Is that all she’s trying to do? Or is she afraid I’ve come back to steal my husband out from under her? It’s hard to tell. I’m still trying to figure this one out. Sometimes I look at her and see this vapid, flittering, insecure housewife, and other times I swear I catch a deepness in her cool crystalline eyes, something hidden inside an unreadable expression or two.
“So how did you meet Luca?” she asks when our drinks arrive. She glides a paper straw into her sparkling ice water and slides the glass closer.
“We worked together at a little diner,” I say. “Back in Greenbrook, Washington.”
“Ah, that’s right. He told me that once. I remember now.” She titters, her frost-white teeth contrasting against her glossy pink-nude lips. I don’t believe for one second this woman hasn’t googled me or asked her husband all the right questions. She’d have to be certifiable not to be curious about her predecessor, especially given the circumstances.
“What about you?” I flip it around.
“We met shortly after I moved out west. I’m actually from Maryland.” She sits straighter, proper almost. Well-bred good girl mode. “My parents lived there all their lives. They had me . . . then nine years later they had my sister. It was an interesting upbringing, I guess you could say. Adair and I each attended boarding school from second grade on. We came home for summers and holidays. Our family wasn’t what you’d call close. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Sometimes I wonder if I’m overcompensating with Luca and Elsie . . .”
That didn’t answer my question . . .
“So what brought you here?” I ask, hoping for a bread crumb or two that might help me understand how she and Luca came to be, because the Luca I knew was far from debutante husband material.
“Rebellion, I suppose.” There’s a glint in her soft irises. “Fell in love with an art school I found online. It was unaccredited but fabulous, staffed with world-renowned artists. It was more of an apprenticeship arrangement than a formal education. My father would’ve preferred that I’d followed in his footsteps and attended Brown. But something in my heart just told me to come here.” She shrugs. “So I did . . . and I’ve never left.”
“Do they visit?”
Her shoulders drop as she sips her water. “There was a falling-out shortly after I came here. Um, money related mostly. My mother passed unexpectedly my senior year of high school, and my father wasted no time remarrying the most dreadful woman. And because I wasn’t attending Brown—or any other school he could brag to his country club friends about—he told me I was on my own.” Merritt exhales, her posture righting once more. “He’s never set foot on Oregon soil. Hasn’t met Luca—only seen him in the Christmas cards we send each year. No interest in meeting his grandchild. And I’m not sure there’ll ever be . . . he has a new family now—he and his latest wife just adopted three little ones from some Russian orphanage. Honestly, I couldn’t even tell you their names.” She lifts a finger. “Not that I’m proud of that fact.”
Pressing my lips, I offer sympathy. I know how complicated child and parent relationships can be. I could probably write an expert-level thesis on the topic, sell it to some desperate grad student on the black market, and land them a solid A.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “about losing your mom.”
“Thank you. I miss her every day.” Her eyes glisten with the threat of tears, but she smiles until it disappears. “I know she’d be proud, seeing what I’ve become. And I just know she’d adore Luca and Elsie.”
“Table eleven.” A staff member takes our gold-plated numbers and delivers our soups in thick white bowls with tiny pearl accents on the rim—again not meant for a deli in my humble opinion. This entire place looks like a spoiled wife’s pet project sponsored by a love-drunk husband who green-lit it all.
“Bon appétit.” Merritt digs her spoon into her chowder, watching me take my first bite. I taste salt, cream, smoky bacon, and a hint of ocean water. I’ve eaten worse. “So? Verdict?”
Despite growing up on the coast, I’ve never been a lover of seafood. It was never something we ate at home since it wasn’t exactly a budget-friendly grocery item. The closest I ever got was the occasional fish sandwich blue plate special at the diner, but I’m convinced you could fry me a sock and it would taste amazing.
“Divine.” I close my eyes and force myself to savor the off-white mush. “You weren’t kidding.”
She sinks back in her seat, exhaling as if she’s relieved—as if my opinion matters.
For all my imperfections and shortcomings, I thank my lucky stars insecurity was never one of them.
“So how long do you think you’ll stay in Bent Creek?” Merritt asks after our wraps arrive. Her inflection is casually inquisitive, but I can spot a loaded question a mile away.
Fortunately I’m one step ahead of her.
“Not sure,” I say. “Taking things one day at a time.”
She dabs the down-turned corners of her mouth with a napkin, chewing, contemplating. I can imagine she’s deeply unsatisfied with my ambiguity.
“The man who did those horrible things to you.” She pauses. “Do you know who he is? Where he is? Are you worried he’s going to come after you?”
I rest my spoon aside and straighten the napkin in my lap. “So much for casual conversation . . .”
“I’m sorry . . . I won’t pretend to understand what you went through,” she says, keeping her voice low, “but I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to come back and to see your husband with a brand-new life. And I keep trying to put myself in your shoes. Your head must be spinning. It must be exhausting trying to figure out your next step.”
Her diamond ring—a massive pear shape surrounded with hundreds of tiny diamonds—glints in the midday sun, throwing specks of light on the wall beside us.
“I’m sure it isn’t easy for you to sit here and pretend like none of this is . . . weird,” she continues. “There’s no precedent for this sort of thing. No manual. I appreciate that you’re so open and willing to take things one day at a time.” Her lips teeter into a nervous chuckle. “You just . . . You hear all these horror stories and read all these articles about people doing horrible things to one another over men . . .” Her voice trails, and she emphasizes men as if it’s a silly little word that means nothing to her when we both know the truth. “All of this is to say—I’m just glad that isn’t us.”
This is the equivalent of a dog showing its belly, submitting to another dog, attempting to show it’s harmless and doesn’t want to fight.
Of course, she doesn’t want things to get ugly—she’s from good stock. She was probably raised to bury her problems under a mountain of cash and drink top-shelf vodka until any and all emotional pain subsides, but seeing how she’s pregnant and fully dependent on her husband to support her easy lifestyle, I imagine she’s feeling extraordinarily vulnerable these days.
“I’ll admit it stings,” I say. “Seeing Luca and you, so happy, so perfect. You’ve created this picture-perfect dream life together. And I can tell you love him.”