Chapter 2 – Cora
CORA
I make an appointment with Drake Chambers as soon as I get back to Connecticut, and then I throw myself into building a barricade between me and the terrible thing inside me, looming like a frozen tsunami, waiting for God knows what to crash.
Adrian stays in the city for the weekend. I block him on my phone, so he has to call Vera, our German housekeeper, to tell her he won’t be back until late Monday.
I spend the weekend evacuating from my marriage.
After I lock my engagement ring and wedding band in the library safe, I sort my clothes into practical and impractical.
I move the jeans, yoga pants, sweaters, and T-shirts into a dresser in the nursery and cram the gowns, pantsuits, and furs into trash bags.
I tell Vera to take them to a consignment shop or sell them online and keep the money.
There’s already a daybed in the nursery that I crash on when Adrian is out of town, and like everything in the house, the mattress is top of the line. It’s almost comforting to be in a twin bed again, drifting off to the sound of little kids squirming and farting in their sleep.
The past five years always felt like an impossible dream. I was right all along. It couldn’t be real. I’m not destroyed. I’m just awake again.
If you never really had something, you can’t lose it, and if you don’t let yourself feel, nothing they do can hurt you. These are things I’ve always known. I only forgot for a while.
Adrian comes home on Monday at his usual time.
I’m finishing up Winnie’s bath, getting her ready for bed, and Pearl is watching her programs. She doesn’t like TV made for kids.
She’ll only watch live action shows where guys fish in bad weather or do experiments with catapults.
Those must be Adrian’s genes at work. I can’t watch someone’s dad mansplain to a camera for more than a minute before my mind wanders.
The window in the nursery bathroom overlooks the front drive, so I watch Adrian pull up in his Scorpion. He loves that vehicle. It’s not an ordinary car, it’s a “supercar,” which apparently means irresponsibly fast and ungodly expensive.
Adrian unfolds himself from the low driver’s seat impeccably dressed per usual in a gray suit. I watch the top of his dark head as he strides into the house, briefcase in hand.
How many times did he fuck Delaney this weekend?
We usually do it most nights. Adrian has a high sex drive, and I like to please him. Until the other day, I would’ve sworn that I satisfied him. I get off some of the time, if I’ve had a few glasses of wine, and I can get out of my head.
I wouldn’t say he’s bad at sex or lazy. He tries harder with me than it looks like he does with Delaney. I’ve never ridden him when his pants were still on, but I can’t pretend I’m so much better than her, can I?
I did marry him after I’d only known him for six months and got pregnant immediately.
I signed a prenup that I didn’t really read.
Dumbest of all, I convinced myself that he loved me even though he never said he did.
Is there such a thing as a gold digger for love?
Clearly, I was mining in the wrong place.
I dry Winnie off, wrestle her wriggly little pink body into her sleep sack, and call for Pearl.
Pearl always “helps” me read a story to Winnie before we put her to bed, and then Pearl and I watch TV together until it’s time for her to go to bed.
Occasionally, Adrian will make it home in time to read with us.
He’s home in time tonight, but he doesn’t come up.
We climb into the daybed, and Pearl reads That’s Not My Pony .
. . , gently pressing Winnie’s tiny baby fingers into the horse’s squashy red plastic saddle and stroking them down the horse’s soft hairy nose.
Winnie is more interested in pulling Pearl’s shiny blonde hair and bending over to gum Pearl’s chubby hand.
Sometimes I think that babies are more animal than human. Not in a bad way, but in how there is no check on their impulses at all. They see something interesting, and bam, it goes into their mouth. They hit a minor inconvenience, and bam, they wail like they’ve lost their best friend.
I find it hard to believe I was ever like that. The wail inside me is so deep down I don’t think anyone has ever heard it.
After Pearl and I watch a thirty-minute show about how Swiss cheese is made, I supervise her big girl bath and tuck her in. She’s already asleep when I kiss her forehead. I’m considering whether I want to take a shower myself when there is a soft knock at the nursery door.
My heart leaps even though I know immediately by the tentativeness that it’s not Adrian. He wouldn’t knock, either.
I pad across the suite and crack the door. Vera is standing in the hall, her face carefully blank. “Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Maddox. Mr. Maddox wanted me to let you know that dinner is served in the family dining room.”
