Chapter Seven
“Babe? Everything good up there?”
Ellie jumped at her husband’s words, as if she were the guilty one. “What?” Her voice was strangled.
“Did you find the lamp?”
“I…I…I did. Be down in a sec.”
The air of the attic was stifling and dead, and for a second, Ellie felt faint. What was she supposed to do now? She sat frozen, then slid the iPad under a nearby box, picked up the lamp that had caused her to go into the attic in the first place, and came down the rickety, pull-down ladder.
“Got you, hon.” Gerald’s hands were at her waist, and he took the lamp from her. For a second, she wondered if she’d just hallucinated that whole thing.
“So this is the lamp your mom’s got her panties in a twist about?” he asked.
“Yeah. I know. Um…hey, I have a wicked headache. I think I need to go to bed.”
“Yeah, you sound a little off,” he said. “Want some Motrin? A cold cloth?”
“No, no, I’m…I’ll just sleep in Harlow’s room.”
“Want me to rub your shoulders or anything?”
“No. Thanks, though. Good night.” She paused. “Um…sorry.” Then she hated herself for apologizing. Without further thought, she went into Harlow’s room and closed the door.
“I’ll let you sleep in.”
“Okay,” she called through the closed door.
“Love you.”
Another pause. “Love you, too.”
Three hours earlier, she’d come home to their ramshackle house, not minding the disemboweled lawn mower in her parking space. Barely noting the broken parts of the fence. Idly thinking she’d like to weed the flower beds. As she opened the door, Gerald was pouring her a glass of wine, bless him, her thoughtful, handsome husband.
They had indeed sat on the deck, as promised, and talked about their days. Gerald had cut down a branch that overhung their property line, and was quite proud of himself, detailing the exchange he’d had with their backyard neighbor. She told him about the wealthy couple who’d sneaked out of the gallery when she’d gotten a call. He grilled chicken, she made a salad. They talked about the kids…Robbie wanted to go deep-sea fishing on Sunday, and Gerald thought he might tag along.
“That sounds very manly,” she said, smiling. “Go ahead. Have some father-son time.”
It was only after she’d cleaned up the kitchen and was about to sit down and add a few things to the gallery’s Instagram that she remembered the lamp. Her sister had texted her over the weekend, asking if Ellie knew about an old lamp from their grandparents’ house that their mother suddenly had to have. Ellie did have it; Mémé had given it to her when Ellie had moved into her first apartment after college. It had a carved wooden base with a creamy porcelain shade painted with violets. She’d put it up in the attic when Robbie was about six, since the child seemed to break everything. Aside from smiling every time she saw it up there, Ellie didn’t use it, though she’d been meaning to put it in one of the empty bedrooms. But if it would make Mom happy to have it again (and if that meant Mom would stop torturing Grace), fine.
Their attic was the kind with the pull-down stairs, which screeched as she extended them. Up the narrow ladder she went, the air hot and stuffy. Someday, they were going to put in central air-conditioning, which would mean using this space, and probably reinsulating up here, which would then require a new roof. It seemed like a big project, and Gerald was not exactly a strong closer. Case in point: the lawn mower in the driveway was celebrating its second month in that spot.
She pulled the string for the light, and there was the lamp in a cardboard box in the corner, next to the old rattan rocking chair with the tattered back. She picked it up now and sat on the chair, the painted porcelain shade smooth and warm under her hands. Ellie felt a fond pang for her grandmother, a plump, white-haired woman who’d always smelled like lemons. That lamp had been a little hint of gentility in Ellie’s otherwise grungy first apartment.
Then something caught her eye. There, almost under the chair runner, was Gerald’s iPad. He’d been searching for that thing for months. Why on earth had he been using it up here? The attic was freezing in the winter, unbearably hot in the summer. The only light up here was from the bare bulb. She smiled as she reached for the device. It always made her feel triumphant, finding something that was lost. It was a mother’s superpower, after all.
As she picked it up, the screen lit up. Battery hadn’t run down yet, then. Without thinking, she typed in the password—their anniversary. They both used it on all their devices. Not exactly original or safe from hackers, but really, who’d want to hack them?
The screen showed Facebook messages, which was odd, because Gerald didn’t have a Facebook page. So whose messages were these? She set the lamp down for a better look.
A blue balloon read, I do miss you, but I have to stop. I love my wife and I don’t want to make a huge mistake. I’m sorry.
The gray balloon below it said, I can’t believe you’re just going to throw this all away. Please, please reconsider. There were no further messages.
That was from Camille Dupont. Weird. Ellie didn’t know anyone by that name. She didn’t think Gerald did, either. Could these be someone else’s messages?
Her legs suddenly felt weak and wobbly. Don’t look, said a distant voice in her head. But no, already her eyes were roaming around the screen. She wasn’t terribly familiar with personal pages on Facebook, since she didn’t use hers much. But there, in the upper-right-hand corner, was a picture of Gerald.
It was a nice picture. A picture that, if you expanded it, would show Ellie standing right next to him, both of them smiling. It had been taken at the family picnic last summer. But in this image, Ellie had been cropped out.
So her husband did have a Facebook page. Gerald R. Smith, member since last year. He’d posted three times, all shots of the water—sunset over Mayo Beach, the autumn colors over by the kettle ponds and a storm rolling in on the ocean side. That was it. No photos of the kids or grandkids…or her. The biographical information listed him as a graduate of Nauset High School and Boston University. He was married. Was friends with twelve people. No one she knew. Wait. Jack Farraday, that name was familiar. He’d been a high school buddy who used to live in Orleans. She and Gerald had met Jack and his wife (Karen? Caroline?) a few times way back when. But the Farradays had divorced years and years ago, and they hadn’t stayed in touch. Luis Gonzalez, right. A fellow nurse from Gerald’s hospital days. Otherwise, no one she knew. None of their kids. Not his cousin, Cynthia. Not his own father, who had quite an active social media presence.
