Every Last Secret(79)

Trudging to the narrow couch, I sank into the cheap polyester, not bothering with removing my heels. I could feel my new job prospects wobbling loose. Maybe it was the desperation in my voice. Maybe it was the newspaper article, which was taking top spot when you did an internet search for my name. Or maybe it was the gossip. Word of my affair had spread, and I had a new appreciation for Ned Plymouth, a private and quiet individual who had kept his money (and his business) to himself. The secret termination agreement had been the only swell in the serene lake of our affair’s existence.

Cat and William Winthorpe, on the other hand, were a tsunami. Volunteer committees I’d worked hard on had suddenly deleted my name from their rosters and sent polite You are no longer needed cards. My book club, which Cat wasn’t even a part of, asked that I no longer attend. My personal shopper at Neiman’s, across the country in New York City, left me a snippy voice mail that made her opinion clear. The judgment and loathing came from all directions, and whatever stone Cat found too heavy to turn over, William flipped with ease.

The worst were my past employers. I’d had to weed my résumé down to practically nothing, as the Winthorpes turned every past reference against me. Matt refused to give me a positive recommendation from Ryder Demolition, and Ned Plymouth wasn’t returning my calls, so I’d crossed his name off my résumé for fear of the unknown.

I could feel myself sinking. Drowning. In college, I’d experienced this feeling, this helpless detachment as I had watched my world crumble. Of course, back then it was caused by a sorority rumor of an STD, a minor blip that could have been easily overcome by a catty retort and simple manipulation. But I wasn’t Dr. Neena Ryder back then. I was young and insecure, with a too-big nose and too-small breasts. I wilted, withdrew from school, and fell in love with Xanax and Matt’s constant reassurances.

I couldn’t fall back in that hole. Wine was one thing. Pills were another.

I shifted until my head was on the armrest and tried not to think about the renters before me, their dirty arms resting on the same ledge. Spilled food, drops of beer, all soaking through the navy fabric. I was lucky it didn’t squish against my ear.

I let out a sigh and tried to remember why I’d thought William Winthorpe was a good idea. Pulling myself upright, I stretched forward, looping my finger through the handle of my purse and tugging it toward me. Opening the neck of it, I grabbed the bottle of wine and placed it on the table, then looked around for a cup.



The floor hurt, but I couldn’t seem to move my legs. It was the wine. Too much wine. Had I ever drunk so much? The last time I was like this, it was a decade ago. William—no, Matt—had carried me to bed. Brought a bucket to me and wiped off my face after I vomited. He’d been a good caretaker. So loving. So forgiving. That night, he’d sat beside me in bed and run soft fingers through my hair until I fell asleep.

Now, I had no one to play with my hair, or to carry me to bed, or to bring me a bucket when I threw up. The vomit was coming. I could feel it, churning the wrong way through my intestines.

I struggled to roll to one side and stared at my cell phone, the silver device close enough to my forehead to almost touch.

I’d have to file for bankruptcy. I’d have to find a new job. Doing what? Fitness? God, I’d be one of those women. In my late thirties and bouncing around in Lycra all day long, posting Instagram messages of carb control and inspiration, using hashtags like #fitover40 and #persistence.

I reached for the phone. I needed to call William. Surely he remembered how good we were together. Hadn’t he seen that? Felt it?

I dialed his number, but like every other time, he didn’t answer.





EPILOGUE

WILLIAM

One year later

The Ryders’ house came down in thirds. First, the side with the master suite, with that porch where Matt had fallen off. Their bedroom and master bath all crumpled under the wrecking ball, sagging into the interior of the house like a rotten pumpkin.

Next, the front fell. The porch that Neena had so painstakingly decorated for the Fourth of July, all in a gaudy attempt to compete with my wife. The grand foyer, where police dusted for shoe prints. Matt’s study, where Neena signed their divorce papers. Everything was destroyed, dismantled, and chucked into the dumpsters. Ten of them were filled and carted out of the neighborhood’s service entrance, only to make the empty journey back.

The rest of the home followed. The kitchen where Neena and I whispered our agreement to stay away from each other. The living room where we all toasted our friendship. The pool, the cabana, the hot tub. Crews spent a week removing it all. Cat sat in our backyard gardens, a cup of hot chocolate in hand, and watched it occur, a small smile playing across her beautiful face.

My mother once said I had a weakness for crazy women. She voiced that opinion back in third grade, when I developed a crush on Sylvia Pinket, the girl who trotted around the perimeter of our recess area pretending to be a horse. On days when the wind was rough, she’d whinny and prance, then plant her hands in the dirt and kick up her back feet. I thought she was beautiful. Eight years later, after she peed in the punch bowl at the Rotary Club Christmas banquet, a psychiatrist confirmed all our suspicions and shipped her upstate to the loony bin, ending any fantasies I had of unbridled Sylvia passion.

My penchant for crazy women, it appeared, never ended. While I thought it had taken a hiatus with Cat, I was wrong.