Page 58 of The Husband I Left

Just that. Where did you see them? And in that moment, I knew she’d known all along.

“Maison Verre’s,” I answered.

She nodded, as if confirming a minor detail of the seating chart rather than discussing her husband’s infidelity. “I’ll tell your father to be more discreet in the future.”

The calmness of her response shocked me more than any anger or denial would have. “You know about her?” I asked, my voice cracking on the question.

My mother sighed, the sound so weary it made her seem suddenly older. “Yes, Oliver. I know about her.”

“Who is she?” I’d pressed, unable to stop now that the dam had broken.

She was quiet for so long that I thought she wouldn’t answer. Then: “Her name is Ellen. She and your father… they’ve known each other since college. Before I met him. She’s someone he wanted to marry, but your grandfather didn’t approve. She wasn’t suitable.”

I struggled to process this. “And you… you’re okay with him seeing her?”

Something flickered across my mother’s face then; not pain exactly, but a shadow of it. “She lives in Chicago and she…visits your father occasionally. It’s an arrangement we’ve had for many years.”

“An arrangement,” I repeated.

“Yes.” Her voice had turned sharp and impatient. “And it’s not something we discuss, especially not with you. I expect you to never mention this again, Oliver. Do you understand?”

I nodded, numb with the realization that my parent’s marriage was nothing like I’d thought. That the perfect, powerful Sinclair family was built on a foundation of lies.

“Good,” she’d said, already turning back to her seating chart. “Now, did you need something else, or can I get back to work?”

I’d left without another word, and true to her command, the subject was never raised again. Not until tonight, when I threw it in my father’s face like a weapon.

“Well, well, if it isn’t young Sinclair!” A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, jolting me back to the present. “Didn’t expect to find you drowning your sorrows in a place like this.”

I turn to find Henry Bell sliding onto the stool beside me, his round face flushed. He’s one of my father’s oldest business associates, and while I’ve known him my entire life, I can’t say I truly know him at all.

“Henry,” I nod, forcing my voice into some semblance of politeness. “How are you?”

“Better than you, from the looks of it.” He chuckles, signaling the bartender. “Scotch, neat. And another for my young friend here.”

I start to protest that I don’t need another drink, but the words die in my throat. Maybe I do need another. Maybe I need several.

Henry leans in, and the smell of sweat and expensive cologne fills my nostrils. “I hear through the grapevine that you’re a bit upset about your wife divorcing you,” he says, lowering his voice as if sharing a confidence.

“Something like that,” I reply. The last thing I want is to discuss Genny with this man.

He chuckles, a knowing sound that grates against my already frayed nerves. “Oh well, the first one is always the hardest.”

I turn to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “The first one?”

“Yeah, the first divorce.” Henry grins, lifting his fresh drink in a mock toast. “Gets easier after that, believe me.”

Right. Henry is on his fourth marriage. I’d almost forgotten. There was Caroline, his first wife. My mother used to be quite friendly with her, and our families had been closer then. But Caroline is long gone. After her it was Stephanie, who had been at least a decade younger than Caroline. She lasted about three years. Adeline was third, I think. And now there’s… I can’t even remember her name. The latest Mrs. Bell.

“Ah,” is all I manage, turning back to my drink.

Henry nudges me with his elbow, nearly spilling my scotch. “Heard you got lucky, though. She didn’t clean you out, did she? My first one took me to the cleaners.”

I force a weak smile and make a noncommittal sound, hoping he’ll drop the subject.

No such luck. Henry launches into a detailed account of his current romantic situation. “Now, my Brynn, she’s an absolute knockout. Works at that new gallery in Back Bay. Melissa’s pretty upset about it; my daughter, you know? She says it’s embarrassing that Brynn is younger than she is.” He laughs as if his daughter’s discomfort is amusing rather than a sign of how deeply he’s hurt her. “But you know how it is. When you find someone who makes you feel alive again, you don’t let a little thing like age get in the way.”

I tune him out, nodding occasionally as he rambles on about Brynn’s youth, her beauty, how different she is from his ex-wives. As I half-listen, I’m struck by the sudden, crystal-clear realization that I’m sitting next to one possible version of my future. Henry Bell: serial husband, forever chasing happiness through an endless string of marriages, never finding what he’s looking for because he doesn’t even know what that is.