Jericho
Isabelle is five weeks pregnant. I wonder if the baby was conceived on our wedding night. I watch her when we return from the doctor’s visit. She’s distracted, sitting with Angelique going over her music lesson. But it’s like she said when she first found out. She’s nineteen years old. I’m sure being married to a man like me, a man who was a stranger to her, and having his baby wasn’t on her to-do-by-the-time-I-turn-twenty list.
I meant what I said though. I will take care of her.
Even as I think it, I realize how strange it sounds. How different to when I first devised this plan.
Zeke has been on a business trip in Calgary since the night we last spoke. We have offices up there, but I know it’s bullshit. He’s avoiding me after our conversation. I don’t blame him.
At nine o’clock on the dot the doorbell rings. Isabelle’s excitement is palpable when we get to the door to find Catherine inviting her little group into the foyer. They’re clearly impressed, if not intimidated, by the house. I see it in their faces as they set down their cases to take off jackets. They give them to Catherine who then hands them off to the girl whose name I always fail to remember. Isabelle would know. She knows the staff well. She spends time talking to them throughout her day and they seem to like her.
She charms everyone she comes in contact with. Her nature is sweet. Innocent. I understand it. But something about her relationships bother me, too. It’s envy maybe. Not that I want to be friends with the staff. I just want Isabelle for myself.
“Holy shit, girl. If I knew you lived here, I’d insist we always have lessons at your place!” says Megs from the café as she and Isabelle hug. Megs is holding two bakery boxes so it’s more Isabelle hugging her. I stand back and watch them.
There is one other girl. She’s younger, maybe sixteen, seventeen. Maria. Then Maria’s older brother, John. They, too, hug Isabelle.
I clear my throat and Isabelle turns to me. I smile at the group and put my hand on my wife’s back. The smile feels forced.
“Um, this is Jericho,” she says.
I wait. But when nothing else comes, I add, “Isabelle’s husband.”
There’s clear confusion from Maria and John but after a quiet, awkward look exchanged between them they smile and shake my hand. Megs walks up to me. She’s older, more confident. Less intimidated.
“Good to see you again, Jericho. How did your little girl like the cake shop?”
“Loved it. Can’t get enough sugar.”
“Well, that’s good,” she says and extends one of the boxes out to me. “Because this is for her. Is she still up?”
I take the box. “Sadly no. Bedtime was half an hour ago. I’ll make sure she gets it in the morning.”
“Great.” She turns to Isabelle. “And these are for us.”
Isabelle peeks into the box. “Oh, lemon scones. My favorite. Thanks, Megs.”
“No problem. I’m glad to see you back with the group.”
“Speaking of…where’s Paul?” Isabelle asks.
Paul Hayes is their teacher. Twenty-eight years old, during the day he’s a professor at a posh private music school in the city. He’s a violinist who is supposed to be pretty good. Not that I know much about it, that’s just based on his bio which he probably wrote himself. I ran background checks on all of them.
“He was right behind us but got caught at a traffic light.” Just as Megs says it, the doorbell rings again. “Speak of the devil.”
John, who is closest to the door opens it, revealing Paul Hayes.
Except that this isn’t the Paul Hayes I saw in photos.
“Paul!” Isabelle rushes to hug him and immediately my hackles rise. None of the others had this kind of reception from her. But it’s not only that.
“Sorry I’m late,” Paul says, keeping one arm around her as they draw apart. “Got caught at a light then had to stop to fill up the car.”
He’s about my height. Maybe an inch or two shorter. He’s leaner than he used to be, too. A lot leaner. The photos of Paul Hayes I found had him about three-hundred pounds heavier.
“And, almost forgot,” he says.
He didn’t.
He reaches into his pocket to pull out a triangular shaped chocolate bar.
Isabelle’s smile grows huge.
“Saw they had them at the station, so I grabbed one for you. I know how much you love these.”
“They’re my favorite! Thank you!” She takes the bar. Toblerone. I make a mental note. And then they hug again.
I step toward my wife and watch my own shadow fall over her. I clear my throat, close my hand around the back of her neck.
“I’m Isabelle’s husband. Jericho St. James.”
“Jericho,” Isabelle starts but stops when I draw her away from Paul and closer to me.
Paul clears his throat, pastes a smile on his face. “I just heard you’d gotten married,” he says, half to her, half to me. “Congratulations. You’re a lucky man.” He extends his hand and I look at it, at the long fingers, the soft skin of a violinist. The frayed edge of a cashmere sweater. I’m pretty sure he’s never punched another man.
“You’re her teacher,” I say, squeezing his hand harder than I need to.
“The one and only.” He turns to her. “As far as I know.” He winks. And I want to break his face.
“Did you lose weight recently, Paul?” I ask.
He clears his throat again, that warm smile he seems to reserve for my wife faltering.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry, Paul,” Isabelle says, apologizing for me. Unbelievable.
“What? It’s a fair question,” I defend.
“No, it’s fine. I did, actually,” says Paul. “With surgery and the support of my family and some of the best doctors and nurses in the city, I lost over two-hundred pounds.”
“He has a will of iron because he’s even able to resist my treats,” Megs says and comes between us to hug Paul. I notice the smile he gives her is different than the one he had for my wife. Their hug shorter.
“This way,” Catherine says, and the group follows her to the library.
Isabelle turns to me, slipping from my grasp. “What the hell? That was so rude.”
I drag my gaze from the back of Paul Hayes’s head with its stylishly messy blond hair to Isabelle. “He wants to fuck you.”
“What?”
“He,” I say, pointing in the direction they went. “Wants to fuck you.” I point to her.
“And you could gauge that all from the thirty seconds you spent with him?”
“I know men, Isabelle. You should have told me.”
“Told you what exactly?”
My eye twitches. “That he isn’t three-hundred-and-fifty pounds.”
“What is wrong with you?” she asks and shakes her head. “I’m going.” She steps away. Tries to. But I grab her arm and tug her back. She looks up at me. “What?” she snaps.
“Is there something between you two?”
“Me and Paul? He’s my teacher. That’s all. Seriously. What is wrong with you?”
“That’s not all. Is there anything I should know? Because you’re my wife now. That means something.”