It’s not the kind of life I’d ever want, but I know it’s an enviable one for many women.
I’ve chosen this time of day to visit Coco because during our session last night, when I posed questions designed to better understand their daily routines, Marissa lamented that the upcoming school auction was infringing on her finely calibrated schedule. My cochairs want to meet after drop-off tomorrow, but that means I’ll probably get to Coco late.
Matthew had pointed out that although Marissa was feeling increasingly annoyed by Polly, this was another reason to keep Polly employed, at least for a little while longer.
Polly should be here alone. It will be simple enough to say I’m searching for a present for my stepdaughter.
I stroll down the sidewalk, past a coffee shop and a dry cleaner’s, my ears filling with the rush of cars passing by on Connecticut Avenue. I spot the royal-blue logo of Marissa’s store painted on its glass-front windows and step inside, triggering a bell that jingles merrily. A young woman who must be Polly is talking to a male customer toward the back of the store. They’re partially obscured by a pillar.
“Be right with you!” Polly calls, and her customer—tall, blond, wearing a dark suit—turns around.
It’s Matthew.
I take a step closer to them just in time to see Matthew grab what appears to be a document off a glass table.
“Avery? Long time no see. What are you doing here?”
It’s almost comical, the way he’s hiding the paper behind his back—like a little kid caught sneaking a cookie.
“Hi, Matthew.” I move closer to him with each word. “I suppose I could ask you the same question?”
“You two know each other?” Polly’s head swivels between us.
Instead of answering her question, Matthew responds to mine. He uses his free hand to lift up a bouquet of red roses from the table. “Thought I’d surprise Marissa. If anyone is going to give my wife flowers, it’s me. Unfortunately I forgot she has some auction thing at the school.”
Marissa mentioned her committee meeting just last night, but Matthew has a lot on his mind.
I take a closer look at him. He seems tightly wound, as if he just drank a triple espresso; his body appears rigid and his jaw is clenched.
“Hi, I’m Polly. Marissa’s assistant. Can I help you find something?”
She seems a bit hyped up, too. I can practically see the jittery waves radiating off her.
I wonder what I’ve interrupted and whom the flowers are really for. I take measure of Polly, just as I evaluated the men at the gym: young, skinny, big teeth, a voice that’s a bit high-pitched—I can’t see Matthew being interested.
As I reach this conclusion, Matthew releases a sigh. “Polly, I don’t think Avery is here to shop.…” He turns to me. “Am I right?”
I nod. There’s no point in lying; Matthew knows I’ve been probing aspects of his and Marissa’s lives outside of my office.
Matthew says to Polly, “Avery is a—well, a therapist—who is helping Marissa and me.”
His candor surprises me—especially since I’d recommended the Bishops keep my involvement in their life quiet for now. Plus, most guys wouldn’t freely admit they’re in counseling, and given my true title, Matthew didn’t even need to explain my role in the Bishops’ life at all.
Polly simply stands there, her hands clasped in front of her. She doesn’t seem terribly surprised by the news, or by Matthew’s having shared something so highly personal.
I fervently hope no other customers enter the store now. I need to understand the strange energy coursing around Matthew and Polly.
“Actually, Avery, maybe it’s a good thing you showed up.” Matthew slowly pulls the document from behind his back. It’s an ordinary white piece of paper, the kind everyone uses to stock printers.
“Polly found this note slipped under the door this morning when she opened up.”
Matthew places the single sheet on the table, and I look down at the words. They’re typed in a large, bold font: I’m not letting you go so easily.…
I glance over at Polly. “Do you think it was meant for you?”
She shakes her head. “I was just telling Matthew that no one I know would have left me a note like that.”
I look at the flowers in Matthew’s hand, remembering the yellow roses that were sent anonymously to their home.
“You open and close the shop, right?”
Polly blinks, probably finding it curious that I know her schedule.
“So you left here at what—six P.M. yesterday?”
“Actually, last night…” Polly clears her throat and looks at Matthew. “I slept in the back room. Marissa knows—there’s a mouse problem at my house.”
“You spent the night here?” I ask.
Matthew doesn’t appear shocked by this; Marissa must have explained Polly’s situation to him.
“Yeah, I went out and got dinner, then watched a movie on my laptop until about eleven. I did a walk around right before I went to sleep because there’s this mannequin head that was kinda creeping me out and I wanted to put a jacket over her”—she gives an embarrassed giggle—“and I know the note wasn’t there then.”
So it was delivered later last night, or early this morning.
“Look, it’s obviously for Marissa.” Matthew’s fist tightens as he crumples the paper, just as he crushed the plastic cup in my office during our first session. “That guy from the gym—”
I interrupt, “Have you told Marissa about the note?”
Matthew shakes his head and smooths out the note.
“I could call her,” Polly offers.
“Please hold off.” I touch Matthew’s sleeve. “Why don’t we talk privately?”
Polly lingers, not taking the hint, and I’m struck by the thought that instead of being on the fringes of the Bishops’ life, as she should be, she’s actually deeply entangled in it. As is Natalie. And perhaps others I don’t yet know about.
I lead Matthew outside the shop. We stand on the sidewalk, facing each other.
“Start from the beginning. Tell me what happened this morning.”
Matthew rocks back on his heels. “I had a breakfast meeting at our country club. It’s just a few miles from the house. So I was driving to work later than usual, and when I stopped at a light, a guy was walking up and down the median strip, selling flowers from a bucket. Gotta be a rough job. So I bought a dozen. Figured I’d drop them off here, surprise Marissa.”
I study his body language, but it tells me nothing. One of his hands is down at his side, and he’s gesturing with the other.
Matthew claimed he’d forgotten that Marissa had a school meeting. Normally, at this time of day, she’d be just arriving here from the gym. I haven’t run into her during any of my workouts, so I assume she’s avoiding the place. But Matthew may not know that.
Was he trying to spring a trap on his wife, appearing at her shop unannounced to see if she’d resumed her routine at Pinnacle?
“When I rang the buzzer, no one answered. I started to unlock the door—I’ve got an extra key—thinking I’ll leave the flowers on her desk. Then I see Polly coming toward me, and after she let me in, we both saw the note on the floor.”