Four Wives (33 page)

B
ILL DROVE THE CAR
while his wife stared out the window. Making his way through the winding roads of Hunting Ridge, past the mini-mansions, the perfect lawns, and pristine, white churches, their world had taken on an unreal feeling. Troy Beck, a man they’d known for years, was sleeping with Janie Kirk. Two homes, two picture-perfect families shattered. Still, it wasn’t the affair itself that held the sting. That was common enough in the world at large. It was the fact that it had happened
here.
There was so much money, such inordinate sums of money, and that money paid for more than the million-dollar homes, the outlandish trips, and private airplanes. That money had purchased a glass wall that stood around Hunting Ridge, protecting it from the unpleasantries of adultery, abuse, the slightest unhappi-ness. Men went to their jobs, women tended to the homes and the children’keeping everything just so. And while there was idle chatter about life’s problems’husbands wanting more sex, wives wanting more help’it was just that. Idle. The ones who acted on it, who actually crossed the line from acceptable complaining to admissions of extramarital desires packed their things and left. They’d heard about these couples from Marie, and through the local chains of gossip. But in the decade they’d lived in Hunting Ridge, no one they actually knew had strayed, or divorced’until tonight. And the repercussions were alarming.

“I just can’t believe this,” Love said, her eyes still gazing out the window.

Bill glanced at his wife, then turned back to the road. He wanted to press her about L.A., the meeting with her father, what had been decided. As much as he was concerned for Gayle, he wanted to know what was going to happen to them.

“Was she all right when we left?”

Love shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Reaching out for her, Bill placed his hand on Love’s shoulder. “Maybe she’s stronger than we think.”

“Maybe.”

As they pulled into the garage, Love felt the quiet resolve returning. So much had happened in L.A., the answer to questions finally found, though not at all as she had expected. Or hoped. All these years she had been ashamed. Now she was just bewildered’by her father, her mother, and with herself for not dealing with this years ago. How much time had she wasted, navigating her life through lies and misperceptions? How many decisions had been made in the midst of fear’decisions that had landed her right here, in this garage, about to reenter a life where the fate of four people rested in her hands? Foolishly, she had expected to feel transformed’as though knowing the truth about that night so many years ago could change everything. As she walked toward the door anticipating with joy the sight of her children in their beds, yet wondering how she would make it through the next day, she knew that no such miracle had taken place. She had run from the abuse of Pierre Versande into the safe arms of Bill Harrison, and she’d been running ever since.

“I’ll get your bag. You go on up,” Bill said, popping the trunk.

Love smiled at him. She went into the kitchen, paid the sitter, then walked her to the door. Taking the steps two at a time, she rushed up the stairs stopping first in the nursery. Baby Will was curled up on his stomach, little legs tucked under, thumb in mouth, butt high in the air. The burst of light from the hallway made him stir and open his eyes, just for a second. He sucked hard on his thumb, then drifted back off. Thinking how he would feel in her arms the next morning, Love pulled the blanket back over him, then gently touched his chubby cheek. She walked out softly, then closed the door, turning next to Henry and Jessica’s room. They, too, were lost in their dreams, Henry on his stomach clutching a Lego magazine, Jessica sprawled everywhere’arms, legs, every part of her open to the world. One by one, Love pulled blankets over her children and kissed their foreheads.

As she closed their door she heard Bill call up. “I’ll be right there.”

“No hurry,” Love answered. The truth was, she could use a few moments alone. He would want to know about the trip. He would be expecting answers. Was she reconciled with her father? Did seeing him again make her want something more? Was she going to disrupt their family, ruin their lives? But there were no answers to give. What
did
she know? That there was nothing to prove or disprove anymore. That she no longer wanted to go back in time, rewrite history, and claim the golden destiny she had been raised to covet. No’everything that went wrong in her life had led to something that was very right. Still, she thought about the coming weeks, the long summer days with all three children home from school. More than ever her life would be lived for them, and for Bill. There was nothing left to run from, but she could still feel herself in motion, perhaps running toward something instead.

Love walked the short distance to her bedroom, then opened the door. She turned on the light and stood there. The room was different. The bed was made, which was surprising, but it was more than that. In the corner was Bill’s small desk. For years, it had been an eyesore of clutter in a space too small to hide, and she had trained her eyes to ignore it. But today it drew her attention. Cleared of his paperwork, his loose change, myriad pens and pencils and other junk that accumulates in the pockets of men, there was nothing on the desk but a stack of brochures and a small lamp. Thinking through the implications, Love walked the few steps to the desk, and gave it further inspection. There were five brochures, catalogues from Columbia, NYU, Yale, Barnard, and Sarah Lawrence. All top rate universities within an hour of their home.

“I’ve been working at not being such an ass,” Bill said, standing in the doorway now with her bag.

