He sure didn’t sound happy, and he sure wasn’t screwing his new wife, not from the keyboard.
I couldn’t resist responding.
Why are you emailing me a nonsensical diatribe on your wedding night? I typed. You sound unbalanced. Maybe you should see a therapist.
I hit send with a flourish, then bent down to kiss the cute little heart on my dog’s nose. He wagged his tail.
Today was the best day I’d had in months. Months. Today, I hadn’t been a woman scorned. I’d been one of the Furies, a goddess of retribution and vengeance.
It was wicked fun.
CHAPTER 15
Lillie
Did you put a knife in my suitcase?” Brad barked over the phone the next afternoon when I was at work.
“What?” I said, genuinely shocked.
“I’m being held by TSA at Logan because you put a knife in my suitcase!” he yelled.
Wow. Hats off to the person who did that. My sister, maybe, in a gesture of loyalty? “What kind of knife?” I asked.
“A Swiss Army knife!”
“Are you feeling homicidal again?” I asked, hoping a TSA agent was listening in.
“No! Of course not! Now we’re going to miss our flight.”
Poor, poor thing. “I’m at work, Brad,” I said. “Please don’t call me unless there’s an emergency involving our son.” I hung up.
“Trouble in paradise?” Wanda asked, looking up from the computer.
“He’s being detained at TSA and thinks it’s my fault.”
“Such a jerk.” She paused. “Is it your fault?”
“No, but I kind of wish it was. Hey, did you check Heidi? She had some cramping.”
“Yeah. We’re keeping an eye on it, but I won’t be surprised if she delivers at home again.” Heidi had had her first baby on the beach; this was her fourth, and to say she was a champion pusher would be an understatement. Her last child had taken all of two contractions and one push. I’d just been glad the baby hadn’t been born in the produce aisle, as Heidi had just been grocery shopping an hour before.
Speaking of groceries, I needed to drive down to Orleans to get some food. Cooking for one was hard. I hated throwing away food, so my father was eating a lot of leftovers these days.
But first, an errand. I took the long way to Orleans. In other words, I drove to Bralissa’s house. Still no security cameras. Dummies. I mean, breaking and entering was almost nonexistent on Cape Cod, at least in these parts, but I had thought they’d take me into consideration. They had only the alarm, something Hannah had confirmed.
I may not have put a knife into Brad’s suitcase—the thought of him being interrogated and, I hoped, cavity searched gave me a shudder of pleasure—but I was about to rain on their little slice of heaven （again）。
Nikki Demeter, who owned the cleaning service that did Stella Maris, had given me the new code to the house. Her husband had left her, too, and now lived in North Carolina with his second wife and their newborn twins. I parked in my hidden spot and walked right up to the front door. No other cars in the driveway or garage. My intel （Louis, one of the security guards they’d hired for the wedding and who had ridden the school bus with me） had informed me that Ophelia was staying with Vanessa and Charles in Orleans.
The thought of the Fairchilds’ house, where I’d once been so welcomed and loved, gave me a pang. I’d never go into Vanessa’s kitchen again. Never sit on their porch and sip coffee. Charles would never welcome me with the words “There she is!” when I came into their house. Two years ago, when he’d had a heart attack, I was the one who talked to the doctors, oversaw his rehab and new diet. The one who’d given him a sponge bath on his third night in the hospital to spare him the indignity of being washed by a stranger.
Those two had been my family, but they sure had been able to drop me in an instant, hadn’t they?
I walked down the slate path to Melissa and Brad’s front door, punched in the code and went inside. I hadn’t really taken a good look around when I let Flower out, too worried about being caught.
It was stunning. White everything, floor-to-ceiling windows, posh midcentury furniture. Beautiful artwork . . . I recognized some pieces from Left Bank Gallery and Long Pond Arts. Gerry and Elsbeth Smith, who owned Long Pond Arts, were happily married, and they’d been together for, what, forty years? They held hands so sweetly when they walked down Main Street.
I had thought that would’ve been Brad and me. Guess not. Already, there were pictures of Brad and Melissa displayed. My heart cramped. After all this, I would not have taken him back if he crawled on Legos, but seeing him in these frames with another woman . . . that was where I used to be.