The Shadow Box(15)

I spent a few extra moments staring at a large basket. It was full of crustacean shells, both lobster and crab. I could still hear the sound of Griffin’s angry heel smashing the ones I had collected this morning.

What had made him this way? That question never stopped running through my head, because the answer was so terrible. Another question was, Why had I stayed so long? The weight of his anger reverberated, and I knew I would use the sound and the feeling it had caused in my chest to complete my project.

I checked to make sure the letter was exactly where I had left it. It had arrived the week before, and I had been debating what to do about it. Written on expensive blue English stationery, monogrammed EC, it had come out of nowhere from a woman I had met only once. I left it in its hiding place, deciding I would deal with it after my opening.

When I walked into our big, sterile pure-white kitchen, Griffin was sitting at the table reading the Shoreline Gazette. He was getting ready to start a trial, prosecuting Gary Jackson, a middle school teacher, for sexually assaulting two female students. There were articles nearly every day. I opened the refrigerator, took out bacon, eggs, and a perfectly ripe cantaloupe.

I refilled his coffee cup and poured one for myself. While the bacon was frying, I set the melon on the counter. Griffin had had the kitchen redone after we got married. He told me the plans the late May day we moved in. We had returned from our honeymoon in Italy early because he had had to get back for a trial. He carried me over the threshold and made the announcement.

“Say goodbye to this old kitchen, Claire,” he had said. “I’m having a new one built for you,” he said.

“But I love this one!” I said. It was cozy and beachy, nothing fancy about it: Butcher block counters had been well used. The porcelain sink dated back seventy years or more, an oak ice chest was being used as a liquor cabinet, and black-and-white Chase family photos hung on the beadboard walls.

“There are plenty of memories I want to wipe out,” he said.

“Really?” I asked, feeling compassion. I’d thought he had a good upbringing—perhaps not as close to his family as I was to mine—but happy and well loved. “You don’t talk about your childhood much.”

“There’s not much to say,” he said. “I’d rather live in the present. Erase my parents, erase Margot.”

I stayed quiet, listening.

“She sat there,” he said, pointing at the window seat I had already pegged as a wonderful reading nook. “And that was her bar.” He gestured at the oak chest. “She was never far from it.”

“That must have been painful,” I said.

“Her drinking? Yes, you could say that.”

“We can make this our own,” I said gently. “Change small things.” I didn’t want to impose myself on this home that had been in his family for generations, but I supposed we could get new curtains, paint the cabinets.

He didn’t reply. He spread out plans on the counter. I felt a little shocked—he had already had them drawn up?

“The overall plan is by David Masterson of Chester Architects—he is the absolute best in New England. You’re going to love it.”

“Oh, Griffin . . . I love the comfiness of this kitchen. You don’t have to spend money to make me happy—the opposite. I just want us to be together. I’m going to cook everything you love, right here. We can fish off the beach, grill the bluefish and stripers we catch. I want to plant a vegetable garden too.” I glanced across the room at the lovely old enameled stove; I couldn’t wait to use it.

“I’ve hired Sallie Benson to do the design,” Griffin said, as if he hadn’t heard me. “David gives her his top recommendation, says she did the interior at the Pemberley Inn, as well as some very important properties in Watch Hill and Newport. She has a fantastic vision.” He paused. “Her husband’s an acquaintance of mine.”

I had heard of Sallie Benson and knew she had a great reputation, but I felt stung by the idea that someone else was going to redesign the kitchen I already loved and felt at home in. I couldn’t stop glancing at the window seat.

“Griffin,” I began—he was the crush of my teenage years, the love of my life, the most passionate man I’d ever been with. “You’re all I need. Not a fancy kitchen. Besides, if there’s a big renovation, we’ll have workmen in our house for who knows how long. We’re newlyweds, and I just want to be alone with you. We . . .”

The look on his face stopped me.

This was the first time it happened. It would be far from the last, but I will remember this moment until I die. It was as if I had thrown a switch. My loving husband who had constantly said he adored me, felt blessed to be with me, loved me to death, transformed into someone I had never seen. His eyes glared straight into me, and they changed color from pale green to pure black.

“You shame me,” he said. “Instead of accepting my gift, you shove it down my throat. Do you know how much that hurts me?” His face darkened and twisted. He took a step closer to me. I saw his shoulders tense, his hands form fists, but his black eyes were what terrified me.

“Griffin,” I said, panicking and leaning back because I thought he was going to hit me. And here it came: my first apology. Heartfelt, at the time. “I’m so sorry if I said the wrong thing. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”