Turning to face him, Love found herself without words. It was just a desk, and somewhere in this house, she knew she would find a box full of junk that would never get sorted out. Still, it was an act of love, a heroic act in the face of fear, which Love knew to be profound.

“There’s still time to enroll in some continuing-ed classes. Next year you could apply for the degree program.”

Walking over to her husband, Love cautiously wrapped her arms around his neck. It had been a long time since he’d felt her close to him, and for a moment Bill stood still, his arms at his side holding her suitcase.

“There are some things I need to tell you’things I’ve kept from you. I just don’t know how,” Love whispered, and the sound of her voice made him drop the bag.

“When you’re ready,” he said as he wrapped his arms gently around her back. And he held on, praying that he could do enough to make her want this life’and not just for the kids.

“So, what do you think about your desk?” he asked.

But Love was tired of thinking. Clearing the desk was a gesture, a grand gesture for a terrified man, but a gesture just the same. Whether they could afford a sitter and make the time for her to go back to school was yet to be seen. Love had no illusions that her life would suddenly give way to her need for more. Still, what she had in this moment was hope, and for that, she was grateful.

She rested her head on his shoulder, letting her body fall into his. Letting him hold her.

“I think I’m glad to be home,” she said.

T
HE LAST TRUCK PULLED
away just after one o’clock. Gayle made a final walk through the property to assess the damage. In the yard, stacks of tables and chairs lay on the grass. Bags and boxes of soiled linens were sprawled across the patio, along with crates of dirty dishes and glassware. The tent remained fully intact and would not be removed until the next afternoon. Gayle imagined that the raccoons would be very pleased with the remnants of the party. Still, there was nothing here that would not be gone come Monday.

Closing the last of the outside doors, Gayle switched off the lights, then moved room by room collecting stray glasses and plates from the guests who couldn’t help themselves from inspecting the inside of her house. The game room appeared to have attracted the most party strays, undoubtedly resulting from some sports event on the TV that the men couldn’t bear to miss. Thinking about the strangers who had roamed from the party, Gayle summed it up in her head.
Men watching sports, my good friend screwing my husband.
That was it, in a nutshell.

Walking the glasses back to the kitchen, Gayle added them to a tray, then left the tray by the door. Moving methodically through the downstairs, she closed down each room, turning off lights, shutting windows. When she was done, she moved with even steps up the staircase to her bedroom where Troy was waiting.

Still in his suit, her husband sat on their bed. With his legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed, and a defiant look on his face, Gayle could not help but stare in wonderment.

“You should know, Janie means nothing to me. It was just a stupid moment.”

Standing at the end of the bed, Gayle thought about his words carefully. There had been no apology, no remorse. And she wondered if any woman would be comforted by his admission. Was it really any better that he didn’t care about the woman?

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

His tone had changed. It was slight, but discernible, and she was, as she always was, paralyzed by the rage that was beginning to seep from his skin. Still, something had shifted within her. The agony of her life had surpassed the fear.

Her voice was unsteady, her mouth bone-dry. But she got the words out. “Please go down to the kitchen. I’ll be there in a few minutes. We can talk then.”

She watched his face, watched the blood flow into his cheeks. Then it changed again, taking on the appearance of a schoolboy who’d been sent to the principal’s office, and he slid off the bed and walked past her toward the door. That he had given her this much power over him was clearly unsettling the man as he struggled to find a way out. He’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar’now there would have to be some consequences. Gayle could almost hear his thoughts as he calculated how much he’d have to put up with before his punishment ended. Before he could turn the tables on her.

When he reached the kitchen, Troy Beck was not alone.

“What are you doing up?” Troy asked Celia, who was sitting on a bar stool in her pajamas.

“Ask your wife,” she said with disdain. Gayle had pulled her out of bed and summoned her to the kitchen as well.

They sat in silence, Troy not knowing how much Celia knew about the Janie Kirk situation, and Celia too tired to form a sentence. Finally, Gayle appeared. Changed from her dress into more casual attire, she was also carrying a large suitcase.

“Where are you going?” Troy asked, thinking through the scenarios.
Was she going to her mother’s house?For how long? Was she leaving?
A wave of panic shot through him. Everything he valued in his life was tied to this woman’his house, his job, the company car, his social status as a Haywood spouse. And, of course, his son.

“I’ve decided to make some staff changes. Celia, this is nothing personal, but I want to spend more time with Oliver. Now that he’s in school, I really don’t need you anymore. I’ll give you two weeks’ pay, but I’d like you to leave the house tomorrow.”

Celia looked at Troy with pleading eyes. This was a damned good job. But Troy knew a scapegoat when he saw one.

“Celia, I’m sorry. It’s Gayle’s decision,” he said, suddenly relieved.

But then she turned to him. “I’ve packed some of your things. I want you gone tonight.”

