At nearly 2:00 A.M., the Bishops’ place should be cloaked in shadows and completely still. But a glow illuminates one of the second-story rooms. I squint and glimpse the form of a person moving around inside.
Which one of them can’t sleep?
Insomnia can grip us for many reasons: stress, guilt, fear, and rage are among them.
An uneasy mind is difficult to quiet.
CHAPTER FOUR
MARISSA
MARISSA WINCES AS THE empty glass shatters against the terra-cotta tiles of the kitchen floor.
“Damn,” she mutters, grabbing a paper towel and bending down to pick up the shards. Too much coffee and too little sleep have made her jittery.
“Mom,” Bennett says. “That’s a dollar for the curse jar.”
Technically, she feels the word is only a borderline swear, but she isn’t going to debate this with her eight-year-old. She scans the floor, knowing she has probably missed a few sharp slivers, as she hears the rush of water abruptly cease one floor up. On typical mornings, Matthew showers while she applies moisturizer and makeup, the two of them discussing the day’s logistics: whether he’d be home for dinner that night, or if they should repaint the dining room. Ever since their session with Avery, though, her husband has been sleeping in the guest room and avoiding the master bathroom until she is downstairs.
Marissa reaches for another glass and fills it with freshly squeezed grapefruit juice, then glances at the spelling list on the counter.
“Song,” Marissa prompts Bennett, who sits atop a kitchen stool, eating Kashi cereal topped with fresh blueberries, which he seems to be pushing aside with his spoon.
“S-O-N-G.”
“Perfect.” Marissa turns the turkey bacon sizzling on the stove. “How about strong?”
She keeps quizzing Bennett on the -ong words as she sprinkles a quarter cup of grated Gruyère in the omelet she is preparing. Usually breakfasts such as these are reserved for Matthew’s birthday, Father’s Day, and the occasional lazy Sunday. But this is the third day of her efforts to make amends.
It has been easy to follow Avery’s instructions and avoid talking about their session because Matthew has barely been home.
She hopes his silent fury is beginning to burn out.
“Wrong,” Marissa prompts Bennett as Matthew’s footsteps approach the kitchen. Marissa slides the omelet onto a plate alongside three slices of bacon and sets it down on the counter, then turns to greet her husband: “Good morning.”
“Hey, guys!” Matthew’s voice is jovial, but he turns his back to her as he ruffles Bennett’s hair. “I’m driving you in today, kiddo. Run and grab your backpack.”
“You are?” Marissa asks as Matthew grabs a single slice of bacon. She always takes their son to school; Matthew doesn’t even know the car-pool rules. “You need to drop him off at the south—”
“We’ll figure it out. I’ll wait for him in the car.”
Bennett reappears in his coat with the backpack that always looks so big on his narrow shoulders. She hugs him, holding on a moment longer than usual and breathing in the scent of the tangerine-vanilla shampoo she just started carrying in her boutique.
“Bye!” she calls out, watching as he climbs into the back seat of Matthew’s Land Rover.
During the ten seconds her husband spent in her presence, the welcoming ambience she’d carefully cultivated—the brewing coffee, the bouquet of violet hydrangeas on the counter—was irrevocably altered.
“I love you,” she says, even though she knows neither of them can hear her.
Marissa remains perfectly still at the window in the suddenly silent kitchen, watching, until the car disappears from view.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Marissa slides her key into the lock of her boutique and the door glides open. She steps inside Coco and inhales a slow, grounding breath.
The landscape of her personal life is jagged and frayed, but all the pieces in this intimate, elegant space are in place. Located just a few miles from their home, across the D.C. line, the boutique carries a medley of luxury goods: everything from antimicrobial, cushioned yoga mats to baby-soft cashmere hoodies—items her customers didn’t even know they needed until they became cherished possessions.
She can hear her lone employee, Polly, in the back room, unpacking the boxes, which arrive several times a week from far-flung locations, containing hand-painted trays from Santa Fe, or wildflower honey from Vermont, or fragrant bath salts from Paris. Usually, Marissa doesn’t get into the boutique until after 9:00 A.M. But Matthew’s surprise declaration left her with an extra forty-five minutes that would have been spent taking Bennett to school. She’d felt too unmoored to stay in their home alone.