“That’s how I feel! And it’s why I love your class.”
“It’s a challenge to find someone who values the artistic aspects as much as I do. I think we have a lot in common.”
“Oh my God, yes. You know, we even have the same taste in books. I actually own half that shelf there.” Penny waved a hand toward his wall. “The one by Marguerite Hill was a game changer for me. It’s actually the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s the very thing that prompted me to move out to Los Angeles and”—Penny paused for a dry titter—“you know, Take Charge of my career.”
“Ah, then what I’m about to say next will come as an even better stroke of luck.” Roman stood and shifted his long legs before turning to stare at the book Penny had referenced. “My wife is a publicist. She’s worked with a lot of these authors you see here, including Marguerite Hill.”
“Seriously? That’s amazing. Your wife sounds awesome.”
Roman exhaled, a complex look crossing through his eyes. “That would be one way to describe her.”
The complex look passed, to Penny’s annoyance, as Roman continued listing off his wife’s impressive accolades.
“In fact, my wife is starting her own company and is looking for new clients,” Roman said. “I won’t make any promises, but if you carry on with your work, maybe I can tempt her into taking a look at your portfolio.”
“That would be incredible.”
Penny’s curiosity was piqued. She wanted to know more about Roman Tate’s wife. The woman who had taken Penny’s unsung hero off the market. And if it led to more face time with Roman, so be it.
A mere second later, Roman’s hand landed on Penny’s shoulder and brought her soaring mind back to earth. She was trapped somewhere between head and heart, feeling lost in the messy swirl of it all as Roman leaned close to her.
A funny thought crept into her mind as Roman pushed the script back to her. Poor, poor Ryan Anderson. Maybe Penny should pass along the notes on his script. It was the least she could do for taking creative license and pretending Ryan’s work was her own.
“There’s one more thing I wanted to discuss with you,” Roman said. “I know you’re new to the city, and sometimes it can be hard to get on your feet.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“If you’re looking for a little extra cash, I might have a proposition for you.”
Penny’s pulse pounded. This wasn’t where she’d expected the conversation to go. She wasn’t ready for…that. She just wanted alone time with Roman to see if they were compatible. To see what she was missing out on in this life. She wasn’t really trying to ruin a marriage; these were all just dreams. Bad, bad dreams.
“My wife’s friend is looking for a babysitter.” Roman interrupted her thoughts with yet another surprising twist to the conversation. “Do you have experience with kids?”
“Yes,” Penny lied. “I love kids,” she lied again. “I’m available most evenings, except when I’m here, of course.”
“Wonderful. I’ll pass your information along if that’s all right?”
“Absolutely. Thank you for thinking of me.”
“It’s my pleasure.” Roman’s fingers lingered a second longer than necessary. Eventually, he gave a final squeeze and pulled his hand away. “I look forward to seeing more of you, Penny Sands,” Roman said softly. At the last second, he added, “And your work.”
“I can’t tell you how much this means to me.” Penny stood, smoothed her skirt over her backside. Had she done it on purpose? she wondered, feeling a glow of satisfaction as Roman’s eyes followed her move. Maybe, maybe.
Roman walked Penny to the door. She hesitated, feeling the distance between them shrinking, the air ballooning out of the room and leaving her breathless. Penny didn’t need to look up to see Roman’s hand as he raised it over her shoulder and rested it against the doorframe. She didn’t need to breathe to inhale his scent.
Then Roman’s hand snaked out, his fingers grasping Penny’s jaw. He hovered over her, his touch both commanding and gentle in one gift-wrapped package. His breath was spiced with mint, his cologne an expensive, exotic cocktail.
He waited just long enough for Penny to say no. To shut him down and back away. To strike him across the face. To demand an explanation. To press herself against him.
Penny did nothing but close her eyes. An electric fire burned at her, clawing its way across her skin. Raking hot with intensity, flush with shame. Burning brilliant with passion and flaming into ashes with horror as their lips touched.
TRANSCRIPT
Defense: Mrs. Wilkes, when did you find out your husband was being investigated by Luke Hamilton?
Anne Wilkes: The night of Eliza’s event at the Pelican Hotel.
Defense: When you first heard the accusations, did you think your husband was guilty?
Anne Wilkes: Of course not.
Defense: You already suspected your husband was having an affair. What happened to your relation ship when you found out there was more to the story?
Anne Wilkes: Nothing. I didn’t tell him anything. Sometimes, it’s safer to lie. In fact, if more people lied, maybe someone wouldn’t have ended up dead.
EIGHT
Seven Months Before
July 2018
Secrets were heavy.
Heavy, living, breathing things that grew and morphed, changed and mutated over time. They suffocated and drowned their keepers; they blistered with anger and deepened with depression.
Having never known the true weight of a secret before, Anne wondered if this one would be the death of her. It had grown inside her soul, taken root, and bloomed, pregnant and swollen, until it threatened to burst at the softest breeze.
It consumed her mind, day and night. Her interactions with her children had grown listless. She’d started skipping playdates because she couldn’t fathom the idea of making conversation with happy little mothers when she was weighed down by an anchor. She could barely sustain her daily routine, clinging with a desperate greediness to the last dregs of normalcy.
As she loaded Gretchen’s sandwich with potato chips between slices of whole wheat bread (God forbid the school find out she’d packed chips—full fat!), she was suddenly struck by the ridiculousness of it all.
Here she was, the doting mother and wife. Playing the role of hostess and cook and maid, but why? Had one single person noticed the barbell chained to her ankle over the last several weeks? Who among her darling family had asked what was on her mind as she drifted, distracted, through life?
No one.
Anne slammed the top slice of bread onto the sandwich and heard the crunch of chips as she stared at it, bile rising in her throat. She’d told no one about Mark’s visits to a young woman living in a suspect neighborhood. Only she and the possum knew about their dalliances on Tuesday nights.
When she could, Anne still made the trek over to the offending apartment. Tuesday nights on repeat. For some reason, that was the day they’d chosen for their weekly rendezvous. Anne wondered why not Monday, when the week was fresh? Or Friday, when the weekend was their oyster? Or Wednesday, as a halfway point?