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“So that makes you innocent in all this?” His voice cracks.
“Of course not! I’m not innocent, I know. But Freddie’snotGreg’s. I mean, he might be—but you’re his father, where it counts.”
“Is that what you tell yourself to make yourself feel better?” He edges closer. I can smell his minty breath. “I knew the truth from the moment he was born. And all this time, I’ve been trying to hold it together, just focusing on not splintering our family apart, notruining Freddie’s life, trying to pretend it isn’t real, but itis real,Laura. This is really fucking real, and I can’tbelieveyou.”
Tears stream down my face. This can’t be happening. He can’t have known. “I’m so,sosorry.”
Ollie takes a breath. “And now our car’s on camera in Strasser’s circle the night he was killed. Right now, the cops on the case are running the plate report and talking about you.Us.Did you tell Reardonwhyyou almost jumped from that bridge? Doesheknow you fucked Strasser?”
“No!” The words Ollie has chosen feel like knives against my skin.“I just said I was overwhelmed! I didn’t tell him anything! I wouldn’t do that to you!”
Ollie stares at me with heartbreak. In his arms, Freddie’s brow furrows like he senses trouble. I stretch my arms out for him, so desperately needing him close. All at once, I’m acutely aware that Ollie’s sadness could tip to rage. There’s a gathering storm inside him. Unbidden, I think of him in the ring at his boxing gym, breaking people’s arms.But that’s different,I tell myself.He’d never do that to me.
“Put Freddie down,” I say slowly. “Please.”
Ollie thinks this over, then sets Freddie down on his play mat just out of my reach. Then he takes two thundering steps toward me, letting out a bullish snort. I hear the slap on my cheek before I feel the sting. The force of it knocks me to my knees, hard. I press my palms against my throbbing skin.
“Ollie!” I cry, my mouth instantly swelling. Hot tears spring to my eyes. Even though I deserve his anger, this is not the man I married—my heart drains.
Ollie stands over me. His fists are still clenched. He could hit me again, I realize. The way Ollie is quivering, so tightly wound with dangerous power, I’m certain that things might quickly twist and go even darker.
But then he takes a step back. Turns his back, hunches hisshoulders. “I have a right to be angry. Hell, I have a right to never see you again.” He draws in a shaky breath. “You know, I wish you’d gone and done it that day on the bridge. I wish you were dead now, like that asshole Strasser. You would’ve both gotten what you deserved. And I’d have the kid all to myself.”
And then, just like that, he strides forward and walks out of the house.
21
LYNN
MONDAY, MAY 1, 2017
The mussels for monsieur.” A waiter in a tuxedo places a steaming plate of slick black shells in front of Patrick. “And the oysters for madame.Bon appétit.”
I shoot the man a tight, anemic smile, and then inspect my plate. Eight oysters sit on a bed of crushed ice. Little silver bowls of dipping sauce, smelling pungently of garlic and chilis and oil, are nestled on the side. The oysters look perfect, and they smell fresh. I shoot my husband a saucy look. “Want one? You know what they say about oysters...”
Patrick cracks a mussel. Steam rises into his face, bringing with it the scent of garlic and white wine. “Thanks, babe, but I’m good.”
“More for me, then,” I say playfully, and then, because I can’t help it, add, “though I doubt they’ll be as good as the ones at Lou’s.”
Patrick lowers his head guiltily, and I feel a stab of satisfaction. I’d been the one who’d had to make the reservation at Pistore’s, a lush, excessive restaurant that’s a favorite of the town’s sports stars, politicians, and actors who come through during on-location shoots. I figured Patrick would have handled arrangements for Lou’s, our usual anniversary spot, but when I asked him about it yesterday, hesaid it totally slipped his mind. When I called Lou’s and begged for a table, the bitch on the phone told me they were all booked.
After we chat for a while about the kids—Connor has taken to video games, and I’m concerned that could be a slippery slope, and a girl in Amelia’s class just got her period, which is terrifying—we fall into silence. Patrick uses a slice of bread to sop up some of the sauce. I try an oyster—not bad. Actually, better than Lou’s, not that I’d admit it.
“So.” I place the empty shell on the plate. “Did I tell you that two of the donors I met at the benefit transferred their endowments today? George is thrilled.”
He chews his bread, not looking at me. “That’s great.”
“I know.” I smile smugly. “I’m the only one in the office who seems to be making any headway. This hack is holding so many people hostage.” I reach for my wine and take a long sip. Patrick’s jaw is chewing furiously, steadily, like he’s trying to murder the bread with his teeth. “We got numbers back from the benefit—they were dismal. The only donors we hung on to were the ones I dealt with.”
“Is that so?” Patrick eats another mussel.
“You weren’t there. You didn’t see how disastrous it was.”
Finally, he looks up at me. “What do you mean, disastrous?”
To our left, a maître d’ seats an older, silver-haired couple. The woman wears a gray column of a dress and simple makeup, and her pearl necklace looks expensive. The man gazes at her adoringly, the corners of his eyes wrinkled with a smile. Hopefully, that will be Patrick and me, thirty years from now. Except I’ll have better skin.
The discovery of Patrick’s gift in the trunk the other day was a wake-up call. Now that I’m confident Patrick’s love for me hasn’t wavered, I feel I should get something off my chest. I could probably go for the rest of my life keeping what I’ve done a secret, but somehow, seeing that extravagant bracelet in that velvet box, I feel that I need to give Patrick something more than just an object. I need to give him a gift of vulnerability. I need to show him that I’m notalways as perfect as I seem. It’s got to be hard living with someone who handles everything with such ease, as I do. I read a few articles on the situation yesterday: how men with perfect, beautiful wives begin to question their place within the marriage—if they’ll ever measure up, if they’re even needed.
