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I’ve watched the grainy footage before, but this time I watch it in slow motion with my fingers pressed hard against my temples, but it’s the same as every other time I’ve watched it. A person dressed in black with a hoodie obscuring their face walks in, walks out withThe Inverted Gardenin their arms, and that’s it. I watch it again, squinting at the screen till my eyes hurt and this time I catch something that makes me sit up. It’s fleeting, and it’s something I’ve noticed before but it didn’t seem important. It’s when the figure turns right, away from the gallery door, the cuff of his sleeve pulls up, quarter of an inch, enough of a gap for the streetlight to catch a flash of metal.
And just like that, I know. And it makes so much sense, I don’t understand why I didn’t figure it out before.
THIRTY-SIX
I walk home to give myself time to think things through. The mainthingbeing, what the hell is Bronwyn doing? I go over all the conversations we’ve had since welet the past goandforgave each other, since I was allowedback into the circle of love, but I can’t figure it out. On the surface, it looks like she wants me to think Jack is having an affair. Is that it? Is that the end goal? Because she doesn’t act like she wants me to give up on the relationship and move out. She also doesn’t act like she wants to move back in and be Jack’s wife and Charlie’s mother again. In fact, she insists she doesn’t want him back, that I shouldfight for my relationship! Fight for Jack! Don’t give up on him!
The only conclusion I can come to is that she does want all these things. She wants Jack and Charlie and her beautiful house and her nice life back, but she’s not finished with me yet. She’s feeling nostalgic for the good old days. I haven’t been humiliated enough in this round. Which makes me think, there’s a lot more to come.
It’s two o’clock in the afternoon when I get home. I spot the Lexus parked in the street because opening the garage door is one step too far for Bronwyn. When we loved each other again, when we were in the eye of the love circle, I would have been happy to do these things for her. Now, I can taste the resentment like bile rising up inside me, and I know I’m going to have to watch myself. I repeat a mantra in my head. I love Bronwyn, I am deliriously happy we are friends again, I am grateful for her support.
Charlie is in the living room watching a documentary about coyotes and even taking notes. Bronwyn is in the kitchen, standing on one side of the kitchen island, stirring a spoonful of powered chai latte into a cup.
“Laura. Howareyou?” she asks, eyebrows drawn together.
“Exhausted!” I say. I drag out a stool and sit on the other side of the kitchen island. “Jack’s not home?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet.” Then quietly she adds, “But I wouldn’t read too much into it.”
“No, no,” I say, nodding. She gives me a funny look. I rub my hands over my face, hard. “I think I’ll go and lie down.”
She reaches for another cup from its hook and pours steaming hot water from the kettle. “Where did you go?”
“To the gallery. Summer lost the keys to the workroom, so I had to bring her my set. How was soccer?”
She shrugs. Pushes the cup of chai latte she just made in front of me. I take it with both hands.
“I don’t know,” she says with a sigh. “Soccer was soccer. I always think they should give them a ball each so they won’t have to fight for it. But Charlotte seemed to enjoy it.”
“Oh, good.”
She glances toward the living room. “Did you hide it?” she asks softly. I nod.
“Good, good.” She raises a hand. “Don’t tell me where, please.”
“I won’t.”
“Listen.” She picks up her cell from the counter, taps on the screen, fingernails clicking against glass. I take a sip of my tea, try not to shake the mug.
“I know I said we’d put our heads together and figure out what to do about the—” she glances toward the living room, then cups her hand around her mouth and whispers, “burglary…” and it dawns on me with a sharp twist in my stomach what a phenomenally stupid idea it was to tell her about the lock. “But do you mind terribly if I go out for a couple of hours? There’s an open house I want to go to. Check this out.”
She turns her phone toward me. “Oh my God!” I blurt, putting my cup down. Just from the exterior, you can see how huge that house is. It’d better be. It has a price tag of four point nine million dollars.
“You want to buy that?” I also note with a twist in my gut that it’s only a few blocks from here, on Fifth Avenue North.
“God no. I couldn’t afford it, but I’d love to check it out. You want to come? We can take Charlotte too.”
Well, obviously. She’s eight years old. I’m not leaving her here on her own all afternoon. “No, thanks.” I yawn. A fake yawn if I ever saw one. It’s impossible to fake a yawn, I remember that now. I tilt my head this way and that as if stretching my neck. “I’m so tired I could cry. I think I’ll grab an hour of sleep.”
“Okay. As long as you’re sure. Okay if I take the car?”
“Sure. Help yourself.”
I sit with Charlie. She drops her pen and paper next to her and puts her head on my lap. I caress her hair. It is indeed silky soft and smooth and crinkle-free, and I hate it.
“Did you enjoy soccer?”
She nods on my lap.
