Daddy's Girls (38)
Caroline and the children were home in Marin by lunchtime, and the house looked surprisingly orderly. He hadn’t left a mess. The refrigerator was full. Their cleaning person had left everything tidy, and Peter was good about that too. He was organized and neat, and she never came home to a mess. Once she was home, she realized how much she had missed him. They had texted and talked on the phone while she was away, but it wasn’t the same as face-to-face, or having his arms around her. He was planning to be home for dinner that night, and she bought steaks, which she knew he loved, artichokes, his favorite dessert, and put flowers on the dining table. Both children had plans to go out with friends, so Peter and she would have time alone, and maybe enough time for a little romance before they got home. She smiled at the thought. He was a thoughtful lover, and even after seventeen years of marriage, they had an active sex life that they both enjoyed. As reserved as he was, in their private moments, he could be very loving. And he had told her several times on the phone that he couldn’t wait for her to get back.
She unpacked that afternoon after she dropped Morgan and Billy off at their friends’, got almost everything put away, and opened the drawer of her night table to drop in a book she hadn’t finished reading, and her reading glasses, which she had just gotten, and stared into the drawer with a look of surprise. She usually kept things to read in it, a pad and pen, and now her new glasses. Instead, she found herself staring at several packets of condoms, some flavored sex lubricant, and a blue Goyard datebook that wasn’t hers. She felt as though she had been stabbed, or a bomb had gone off in her face when she opened the drawer. Her head was reeling and she felt sick. There was no way to explain the condoms and the lubricant except that he had used them with someone else. They didn’t use condoms, because they didn’t have other partners and she was on the pill, and had been for years. And she was allergic to lubricant, and they didn’t need it.
She took the datebook out, feeling strangled, and wondering who it belonged to. She didn’t have far to look. The girl’s name was written on the front page, Veronica Ashton, with her address, phone number, and email address, in case the datebook was found. Not even feeling guilty, but suddenly ill, she flipped through it and rapidly found printed out photos of a woman in various highly suggestive positions, and three photos of them having sex, two of Peter naked, smiling at the camera, and two more of his erect penis, and she had drawn a heart around it in red marker. Caroline didn’t know whether to cry, scream, or throw up. She suddenly realized why he had been so encouraging of her spending time with her sisters at the ranch.
She went through the drawer and didn’t find anything else, but that was enough. There was no thong underwear under the bed, and feeling even sicker, she went around the bed, and checked the drawer in Peter’s night table, where she found half a dozen gynecological photographs of the same girl, which left nothing to the imagination. He had obviously forgotten the photographs in the drawer, or didn’t know they were there. She sat on her bed, feeling paralyzed, and burst into tears. She lay there for what seemed like hours, and then got up, washed her face, didn’t bother to change as she had planned, put the photographs from his drawer in the stack with the others, and sat in a chair in the living room, waiting for him to come home. She had no idea what she was going to say to him, or where to go from here. Should she leave him, divorce him, move out, throw him out, demand an explanation, or call a lawyer? There was nothing he could say to undo what she’d found. It was obvious what had gone on in their bed while she was away. And how often had it happened before? Every time he said he had to work late on a deal, was he cheating on her? Had he done it before? Despite his natural reserve, and cool conservative demeanor, and his long working hours, she had always believed that their marriage was solid and he loved her. She had always thought he was completely trustworthy, and clearly he wasn’t. She felt as though her heart had broken in a million pieces that afternoon. Was he in love with Veronica Ashton, or just having sex? Or did that even matter?
She heard his key in the door at seven-thirty. He walked into the living room and saw her there, came across the floor in rapid strides, picked her up and swung her around with obvious delight, and was about to kiss her, when she pushed him away and stood staring at him. He hadn’t realized at first that she was limp in his arms and not responding.
“What’s wrong?” he said with a puzzled look.
“Everything,” she said in a small tight word, and stepped away from him.
“What does that mean?” He sounded hurt when he said it, and she turned to face him again.
“Why don’t you tell me what it means, Peter?” Her voice sounded cold and jagged.
“I’ve missed you. I was excited to see you. Why are you upset?”
Without saying a word, she walked into their bedroom, opened the drawer in her bed table, gathered up the photos, the condoms, the lube, and the datebook and walked back into the living room and handed them to him. He stood juggling them for a minute as the blood drained from his face. Clearly, he recognized them.
“The pictures are great, by the way, terrific angles. You get a really good view. I didn’t call her to return the datebook, although her numbers are in it. I thought I’d let you do that.”
“Caro, I can explain,” he started, with the oldest line of all cheaters, and she held up a hand to stop him.