Anger tightens her throat. “Well, is he Muslim?”
“Probably.”
“See? You’re jumping to conclusions. You know nothing about this guy, do you?”
“And you do? Christ, Daisy. I thought at least I’d have your support. I—I need to go.” He shoves himself off the stool and moves toward the entryway.
“Please don’t walk out on me like this.”
“I’m late.” He reaches into the hall closet for his jacket.
“What about breakfast? I went to some trouble. Please sit, eat something.”
He shoots a glance at her pretty spread of eggs, toast, marmalade, juice, and ruby red grapefruit on the table. She even cut fresh flowers from the garden. Colors of fall. Oranges and yellows with sprigs of green foliage.
“That’s for Instagram, not me,” he snaps as he punches his arms into his jacket sleeves.
“That’s not fair.”
“Oh, tell me you haven’t already shot and posted photos of that breakfast on social media.” He grabs his briefcase.
Daisy is shaking inside. Filled with anger, fear, and a fierce drive to calm her husband down, placate him, fix this. Make all the nastiness go away.
“Right,” he says curtly. “It’s already on Instagram.” He reaches for the front-door handle.
“Do you want me to speak to Dad?” she calls after him as he steps out the door. “Do you want me to call him? See if he can sort this out?”
Her husband mutters something under his breath and bangs the door shut behind him. Daisy stares at the door. She hears Jon’s Audi starting up in the driveway.
Tears slide down her cheeks.
Sun flints off the glass tower, and Daisy is suddenly sparked back to the present. She realizes her eyes are filled with tears again. She swipes them quickly away and checks her watch. Relief floods her. It’s almost time to meet Vanessa at their favorite little bistro in Point Grey. Daisy begins walking back to her car. She drove to the park for some exercise by the sea, and to get out of the house while the maid came. She often meets with Vanessa on maid day.
As she crosses a lawn, she tells herself Jon didn’t mean to wound her. He spoke from his own place of hurt. A place of damaged pride, defensiveness. A visceral concern over their now-uncertain future. She knows her husband well. Too well. She’s intimately acquainted with the dark, angry corners of his warrior psyche. They’re the same attributes that helped him win at a competitive and dangerous sport against fierce and dedicated athletes from around the world. One didn’t come without the other. And right now Jon doesn’t have a physical outlet. She will speak to her father. Surely he’ll be able to do something. She won’t tell Jon. It’ll just humiliate him further. A wife needs to keep some secrets from her husband.
As she beeps the lock on her little BMW, a more sinister thought snakes into her mind.
Could Jon have been overplaying his anger this morning to distract her from the fact he’d been with a woman last night?
Again, Daisy shoves the twisted thought from her mind. She climbs into her car, pulls the seat belt across her round tummy, and starts the engine. But before pulling out, she quickly scrolls through the fresh batch of selfies on her photo roll.
She selects one and uploads it. She types in her hashtags and smiles to herself as she notices how she captured the sunlight sparking off the diamond pendant that hangs just below the hollow of her throat. A gift from Jon to celebrate their pregnancy. She sets her phone on the passenger seat and engages the gears.
We’re going to be fine, Little Baby Bean. We all are. This is just a blip. Challenges make life worthwhile. The only consistent thing is change.
As she is about to reverse out of her parking space, her phone pings. And again. And again. Responses to her Instagram post. Daisy cannot resist taking a quick peek. She craves the dopamine hit. Those little hearts of approval, the validation. She needs it. She grabs her phone, does a fast scroll through the comments:
OMG how do you look so good?
What’s your secret? Spill, girl!
Love that jacket!
Awesome photo.
Love love love Vancouver.
A month and a half to go! We’re counting down with you.
A contented, connected feeling swells through Daisy’s body. Her followers adore her photo. They approve of her life. Of her. She feels less alone. Less overweight. Less unattractive.
Can’t wait to see more preggers pics.
Another comment pops through. It stops Daisy in her tracks.
You’re nothing but the wife of the once-famous, washed-up JonJon Rittenberg.
Then another.
I SEE you @JustDaisyDaily. I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. Ticktock watch the clock. It’s followed by two googly eyes oscillating back and forth, followed by an exploding bomb.
Another pings through.
Hope your baby dies. DIEDIEDIEDIE little Rittenberg boy.
Her hand covers her mouth. She blinks. Then before she can even think, she deletes the awful comments. She notices a direct message has come through. She’s scared to look. Her hands tremble as she opens it.
It’s a GIF of a Chucky doll. Chucky clutches a knife. Chucky is covered in scars and blood. Chucky makes repeated stabbing motions with the blade—up down up down up down. The GIF is followed by text.
Chucky knows who Bad Mommy iz.
Chucky knows what Bad Mommy didz.
Die die die die Baby Bean die.
THE MAID’S DIARY
Last night was curtain call for The Three Lives of Mary. I will no longer wear the costumes of Mary, or be her in her different lives. I feel oddly empty. I should’ve gone out with the others to celebrate, but I asked Boon to tell them I was unwell. I came home alone instead. I know he’s worried about me. He has been since we scattered my mom’s ashes. He senses something. I haven’t told him about the new clients, though. He knows nothing about Rose Cottage. My silence says a lot—ordinarily Boon and I share pretty much everything about our lives. So what does this say, Dear Diary? I already know from my snooping that what people choose to hide from others tells you the most about them.
I did try to speak to Holly yesterday when I went into the office to collect my pay. She was busy. I lost my conviction and walked out.
Which means I am off to the Rittenbergs’ home today. I have missed my window to back out. I am now committed.
I wake up extra early, take some scraps out of the fridge to feed Morbid, the one-legged crow who visits me on my balcony, then I plop onto my sofa, peel open a red lollipop, stick it into my mouth, and fire up my iPad.
I have two hours before I must be at Rose Cottage.
I start with Facebook.
I can’t find an account for either Jon or Daisy Rittenberg. I open Instagram and search for “Daisy Rittenberg.” Guess what? “Daisy” plus “Rittenberg” is apparently a rare combo—try searching it yourself. Only two names pop up. The first is definitely not my Rose Cottage Daisy. The second is. While she has registered her account using her real name, she goes by the handle @JustDaisyDaily.
Sucking on my lollipop, I scroll quickly past the more recent posts （I’ll return to those later） until I come to a photo taken in Colorado. It shows Jon and Daisy Rittenberg sitting at a rustic picnic table on a massive wooden deck. They’re in the alpine, surrounded by snowcapped peaks and blue sky. A sign behind them says “Silver Aspens Ski Resort.” They both have deep tans. Both wear sunglasses. Beer bottles beading with droplets stand in front of them. They’re dressed in ski gear. I peer very closely at Jon.