The Wife Upstairs(53)

Bea doesn’t answer because she knows that will infuriate him, and it does.

With a huff, Eddie tosses the kitchen towel he’d had on his shoulder to the counter and heads out to the back deck, taking her glass of wine with him.

They don’t talk about it again, but the next time Blanche and Bea have coffee, Blanche is all apologies and brittle smiles and then—

“You always overreact, Bea.”

Bea thinks about that for a long time, that tossed-off statement as Blanche scraped the whipped cream off her coffee with a wooden stirrer, the slight bite in the words, the implied judgement.

But two days later, Bea picks up Eddie’s phone—he doesn’t password lock it, wouldn’t even think to, which is classic Eddie—and sees the text.

It’s a selfie of Blanche. Nothing sultry or sexy, nothing tacky, but a shot of her face pulling an exaggerated frown.

Missed you today!

Bea stares at that text, then scrolls up.

Again, it’s maddening how little actual evidence there is, how there’s not one definitive thing that tells her they’re having an affair, one thing she could point to and ruin them both, but collectively …

A series of moments, of conversations. Of a closeness they’ve both denied is there. Blanche’s bad day, Eddie’s frustration with how often Bea is gone. Funny little phrases that make no sense, but read like in-jokes, snapshots of something they share that has nothing to do with her.

It has honestly never occurred to her that Eddie would cheat on her, but it’s the betrayal from Blanche that stings the most.

That actually hurts.

So really, it’s only fair what happens between Bea and Tripp.

They’re all over at Caroline’s for a neighborhood barbecue, and Tripp is, as usual, drunk as a fucking skunk before the sun has fully set.

“They sure are getting cozy, aren’t they?” he says to Bea as they watch Eddie and Blanche chat by the grill, Eddie holding a beer, Blanche a margarita. They’re laughing, and it’s the most relaxed and happy Bea has seen Eddie look in a while.

Blanche glances over then, seeing Bea and Tripp, and she just grins, raising her glass in greeting. Bea and Tripp raise their glasses, too, and everything is fine, everything is like it should be, all of them just the best of friends.

Only Bea notices the way Blanche’s smile turns up at the corners, curdling into a smirk.

Only Bea notices how Eddie reaches out to touch Blanche’s elbow to make a point.

“So, if they’re fucking, do you think Eddie should give her a ten percent discount?” Bea asks Tripp now, and that startles a laugh out of him.

Tripp is better looking when he laughs. More like the Tripp that Blanche married.

The Tripp that Blanche had been in love with.

“Blanche should actually probably give him a twenty percent bonus,” he replies, and Bea looks over her shoulder at him, grinning slowly, letting him see her gaze drift over him.

“I think maybe you’re selling yourself a little short there, Tripp.”

He’s not, it turns out.

The sex he and Bea have in Caroline’s upstairs bathroom is decidedly mediocre, and Bea doesn’t even bother pretending to come, focusing instead on the heinous print Caroline has hanging on the wall, a banal picnic scene.

As Tripp groans against her neck, Bea thinks about how she’ll have to send Caroline one of those new block color prints they just got in for Southern Manors’ summer line.

As soon as it’s over, Tripp is surprisingly remorseful, rubbing his hand over his face and saying, “I don’t know why I did that.”

Bea knows exactly why she did it—to get back at Blanche and Eddie, to take from Blanche before Blanche can take from her—but she feels empty all the same.

Later, Tripp texts her.

I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry, either.

Bea knows exactly how he feels.





PART VII



JANE





24




JULY

Over the next few weeks, I resolve to trust Eddie, to be the fiancée he wants and deserves. I go ahead and buy the dress I wanted from Irene’s in the village, complete with a veil, new shoes, the whole thing.

And we talk about the wedding more. We’re still planning on something small and simple, but here in Birmingham now, no more talk of eloping. We’re back on track, finally.

I take up jogging even though the summer weather is getting oppressive, and Eddie warns me that I’m going to die of heatstroke. But I actually like the heat early in the morning, before the humidity sets in, the grass still wet and jewel-green as the sun climbs over the horizon. It feels good, the sweat running down my back, stinging my eyes behind my sunglasses.

Sometimes I see Emily and Campbell. They’re always walking, not running, and while Emily always waves at me and grins, there’s something tight in Campbell’s smile.

This morning, though, the streets are empty, the July temps too much for most people, even at 8 A.M., and I find myself turning down Tripp’s street.

A first-degree murder charge, and he’s still at home.

That’s rich white guys for you, though.

I try not to think of Phoenix, of Mr. Brock gasping on the floor, of the sick fear I’ve lived with ever since that moment. If they’d caught me, if they’d found out what I did, do you think I’d be able to just hang out at Eddie’s until the trial?