Chapter 14
I woke up Wednesday morning with the strange clarity that comes from having a plan.
Not a good plan, necessarily, but a plan nonetheless.
The private investigator meeting was set for two o'clock, and I'd spent the past hour lying in bed listening to Brett's shower routine while mentally rehearsing what I'd say to Randy Parker about documenting my husband's weekend in Seattle.
But there was something else I needed to do first. Something that probably qualified as a terrible idea but felt necessary anyway.
Brett's credit card statements showed lunch charges at Meridian Bistro downtown.
Always on Wednesdays and always for two people.
Always expensive enough to suggest he wasn't eating alone or grabbing a quick sandwich between meetings.
The restaurant was three blocks from his office, within walking distance for pharmaceutical executives who wanted privacy and didn't mind paying thirty dollars for salads that justified extended lunch breaks.
I'd been staring at those charges for weeks, making excuses about business lunches and client entertainment.
But after seeing eighteen months of emails and photographs documenting his relationship with Alison Crawford, I knew exactly who he was eating those Wednesday lunches with.
And I wanted to see them together with my own eyes before I paid someone else to follow them around Seattle.
It was a stupid impulse. Dangerous, potentially.
If Brett spotted me lurking outside his lunch spot like some suburban stalker, I'd have to explain behavior that would reveal everything I'd discovered about his affair.
But I needed to see what happy looked like when he was with someone who wasn't me.
I needed to understand what I was competing against so I could stop trying to win a contest that had been over for months.
Brett left for work at eight-fifteen, same as always. Kissed my cheek, grabbed his coffee and briefcase, and headed off to spend another day lying to me about his evening plans while making romantic arrangements with the woman who was helping him destroy our marriage.
"I'll probably be late again tonight," he said, adjusting his tie in the hallway mirror like a man preparing for important presentations instead of clandestine dinner dates. "The Bradshaw account needs attention before tomorrow's client meeting."
The Bradshaw account. Right. That was probably code for whatever intimate restaurant he'd chosen for tonight's date with Alison, some place with dim lighting and private booths where they could hold hands across the table without worrying about running into pharmaceutical colleagues who might mention seeing them together to their respective spouses.
"That's fine," I said, because that's what I always said. "I'll save you dinner."
After he left, I made myself breakfast and tried to focus on normal activities that would prevent me from spiraling into surveillance fantasies.
I answered emails about next month's literacy fundraiser, paid household bills that documented our financial life, and researched event planning certification programs that might provide career options when I was finally ready to support myself financially.
But by eleven o'clock, I was getting dressed like someone preparing for reconnaissance work.
Black pants, dark sweater, sunglasses that would make me less recognizable if Brett happened to glance in my direction.
The outfit of a woman who'd watched too many movies about amateur detectives and was about to make mistakes that real private investigators were trained to avoid.
I drove downtown through late morning traffic, trying to convince myself this was research rather than stalking.
I needed to understand the enemy, to see what Alison Crawford offered that I couldn't provide.
Professional validation, probably. Intellectual stimulation.
The excitement of being desired by someone who hadn't seen you first thing in the morning for twenty three years straight.
Brett's office building looked exactly like what it was.
Successful pharmaceutical company headquarters designed to inspire confidence in investors and intimidate competitors.
All glass and steel and corporate landscaping that showed solid profits and reliable quarterly returns.
A place where Harvard-educated lawyers could thrive while destroying marriages as a hobby.
I parked across the street and watched employees stream out for lunch.
Pharmaceutical executives and administrative assistants and financial analysts, all dressed in the business uniform of people who made comfortable livings solving other people's medical problems. Normal working people with normal lunch plans who weren't conducting affairs with their colleagues' spouses.
At eleven forty-five, Alison Crawford emerged from the lobby.
Even from a distance, I could see why Brett found her attractive.
She moved with complete confidence of someone who'd never doubted her place in any room, who'd been told she was brilliant and beautiful so often that she'd internalized both compliments as simple facts about her existence.
Her hair caught the sunlight, her stride suggested expensive shoes and good posture, and physical fitness that came from having time for personal trainers and yoga classes.
She looked like success. Like the future. Like everything I wasn't anymore.
I followed her at a distance that felt ridiculous but necessary, staying far enough back to avoid detection while keeping her in sight as she walked toward downtown's restaurant district.
Three blocks through streets lined with boutiques and cafes and office buildings that housed businesses that made Connecticut one of the wealthiest states in the country.
Meridian Bistro occupied the ground floor of a converted Victorian mansion, all exposed brick and floor-to-ceiling windows that provided excellent views of the dining room for anyone interested in conducting amateur surveillance from across the street. Which I apparently was.
I found a parking spot with a clear sightline to the restaurant's interior and waited with my phone ready to document whatever I was about to witness. Evidence gathering that qualified as stalking but felt necessary for my emotional survival.
Brett arrived at exactly noon, because of course he did. He was nothing if not punctual when meeting women who weren't his wife. He spotted Alison immediately at a corner table, his face lighting up with happiness that made something twist in my stomach like a knife finding the space between ribs.
I'd forgotten what Brett looked like when he was truly happy.
It had been so long since I'd seen that expression directed at me that I'd almost convinced myself he wasn't capable of joy anymore.
But there it was, unmistakable and devastating.
Pure delight at seeing someone he loved who loved him back without reservation or complicated history or twenty three years of accumulated disappointments.
They embraced like people who'd been apart for days instead of hours.
Not the polite hug of business associates, but physical contact that showed real intimacy and mutual affection.
Brett's hands lingered on her waist, her face turned up toward his with the expression of someone who felt completely cherished by the person holding her.
I took photographs through the restaurant's windows, capturing their obvious happiness with the clinical detachment of someone documenting evidence for legal proceedings.
Brett pulling out Alison's chair like a gentleman.
Alison laughing at something he'd said, her hand reaching across the table to touch his fingers.
The two of them leaning toward each other with the magnetic attraction of people who couldn't get close enough.
They looked like a couple in the early stages of love, when everything felt possible and every moment together was worth treasuring. Brett and I had looked like that years ago, when we'd believed love could survive anything if both people wanted it badly enough.
But I'd been wrong about that, apparently. Love could survive anything except someone better coming along.
I watched them share appetizers and laugh at private jokes and gaze at each other with such attention I hadn't received from Brett in years.
They looked natural together, comfortable in ways that showed this was routine rather than stolen moments.
Like two people who'd found their perfect match and were planning a future that didn't include inconvenient spouses or complicated family obligations.
The worst part wasn't Brett's obvious happiness.
It was Alison's. She wasn't some home-wrecking villain calculating how to steal another woman's husband.
She was just a person in love, glowing with joy that made her beautiful in ways that had nothing to do with good genetics or expensive skincare.
She looked at Brett like he was the answer to prayers she'd been saying for years.
Which meant she probably had no idea I existed as anything more than an abstract obstacle to her happiness.
In her version of this story, she was the heroine finding true love with a successful, charming man who happened to be married to someone he'd grown apart from.
She probably saw me as the impediment to their happiness rather than the victim of their choices.
Twenty minutes of watching them together was enough. More than enough. I'd seen what I came to see, documented what I needed to document, and confirmed what I'd already known about my marriage being over in ways that couldn't be repaired with better communication or increased patience on my part.