Ellie had a page for the gallery, of course, but that was all. She was on Instagram for work, and also so she could see what the kids were up to from time to time…mostly Addison posting pictures of the girls, which made that platform worthwhile. Otherwise, she generally posted and left.
Back to Gerald’s messages. Jack Farraday had said, Hi, Gerald, how’s the fam? I live in Florida now! You should visit. Great fishing!
Gerald had replied, Everyone’s great. I’ve got three grands now, can you believe it? Glad you’re doing well. No further chatting.
Otherwise, just messages from this Camille Dupont person. There were so many balloons. This didn’t…this didn’t make sense. Hands shaking, she clicked on Camille Dupont’s picture and came to the woman’s page.
Camille was attractive. Long, straight brown hair, artfully highlighted; a big smile. Good makeup, probable Botox or just excellent genes. She was pretty. Here she was in Times Square with a female friend. On horseback in Wyoming. She had gone to Bali. She did yoga. Gerald missed and cared about her.
Ellie stood up fast and took a step back, as if she could walk away from the knowledge, and hit her head on a beam. She barely noticed.
On September twenty-fourth of last year, Camille had reached out to Gerald. OMG, I can’t believe you’re finally on social media! How ARE you, Gerry?
Gerry. The very first time she’d met him, he’d introduced himself as Gerald, and she’d called him just that. A week later, he told her he hated being called Gerry, and appreciated that she used his full name. She had never, ever thought of him as Gerry. His parents never called him Gerry. His coworkers didn’t, either.
But Gerry had reached right back. The words blurred, and between the stifling air up there and the vise that seemed to be crushing her chest, Ellie thought she might faint.
Then he called out, and she stuffed the iPad under the box and went down the stairs.
Was she dreaming? She was happily married, right? But the iPad…
All night long, as Ellie lay in Harlow’s old bedroom, her brain bounced away from what she had found—those messages she had read, the ones she hadn’t yet. I must have misinterpreted something. There has to be a mistake. It felt as if millions of tiny bees had made a home under her skin. She couldn’t hold a single thought, since too many were banging at the door of her brain. Then something mundane and irrelevant would appear. Had she asked Meeko to repaint the back wall? She had, right? Was she supposed to babysit Esme and Imogen this Saturday, or next? Wait. Hold on. Had Gerald slept with that woman?
This couldn’t be real, could it? It was almost like waking up from a dream…a dream that had lasted her entire adult life…only to find that she wasn’t a wife, a mother, an artist. To find that she was washing dishes in a Waffle House on a bleak secondary highway in Tennessee or Kentucky, and all that happiness, all that love and security, was as ephemeral as fog.
Obviously, she didn’t sleep.
The next morning, Gerald went for his usual five-mile run. The second she heard the front door close, she yanked down the attic stairs and retrieved the iPad. She’d take it to work, where she could read everything, then make a decision about what to do. Her mind was blurry from fatigue, and her whole body felt the sick buzz of adrenaline.
He would be gone for only about forty minutes. She threw on some clean clothes, grabbed her bag, stuffed the iPad deep inside it and headed for her car, tears of rage and anguish blurring her vision. Got behind the wheel, slammed the door and tore out of the driveway so fast, she nearly took out the mailbox.
Not an hour later, she had learned a lot.
At 8:43 a.m., Gerald texted to ask how her headache was.
Better, she replied.
Want me to bring you lunch today?
All set, thanks.
When Meeko got to the gallery at 10:12 a.m., she was already locked in her office. “I have a lot to do today,” she said rudely. “Earn your keep and don’t interrupt me unless there’s a fire or a tsunami.” She closed the door in his face, relocked it and grabbed her thermos of coffee.
Before today, she had loved her office, which had a skylight and a view of the courtyard. After today, it would be the place where she’d learned about her husband’s betrayal.
She read and reread the messages till her tired eyes burned.
What was she going to do now? Confront him? She had to. And then what? Kick him out? She certainly wasn’t going to live in the same house. He’d go to his father’s. No, he wouldn’t be able to stand that for more than a day or two, because he’d actually have to do things with Robert if he was living there. No. He’d go to Addie’s, sleep in that beautiful guest suite and have more access than ever to their granddaughters.
That didn’t seem fair.
No. Let him stay in their derelict house. She would go somewhere better with fewer responsibilities. Maybe he’d fix the fucking lawn mower with his extra time.
She could go to her sister’s, but Grace’s husband was a pompous ass. Her parents? Hell, no. The kids? Addie’s guest room was truly beautiful.
Even if the kids would have her, it wasn’t practical. Or fair to them, because they all loved their father. But she didn’t have to tell them, did she? Even so, Nicole and Addie liked things a certain way, and that didn’t involve a mother-in-law staying with them. Winnie shared a tiny house with a roommate; Robbie lived in squalor; Harlow was seeing Grady and would probably be getting engaged soon. Lark lived in that teeny little guesthouse, so there was no room even if Ellie asked.
Hold on. Lark’s landlady, Joy…she had a huge house. And Joy was lonely, without family or many friends, if any. Ellie had noticed it, of course, the four or five times she’d met Joy. The woman adored Lark (everyone did, it was practically the law). That house…that sprawling, waterfront house, so beautiful only an out-of-towner could afford it.
Ellie grabbed her phone. She had Joy’s number somewhere in here, from a time when she’d invited Joy to Christmas, yes, that was it.
“Hello, Joy,” she said, her voice shaking. “I have a huge favor to ask, and you are absolutely free to say no.”
Joy did not say no.