The Housewife(17)

“I moved here like a minute before I met you,” I’d tell him, laughing. “All my friends are back home.” And he’ll suggest I invite some of them for a weekend sometime, and I will clap my hands and squeal that it’s an excellent idea! Then I’ll ramble on about calling Amy and Nora and Abigail and how excited they’ll all be. It will be just like old times, I say. It got to the point where I invented personalities for Amy and Nora and Abigail. Sweet, church-going girls with a dash of mischievousness. I’d tell him stories of sleepovers where we’d braid each other’s hair and paint each other’s nails and tell each other which boy we liked best. He loves those stories.

Some days, I just tell myself that Amy and Nora and Abigail are real, and we have long conversations inside my head. What do you think I should do? I’ll ask.

Kill him, of course, they’ll reply in unison. And I’ll laugh. You girls are being silly, I’ll say. It’s way too soon.

“That’s wonderful, Jodie.” He beams. “When is the luncheon?”

“This Friday.”

“Excellent. And what is it for?”

“It’s to help young women rise above their circumstances. Meredith says that’s right up my alley.”

“That’s so kind of her. I think that’s great news. I think you and Mer will get on like a house on fire.”

I snort a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“Nothing. Just that that’s how I k— that’s how my parents died. ”

“Oh God! Jodie!” He puts down his napkin. “Honey, I’m so sorry! That was so thoughtless of me.”

I wave a hand in the air. “That’s all right. Water under the bridge. Anyway, I’m very excited,” I say. “I think I’m finally going to be part of the gang. I think it’s going to be great fun.”

“I’m so pleased for you,” he says, squeezing my hand, just as Marie walks in with our herbal tea, some concoction of chamomile and lavender and God knows what. Roy insists on it every night after dinner because he says it helps him sleep.

Roy tries to let go of my hand but I squeeze harder so it’s trapped under mine while Marie pours tea into Roy’s cup.

“Thank you, Marie,” Roy says.

“You’re very welcome, Dr. Davies,” she whispers.

Then she pours tea for me, splashing a little around so the cup is dripping when I pick it up from the saucer.

“Thank you, Marie,” I say.

She purses her lips. “It’s Marie.” Then she walks out of the room.





11





I sleep like the dead. I always sleep like the dead in this house.

Last night we made love and Roy was sweet and loving. It made me think maybe the note I found didn’t mean what I thought it meant. Roy loves me, and he does not want to divorce me. It’s just Marie putting silly ideas into my head, that’s all. I shouldn’t listen to Marie.

The next morning, I’m in the bathroom about to start my routine when I notice a strange swelling under my right eye. I bring my face close to the mirror and study it. It’s like a blob, pulling my bottom eyelid down and giving my eye a slightly droopy look. I pat it with my fingers, gently pushing it back upward, then dab on a drop of my incredibly expensive regenerating serum. Maybe I got bitten by something. Maybe it’s the seam from the edge of the pillow that irritated my skin. I apply my makeup carefully: foundation, setting powder, bronzer and blush, highlighter, eye shadow primer, eye shadow, mascara, lipstick, and I’ve got the setting spray in my hand when Roy walks in.

He wraps his arms around my waist. “Good morning, beautiful.”

“How did you sleep?” I ask in the mirror.

“Like a baby.”

I remember reading somewhere that people who say they slept like a baby obviously never had one.

“Me too,” I say.

He releases me, then runs his fingers through his hair, bending his head slightly and checking himself out in the mirror. “What are you up to today?”

“I’ve got Pilates this morning, then an appointment at the hairdresser’s. There’s a recipe from Better Homes & Gardens I’d like to try. Don’t ask me what it is; I want it to be a surprise.”

“Lovely,” he says. He is still rearranging his hair, this way and that. “Will you pick up my blue suit from the dry cleaners?”

“Certainly.”

I glance at my own reflection, check the swelling under my eye, but with all the makeup I can’t see it anymore.

I’m sure it’s nothing.





When I return from the hairdresser’s, Marie is elbow deep in the refrigerator cleaning out the shelves.

I go upstairs and hang up Roy’s blue suit, then I slide Deborah’s appointment book out from under the mattress. I open it on my lap and turn the page to that one weird entry, the day before she died.

ITS HIM DOING IT.

“Doing what?” I whisper. “What did he do, Deb?”

I’m about to close the appointment book when I notice something else on the next spread. On the day she died, she penciled something. It’s so faint, it looks like a smudge, and a vague one at that. And it’s probably why I hadn’t seen it yesterday.