A Curve in the Road(39)

I feel as if my seemingly perfect life was never anything but a fragile house of cards. I had no idea that a sudden, unexpected gust of wind would blow it all down.

“Are you okay?” Carla asks. “Will you come home now?”

I inhale deeply. “Yes. Has Zack been asking about me?”

“Don’t worry about him. He’s fine. He and Braden just took the girls to a movie, so he won’t be back for a while. I thought it would be good for them to get out of the house.”

“Yes,” I reply. “And listen, don’t say anything to him or Mom about this. I don’t know how I’m going to handle it, if I should tell them or not.”

Carla hesitates. “But you have to tell Zack.”

“About the affair?” I consider that for a moment and feel a strong resistance to the idea. “No, I can’t do that. He loved his dad. I don’t want him to start questioning those feelings or believe that he comes from a long line of dishonorable men. This anger and confusion I’m feeling right now is . . . it’s not healthy. Part of me wishes I’d never found out.”

She ponders my reasoning. “Maybe you’re right. But you don’t have to decide anything tonight. Take time to think about it. In the end, you’ll know what’s best.”

“I hope so.” Feeling dazed and tired, I realize I haven’t eaten all day. I glance at the dashboard clock. “I should come home now. What about supper? Should I pick something up?”

“Don’t worry about a thing. Mom’s already cooking. Just come home, Abbie. We’ll take care of you.”

“Okay, I’ll see you soon.”

I end the call, slap my cheeks a few times—hard—to try and wake myself up from this unbelievable nightmare, and pull onto the road leading back to my mother’s house, since the home I knew with Alan doesn’t seem to exist anymore.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

When I arrive, I smell something delicious cooking on the stove. After what I’ve just been through, the company of my sister and mother does wonders to soothe my spirits, and I want to hang on to that feeling of security.

Letting my eyes fall closed, I breathe deeply and remind myself how blessed I’ve been—until now. I can’t let myself lose sight of all the good things, even though all I want to do is scream and hit something.

I’m hanging up my coat when Carla walks out of the kitchen to greet me. Without a word, she wraps her arms around my shoulders and holds me tight.

“Thank you,” I whisper in her ear. “I don’t know how I’d be getting through this without you.”

“At least you know the truth now. You don’t have to wonder. You know exactly where you stand, and you can deal with it head-on.”

Head-on. Such strong, fighting words, but I’m not sure I’m up to it. I don’t know how to be a widow. I don’t know how to manage these feelings of betrayal that complicate the grief I should be feeling over my husband’s death, which is a tragedy all on its own. If only it were that simple, that contained.

Carla and I go to the kitchen, where I find my mother standing at the stove, stirring a pot of something. I work hard to hide the fact that I’ve just learned something shocking and heartbreaking about my husband and that it feels like my perfect world has been completely annihilated.

I give her a kiss on the cheek. “That smells great. Is it chicken fiesta soup?” One of her specialties.

Mom takes one look at me and frowns with concern—probably because it’s obvious that I’ve been crying.

But that’s to be expected, right? It’s the day after my husband’s funeral. What woman wouldn’t be crying?

She asks no further questions, so I sit down at the table, already set for the three of us, with a green salad, a basket of soft rolls, and a selection of dressings in bottles. There’s a bottle of white wine too, and I can’t wait to pour myself a great big, gigantic glass.

Mom serves the soup, we pour the wine, and I’m so hungry I devour a full bowl before I realize that Winston is not at my feet. This is unusual when there’s a meal on the table, not to mention the fact that he didn’t greet me at the door.

I glance around and listen for sounds in the quiet house. “Where’s Winston?”

Mom and Carla pause with their soup spoons in midair. They look at each other questioningly.

“I don’t know,” Mom finally says, setting down her spoon. “He was in the basement with the kids earlier, before they went to the movie.”

I immediately push back my chair.

“Winston?” I hurry downstairs, reach the rec room, and don’t see him anywhere. “We’re having supper!” I call out to him. “It’s chicken soup!”

My body floods with alarm, and I start to wonder if I’m anxious about everything because I have PTSD from the crash. Or maybe I’m turning into a crazed woman who can’t relax about anything because her life is exploding and she knows there will be nothing but chaos from this day forward.

“Winston!” I shout, my gaze darting from one corner of the rec room to the other.

At last, when I flick on the fluorescent light in the unfinished section of the basement, I find him under a table by the storage shelves. He’s curled up, sleeping, still wearing the white plastic cone around his neck. Normally, he would be on his feet by now, tail wagging, but tonight, he’s not responding.