Someone Else's Husband(27)

Gretchen tried the numbers, slowly and smoothly. Combination locks were so fidgety. Right 27. If the code didn’t work, it didn’t mean he had something to hide. Except she had the dreadful feeling that maybe he did. Once past left and then 02. Even if he had used a different code, that didn’t mean—it didn’t mean anything.

Right 14.

And then the whir of the bolt sliding back inside. Thank God.

Sure enough, inside was a stack of cash. Gretchen pulled it out. Counted quickly. Ten thousand dollars in such a surprisingly small bundle of one-hundred-dollar bills. Gretchen reached in again to be sure she hadn’t missed anything else farther back. The safe was deep. Her fingers hit on something, larger and harder than money.

A Moleskine journal, Richard’s handwriting filling nearly the whole book when she flipped it open. When on earth had Richard started journaling? The first page began with the trip he had taken with “the boys” to Bolivia five or six years ago.

Oh, wait, now Gretchen remembered—the whole group had decided to start keeping travel journals on that trip. It had been Van’s idea, or his wife’s, actually. She’d sent Van off with a journal and a fancy pen as a gift for each of them, and shockingly, they’d all embraced it. Gretchen had always found the whole thing a bit odd for that particular group of manly men. To whom were they writing, exactly? To whom were they going on and on about their feelings—themselves? But apparently, they’d become quite religious about it on their trips. Even Brooks, which was the hardest to believe.

Standing there now with her incarcerated husband’s travel journal in her hands, none of it felt silly anymore. She flipped to the last entry. August 17, Africa: I’m not ready to go home. I’m not ready to say goodbye. I’m not sure I ever will be.

Gretchen snapped the book closed. Heart racing. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the journal sailing under the bed, where it cracked against the wall with even more force than the painting had.





I’ve left a mess back home. So far I’ve managed to keep a lid on it, but it’s only a matter of time before it all comes crashing down—job, marriage, reputation. Everything I’ve worked for, that I’ve built. No one warns you how it’s all so interconnected. Like dominoes. One goes and there goes the whole damn thing.

I should have known the second they sent the “corporate coach,” a cleaned-up name for a therapist. It’s a big thing everywhere these days. You know your days are numbered when the coach turns up at your office door.

If I do get pushed out, that’ll be a wrap on the marriage, too. She’s not going to stay if I get fired. She cares too much about what people think.

So maybe it’s not the worst thing that I’m here on the other side of the world without a signal. Maybe I’ll come up with a way out of this disaster.





Before


Frankie

September 7

I head to my studio first thing in the morning. No more ill-advised coffee dates. No more talking to people I shouldn’t be talking to. The climb—all of it—needs to stay where it belongs, in the past and on the other side of the world.

Work. That’s what I need. Funny how most people spend their time trying to escape from work when I spend all my time trying to escape into mine. It’s yet another thing that makes me feel separate, outside. In good ways and bad, depending on the day. Today, I am very grateful to have a place to hide.

I’m also grateful to have such a lovely place to paint—pristine white walls, huge windows that bathe the space in gentle morning light. I still paint at home sometimes; there is a certain comfort in old habit. But my new studio, courtesy of the Pearson Gallery and just a block down on Great Jones near Bowery, is my little haven where all I have to think about is art. After so many years painting in a cramped corner of my cluttered apartment, it’s an incredible luxury, one that I earned without an ounce of shame.

I raise my paintbrush and step up to my latest canvas—a woman’s figure, more realistic than I’ve done before. Still sexual and, yes, maybe confrontational. But more emotive, too. It’s a new direction for a new me, one that feels exactly right. This part I did not need to leave behind.

Before I can touch the paintbrush to the canvas, I hear a loud ping. I pull the phone out of my back pocket. I forgot to silence it like I usually do before starting to work.

The text is from that same 508 number. Attachment: 1 photo.

I could just delete the message, pretend it never happened. That it was just a wrong number. Because until I look at the photo, there’s still a chance it is. Sure, the Senator is running for governor, and yes, his opponent is known for digging up dirt, so the timing of his reaching out to me—a big chunk of dirt—makes some sense. Still, it could be a coincidence, and I could be worrying for no reason.

My heart is a jackhammer.

What do you want? I text without opening the image.

For you to know. The reply comes back quickly.

For me to know what?

That I know you haven’t changed. You should be more careful. Or other people could find out.

What does that mean? My hands shake as I type.

That I know where you are.

I can’t help it. I tap on the attachment.

It’s a photo of me and Richard from the day before.



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