1. Delphine
— ? —
Delphine
Three Weeks Earlier
Someone knocked on the door.
I was curled up on the library sofa with a book I wasn’t really reading, my legs tucked beneath me, a cashmere throw pulled over my lap even though the fire was burning steadily in the hearth.
December on Ochre Point meant drafts that slipped through hundred-year-old windows, and Fairhaven had more windows than I could count.
Heath sat in the leather armchair across from me, his laptop balanced on his knees, his eyes fixed on the screen with the kind of intensity that used to mean he was solving a problem but lately just meant he was somewhere else entirely.
I had been watching him for the last twenty minutes. Not obviously. Just glances over the top of my book, small looks stolen when I turned a page. He hadn’t noticed. He rarely noticed anything anymore.
Three months. That was when my husband had started disappearing. Not physically, not at first. He still came home every night. He still slept in our bed. But somewhere around September, the man I married had started retreating behind a wall I couldn’t see and couldn’t climb.
I had asked what was wrong. Dozens of times, in dozens of ways. Direct questions over dinner. Gentle prods in the dark of our bedroom. Frustrated demands when my patience ran thin. The answers were always the same.
Nothing. Just work. I’m fine.
He wasn’t fine. I knew that the way I knew my own name. But I had run out of ways to reach him, and somewhere along the line I had stopped trying.
The knock came again, louder this time, and Heath’s head snapped up from his laptop like someone had fired a gun.
I watched the color drain from his face, watched his hand fumble for his phone on the side table, watched him scroll with quick, jerky movements.
His lips moved, forming a word I was fairly certain would have made his mother faint.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, lowering my book.
He was already on his feet, shoving his phone into his pocket, running both hands through his hair in that particular way he did when disaster was approaching and he hadn’t figured out how to stop it.
I had seen that gesture a hundred times over nine years of marriage.
When his father collapsed with the heart attack that would kill him.
When the Newport Preservation Society rejected our renovation plans for the east wing.
When he realized he had forgotten our anniversary last year and the realization came three days too late.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice had that tight quality it got when he was bracing for impact. “I’m so sorry you have to find out about it this way.”
“Find out about what? Heath, you’re scaring me.”
The knocking turned to banging. Insistent. Demanding. The kind of knock that said I know you’re in there and I’ll not be ignored and I’ve never been made to wait for anything in my entire privileged life.
“Heath, honey!” A voice, muffled through two inches of solid oak but unmistakable in its imperious tone. “Open this door immediately!”
My stomach dropped. “Is that-”
“I don’t know why you felt the need to change the locks!
” The voice was sharper now, each word a small blade designed to cut.
“This is absolutely upsetting and scandalous. Leaving your own mother standing outside like some common tradesperson? I simply cannot believe you would treat me this way after everything I’ve done for this family. ”
“Your mother is here?” I was on my feet now, the cashmere throw sliding to the floor, my book forgotten on the cushion. “Your mother is here, at our house, right now, and you didn’t tell me she was coming?”
Heath had the grace to look guilty. He stopped halfway to the door and turned back to face me, his expression caught somewhere between apology and resignation.
“She texted me,” he said. “A few weeks ago. I forgot to mention it.”
“You forgot.” I stared at him, waiting for the rest of the explanation, the part that would make this make sense.
“You forgot to mention that Montana Fairchild was descending on our home for an unannounced visit. You forgot to tell me that the woman who’s made it her life’s mission to remind me that I’m not good enough for her son was planning to show up on our doorstep. ”
“Del...”
“She hates me, Heath.” I kept my voice low, mindful of the woman on the other side of the door who would certainly use any sign of discord as ammunition.
“She’s hated me since the moment we met.
She told me at our wedding, while I was still wearing my dress, that you would realize your mistake within the year.
She told me at your father’s funeral that I was an embarrassment to the Fairchild name.
Last Christmas, do you remember what she sent me?
A gift certificate for a deportment class.
