Lyle had simply raised his brow at me and pushed for “Penelope,” which he thought better suited the blonde curls and blue eyes he expected our daughter to inherit from me.
Penelope Foster . . . Penny. No matter how often I turned that over in my head, it didn’t sound right.
Still no word from Lyle, so I called his friend Tom, with whom he was staying while in Miami.
A woman answered, “Hello.”
“I’m sorry.” I paused. “I might’ve misdialed. I’m trying to reach Tom Cantor.”
“This is Tom’s phone, but he just ran out. Can I take a message?” The woman sounded younger—maybe twenty-three or twenty-five.
Not once all week had Lyle mentioned any women at the house. “Um, well, I’m actually trying to track down Lyle Foster. He’s staying with Tom.”
“Yeah, I know Lyle, but you missed him. He and Ebba left yesterday afternoon.”
I blinked. Ebba? I’d heard that name only once before in my life.
“Hello?” came the younger woman’s voice.
“I’m sorry.” I shook my head in a futile effort to settle my spinning thoughts. “May I ask with whom I am speaking?”
“Gigi . . . Tom’s girlfriend.” She sounded bored and slightly annoyed, like I’d interrupted her while she was painting her nails.
“Oh.” All morning I’d been worried about my husband, but now my thoughts veered in a different, more disturbing direction. “Is Ebba working on the deal with Lyle?”
“No idea. You’ll have to ask him.”
“I would, but I can’t reach him.” My voice shot upward, so I cleared my throat. “When will he be back?”
“You know what, I probably shouldn’t be giving out all this information about Tom’s friend without permission. I don’t even know who you are.”
“I’m Lyle’s wife!” I clapped my palm over my mouth, mortified. Only the sound of my heartbeat broke the ensuing silence.
“Sorry.”
Then the line went dead.
Gigi’s discomfited tone resounded in my thoughts. If I weren’t sitting at my kitchen table, I’d swear someone had shoved my head underwater and was holding it there.
After a minute I dialed Lyle’s cell phone once more, straining to speak through my tightening throat. “Lyle, it’s Amanda. I haven’t heard from you since yesterday morning. I tried Tom’s and was told you left the house with someone named Ebba. Is she also working on the deal? Please call me.” One heartbeat. Two. “I miss you . . .”
I set the phone down and stared into space, mentally walking myself back from the accusations forming in my mind. It could be a coincidence. Sure, Ebba wasn’t a common name, but there had to be a reasonable explanation.
I hugged myself. Days ago, we were picking baby names and planning a trip to see the Phillips Collection in DC. Suddenly he’s dodging calls and running around with women he failed to mention. What was happening?
Craning my neck to get as close to my belly as possible, I murmured, “Don’t worry, Muffin. Mommy will figure everything out and make it right.”
I picked up my phone and scrolled through the contacts to find the main number for Lyle’s former employer. I stared at it, recalling the one and only time I’d met an Ebba.
Ebba Nilsson. Tall and lithe, blonde and buxom, with a tinkling feminine giggle. She’d laughed often, mostly at anything Lyle had said at the company’s most recent holiday party. I’d teased him about his new fan that night but then never mentioned her again. Why would I? I hadn’t felt genuinely threatened. We were in love and pregnant. Only good things were happening for us.
A couple of weeks later, on Christmas morning, Lyle had given me my favorite gift: a Foster family memory jar, like the tradition my mom had started years ago in my childhood home. We’d fill it annually with special memories and then, on each New Year’s Eve, reread them. Afterward, we would choose our favorite from that year, which would then be kept in a special box for the future.
My eyes closed on that thought, praying that my qualms about Ebba were wrong. Then I dialed the number.
“Chesapeake Properties. How can I direct your call?”
I coughed once so my voice wouldn’t squeak. “Ebba Nilsson, please.”
“Ebba is no longer with our firm. May I direct you to someone else?”
Without thinking, I hung up and slid the phone away.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I pushed myself out of the chair and paced.
All around me lay evidence of our happy marriage. The striking wedding photo on the sofa table, the embellished throw pillows we’d chosen together, the ultrasound photo pinned to the corkboard above my built-in desk in the kitchen. Sure, career demands and familiarity had rubbed the brand-new shine off our romance and made some days harder than others. But Lyle loved me as I loved him. I knew that with every bit of my being.
He would not destroy the life we’d built together these past three and a half years for a Swedish bimbo.
A sharp knock at the door startled me. I wouldn’t have answered, but my mother’s voice called, “Amanda, honey! It’s me.”
I lumbered to the door and flung it open. “Mom . . .”
She looked surprised when I fell into her arms.
“Oh my!” She held me tight, patting my back and stroking my hair. For a second I felt like a kid again, seeking the security of her love, confident that she could fix my problems. “What’s happened?”
Uncertainty strangled my vocal cords.
“Come, dear. Let’s sit down.” My mother led me back to the kitchen table and made sure I was seated. Her kind golden-brown eyes shone with concern, but I was having a hard time looking into them. “Why aren’t you ready?”
My mother wanted us to go complete a gift registry for the guests she’d invited to the baby shower she was hosting next month. She’d worn her favorite Lane Bryant dress and kitten heels for the occasion.
“It’s Lyle.” I swallowed to loosen the knot in my throat. “I think maybe he’s having an affair.”
“What?” My mother’s face pinched while she shook her head. “No way. He dotes on you.”
“I thought so, too.” I folded my arms on the table and rested my forehead on my wrists, while Mom stroked my hair and squeezed my shoulder. Familiar, gentle reminders that I was not alone, although they did little to settle my stomach.
“Let me fix you a cup of tea, and then you can tell me what’s put this nonsense in your head.” She set her purse on the table and then absently opened and closed several cupboards and drawers.
“Cups are above the dishwasher.” I frowned—my mother had helped me set up my kitchen and visited me at least twice each week. If anything, she knew this kitchen better than I did.
“Oh, that’s right.” She fuddled around with the cup and tea bag, and eventually turned on the microwave, while I dissected the facts, which, admittedly, weren’t clear. Was my mom right? Lyle had never before given me any reason to doubt him. He’d never lied about anything . . .
Well, other than Sugar Momma’s.
My mother brought the tea to the table and sat beside me. “Now drink this and tell me what’s happened.”