Chapter 2
The garage door rumbled open at precisely six-fifteen, a low, mechanical bass that vibrated through the floorboards of the living room and died out with a heavy hydraulic click.
Felicity didn’t realize she had been holding her shoulders tight until the sound broke the silence.
She stood up from the sofa, smoothing the wrinkles from her gray wool trousers, the copy of The Inconvenient Wife balanced carefully in her right hand with her thumb marking chapter four.
She walked into the kitchen just as Tucker emerged from the mudroom.
He looked exactly like the midday version of himself that she only occasionally saw in photographs—sharp, uncreased, carrying the faint, cold scent of the autumn air and the leather interior of his sedan.
He dropped his heavy leather briefcase onto the built-in bench, the brass clasps catching the overhead LED light, before reaching up to unwind his charcoal cashmere scarf.
"Hey, Pooh Bear," he said, his voice a low, familiar baritone that instantly anchored the large, quiet room.
He stepped toward her, his eyes already scanning the mail stack on the counter out of habit before they settled on her face.
He leaned down, pressing his lips to her cheek with just enough deliberate pressure to signify attentiveness.
"You're glowing a bit. Did the caterer finally agree to the salmon skewers for the gala? "
"No, nothing like that," Felicity said, her voice bright with the leftover energy of her discovery. She held the paperback up between them, tapping her finger against the matte cover. "Look at this. Did you leave this on my nightstand this morning before you left for the station?"
Tucker glanced down at the book, his brows knitting into the slight, impatient line he wore whenever a conversation threatened to delay his post-commute routine.
He took the volume from her hand, turning it over to examine the back cover with a completely blank, unrecognizing expression.
"Never seen it. Is this one of the ones Brianne’s book club is doing?
You know I don't buy paperbacks, Lissy. If I’m buying you a book, I get the hardback from the shop on 4th Street so the spine looks nice on the shelves. "
"No, Brianne didn't mention it. And Karen said she didn't touch the mail yesterday," Felicity explained, her smile still intact as she took the book back from him.
She flipped it open to the folded corner of page fifty-two, holding the open text under his chin.
"Just read this. The paragraph at the bottom. Read it out loud."
Tucker sighed, a small, patronizing sound he managed to disguise as weariness from a long day of depositions, but he took the book back.
His eyes moved across the lines, his expression remaining perfectly neutral for three sentences until he reached the middle of the paragraph.
He stopped. His eyes flicked back to the top of the page, then down again, a faint, amused smirk beginning to twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"Well," he said, looking up at her with a soft chuckle. "Someone’s been reading your diary. Did you write this under a pen name just to see if I actually pay attention to your kitchen habits?"
"I didn't write it, Tucker! I found it upstairs under my toothbrush cup," she said, laughing at the absurdity of it, her hand reaching out to touch his forearm.
"Isn't that the most bizarre thing you've ever seen?
The author calls it a garrison. She uses the exact word you use when you're teasing me about the handles being turned forty-five degrees. I mean, what are the odds of that?"
Tucker handed the book back to her, already turning toward the refrigerator to pull out the crystal pitcher of filtered water.
"The odds are probably pretty high if the writer has an overactive imagination and a touch of the same neat-freak tendencies you have, Lissy.
'Garrison' isn't exactly a classified military secret.
It's a standard joke for anyone who acts like a drill sergeant with their mugs.
" He poured himself a glass, the water clear and cold against the glass, before looking back at her over the rim. "It’s a funny fluke, though. You should show it to Brianne tomorrow night at dinner. She’ll get a kick out of it.
She always says your kitchen looks like a museum exhibit anyway. "
Felicity's thumb rubbed against the edge of the cardstock.
The immediate spark of her excitement dimmed just a fraction at the mention of Brianne, though she kept her voice perfectly light.
"I don't think Brianne pays attention to the state of my cupboards, Tucker. She usually stays in the dining room when she’s over. "
"Please. Brianne’s known me since I was seven; she’s seen every messy apartment and clean house I’ve ever lived in," Tucker said, setting his glass down on the quartz island with a solid click.
He reached out, his large hand smoothing down the lapel of her sweater in a gesture that was entirely affectionate but felt vaguely like a dismissal.
"Trust me, she knows how particular you are.
Everyone does. It's part of your charm, Pooh Bear. "
The nickname slipped from his lips so casually, a practiced piece of their private vocabulary, that it barely registered as anything more than the comfortable weight of a six-year-old habit.
"I suppose," Felicity murmured, looking down at the stark silhouette of the house on the cover. "It’s just... the toothbrush thing was in there too. On the very next page. The whole bit about the airborne bacteria from the toilet."
Tucker paused on his way back toward the mudroom to retrieve his briefcase.
He turned, his handsome face softening with that specific, patient indulgence he used when she was starting to spin herself into a circle over a minor household problem.
"Lissy, half the internet is terrified of toilet bacteria.
There are probably a thousand articles on lifestyle blogs telling people to keep their toothbrushes out of the bathroom.
You're trying to turn a coincidence into a conspiracy theory because you're bored out here.
" He smiled, a warm, confident flash of teeth that usually settled her nerves. "Go change out of your lounge clothes. Let’s get a jump on the seating charts before Brianne calls to check in. I don’t want to spend our entire Friday night arguing with her about where to put the managing partners. "
He disappeared down the short hallway toward his study, his shoes clicking rhythmically against the hardwood until the heavy oak door shut behind him with a solid, definitive thud.
Felicity stood alone in the wide, white kitchen, the paperback heavy in her hand.
The house had grown fully dark now, the floor-to-ceiling glass turning into a black mirror that reflected the perfect alignment of her blue and green mugs back at her from the shelf.
She looked down at the book again, her finger tracing the crisp, uncracked edge of the spine.
Tucker was right, of course. He was always the logical one, the person who looked at a problem and stripped away the emotion until only the cold, unassailable facts remained.
It was a funny coincidence. An incredible, once-in-a-lifetime fluke that she would tell people about at cocktail parties for the next six months.
She walked back into the living room, setting The Inconvenient Wife face-up on the low walnut coffee table, directly in the center of the polished surface where it looked like a deliberate piece of decor.
She would leave it there. She would go upstairs, change into the silk blouse Tucker liked for dinner, and let the strange little anecdote dissolve into the normal, comfortable routine of their evening.
But as she reached the bottom step of the floating staircase, her eyes lingered for a second on the dark woods outside the window, where the branches of the pines were completely still against the black sky, waiting for the wind to pick up again.