that our conversation has thrown her.

Maureen is an added complication. I’m not surprised Richard and Emma are including her in the wedding preparations, though; I remember wanting to do the same. Along with the butterfly-clasp necklace I gave her, I sought out her opinion on whether Richard would want black-and-white or color photographs in the album that was my wedding gift to him. Richard also called her and put her on speakerphone while the three of us discussed entrée options for the meal.

I put my arm around Emma. At first her body is rigid, but it softens for a brief moment before she pulls away. She must be holding back a tidal wave of emotions.

Save her. Save her.

I close my eyes and recall the girl I couldn’t save. “Don’t be scared. I’m going to help you.”


When we arrive at Emma’s place, she lays her wedding gown across the back of her sofa.

“Can I get you anything to drink?”

I barely touched my champagne; I want my thoughts to remain clear so I can figure out how Emma can safely extract herself from Richard. “I’d love some water.”

Emma bustles about her galley kitchen, anxiously chattering again. “Do you take ice? I know my place is a little messy. I was going to do laundry and then all of a sudden I just felt like I had to check on the Visa charge. He added me to that account after we got engaged, so all I had to do was call the number on the back of my card. I’ve got some grapes and almonds if you want a snack. . . . Usually I reviewed his AmEx statements before submitting them to Accounting for reimbursement, but a couple of times, he told me he’d handle it himself. That’s why I never saw the refund.” Emma shakes her head.

I absently listen to her as I look around. I know she is grasping for ways to blunt the impact of what she has learned about Richard. The champagne she quickly drank, the frantic energy—I recognize the symptoms too well.