I’d remotely accessed his work computer one day and spent hours wading through emails before I found the potential culprit. First, an email between him and his assistant, where she called him Mr. President. That, while a little odd, wasn’t completely out of left field. Hewasthe president and managing member of Winthorpe Companies. But in his response, he called her Ms. Lewinsky.
I’d stared at the words until they blurred, hot tears pricking the corners of my eyes, their presence quickly wiped away and replaced by something stronger—anger.
I’d printed every email between them since the start of her employment and gone crazy with a highlighter and Sharpie, underlining incriminating lines and scrawling notes with lots of exclamation points. By the time my clueless husband came home, every surface in his home office was covered in furious white pages, and my bags were packed and sitting by the door.
I had been like a baby snake, unable to control my venom and striking out with everything on the initial hit, no reserves left for the dumpy brunette who’d crossed the line with my husband.
And shehadbeen dumpy. That had been the most alarming thing of all. I’d spent our marriage on high alert for the sex kittens, the glamour queens, the pinup models masquerading as pencil pushers. I’d known his type—leggy brunettes with great bodies—and had blocked every potential threat with precise accuracy. He was a sexual man, one who appealed to practically every woman out there, and I’d spent the first few years of our marriage playing badminton with beauties until I’d found secure footing in his fidelity. But when he had strayed, it had been with the most ordinary of women. Brenda Flort. Forty-two years old to his then thirty-five. Chubby around the midsection, she wore pants a hair too short. Glasses because “contacts made her eyes hurt.” Her hair was in a perpetual messy bun. She was a woman whom William should never have given a second glance to, yet he had. He’d risked our marriage over his flirtation. And I made sure that the minute he’d walked in the door, he understood it.
It hadn’t gone well at all. I’d expected tearful remorse, a shuddering of composure, and him begging me to forgive him, to give him another chance.
Instead, he’d turned haughty, dismissing my emails as nothing. He called me crazy and brought up innocent acquaintances of mine, painting them with the same brush.
We’d fought for hours, our throats growing hoarse. They’d developed nicknames for each other after a conversation on a Lewinsky news piece. That wasit. She was old, for Christ’s sake. Did I think he was sleeping with her? Was he not allowed to be playful with his own staff? Was I that insecure in our relationship? Had he ever, in seven years, given me any reason to doubt him?
I’d deflated and begun to question every word I’d read. I’d cursed myself for not doing more research—following him and gaining more evidence than just emails. Was I wrong? Had it been just innocent wordplay?
I’d fallen silent, and when he gathered me into his arms, I allowed it. I took his reassurances and swallowed my concerns. The suitcases returned to our closet, where they were unpacked by the home staff the next morning, our perfect life back in place by noon.
I’d caved, but despite my carefree comments to Neena, I’d never fully trusted him again.
I was down at the surf when my phone chimed. Moving away from the water, I dug in the pocket of my robe and pulled out the cell. “Hey, love.”
“I hate that I’m not there to celebrate with you.” William sounded guilty, and I ditched any thoughts of sharing my pity party with him.
Adopting a breezy tone, I told him about my morning, playing up my lunch, telling him about the beachfront café and an intact conch shell I found half-buried in the sand.
“You sound like you’ve been drinking.”
I glanced down at the champagne bottle, almost empty in my hand. “I have been. Remember that bottle of Dom we had for tonight? And the chocolate-covered strawberries?”
“Ah.” He sighed. “That’s right. I had big plans to lick it all off your body.”
“Don’t tease me. We’ve got another two days before we see each other. I’m already planning to tackle you the minute I get home.”
He was silent for a long moment. “I’m miserable without you. I don’t want to ruin all of your fun, but ... I need you here.”
He needed me.It was a sentiment uttered frequently between us, but my starved emotions chugged it as if hearing it for the first time. I tossed down the bottle, watching as a bit of the champagne sloshed out the top and fizzled on the sand. “Call the airport and tell them to prep the jet. I’ll go upstairs and pack. I can be on the way there in twenty minutes.” I calculated the time in my head. A five-hour flight ... I could be there by midnight, California time.
“Thank you.” His voice was gruff, heavy with need and love. “I promise, I’ll bring you back to the island and we’ll do it right.”
“I know you will.” I made a kissing sound into the phone and stumbled up the soft sand toward the house, anxious to pack and get back to my husband. There was something I didn’t like about being apart from him. Especially with Neena right next door. Watching. Waiting. Did she already know he was home?
CHAPTER 24
NEENA
The chicken was missing its left drumstick. At the open door to the oven, I glared at the one-legged bird, then turned my head and cursed Matt’s name. He continued rummaging through the fridge, unperturbed by my yell.
“Honestly, I’m going to kill you.” I slammed the oven shut and opened the lid to the garbage, immediately spotting the evidence, half-wrapped in a dirty paper towel.
He pulled out a container of yogurt and peeled back the top, ignoring me.
“YouknowI like dark meat,” I complained, forcing the lid back on the trash and cursing when it didn’t fit correctly.
Of course he knew. I always claimed the drumsticks and thighs. He’d probably eaten it out of spite over my refusal to add some NFL package to our cable account.
“The chicken’s not even done yet. It still has another twenty minutes to cook.” Maybe he’d get salmonella and die. I’d have his five-million-dollar insurance policy and no more headaches. I warmed to the idea and, for not the first time in our marriage, added it to the list of potential retirement scenarios.