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I left the door open and the overhead light off. There was enough light from the street coming through the window, so I had no trouble finding his desk or activating his sleeping computer. The cover ofComes the Dreamerquickly popped into view. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for, but instinct guided me toward the icon of a stamp that symbolized Harrison’s email on the toolbar at the bottom of the screen. I clicked on it, and seconds later, his inbox revealed a long series of recent correspondence, some from his editor, some from various stores, some from charities seeking donations, some from enamored fans.
Most from one enamored fan in particular.
I gasped as her name reached out to grab me by the throat.
Wren Peterson
Re: Missing you!
Dear Harrison. Counting the days till we’re together. Every day feels like an eternity. Can’t wait for the summer to be over so we…
Wren Peterson
Re: Congratulations!
Dear Harrison. Congratulations on getting Gregory Marcus to be one of our guest speakers. Everyone is so thrilled and it’s all be…
Wren Peterson
Re: You’re the best!
Dear Harrison. Last night was beyond wonderful. I loved meeting your friend John. Looking forward to many more such get-togeth…
Wren Peterson
Re: Maroon Sky!
Dear Harrison. Sooo thrilled you love my suggestion to change the title of your new book to Maroon Sky. I loved the book so much…
“Oh, God,” I moaned, glancing toward the office door, half wishing that Harrison would appear so that he could provide me with an explanation I could somehow persuade myself was true, that Wren was simply a delusional young woman who’d created a fantasy world wherein the two of them were lovers, that he was playing along with these delusions only until the summer was over and his obligations to the festival he was helping to organize ended…
And then I saw it:
Wren Peterson
Re: Photos from Whistler!
Dear Harrison. Thought you’d get a kick out of some of these pictures from our magical trip. You look handsome, as always…
I clicked on the email so I could view it in its entirety.
“Dear God,” I whispered, as half a dozen photographs of myhusband and his former student filled the screen, the magnificent mountain scenery that was Whistler serving as backdrop.
Here they were, arms around each other’s waists, waiting in line for a cable car ride. There they were, hiking along one of Whistler’s many nature trails. Here they were, enjoying breakfast in bed.
“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”
Yet shocked as I was by these selfies, I admit I wasn’t entirely surprised. A part of me had suspected—no, a part of me hadknown—about their affair all along. The only question left to me now was what I intended to do about it.
