Wish You Were Gone(47)
Emma and James themselves had rarely talked to each other. She wasn’t sure she could remember the last time they’d had a conversation longer than “The dryer died” or “The landscaper ran over a sprinkler head again” or “We need bananas.”
It was almost absurd, how far back she had to go, but after a great deal of mind-wracking, she landed on her birthday, this past April. To her great shock, James had come home from work on time and taken her out to dinner. She had already prepared her own favorite meal—chicken Milanese and mashed potatoes—and baked herself a cake. The kids had seemed delighted by the turn of events, and not just because they were getting the house to themselves for a night, but because it had been a night without drama, and their parents had looked, if not happy, at least calm. Emma remembered sitting in the car on the way to the restaurant and feeling nervous. What were they going to talk about all night? What was he thinking? But it had turned out okay. Not romantic, but nice. He’d told her about his recent trip to Mexico to sign some big soccer star. She’d asked a lot of questions to keep him talking because she was still so flabbergasted, she couldn’t think of what else to do.
On the way home, they’d driven by the old cottages on the edge of town. One had been for sale and, on impulse, she’d told him to pull over so she could grab one of the sell sheets. James had actually obliged without impatience or argument, and she’d sighed looking at the photos of the interiors—so quaint and everything original. Shabby, but fixable.
“I’ve always thought it would be fun to renovate one of these,” she’d said.
“You’re so funny,” he’d replied, glancing in his side-view mirror.
And she hadn’t asked what he’d meant, because she didn’t want to know.
Emma clicked over to realtor.com and looked at the cottage. Not the one from that night, but hers. The one she’d just bought, the day James died. The listing was still up, but marked UNDER CONTRACT. What would he think of the fact that she now owned a house all her own? That she’d negotiated a fair price and had started drawing up plans? Would he laugh at her? Would he be surprised? Impressed? She had no idea.
She opened her computer, willing her brain not to go where it wanted to and continue that conversation to its inevitable end.
“You’re so funny.” She could hear his voice so clearly—the exact inflection that made it land somewhere just shy of an insult, just left of a challenge. So funny for seeing the beauty in something past its prime? So funny for thinking she could do something worthwhile? So funny because she thought that bringing a historical home like that back to life was worthwhile?
Emma shut her eyes and saw him looking at her in the half light from a streetlamp, and wondered: had he liked even one teeny, tiny thing about her?
She opened his Facebook page. It was the first time she’d gone on the site since he died, not wanting to endure all the flat condolences of people she knew well enough to friend on social media, but not well enough that they might actually call in tragic circumstances. She wasn’t interested in that false bullshit. What she was interested in were James’s connections.
The first post she saw was from the verified account of an international baseball star.
RIP BRUTHA. THE DERBY WON’T BE THE SAME WITHOUT YOU.
God, she hated social media. Did these people actually think it meant something, posting a message on the page of a person who’d died, as if he was ever going to see it? She gritted her teeth and began to scroll. Each time she came to a post from an unfamiliar female, she paused, trying to read between the lines to see if there was anything there.
WE’LL MISS YOU, JAMES.
TAKEN TOO SOON.
HEAVEN HAS A NEW ANGEL.
Vomit.
She kept scrolling. The messages went on and on and on. Just when her vision was starting to get bleary and she was thinking this was a pointless endeavor, she found her. Jennifer Mahone. Verified account. A tiny round photo of a gorgeous woman with glowing brown skin, a flawless smile, and a birthmark on her chin.
THE WORLD WON’T BE THE SAME WITH OUT YOU, JIMMY.
“Jimmy?” Emma muttered aloud. James couldn’t stand to be called Jimmy.
She clicked on the woman’s image, even as part of her screamed to leave it alone. Jennifer was a reporter at ESPN. Married. Two adorable, chubby-cheeked kids. So maybe she wasn’t the JM Emma was looking for. But then again, who knew? If one person in the relationship was cheating, why not both?
Was Jennifer the woman who had answered the phone? Maybe she would call ESPN tomorrow and track her down. She wondered if she’d recognize the voice if she heard it again. How had she even got hold of his phone? Why would she answer it over a week after his death? If she got hold of Jennifer, maybe the woman could explain.
Emma made a note of the name, then went back to James’s page. After a few more minutes, she found another JM. This one older, a vice president at an advertising firm. In a relationship, her status said. Janet McElroy. She was blond. Fit. Fake tan. Botoxed. She wore too much makeup and the hair was clearly a dye job.
Was this woman there when James died? Did she know what had happened?
Bile rising in her throat, Emma quickly noted the woman’s name, then closed out Safari, unable to endure any more. She had an awful feeling that her dreams were going to be filled with Jennifers and Janets tonight, one or both of them doing things with or to her husband. Things that Emma hadn’t done with him or to him in years. Maybe this was why women hired PIs to do the investigating in these situations. To avoid making themselves sick.