Troy felt a buzz in his head. The adrenaline was on full speed now as he looked at his wife, walking on shaky legs to the door where she laid down the suitcase.

It was a strange feeling to have his power so disrupted, but Troy was a survivor and his mind worked quickly, making deductions. This was nothing more than a ploy to gain some sympathy, contrition on his part. This was not the moment for taking the upper hand, and Gayle was grateful he saw it that way.

“Honey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I can see that I really hurt you.”

His words were hollow, the sentiment almost insulting. Gayle had been a lot of things she wasn’t proud of’weak, submissive, a willing victim. But she wasn’t stupid.

“That’s just it, Troy. I’m not hurt. That’s when I made the decision. When I saw you with Janie and didn’t care longer than five minutes.”

Standing beside her at the door, Troy took hold of her arms and found her eyes.

“Gayle, honey. Come on. Let’s talk this thing through.”

His grip was tight and it belied the softness of his voice, the pleading of his words. He was close to breaking now, she could feel it. She turned her head toward the kitchen and, finding Celia gone, felt the air leave her body. They were at the door. And although this was only the beginning of what would be a long road to remove him from her life, she was finally on it. It was this thought’this desperation to keep the momentum’that gave her the strength to carry on.

Her eyes were unwavering as they stood inches apart in the doorway, and Troy could see what had to be done.

She felt the hold on her arms loosen.

“All right. I’ll go, for now. But I’m coming back tomorrow to talk about all of this. You get a good night’s sleep.”

Gayle let him believe what he needed to believe to get him out the door. She handed him his keys, held the door for him while he picked up his suitcase and made his way down the walk to the driveway. Twice, he turned around, each time saying the same thing. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” But there would be no more talking, and no more tomorrows. Not for him. When his car pulled away, Gayle closed and locked the door, then walked straight past Celia, who had returned after hearing the car drive out.

“Leave an address on the counter. I’ll send your check and forward your mail.” Gayle didn’t stop as she spoke, instead letting her words trail behind her.

Upstairs she checked on Oliver. She hovered over him as he slept to kiss his cheek and pull up his blanket. Moving slowly, she knelt down to the floor and grabbed the bottle of pills from under his bed. Then she closed the door and headed for her room.

It was over now’the party, her marriage, and all of the structures she’d built around her life. Without Celia, her days would have to be reconstructed’around her son, the only one who ever mattered. None of this would be easy. Troy was fighting for his own life now, and he would come at her with everything he had. First, with his seductive apologies and pledges to be a good boy. But she didn’t want a boy. Not as her husband. And, like an irreverent child, he would then return with anger. She would change the locks, bolster the security system. It would be a long time before she would sleep through the night.

He would turn next to the relatives’her mother being first on the list. No Haywood had ever been divorced. Unhappy, yes. Unfaithful, yes. But not divorced. It was too messy to sort out, too expensive to divide the wealth. They would remind her of where she lived. Hunting Ridge was a married community. People moved in units of two. She would be the token outcast at the charity functions. Where would they seat her? Other couples would have to take sides, choose which one of them to befriend. Husbands would be cautious, disapproving of their wives being with her’just in case divorce turned out to be contagious. There were so many problems.

But none of that worried Gayle tonight. After years of being a pawn, of fearing the unknown should she stray too far from the party line, she was oddly relieved. As she had kneeled in the bathroom listening to her husband grope another woman, something had switched off inside her. Her mother, Dr. Ted, her New York friends, and country club acquaintances’she felt indifferent to the judgments they would invariably levy against her. Her thoughts were already a step ahead to the last battlefield Troy would take them to. Lawyers, lawsuits, accountants’the fight over Oliver and the money would be ugly. But in the end Troy would trade his son for a price, agree to weekend visits in exchange for a settlement. And Gayle would pay it.

The room was quiet. Troy was gone, and with him the anxiety that filled every room he occupied. With the door open, Gayle changed into sweats. She put away her clothes, then went to work packing up his. Boxes and suitcases were filled with every one of his belongings. Through the night, she worked to clear him out of her house and her life.

When she was done packing, the back hall was filled with luggage. It would not end here, she knew. There would be haggling over every wineglass, every television and car and painting. There would be moments of doubt, she told herself, as she made her way upstairs to her room. The intensity of tonight would give way to exhaustion, to fear. She walked into the bathroom where she’d left her pills on the counter. She thought about what her life might feel like without them. It had been years since she’d known, and it would take time to wean herself. But she would find someone to help her, she would use her name and her money to choose the best person for the job, and she would make it happen.

She washed her face, then dried off in the mirror, studying the lines that time had drawn. There had been so many years of unhappiness, of untruthfulness. Tonight was the first step back. Tonight, she had found a way out. And though she didn’t know where that life was headed, one thing was certain. The little boy in the sketch would fade away. It would take time, and she would be patient. She was determined. Her son would not live in the shadow of fear.