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Elizabeth was running late. She blew into the sandwich shop and could tell by the look on Tara’s face that something was wrong. Before she could e
ven ask, Tara reached across the table and grabbed Elizabeth’s hand. It was a surprise as Tara, with her bleached-to-hell blond hair and taut dancer’s body, wasn’t exactly known for demonstrative displays. “I saw Court with Whitney Bellhard yesterday.”
“Whitney Bellhard . . . where? What do you mean?” Elizabeth asked. Whitney Bellhard was an aesthetician who gave Botox parties around the area and her picture was plastered on flyers she passed out in every neighborhood around the school. Whitney was big-breasted, big-eyed and about as subtle as a Mack truck.
“They were holding hands at this bistro I go to whenever I’m in Santa Monica,” Tara revealed.
“Santa Monica?” Elizabeth repeated faintly. “Court’s in Denver.” Santa Monica was at least an hour away from Irvine in good traffic, and it wasn’t a city on Court’s recent itineraries.
“Elizabeth, they were staring at each other so hard they didn’t even see me. I ducked out and watched a little while from outside the window.”
“Maybe they were . . . just . . .” But she hadn’t been able to come up with any reasonable excuse for them being together in a city far enough away that they wouldn’t expect to be seen by someone they knew.
“They were acting like they couldn’t wait to get the bill,” Tara finally said in a reluctant voice, her blue eyes regarding her friend regretfully.
At that, Elizabeth nodded and silently accepted the unwelcome realization that her husband was having an affair.
On Friday, Court got home late after Chloe was already tucked into bed. Elizabeth was lying in bed with a book, reading one page over and over again as her mind worried about what she was going to say when she saw him. She’d run the gamut of disbelief—fury, despair, and a kind of angry acceptance. She tried to self-assess, asked herself if she cared enough to try to save the marriage. For Chloe, she wanted to, but for herself? That was a trickier question.
By the time Court entered the bedroom, loosening his tie and telling her he’d come straight from a meeting, really wanted a drink, and did she want something, Elizabeth put down the book and was simply waiting, her hands folded on her lap. Court didn’t wait for her answer. He went into their living room and she heard the squeaking hinge that indicated he’d opened the bar, which was hidden inside a tall chest made of ebony wood. Next, she heard him slam a glass on the counter.
She walked into the living room as he pulled out the stopper to a bottle of scotch and splashed a healthy dose into the old-fashioned glass. She watched silently as he bolted it down and she could almost read his mind as he considered the bottle, wanting to pour a second drink but thinking it might not be prudent based on his wife’s uncertain mood.
“What’s wrong?” he asked sullenly, rolling the glass between his palms.
“Is it true that you met Whitney Bellhard in Santa Monica?”
Court jerked his head back as if he’d been slapped, then tried to cover up the tell with a bunch of bluster.
Detached, she watched his florid face turn brick red and knew he was going to lie to her.
“Who the fuck told you that?”
“Someone from the school,” she lied right back.
“I wouldn’t have that plastic bitch on a dare,” he declared.
“No one said you had her. They just said you met her for lunch.”
“Whatever nosy bitch told you that should just mind her own fucking business and stop trying to stir up trouble.”
“It’s not true?”
“Of course it’s not true!” He slammed his empty glass down on the bar and reached for the bottle of scotch again, his misgivings gone in the face of bigger issues.
“So, if I check, I’ll find out you were still in Denver on Wednesday, like it says on your itinerary.”
“Since when do you check on me?” he demanded, his dark eyes glittering as he shot her a vituperative look.
Elizabeth almost lost her nerve at that point. She’d never challenged her husband before. Court Ellis was a master arguer, a born lawyer, and she couldn’t compete with him in any discussion. He loved talking circles around her, and she hadn’t realized how little affection was left between them until that very moment.
“What’s the name of the bitch who told you those lies?” he demanded as he took another healthy sip of scotch.
“What’s the name of the hotel where you supposedly stayed in Denver?”
He slammed out of the house after that and didn’t come home the rest of the night.
Saturday afternoon he returned, but they didn’t talk about Whitney Bellhard or Santa Monica or if he’d been in Denver at all. They lived in icy silence throughout the day. Chloe, picking up the tension, cried and fussed, and it was a relief when it was finally late enough to put her to bed. Elizabeth told herself that she should talk to Court some more, but she never found the energy and in the end, while Court slept on the couch, she lay awake in their king-sized bed alone, feeling a cool breeze come through the open window, smelling the menthol scent of nearby eucalyptus trees, watching palm fronds wave in the soft landscaping lighting of their backyard.
