How Luca went from me to Merritt is a mystery I intend to solve—if only for the sheer curiosity of it.
“You have your phone, right?” Delphine points to my jacket pocket, referring to the prepaid wireless flip phone she gifted me two days ago.
“I do. Thanks for the reminder.” I pull it out to show her. I don’t yet have the number memorized, but Delphine said it had three sevens in it, which meant it was lucky. “Not used to carrying one of these.”
She places her hand over mine. “Text me when you want me to pick you up, okay? I programmed my number in there so you’d have it.”
The motherly tone in her voice almost shatters my heart for a myriad of reasons, but I force the sensation away. This isn’t the time or the place to get emotional.
“Good luck, angel.” Delphine squints at the exterior of my husband’s well-lit look-at-me abode, and her lips tuck down at the corners.
I almost question whether she’s getting bad vibes, until I realize how ridiculous that sounds. I’ve been spending way too much time in Woo-Woo World.
Making a mad dash for the front door, I skip over puddles in my holey shoes and seek cover under their front stoop. Clearing the tightness from my throat, I press the doorbell and then rest my ice-block hands in my pockets.
The moment of truth awaits.
My fingertips quiver, and my knees weaken.
Memories of the last time I saw my husband flood my mind.
I’m not the same person I was when he knew me.
We’re strangers now.
I tug my hood down and fix my hair. I want to look decent, but not too decent. I don’t want to underplay all the terrible things I’ve gone through. I don’t want to seem too well adjusted—because I’m anything but. I deserve all the sympathy and compassion my husband has to offer, and I won’t feel a sliver of guilt.
He’s the reason I survived.
And the only reason I’m standing here.
The door swings open, and warm air floods the stoop, enveloping me like an invisible hug.
“Lydia, hi. Come on in.” It’s only Merritt.
My heart lurches from unmet anticipation. If it could come out of my body, it’d have landed in a wet plop at my feet.
She steps out of the way, her floral silk kimono billowing with each graceful sway of her pregnant hips. Jet-black leggings cover her long legs and a tight, white maternity tank top conceals her protruding bump. Her shampoo-commercial mane has been curled, and when she smiles, I spot a hint of lipstick on her mouth. A nude pink. Brushing past me, she leaves a faint trail of department store perfume.
I envision her standing in her fancy bathroom, fussing with her hair and slicking on a tasteful coat or two of lipstick—but it doesn’t seem logical. This isn’t the kind of thing a person dresses up for. Then again, she strikes me as the nervous type. Maybe this is her way of getting a handle on some aspect of the situation?
She can’t control what’s about to happen to her life, but at least she can look pretty . . .
Or maybe she wants to assert her place in the hierarchy.
The beautiful one.
The refined one.
The one who bears the literal fruit of his loins.
“I’m so sorry.” She closes the door behind me. I wipe my feet on a pristine jute mat that looks like it’s never been used a day in its life. “Luca’s flight was delayed. He’ll be home any minute, though.”
Mellow music plays from speakers—the kind you’d expect someone to play while entertaining the neighbors over platters of expensive meats, aged cheeses, and olives.
Her anxiety is showing.
Straight ahead is some kind of family room with a wall of windows pointing toward the ocean. It’s dark now, but I imagine the view is breathtaking—with the kind of price tag that steals the air from your lungs if you’re not prepared for it.
A beautiful house for his beautiful wife . . .
I’d heard my husband was doing well for himself, but I didn’t realize he was doing this well.
All those years I spent sleeping on a dirt floor with a ratty sheet, layers of zip ties digging into the flesh around my ankles, my husband was sleeping safe and sound, living in a cushy lap of luxury in a seaside estate fit for a prince . . .
No one ever said life was fair, but this is downright cruel.
Merritt wanders to the window by the door, rising on her toes and peeking beyond the curtains, one hand on her belly. “Let me just text him and see how far away he is.”
“Does he know about me?”
I was hoping I’d be the one to deliver the good news.
Glancing up from her bright screen, she shakes her head. “No. He doesn’t.”
“So . . . you didn’t tell him I was going to be here when he got home?” I feel the need to ask again because the Luca I know loathes surprises. One would think being married to him, she’d know that.
Either way, I’m too excited to be upset. In fact, I’m so swollen with anticipation I could burst at my seams.
“Ordinarily I wouldn’t spring something so heavy on him, but he’s got a lot on his plate right now,” she says with a tone marinated in sympathy. Does she truly care about him, or is she putting on airs? Time will tell. “I just wanted him to focus on getting home safely.”
Her phrasing leads me to think she’d expect him to drive like a bat out of hell to get home if he knew what was waiting for him.
The butterflies in my center work themselves into a nauseating frenzy.
I can’t wait to see his face when he walks in the door.
Every second until then is torture.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MERRITT
Luca texts me back within seconds—he’s fifteen minutes away.
I feel awful unloading this on him without warning, and I know he isn’t the biggest fan of surprises, but selfishly, I want to catch the expression on his face when he sees Lydia again. I want to gauge the gaze in his dark eyes. And I need to hear the first words out of his mouth.
They’ll tell me everything I need to know.
“Are you hungry?” I gesture toward the kitchen. “I can make you a sandwich?”
I need to make up for the other night, for shutting the door in her face. I don’t believe I was in the wrong, given her appearance and the way she showed up on my doorstep so late, but knowing now that she’s been through something unspeakable has somewhat softened my reservations.
“I hope turkey’s okay . . .” I move first in hopes that she’ll follow, and I catch a whiff of my Kilian perfume on the way. It’s always tradition to dress up for Luca when he returns from the airport. We usually have a mini date night, something to keep the romance alive and lift our spirits. Tonight will, understandably, be different, but I didn’t want to look the way I feel—it would only worry him.
Lydia follows me to the kitchen, her damp sneakers faintly marking the freshly washed hardwood floors from the front door to the marble island.
A moment ago, I was taken aback by her petiteness in our double-height foyer. It visually swallowed her whole. In all my curious wonderings, I’d never once thought about her elfin figure. But I recall, now, the “missing” posters describing her small stature. Five foot one. A hundred pounds. It’d be easy to overpower someone of her meek build—assuming that’s what happened.