It's One of Us(56)
She touches her stomach lightly. She really thought this was the one.
Park has been a rock for her through the fertility treatments. Such a rock that Lindsey joked they should name a kid Gibraltar in his honor. They’ve been trying for a baby for over five years now, and never once has he been anything but steady, calm, and supportive. Finding ways to make it easier on her, offering himself for the hard parts of the process, from googling all the best ways to make giving her the shots easier to stockpiling her favorite indulgences when she miscarries. He’s been a damn prince through it all. Solicitous to the point of annoyance.
What an uncharitable thought, Olivia. God forbid your husband give a shit.
Looking back, though, she realizes that yes, these past few months, he has been overly kind. Overly, and overtly.
She recalls a conversation with a client who recently divorced her husband for cheating on her. She said she suspected something was up because he was suddenly so attentive. There was no lipstick on his collar or late nights at the office, but he had been smothering her with his attentions.
Overcompensation, Dr. Benedict would say. Misdirection.
So, what is Park overcompensating for?
She takes a Post-it note and a pencil and retrieves the safe combination from the kitchen, noting in slight horror the date corresponds to her first miscarriage. Jesus, Park. She pulls out a tape measure from the drawer as well. If he comes back before she’s finished and catches her rifling through his things, she can say she’s gotten a call from one of her clients who wants the same live-edge desk installed and she’s double-checking the measurements.
Planning the lies to tell your husband. Not great, Olivia.
The safe opens on the first try. The stack of paperwork she found at the Jones build, along with his passport, have been returned to their home, released by the police. She searches through them, but nothing seems out of place. Granted, she has no idea what she’s looking for, but this isn’t it.
She’s been operating under the assumption that the paperwork was left to tell her about Park’s relationship with Winterborn. And to rub his relationship with Melanie Rich in her face.
Could there have been a deeper message?
She stares at the room, taking it in sections. Nothing new, nothing out of place.
She sits at the desk and carefully looks at the papers on the wood top itself, opens all the drawers, runs her hands along the undersides. She unlocks the filing cabinet. It is organized alphabetically, perfectly labeled, and contains notes, house contracts, and teaching materials. Hardly suspicious.
You’re tossing his office because he’s been too nice to you lately. You are definitely losing your mind.
She runs her hands along the bookshelves, catching bookmarks, but not much else.
Frustrated, she plops down in the battered leather chair—she absolutely must talk him into a new chair, this one looks like someone’s cat decided to make a nest in it. The edges of the cushion are literally torn open. She knows he loves the stupid thing, but can she at least have the cushion restitched? It’s so unsightly.
She stands, dragging the cushion off the chair. And there it is, something out of place. An envelope stashed in the crevasse between cracked leather and high-density foam.
She fishes it out. This could be nothing, the detritus of her husband opening the mail in his favorite chair and a piece slipping below the cushion. But the feminine handwriting, a perfect flowing cursive, makes her blood pressure spike. She unfolds the letter.
Dear Mr. Bender,
I am so grateful you are willing to talk to me about Brandon. When Winterborn told me you’d agreed to allow me to contact you, I was over the moon. Brandon is too. All he’s ever talked about is meeting his father, and now, thanks to your generosity, I get to make his dream come true.
Thank you also for the train set. I never thought Brandon would get over his dinosaur obsession, but the Pennsylvania Flyer is his pride and joy. I hope one day soon you will get a chance to play trains with your son. My number is 629-555-9089. Whenever you’re ready to meet Brandon, please give me a call. We are happy to drive to Nashville to meet you.
Yours truly,
Fiona Cross
Olivia sinks into the cushion-less chair, a hand over her mouth. A small school photograph tips out of the envelope into her lap. The boy is young, gap-toothed, grinning ear to ear, sporting a clip-on tie and a severe blond cowlick. “Brandon, 1st grade, 6 years old” is painstakingly printed on the back of the photo in blue ink.
She looks at the post date on the letter. It is three years old.
Three years old. Brandon Cross would be nine now.
Olivia feels the small break in her heart widen. Tears come again, tears of wrath. She crumples the letter in a fist, wadding it tightly, and throws it on the desk. She rips the photo of the child in half, then halves it again, and again, until there is nothing left but shreds of tooth and cowlick. She sweeps her arm along Park’s newly cleaned and organized desk, knocking laptop, notebooks, pencils and pens to the floor. She stamps on the mess, the pencils cracking underfoot, the screen of the laptop breaking with a satisfying crunch.
More than an omission. More than hiding the truth to spare her feelings. More than trying not to hurt her.
Park has known about his donor children all along.
27
THE WIFE
Furious, Olivia races to the Jeep. She wants to be away. No idea where, just gone.
The build, she thinks through the haze of red. Go to the Jones build. Work always fixes things.