The Wife Upstairs(33)

She squeals at that, rushing forward to throw her arms around me, pulling me into a hug that smells like Santal 33.

I smell like it, too, since I stole a bottle from her bathroom just two months ago.

“Let me see, let me see,” she says when we pull apart, flapping her hands toward mine.

Another rush of what feels suspiciously like joy, but is probably just the adrenaline rush of winning.

I haven’t perfected this move yet, the ring display, and I fight the urge to mimic girls I’ve seen on TV, all arched wrist like I’m waiting for her not just to ogle the ring, but to kiss it.

As a result, I feel like I just sort of hold my hand out for inspection, awkward and suddenly very aware of how ridiculous that sparkly emerald looks on my stumpy fingers with their raggedy manicure.

But Emily just sighs. “It’s gorgeous. And so you!”

I raise my hand again, studying the ring myself. “I still can’t get used to it,” I say. “I mean, all of it has been kind of a whirlwind, but the ring makes it feel real, you know?”

I give her a smile.

“I remember feeling like that,” she offers. “The ring definitely cements it.”

Raising her eyebrows, she asks, “Did you pick that one out?”

I shake my head, looking back at the emerald surrounded by its halo of diamonds. “No, Eddie did. It’s bigger than anything I would’ve chosen, but I love emeralds, so I can’t complain.”

She nods. “He has the best taste in jewelry. I always thought—”

Her words break off, and she presses her lips together, and I know there’s a comment about Bea there, caught in her throat. I don’t want Bea’s memory to ruin this moment, so I rush in.

“I was just in there peeking around, we’re not sure when the wedding is going to be yet,” I say lightly, and her shoulders loosen a little.

“Are y’all doing something big?” she asks. “Lots of family?”

Until that moment, it hadn’t really hit me what a wedding with Eddie would look like. I’d been so caught up in the idea of marrying him, of being Mrs. Rochester, that I’d basically skipped the wedding part of things.

But now it’s all I can see, a giant church, Eddie’s side of the church full, his family from Maine all turning up, mine completely empty except for John Rivers sitting there, eating a bowl of cereal.

The image is so grotesque and awful that I literally shake my head to will it away, which apparently looks like an answer to Emily.

“Small, then!” she says, smiling. “I love it. Classy, elegant. Appropriate.”

Eyes on my hand again, and this time, I do rearrange my bags so that they’re covering the ring, and I give her my best bland smile, the one I actually learned from her and Campbell and Caroline McLaren. “Exactly,” I say, all sugar, then I gesture back up the road. “Anyway, I have more errands to run, so—”

“Oh, sure,” Emily says, waving a hand. Her own engagement ring is a princess-cut diamond, at least three carats, and it sparkles in the sunlight. “And my lips are sealed!”

“They don’t have to be,” I reply with a little shrug. “It’s not a secret.”

The truth is, I want her to spread this news like wildfire, I want everyone in Thornfield Estates to be talking about it by dinner.

We make vague plans to get coffee one of these days, and then go our separate ways, Emily already texting on her phone. By the next Neighborhood Beautification Committee meeting, everyone will know, and I’ll be the center of attention.

On the way home, I decide to stop at the Whole Foods and pick up some groceries. I haven’t cooked a single meal for Eddie since we’ve met, and that might be nice. It’s a pretty late spring day, and we could go full suburban basics and grill out.

The idea makes me smile as I turn into the parking lot.

The store is soothing, all wide aisles and calming Muzak, a world away from the Piggly Wiggly where I used to shop.

I push the cart down the aisle, wondering if Eddie would notice if I picked up some junk food. I love the fancy shit as much as the next girl, but truth be told, I’m getting a little sick of it. The other day, I found myself longing for macaroni and cheese—not the Annie’s Organics kind, not even the frozen kind that’s halfway decent, but the blue cardboard box kind that costs a dollar.

Snorting, I turn down another aisle. Who am I kidding? This is a nice grocery store, not the Pig. So instead, I stare at the fifty varieties of hummus and olive tapenades, wondering if I should also make a gas station run on my way home. Maybe they’d have macaroni and cheese there?

“Fancy meeting you here.”

I recognize the voice without turning around.

Tripp Ingraham stands behind me in a polo shirt and khaki shorts, a basket slung over his forearm.

A quick peek inside reveals cans of craft beer and a bunch of frozen but ostensibly healthy meals.

Tripp looks a little better than he did the last time I saw him. He’s still bloated, the pink polo stretching over a disturbingly round and smooth belly, but his face isn’t as puffy, and his eyes aren’t red. He’s even brushed his hair.

Maybe he’s managed to make it all the way to noon without a drink.

Smiling tightly, I give a little wave. “Hi, Mr. Ing—Tripp.”

One corner of his mouth lifts, half attempted smile, half smirk. “That’s right, you don’t work for me anymore,” he says, then adds, “and I hear congratulations are in order.”