“I bet they’re sleeping together and she doesn’t want Steven to know,” Vero suggested.
“Maybe. Or maybe she wasn’t with Feliks that Tuesday at all. Maybe she was with someone else.”
“Then why not just come out and tell the police what she was doing? No, she’s definitely banging the Russian. You saw the way he looked at her. That kiss had I’m picturing you naked written all over it.”
I sifted through the contents of Feliks’s file: a signed agency agreement appointing Theresa to represent him in the purchase or lease of property, a bullet-point list of search criteria, a handful of addresses that had already been scratched out … Judging by the stack of listings and lot diagrams, he was shopping for land. The maps featured large rural parcels. The property lines had been highlighted in yellow with notes scribbled in the margins: too close to main roads, too many trees, too few trees, poor drainage, too many easements, too much slope … He’d rejected them all.
“I’m guessing they weren’t touring rolling country hills at nine o’clock on a Tuesday night.” I dropped the maps and rubbed my eyes. Maybe Vero was right.
“I’m telling you, they were probably screwing in the back of his fancy car.”
I wasn’t sure what was worse. That her deduction was plausible or what that meant for Steven. It’s not like I felt sorry for him. He was clearly entertaining himself with Bree at the sod farm. The more I learned about the hidden messes in their relationship, the more I was convinced Steven and Theresa deserved each other. And the less jealous I felt about what they had.
My thoughts ran to the photo of Theresa and her friend Amy. I wondered if that photo had been like the others she’d framed in her foyer at home—showcasing what she wanted everyone to see … if she and Amy were really best friends at all.
Vero bent over the yellow notepad, sifting for clues. She’d taken care of my kids like they were her own. She’d stood up to Steven and paid my bills. She’d read my manuscript because she liked it. She’d helped me bury a body, for Chrissake, and I didn’t have a single photo of us together. Maybe because I didn’t need to. Because we’d already proven whatever we needed to prove to each other.
“I kind of feel sorry for them,” I said.
“Who?”
“Steven and Theresa.”
Vero expelled a dry laugh. “You shouldn’t waste the energy. I have no idea what he sees in that woman anyway. I mean, aside from the obvious.”
I glanced down at my baggy T-shirt, at the aged yellow baby formula stains and the small tear in the hem. If I stripped it all down and stood in front of a mirror, I’d still be looking at a mom. The purple sleep-deprived shadows under my eyes told no lies. Neither did the holes in my practical cotton underwear or the thin silver stretch marks each of my children had left behind.
The first two times Julian asked me out, I’d been dressed like Theresa. I wondered if he would have been so interested at the gym yesterday if he’d known who I really was.
“What’s wrong?” Vero asked, pinching the toe of my sock.
“Why is it that guys fall for women like Theresa?” Why did men look at her the way Feliks had—like he was picturing her naked?
“Believe me. They wouldn’t if they could see past the successful blond bombshell to the disaster underneath.” That was exactly what I was afraid of. With a dispirited sigh, I tossed Feliks’s file on the floor. Vero scooped it up and handed me the yellow notepad. “Here, switch with me. Maybe we missed something.”
I skimmed the yellow sheets. The pages were full of chicken-scratch notes: lot numbers, addresses, hair appointments, grocery lists … I paused at a change in handwriting. Steven’s bulky block letters were immediately familiar.
T—
MEETING A CLIENT AT THE FARM. ZACH’S WITH ME. FINN HAD AN EMERGENCY. NEED YOU TO RUN OVER TO HER PLACE AND CLOSE UP THE GARAGE. POWER’S OUT. OPENER’S STUCK. TAKE AIMEE WITH YOU. YOU’LL NEED SOMEONE TO GRAB THE DOOR WHEN IT DROPS.
THANKS. I OWE YOU ONE.
He’d written this the morning I’d met with Sylvia. The morning I’d lost power at the house and the garage door wouldn’t close.
… she and Amy went over to your place on their way to lunch and closed the garage.
Not Amy. Aimee.
“His pictures…” I whispered.
Vero looked up from the notes she was studying. “Whose pictures?”
I leapt to my feet and dropped into my desk chair.