The Other Mrs.(36)

“I wasn’t thinking,” she admits. “My temper got the best of me, Jeff. I was angry,” she says. “You can’t blame me for being angry.”

She’s crying now, but it’s more whimpering than anything, a soft cry that produces no tears. It’s manipulative. She’s trying to elicit sympathy.

I can’t tear my eyes away.

He’s quiet for a minute. They’re both quiet.

He says to her, voice light as a feather, “I’ve always hated to see you cry.”

He softens. They both do.

He strokes her hair for a second time. This time, she leans into his touch. She doesn’t push him away. She steps closer to him. His arms encircle the small of her back. He draws her in to him. She wraps her arms around his neck, her head falling to his shoulder. For an instant, she’s demure. They stand at nearly the same height. I can’t help but watch as they embrace. Because what was savage and cutthroat only seconds ago is now somehow strangely sweet.

The ping of my phone startles me. I pull sharply back, dropping the door. It clicks loudly shut, and for a split second, my knees lock. A deer in headlights.

I hear movement on the other side of the sanctuary door.

They’re coming.

I get ahold of myself.

I walk quickly through the double church doors and outside into the bitter December day. When my feet reach the church steps, I begin to run.

I can’t let Jeffrey or his ex-wife know it was me.

I dash for my car parked on the street. I open the door and quickly get in, eyes locked on the church doors to see if anyone has followed me out. I lock the car doors, grateful for the mechanical click that says I’m tucked safely inside.

Only then do I peer down at my phone screen.

It’s a text message from Joyce. I check the time on my phone. It’s been over an hour since I left. Sixty-four minutes, to be precise. Joyce is counting them all.

You’re late, she says. Your patients are waiting for you.

My eyes rise back up to the church doors to see Jeffrey Baines’s ex-wife, not twenty seconds later, step circumspectly outside. She looks left and then right before jogging down the church steps, pressing the plackets of a black-and-white houndstooth coat together to stave off the cold.

My eyes follow her to her car, a red Jeep parked just down the street. She tugs open the door and slides inside, slamming the door shut behind herself.

I glance back at the church to see Jeffrey standing in the open doorway, watching as she leaves.



SADIE


There’s a cargo van in the drive when I get home that night. I pull up beside it, park my car behind Will’s. I read the lettering on the van, relieved Will is having the furnace replaced.

I go to the front door. The house is at first quiet when I step in. The furnace is kept in the dingy basement. The men are down there.

I see only Tate, at the coffee table with his Legos. He waves at me and I step out of my shoes, leaving them by the door. I go to Tate and give him a kiss on the head.

“How was your—” I begin, but before I get the rest of the words out, the sound of angry voices rises through the floorboards to us, though I can’t make out what they say.

Tate and I exchange a look, and I tell him, “I’ll be right back.” When he makes an effort to follow, I say firmly, “Stay here,” not knowing what I’ll find in the basement when I go down.

I step carefully down the roughened wooden steps to see what’s the matter. I’m nervous as I do, thinking only of some strange man in our home. Some strange man who neither Will nor I know.

My next thought is: How do we know that this furnace man is not a murderer? It doesn’t feel far-fetched, considering what’s happened to Morgan.

The basement is sparse. The walls and the floor are concrete. It’s harshly lit, only a series of bare bulbs.

As I approach the bottom step, I’m afraid of what I’ll find. The furnace man hurting Will. My heartbeats pick up speed. I curse myself for not having thought to bring something down to protect myself with. To protect Will. But my purse is still with me, and inside it, my phone. That’s something. I could call for help if need be. I reach inside, take ahold of my phone in my hand.

My feet reach the final step. I cautiously turn. It’s not as I expect.

Will has the furnace man pressed into the basement wall. He stands inches from him in a way that can only be viewed as threatening. Will doesn’t hold him there—it’s not physical, not yet—but from his proximity to the man, it’s apparent he can’t leave. The man, in contrast, stands complaisantly back as Will calls him a parasite, an opportunist. Will is red in the face because of it, the veins of his neck enlarged.

He steps somehow even closer to the man so that the man flinches. Will stabs a finger into his chest. A second later he grabs the man by the shirt collar and chides, “I should call the BBB and report you. Just because you’re the only fucking furnace—”

“Will!” I say sternly then. It’s so unlike Will to be profane. It’s also so unlike Will to be physical. I’ve never seen this side of Will.

“Stop it, Will,” I demand, asking, “What in the world’s gotten into you?”

Will stands down, only because I am here. His eyes drop to the ground. He doesn’t have to tell me what’s happened. I know by context clues. This man is the only furnace man on the island. Because of it, his prices are high. Will doesn’t like that. But that’s no excuse.