All I can do is stare at her for a second. Adrian really expects me to have dinner with him like nothing happened? I guess so. What was it he said? I suggest you find it within yourself to move past this.
What is it exactly “within myself” that’ll let me eat with a man who I thought was the only person who ever loved me—which turned out to be the biggest delusion of my life?
Is that grit? Mrs. Flowers always praised my grit. I always thought that was a nice way to say that I could eat a lot of shit and keep going.
Vera is still standing in the hallway, waiting patiently for an answer, while my cracked brain wanders.
“Okay,” I finally say.
Vera is a consummate professional like everyone who manages to keep their job working for Adrian. We’re not friends, but we’re friendly, and I don’t want to make her life hard. Besides, I want to see Adrian. I want to see if he looks different now that I know what he is.
Just to be spiteful, I take my time making my way downstairs. I don’t change out of my yoga pants or damp shirt, and I leave my hair in a messy bun, but I make sure to check on the girls and fuss with the thermostat and put some toys away.
I love the nursery. I designed it myself, knocking down the walls between three guest rooms. It’s supposed to feel like an enchanted wood.
Pearl’s room is up a few stairs and decorated like the tower bedroom in Rapunzel.
Winnie’s area is inspired by The Princess and the Frog.
Her crib is lotus themed, and the mobile hanging above her bed are frogs hopping from lily pad to lily pad.
The TV area is a cozy clearing with a huge stuffed bear, and the toy boxes and book shelves are built into life-sized trees with silk leaves and knots for stuffed owls and foxes.
I commissioned the tree shelves from a guy who designs sets for Broadway musicals who I met at one of Adrian’s fancy galas.
I’m proud of the room. It feels safe to me.
I don’t want to leave, so I take my time putting on a pair of sneakers.
The soles of my feet still hurt, but not bad enough that it affects my walk.
Either Tiller and Schmidt didn’t loop my weekend security detail in about what happened—which I don’t believe for a second—or the weekend guys didn’t want the hassle of calling Dr. Farhadi unless I asked for him, which I didn’t.
Regardless, no one’s bothered me about my feet.
Did Schmidt tell Adrian? I guess I’ll find out.
I slowly descend the main stairs and take the hallway that leads to the back of the house. We have a formal dining room with a table that seats twenty, but we don’t eat in there unless we have company.
The family dining room is for everyday use.
It’s next to the kitchen and overlooks the piazza, the formal gardens beyond, and the river that marks the western border of our property.
Winnie’s high chair and Pearl’s booster seat stay at the table, and a rubber mat covers the Burmese teak hardwood to catch their crumbs and spills.
Adrian is already in his seat at the head of the table when I enter the room. The wall behind him is glass, but it’s dark outside, so the only things visible are the flowers and trees that the landscaper chose to bathe with accent lights.
“Thank you for joining me,” he says, placing his phone face down beside his water glass after a few final taps. Was he texting with Delaney?
He doesn’t text with me. I send him pictures of the kids during the day, and he gives them a thumbs up. Early on, I gently told him that the thumbs up is considered rude. He said no, it wasn’t rude because that wasn’t his intent, and then he kept on doing it.
I thought his high-handedness was cute, like a dog in a fancy sweater, but I guess that’s how he thinks—he makes the rules about what’s okay and what’s not. He decides what things mean.
Marriage is a transaction.
Love doesn’t mean shit.
I take the seat at the foot of the table, and Adrian’s mouth tightens. Usually, I sit at his right, but I don’t want to tonight, and the table only sits six. I’m not so far away that it’s disrespectful. Besides—it’s not my intent to be disrespectful, so I’m not, right?
I take a sip of water. He’s showered and changed into another one of those tight quarter-zip sweaters that he has for relaxing around the house. This one’s army green. If you don’t consider his mouth, he looks supremely unbothered—well-rested, hydrated, and groomed. Same as always.
I think I hate him.
I’m not sure I’ve ever hated a man before. Been afraid of them, yes. Been hurt by them, sure. But I was always too worried about what they could do to me to hate them. But I’m not one wrong move away from homeless anymore. I guess hate is now a luxury I can afford.
Minh, our chef, enters with our plated dinners on a tray. Vera follows him with a bottle of white wine in each hand. While Minh serves us, Vera asks Adrian, “Would you care for the Montrachet or the Screaming Eagle tonight?”