It’s a slip of paper, folded in half.
It’s a bit crumpled, but it looks too pristine to have been here for longer than a few minutes.
When I unfold it, I see the name and address of a restaurant called the Whistler Bar & Grill printed on top. It’s in D.C., on Sixteenth Street. Lower down, in the middle of the receipt, two charges are listed:
Cluny and soda, $6.99. Then again: Cluny and soda, $6.99.
It’s the brand of cheap Scotch that Matthew said his father drinks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
MARISSA
“NOW GO WASH that chocolate mustache off your face before it becomes permanent,” Marissa teases Bennett as she unlocks the door leading from the garage to the kitchen.
“You’re home!” Matthew calls out, getting up from a stool at the granite island, where he has been reading the newspaper. He’s wearing jeans and an old sweatshirt and his cheeks look a little ruddy. He seems relaxed and happy; Marissa supposes he solved the work crisis.
“How was the Cub Scout thing?” Matthew ruffles Bennett’s hair. Before Bennett can answer, Matthew spots the gauze wrapped around Bennett’s finger. “What happened to your hand?”
Bennett glances over at Marissa, then down at his sneakers and shrugs.
“What happened?” Matthew repeats, this time asking Marissa.
Marissa walks around to the other side of the island and sets down her purse on the stool next to the one Matthew just vacated so she can avoid her husband’s eyes. “Just a little cut.”
The last thing she wants to do is to explain to Matthew that his father had given their eight-year-old an adult-size pocketknife. Not when it seems as if Matthew’s icy feelings toward Chris are just beginning to thaw. Plus, she knows this admission will inevitably lead to questions about how Marissa, who should have been by their son’s side (but was instead a couple hundred yards away talking to Avery), allowed it to happen.
“It’s not a big deal. I didn’t even cry,” Bennett chimes in.
Marissa looks at Bennett’s sweet face and feels bile rise in her throat. She and Bennett have formed an unspoken alliance; they’re complicit in a lie.
Kids are perceptive. They model what their parents do, not what they say. What is she teaching her son?
She isn’t being a good role model for him at all, especially not today, when she’s seething with anger toward Polly and trying to put on a happy face for her family.
Marissa promises herself she will clean this up later and explain the full story to Matthew, but in the moment she merely nods. “He’s okay.”
All she can think about is getting to Coco and confronting her big-mouthed, interfering, infuriating assistant; she can’t be drawn into a long discussion now or she’ll crack under the pressure of her mood.
“So what’s on the agenda for this afternoon?” Matthew asks.
“Look, do you guys mind if I run out for a bit?” Marissa gives Matthew a wink. “I want to pick up something from the store to wear tomorrow night.”
“No problem.” Matthew turns to Bennett. “So, should we start your dinosaur diorama or finish Star Wars?”
“Star Wars!” Bennett shouts.
“I’ll be back before Princess Leia and Han Solo get trapped in the trash compactor!”
Matthew waves her off as Bennett runs into the family room and grabs the remote control. “I got this.”
Marissa smiles as Matthew settles down next to Bennett, slinging an arm over the back of the couch. She picks up her purse and heads out through the kitchen door, into the garage.
The smile immediately vanishes from her face.
She drives directly to Coco, not hitting a single red light, making it to the store in near-record time and instantly finding a parking spot, as if the fates are on her side, propelling her forward.
She yanks open the door to Coco and spots Polly by the sunglass display with a customer. Polly gives Marissa a little wave, as if everything is business as usual. It takes every ounce of her self-control for Marissa not to storm over.
“Your face is a soft oval shape, so you can get away with oversized frames. The aviators would also look really good on you. Let me get you a hand mirror,” Polly offers as the customer picks up a few pairs.
Marissa waits, fuming. But her hot wash of fury is finally cooling. It isn’t that she is considering forgiving Polly for everything. If Polly really did tell Skip she thought Marissa could be pregnant, as Avery had seemed to insinuate—and who else would have given Skip that idea?—then simply firing Polly won’t be enough.
The anger that made Marissa feel out of control is morphing into something more powerful, more dangerous: an icy, finely honed rage.
“I love both pairs on you!” Polly enthuses to the customer. “Ooh, do you want to try these Gucci ones, too? They’re iconic.”
Marissa’s senses feel heightened. She is acutely aware of Norah Jones’s smooth, rich voice playing over Coco’s speakers, and the tangy apricot scent of the lit candle on the nearby table.
Yet Marissa’s focus has never felt more acute. It’s as if she has tunnel vision; all she can see is Polly, with her shiny rose-colored lip gloss and tucked-in-the-front shirt, chattering with the customer and occasionally shooting Marissa a quick look, seemingly delighted by her boss’s attention.
I want to erase you from my life, Marissa thinks.
“Would you like to step outside to see which you prefer in the natural light?” Polly suggests.
Marissa smoothes her hair and walks over to the customer. “I personally would go with these polarized ones. They’re perfect on you. And I think you’ll find you can see everything more clearly.”
Marissa locks eyes with Polly as she speaks. The obsequious grin falls away from Polly’s face, and her expression turns to confusion.
Finally the customer selects the pair Marissa suggested, and as Polly rings her up, Marissa glances around to make sure no other customers are present. She glimpses herself in a full-length mirror: still in the cropped camo pants she wore to Bennett’s Cub Scout event—they’re a little baggy on her now—and with a smear of mud on the side of one of her old sneakers.
A few weeks ago she would never have considered coming to her store dressed like this. Today she simply doesn’t care.
“I hope you love them!” Polly calls as the customer exits, setting the bell over the door jangling merrily.
Marissa walks over to face Polly and jabs a finger at her, stopping just an inch or two away from Polly’s chest, as she unleashes her first question: “Why are you gossiping about me?”
Polly’s face crumples. “Wha—what are you talking about?”
“Come on, Polly. Drop the act. You told my friend Skip—”
A familiar voice coming from the rear of the store interrupts her. “How is Skip?”
Marissa spins around, feeling disoriented. Coco was empty, save for her and Polly. Marissa is certain of it. Even the curtain of the dressing room was drawn open. The only place someone could have been in is the back area, which is off-limits to customers.
Natalie is strolling toward her, holding two large shopping bags with Coco’s logo.
“Hello, Marissa.”
Marissa blinks a few times, feeling a little dizzy.