It’s an idyllic location, though that opinion isn’t shared by the neighbors, who tried to halt construction, even calling the police when bulldozers arrived to remove the trees. But the builder had secured the proper permits, and work proceeded.
The local paper published a small item after several neighbors filed a petition with the homeowners’ association. It would be easy to find, should Avery decide to look. Although Marissa and Matthew were identified as the purchasers of the new home, what the article neglected to mention was that they signed a contract after the demolition of the two old homes and mature trees. The destruction wasn’t done at their behest. Still, every time Marissa drives past one of the people whose names appeared on the petition, her stomach muscles tighten and she keeps her gaze fixed straight ahead.
Bennett rolls onto his side, releasing a little sigh, as Marissa’s hand begins to rub gentle circles on his back. Bennett is thinning out; he’s going through a growth spurt, and his shoulder blades feel pronounced yet delicate beneath her palm. Sometimes when she looks at him, she sees glimpses of his father; other times she recognizes touches of herself in his long lashes and high cheekbones.
He’s close to sleep; she can sense it.
A noise comes from downstairs. Her hand stills as she strains to listen, but there’s no alert chiming on her cell phone, or sound of the heavy front door shutting, or Matthew’s footsteps thudding up the stairs.
Only the wind, she thinks.
She steals a glance at her watch: 8:48. Twelve minutes until Avery arrives.
Where is Matthew?
Agitation roils within her body. She can’t face Avery alone. Plus, Avery made it abundantly clear that she won’t tolerate a lack of punctuality.
Maybe she shouldn’t have told Matthew about her disloyalty. Then this could have been an ordinary night, with her working on her laptop in bed while Matthew lingered at his business dinner. She could have greeted her husband with a quick kiss when he arrived home and continued selecting colors for handwoven silk scarves for Coco while he took off his suit and changed into boxers and a T-shirt in the walk-in closet. Some women wouldn’t have confessed; they’d talk to a therapist alone or confide in a friend. But when Marissa thought about the women in her life, there wasn’t anyone to whom she felt close enough to go to for advice.
Ever since the night of her betrayal, guilt had gnawed at Marissa; it was difficult to eat, concentrate, and sleep. She’d begun to busy herself with little tasks whenever she was around Matthew so she didn’t have to look him in the eye.
It was a partial confession, though. She hasn’t told Matthew everything. She can’t.
Is it truly over with the other man? Avery had asked.
I know I shouldn’t say this, but I can’t stop thinking about our night, he’d texted.
Marissa will never touch him again. That part of her vow she can keep.
But she won’t—she can’t—exist without ever seeing him again.
Marissa slowly counts to sixty, then gets out of Bennett’s bed again. She finally catches a break; he’s asleep.
* * *
Marissa is slipping on jeans and a cashmere sweater when her cell phone pings, alerting her to a presence at the front door. Matthew is home, with one minute to spare. He couldn’t have cut it any closer.
As she hurries down the stairs, she hears a voice, but it isn’t Matthew’s. It’s Avery’s. Marissa can’t make out her words, but picks up the rumble of Matthew’s laughter. It’s a sound she hasn’t heard recently.
By the time she reaches them in the kitchen, Matthew is standing by the sink filling a glass with water from the tap while Avery leans against the granite island, seeming to take in everything: Marissa’s half-finished glass of Chablis, the spaghetti pot soaking in the sink, Bennett’s splayed-open lunch box with the crusts of his turkey sandwich and Fruit Roll-Ups wrapper inside.
The tap has a built-in purifier, but Avery wouldn’t know that and it feels overly casual for Matthew to hand her the glass with a drip rolling down the side. Another thing feels awkward: Matthew is still in his dark suit and crisp white shirt. Avery wears a wide-legged black jumpsuit cinched with a silver-studded leather belt and heels, as if she’s come here from a cocktail party.
Marissa feels acutely underdressed.
“Sorry! It took a little while to get Bennett to bed. I trust you found our place okay. Can I get you anything else?”
She realizes she’s babbling as she reaches for the half-full wineglass and tips the contents into the sink.
“Hope you’re not doing that on my account,” Avery says.
Marissa laughs; it sounds forced.
Matthew fills a water glass for himself but doesn’t offer one to Marissa. His face is ruddy, an indication he’s had a few drinks. There would have been wine with the meal, and perhaps an after-dinner Scotch.
“Shall we go sit?” Marissa suggests.
She turns toward the library, but Matthew is already heading in the other direction, into the family room. Not there! she thinks. But she silently follows; she doesn’t want to start the night by contradicting even a small choice of her husband’s.
The room is set up for relaxed evenings, with a big TV affixed to one wall and a large sectional couch and two oversize chairs grouped around a coffee table. Matthew claims one of the chairs, and Avery selects the other one, setting her water on the little side table. This leaves the couch for Marissa.
She hesitates, then sinks into it. Avery remains standing, her tote bag still slung over her arm. She surveys the room, then walks over to the built-in shelves, which are filled with books, knickknacks, and photographs.
Avery stares at the photos for what feels like an uncomfortably long time, her back to Marissa and Matthew.
What captured her attention? Marissa wonders. The photo of the three generations of Bishop men in front of a Christmas tree—Matthew; his father, Chris; and Bennett? The black-and-white formal portrait of Matthew’s maternal grandparents, who could trace their lineage to the Mayflower? Or maybe Avery’s gaze is caught on the silver-framed wedding photo of Marissa and Matthew surrounded by their loved ones—both sets of parents; Matthew’s younger sister, Kiki; Marissa’s younger brother, Luke; plus their bridesmaids and groomsmen.
But the picture Avery reaches for is one of Marissa and Matthew as teenagers, sitting side-by-side on a dock, their feet dangling in the water of the lake where they first met.
Avery turns around and glances at them, then looks back down at the picture. “Is this the two of you?”
“Yeah, back when I had a six-pack,” Matthew jokes.
One of the qualities Marissa loves most in her husband is that he is so confident he can be self-deprecating. She tries to catch his eye to give him an appreciative smile, but he’s avoiding her gaze—just as she did to him when she had something to hide.
The photograph is a bit blurry and faded, but Marissa cherishes it. It was taken shortly after her fifteenth birthday, in a small town on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, where Matthew’s family owned a summer house and Marissa’s parents ran a gourmet-food market that was open year-round but did the bulk of its business from June through August. Marissa spent most of those warm days behind the glass counter, scooping lobster salad onto brioche rolls and slicing peaches for her mother’s cobbler, but whenever she had time off, she untied her red apron and headed to the shore to meet up with the gang of teenagers who gathered at a particular narrow, sandy stretch by the long wooden pier.