A deportment class, Heath. For adults who don’t know how to behave in polite society. ”
The banging continued, more insistent now. Montana Fairchild did not appreciate being kept waiting. Montana Fairchild had never waited for anything in her sixty-three years of existence, and she was not about to start now.
“I know,” Heath said, and he was already moving toward the foyer again, his shoulders setting into that particular posture I recognized.
The Fairchild mask. The one he wore when he had to be the perfect son instead of my husband.
“I know, and I’m sorry, and I should have told you, and we can discuss this later.
But right now I need to let her in before she puts her fist through the door. ”
“We barely tolerate each other,” I said to his retreating back. “You know that better than anyone. How could this possibly slip your mind?”
He didn’t answer. He was already in the foyer, already reaching for the brass handle, already opening the door to let the storm blow through.
I stood in the library doorway, my heart hammering against my ribs, trying to arrange my features into a shape that resembled welcome.
Nine years. I had been doing this for nine years.
Smiling when I wanted to scream. Being polite when politeness was the last thing Montana deserved.
Biting my tongue so hard I could taste blood while my mother-in-law cataloged my every failure and found me wanting.
I could do it again. I could do it for a few days.
“Finally.” Montana’s voice carried through the foyer, sharp and clear and dripping with contempt. “I was beginning to think you had abandoned the house entirely and left me to freeze on the porch. Honestly, Heath, changing the locks without informing me? Your father would be absolutely appalled.”
“Mother.” Heath’s voice was carefully neutral, the same tone he used in business negotiations. “I wasn’t expecting you until Christmas.”
“Yes, well, plans change. You know how I despise predictability. Besides, I had a particular reason for coming early this year.”
I forced myself to move. One foot in front of the other, the practiced smile firmly in place, my chin lifted in the way my own mother had taught me when I was young.
Don’t let them see that they’ve rattled you, she used to say.
The moment they know they can hurt you is the moment they never stop trying.
I made it three steps into the foyer before my feet stopped moving.
Montana was there, of course. Sixty-three years old and looking fifty, her silver hair swept into a perfect chignon, her winter white coat impeccably tailored, her posture the kind of ramrod straight that came from decades of being told you were better than everyone around you.
She was examining the new brass locks with undisguised contempt, her manicured fingers tracing the metal as if it had personally insulted her ancestors.
But Montana wasn’t alone.
There was another woman standing just behind her on the threshold, and I knew the shape of her before my brain caught up.
Tall and slender in a way that made me suddenly aware of the five pounds I had put on since summer.
Honey blonde hair falling in perfect waves past her shoulders.
Flawless makeup that somehow looked effortless.
Expensive clothes that draped her body with elegant precision.
She was looking at Heath.
Only at Heath.
And my stomach turned over and went cold.
“Oh, there you are.” Montana’s gaze swept over me with the same enthusiasm she might show a particularly uninspired piece of furniture. “Delphine. I see you still haven’t done anything interesting with your hair.”
“Montana.” I kept my smile firmly in place. “What a lovely surprise.”
“Isn’t it just?” Montana swept past me into the house, already surveying the foyer like a general assessing conquered territory.
Her eyes cataloged every change I had made since her last visit, every piece of art I had chosen, every small way I had tried to make this house feel like mine.
“I told Heath we were coming, but apparently the message never reached you. Communication has never been your strong suit, has it? Well, never mind. We’re here now, and that’s what matters. ”
“We?” I kept my voice light, casual, as if my pulse wasn’t racing.
Montana waved one elegant hand toward the blonde woman, who was still standing in the doorway. Still looking at my husband.
“Surely you remember Kendall,” Montana said, and there was a new note in her voice now, sharp and pleased. “Kendall Saladino. You two are practically old friends by now, aren’t you?” She let the sentence trail off, her meaning perfectly clear.
The floor tilted beneath my feet.
Of course I remembered Kendall. I had been remembering Kendall for nine years, the way you remember a stone in your shoe.