I stretch out my hand. “May I have it?”
He frowns, but gives it to me. I study the message again. The words could lend themselves to different meanings—romantic, passionate, committed—but given the circumstances, they feel ominous.
“Look, Matthew, even if this”—I shake the paper—“is from that guy, it doesn’t mean that Marissa is still interested in him. The note actually implies the opposite.”
Matthew nods. “Yeah, I suppose. I mean, Marissa does seem like she wants to work things out. I can’t see her stringing him along.”
It’s as if the crux of the Bishops’ problem—a seemingly straightforward infidelity—is growing tentacles that keep ensnaring new complications. There’s a lot I need to do, fast: talk to Polly one-on-one. Explore the exact nature of Matthew and Natalie’s relationship. Confront Marissa with my near certainty that the man she slept with was not just some guy from the gym.
“You told Polly not to say anything to Marissa. What are we supposed to do, just pretend this never happened? Because that’s not going to work for me.”
I hear a faint hitch in his voice. He sounds like a man who loves his wife and feels battered by emotions.
It’s a good thing the Bishops came to me. There’s no way they could have navigated this alone.
I’m about to answer Matthew when I catch a glimpse of Marissa hurrying down the block. Her head is down as she taps on her phone, so I take a moment to study her. With her oversize dark sunglasses and the silky floral scarf tied off-center around her neck, she looks effortlessly stylish. She passes a homeless man on the corner, then lifts her chin.
She stops in her tracks, her eyes widening, as she spots Matthew and me. Then she continues walking, at a slower pace, until she reaches us.
“Perfect timing,” I announce. “Our fourth session begins now.”
* * *
The gentle beauty of the March morning feels incongruous to the tense mood enveloping the three of us as we walk in silence up Connecticut Avenue, toward Chevy Chase Circle. The sun is warm and welcoming on my face, and the gentle breeze holds the smell of the hyacinths lining the window boxes of a café we pass. We reach the circle and carefully make our way through the crosswalk, entering the little plot of land straddling the line that divides D.C. and Maryland. The circle once held a majestic fountain that spouted water high into the air, but now it’s broken, and just the concrete base remains, surrounded by azalea bushes and trees. Cars and trucks whip through the triple lanes that surround the little oasis; it’s like being in the eye of a hurricane. Instead of sitting down on one of the benches, we remain standing in an asymmetrical triangle, facing one another.
“What’s going on?” Marissa asks.
I hand the note to Marissa with the briefest of explanations: “This was slid under the door of your shop sometime between eleven P.M. and nine thirty A.M.”
I take in her expression as she reads it: shock, then dread.
“Matthew.” She swallows hard and her fingertips begin to play with the scarf around her neck. “I don’t know what to say.”
“So you assume this is for you, and not Polly?” I ask.
Marissa flinches. “It could have been, of course. But Polly isn’t dating anyone and she hasn’t ever mentioned a man pursuing her.”
Her rationale for her assumption is smooth and logical. But Marissa’s reaction to the note was raw and unfiltered, and that told me more. She immediately knew it was meant for her, and not by a process of elimination.
“Marissa, you answered several important questions for me during our first session,” I say. “If there’s anything you haven’t revealed, we need to know it right now.”
She shakes her head. “I swear. It was just that one time. It’s over. I don’t know why he won’t—”
She cuts herself off. Was she going to say, Won’t leave me alone? I wonder. Which begs the question, What else has he done?
“Maybe it’s over for you, but obviously not for him,” Matthew interjects sharply. “Read what he wrote: He’s not letting you go!”
“Matthew, let’s—” I begin.
“C’mon, Avery, with all due respect, look at the facts here. This guy knows where my wife works. He probably knows where we live. He could be dangerous.”
“He’s not dangerous,” Marissa interrupts.
“How do you know that? He’s just some random guy, right? I mean, how well could you really know him?”
Matthew’s tone is sincere. I wonder how long it’ll be before he starts to suspect Marissa hasn’t told us the entire truth.
If anyone is going to give my wife flowers, it’s me.
Matthew’s phone pings and he pulls it out of his pocket. “Fuck it. I’m late for a client meeting. He flew in from Switzerland. You know what would be almost as bad as losing you, Marissa? Losing my job. I gotta go.”
Marissa wipes her eyes as Matthew retraces his steps, back toward Coco.
I study her as she stares after her husband. I’ve never seen Marissa like this: her mascara is streaked, and her face looks pale and a little hollow, as if she has dropped a few pounds she can’t afford to lose.
“Are you ready to tell me what’s really going on?” I ask her.
A puzzle I’ve been wrestling with is how the opportunity for infidelity presented itself to Marissa. The natural intersections in her life for her to meet men are few. Coco caters to women, and all but one of her vendors are all in other states or overseas. Her son’s private school, where she’s involved as a volunteer, hasn’t any eligible candidates—no handsome soccer coach or intriguing male teacher. I’ve checked. Even the math tutor she just hired is female.
Natalie mentioned some good-looking dads at Rolling Hills, but Marissa wouldn’t risk entangling her son in something as sordid as a fling.
Other than Marissa’s boutique and Bennett’s school, her present life revolves around Matthew. Which leads me to conclude that the man she slept with is almost certainly from her past.
I wait for her to speak, but she just shudders and wraps her arms around herself.
For most of my clients, the fourth session—Revelation—means finally acknowledging lies. Either ones they’ve told themselves, or lies other people have convinced them to believe. Marissa’s revelation, one that should hit her hard, is that she is betraying not only her husband, but herself and me, by continuing to conceal the truth. That’s something I won’t stand for.
“Marissa, this isn’t working,” I say crisply. “I’ll send you a final bill for today. Good luck.”
I turn on my heel and walk away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MARISSA
MARISSA WATCHES AS AVERY STANDS at the head of the crosswalk, waiting for a break in traffic to venture across the busy lanes of traffic, and out of Marissa’s life forever.
Her head throbs and a wave of dizziness passes through her. Last night, she woke abruptly at 3:00 A.M. and lay there until dawn, while Matthew slept beside her, unaware. She nibbled on a half piece of dry toast this morning and drank too much coffee.
Her secret is a rough, tight knot in her stomach.