Chapter 11 #2
I watched my son get excited about a family vacation that would probably never happen, feeling that protective urge to shield him from disappointment while knowing I couldn't control what his father promised or failed to deliver.
By Christmas, we'd probably be in the middle of divorce proceedings, with Brett spending the holidays with his girlfriend while I figured out how to rebuild my life as a single woman approaching fifty three.
"That sounds amazing," I said, because what else could I say?
That his father was having an affair with someone young enough to be his daughter's older sister?
That the European expansion deal was apparently being negotiated in hotel rooms and VIP boxes instead of conference rooms?
That I'd spent the past week researching divorce attorneys and learning about asset division and alimony calculations?
"I'll start researching hotels," Brett said, pulling out his phone. "Maybe we could do ten days, really make it an adventure. Dog sledding and ice hotels and those natural hot springs you see in travel magazines."
Ten days in Iceland with a husband who was having an affair while his girlfriend planned her wedding to someone else. The situation was so absurd it almost made me laugh, except laughing might turn into crying and I wasn't ready to explain that emotional breakdown to my seventeen-year-old son.
We finished breakfast with more conversation about vacation plans and baseball schedules and whether Devin should ask Madison Fletcher to the winter formal or wait to see if she brought it up first. Normal family discussion that should have felt comforting but instead felt like watching actors perform a play about people whose lives were falling apart offstage.
Brett left for golf around nine-thirty, kissing my cheek with the same routine affection he'd been performing for months. His lips barely made contact with my skin.
"Have fun at your fundraiser," he said, already reaching for his golf bag and mentally transitioning to his Saturday plans. "I'm really proud of all the work you do for charity. You make a difference in people's lives."
"Thanks," I said, wondering if he'd remember this conversation long enough to show up or if his golf game would run conveniently long and eliminate any possibility of supporting my literacy work. "Enjoy your game."
Devin's friend Jake picked him up twenty minutes later for some school program that involved community service hours and probably provided excellent opportunities for him to spend time with Madison Fletcher without calling it a date.
Jake looked exactly like what he was: a seventeen-year-old boy who'd been blessed with good genetics and wealthy parents and had never doubted that life would continue delivering exactly what he wanted.
"See you later, Mom," Devin said, wrapping me in a hug. "Thanks for breakfast, even though you didn't cook it. Dad did good."
"Drive safely," I called after him, watching my son head off to build memories with friends who had no idea his family was imploding behind closed doors. "Text me when you get there."
After they left, I sat alone in our dining room surrounded by the evidence of Brett's breakfast performance. Dishes that would need washing, leftover food that would need storing, the lingering smell of domestic happiness that felt more oppressive than comforting.
I had work to do.
I went upstairs to Brett's study and closed the door, even though I was alone in the house.
What I was about to do felt like crossing a line I couldn't uncross, even though Brett had crossed that line months ago when he'd started lying to me every single day about where he went and who he saw and what he was building with someone who wasn't his wife.
First, I set up a secure email account using a password Brett would never guess.
LaurenSeesAgain101, after my Instagram handle.
Then I created a digital folder labeled "Financial Records101" that would store every piece of evidence I could gather about his affair and our assets.
Lindsey Garland was right about documentation being everything.
If this was going to be war, I needed ammunition that would hold up in court.
I opened Brett's briefcase, which he'd left on his desk with complete confidence, never imagining his wife might search through his belongings looking for evidence of betrayal.
Inside were the usual corporate documents.
Presentation materials for the European expansion, notes from meetings that probably included Alison's brilliant legal insights, and expense reports that I now understood were roadmaps of his affair.
Nothing obviously incriminating. Nothing personal or romantic or helpful for divorce proceedings. Just the professional life of a pharmaceutical executive who was apparently very good at keeping his business and pleasure separate, at least in terms of paperwork.
I photographed everything anyway, uploading the images to my secure folder along with dates and context notes that might prove useful later.
Even innocent documents could establish timelines for his business trips that coincided with romantic getaways.
Travel itineraries that showed he'd been in Dallas the same weekend Kimberly's friend had captured him kissing Alison in that VIP box.
The real prize would be his phone, but Brett guarded that device like it contained state secrets.
Which, in a way, it did. His text messages with Alison were probably a complete record of their entire affair, from professional collaboration to personal intimacy to whatever plans they were making for a future that didn't include the wife he was lying to every single day.
But getting access to his phone would require planning and opportunity I didn't currently have.
Brett never left it unattended, never forgot the passcode, never gave me any reason to handle it except when he occasionally asked me to plug it in for charging.
Even then, he made sure the screen was locked and face down.
I was still thinking about digital surveillance strategies when my phone pinged with a text from Robin.
Heading to the club now. Ready to charm wealthy people into caring about children's literacy. See you there. Wearing my most persuasive earrings.
I typed back quickly.
On my way soon. Thanks for helping coordinate this chaos. You're a saint.
Robin had been instrumental in organizing today's event, using her connections with the Westbrook Country Club social circle to ensure we had the kind of attendance that translated into serious fundraising numbers. Without her help, we’d still be calling people individually and begging them to buy tickets while they made polite excuses about scheduling conflicts and prior commitments.
I showered and dressed in my fundraising uniform.
Black pants that made me look competent, a silk blouse that suggested success without ostentation, and jewelry expensive enough to signal that I belonged in this social circle but not so flashy that it distracted from the charitable cause.
The kind of outfit that said I was serious about helping underprivileged children learn to read while acknowledging that I'd never personally experienced the kind of financial hardship that made literacy programs necessary.
Looking in the mirror, I rehearsed my fundraising smile.
Warm but not desperate, enthusiastic but not manic, the expression of someone who believed deeply in literacy education and had the social connections to make other people care about it too.
I'd developed this look over years of charitable work, learning to project the right combination of passion and pragmatism that convinced wealthy people to write checks they could afford but didn't necessarily want to write.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the country club parking lot and felt the usual mix of pride and exhaustion that came with organizing events that required months of planning and delivered three hours of orchestrated social interaction.
The parking lot was already full of luxury vehicles.
BMWs and Mercedes and the occasional Tesla that announced their owners' environmental consciousness while maintaining their commitment to expensive transportation.
The Westbrook Country Club looked exactly like what it was.
The kind of place where wealthy people gathered to feel good about themselves while writing checks that were tax-deductible and socially impressive.
All fieldstone and colonial architecture designed to suggest old money and established taste, even though most of the members had acquired their wealth in the past twenty years through pharmaceutical companies and financial services, and real estate development that had transformed Connecticut farmland into subdivisions for people like us.
Inside, the main dining room had been transformed into fundraising paradise.
Silent auction tables lined the walls, displaying prizes donated by local businesses who wanted their names associated with charitable causes.
Weekend getaways to Martha's Vineyard, dinner packages at restaurants that charged fifty dollars for appetizers, and spa treatments.
The caterers had arranged breakfast foods on silver serving pieces, creating an atmosphere of effortless elegance that made generosity feel simple.
"Lauren!" Margaret Whitfield materialized at my elbow with enthusiasm that made me understand why her husband's real estate empire was so successful.
She had the ability to make every interaction feel like the most important conversation you'd have all day.
"This turnout is incredible. I counted at least a hundred and twenty people, and they're still arriving.
The Leonardos just walked in, and you know what that means for the donation total. "