California Girls(81)

She flipped through the mail. Most of the bills came electronically, so she didn’t have to worry about that. Nigel hadn’t emptied their bank account and she had her own checking account, so money wouldn’t be an issue. Not in the short term. Even her mother wanted her to talk to a lawyer, but Finola couldn’t imagine it. What would she say? The lawyer would ask her what she wanted and she honest to God had no idea.

She walked through the kitchen, the family room, then down the hall. The pictures still hung where they always had. The cracks from the last 5.0 earthquake looked exactly the same. She touched the textured walls and wished the house could touch her back, that it would tell her all would be well. Only it couldn’t and even if it could, she doubted it would lie.

She took the stairs to the second floor. After bypassing the master, she walked into what they had always said would be the baby’s room. The walls were a pale yellow and the wood trim was painted white. There was a window seat and a nice-sized closet.

How many times had they talked about having a baby? How many times had Nigel said he was ready, that he didn’t want to be seventy when his kid graduated from high school, and how many times had she put him off? Soon, she’d promised. Next year for sure. But one year had bled into another until Nigel had stopped asking.

She looked out onto the backyard. He’d stopped asking, she repeated to herself. When was that? Six months ago? Eight? Why hadn’t she noticed? His silence had been a sign and she’d ignored it. No, not ignored, because that implied she’d recognized it and had deliberately not paid attention. She’d never seen it in the first place. What else had she missed?

She went back downstairs and walked into her office. Her sleek desk was tidy, as always. She didn’t like clutter in here. The room was entirely hers, with pale pink walls and a beautiful floral carpet that she’d chosen herself. The only visitor’s chair was deliberately uncomfortable. She didn’t want anyone else to linger—when she was working from home, she’d been all about avoiding distractions.

She looked at the photographs and awards on the walls. There were dozens of each. Pictures of her with various dignitaries and celebrities, along with a few framed magazine covers. There were no photos of her and Nigel, or even just of him. Not on the wall and not on the desk. She’d always told herself she wanted to keep her career separate from her personal life. That was why she’d kept her maiden name after they’d married. Nigel had said he never cared. She used his last name socially, of course, but not for anything legal or important.

She crossed the hall and went into his office. Here the colors were darker, the decor more masculine. His desk was piled with papers and across from it was a huge black leather sofa. It was the kind of place that invited you to curl up and read, or stretch out and take a nap. More than once they’d had sex on that sofa. She knew the feel of it against her bare skin. They’d talked and laughed and fought on that sofa.

He had art on his walls. His professional degrees and awards were at his office. Behind his desk was a large photo from their wedding. Several pictures of her littered his desk.

Without knowing how her brain got there, she thought about the spa she’d visited the previous year. She’d taken a week off and had gone by herself to unwind. She’d read and slept and gotten massages. The time had been heavenly and she hadn’t really missed Nigel. Not enough to invite him to join her.

What must he have thought of her going away without him? She wasn’t worried he would think she was having an affair, but she’d just gone off, leaving him behind. They weren’t joined at the hip and he went to medical conferences and symposiums, but the spa retreat was different somehow. Not that she couldn’t or shouldn’t do things for herself, but it was more than that, and she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

She walked back into the hallway, then headed for the kitchen. She checked for water leaks and that the refrigerator was working, all things the cleaning service would have done. She was restless. Afraid to stay and not ready to go. Her father would say it was guilt. That she was being forced to admit that while the affair was all on Nigel, his unhappiness before that was at least partially her fault. She was slowly starting to wonder if maybe she’d taken too much for granted. Had been too involved in herself and not involved enough in her marriage.

Ali had said she would be hard to live with. Zennie, however misguided, was willing to give up nearly a year of her life to have a baby for a friend. Even her mother used her spare time to work with that ridiculous theater group down by the beach. What did she have beyond her work? Not real friends. She had Rochelle, but her assistant, however loyal, would get a better job offer one day and she would be gone. Not her volunteer work. She didn’t do any. She showed up—she was the face—but she didn’t get involved.

She’d thought she would have Nigel for always. That they would be happy together. She’d thought they would love each other until they were old and gray and waiting to die. But they weren’t doing any of those things.

She returned to her car. Before opening the garage door with the remote, she sat in the darkness and wondered if she’d really brought this all on herself. Was she the cause of her unhappiness? Was she really that horrible a human being?

Terrified the answer was yes, she opened the garage door and started the engine, then turned on the radio so loud, she couldn’t possibly think.