Olivia felt a measure of peace when they hung up. No one but another woman who’s lost a child can truly understand. Even Lindsey’s unflagging grace isn’t quite enough.
She needs a glass of wine and a good night’s sleep. Maybe some Ativan, after all. She wants to check out for a little while. And she must face Park, and his terrible secret, and try not to blow up her marriage.
Kill him with kindness, her mother always says. Olivia misses her. Her parents are on a monthlong sailing cruise at the moment. They should be rounding Cape Horn and off into the seas to Antarctica this week. A lifelong dream to see the South Shetland Islands. They’re relatively unreachable, or Olivia would have been on the phone to her all day, asking for advice.
She’s rather proud of herself for weathering the storm without her mother or her husband. She tends to want to fix Park’s emotions, to make him feel like things are okay when inside she is tearing apart, but today, she decided to allow herself a few hours of genuine self-pity without worrying for him.
She calls ahead to their favorite restaurant and orders dinner to go. Steak frites for him, halibut for her, some prosciutto and figs to start, crème br?lée to finish. A celebration meal. For some reason, it feels appropriate to have something delicious in her stomach that she hasn’t made herself to tackle the evening’s conversation. It is not a reward for bad behavior, it is a bolster.
Traffic is light, and she pulls into the parking lot of 360 Bistro before the meal is ready. No problem. She’ll have a glass of wine at the bar while she waits.
She’s greeted and seated, and accepts a luscious, minerally cab franc and a glass of water. The restaurant is dark and quiet. Service has just begun. They’ll hit their stride later; right now, it’s only two tables in the back, the four-top at the door, and her. The television is showing a golf match, but the sound is off, and she can hear the conversation from the four-top easily.
The older couple are regulars. She’s seen them in here before. They’re joined tonight by a younger couple who’ve apparently recently married. The young bride is wearing a massive diamond that shines brilliantly in the dim light. Paterfamilias calls for a bottle of champagne, and when the waiter pours out, the young woman coyly puts her hand over her glass. A moment of shock—“We could have wine instead, or a cocktail,” he says—but the girl continues her silent Madonna smile and shakes her head. Then the table erupts in congratulations.
“Oh, my goodness, a baby! When are you due?”
“April,” she crows, grinning at her husband, clearly thrilled at their surprise. She has a small strip of paper in her hand. “We had the first ultrasound this morning. Here, you can see—”
“Olivia? Dinner, hon.”
She drags her attention back, and the bartender hands her the brown bag and the check. Olivia’s hands are shaking. She signs her name in an untidy scrawl and downs the wine.
“You okay, hon?”
“Fine,” she says, her voice unnatural, high. There is a steak knife in the place setting next to her, a beautiful piece of metal, flowing lines and wicked sharp edges. She could plant it in the back of the girl’s neck as she passes. It would take no effort at all to—
“You tell Park I said hi, won’t you?”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. Thank you.”
She manages to get to the car, throw the bag on the seat, and drive away, all without looking at the smug-as-shit face of the pregnant little bitch by the door. The fact that her key may have slid oh so surreptitiously along the door of the BMW the young couple pulled up in as she went to her own car, well, that was just poor placement of her hand, right?
Olivia blows out a breath, slowly.
These urges of hers. She knows it’s the hormones they’re pumping through her body, first the shots and pills to get pregnant, then the natural accumulation of estrogen and progesterone that nourishes her small, broken womb, but oh, these urges. She has some PTSD, at least that’s what her therapist says. Olivia thinks that’s nonsense, it’s not like she’s been to war or was abused or anything.
Only last week: “I’m so angry, Dr. Benedict. All the time. I feel this rage pulsing inside me anytime I see a pregnant woman.”
“Olivia. You’ve gotten pregnant six times in the past two years. You’ve lost five of those pregnancies. They have what you so desperately want. It’s normal to feel upset when you see a woman who’s carrying a child. It’s okay to be angry that you haven’t been able to carry a child to term. It’s unfair, and it’s sad. But you’re farther along than you’ve been before. I have a good feeling about this one.”
Olivia casts her thoughts back to her bathroom, the scene of the crime. So much for your good feeling, Doc.
Home belongs to a stranger. She sees it from a new perspective. Not the graceful lines of the pitched roof and the gable with its cedar posts anchoring the front porch, nor the French country charm of the white brick and graphite shingles, the front elevation bedecked with boxwood and laurel. Maybe it’s something in the water. Or there’s lead paint. Or radon. Maybe they should move. She’s probably ingesting or breathing some sort of poison, and that’s why she keeps killing her babies.
Sitting in the drive, she pulls up her shopping app and orders a new water filter, a lead paint test kit, and emails her inspector to drop off a meter for a radon check. Small things, but they make her feel better.
You can do this. You’re strong, Olivia. You can face him.
She’s not supposed to feel revulsion when she thinks of her husband’s handsome face. Is this what he’s done to them? Or is this the betrayal of her body?
She knocks her door closed with her hip and carries the food inside. The kitchen, with its cheery white cabinets and leathered marble and black-framed windows, no different than it was this morning, feels alien. Like she’s never seen it before. Maybe she’s coming down with something. Maybe she’s caught some sort of virus and that’s why she lost the baby.
She busies herself with plating the food and throwing the bags in the trash, then sets the plates in the oven and puts it on Warm.
Park hasn’t shown himself.
She opens the door to the garage; his car is inside.
In his office, then.
The phone rings, startling her.
“Hello?”
“Is Park Bender available?”
The voice, female, young, a hint of flirt.
“Who is this?” Olivia asks, not caring about being abrupt. Is this the sainted mother of the creep who killed Beverly? She’s worked fast, discovering how to reach out to her child’s father.
“Ma’am, this is Erica Pearl from Channel Four. I’d like to speak to Mr. Bender, please.”
Oh.
“About what?”
“Are you Mrs. Bender? I’d love to sit down with you both and talk about the Cooke case. There’s—”
Olivia smashes End with her thumb.
Didn’t take them long. How did the news get out? Damn those cops.
The phone rings again, and she ignores it, fury driving away her worry. She trails through the house to the back door, out onto the porch, through the garden, and pushes open Park’s office door.
“A reporter from Channel Four just called.”