The New Husband (14 page)

Twenty-six hours and seventeen minutes after my father contacted me, I broke my promise to him. Well, in my reply back I didn't officially agree to keep the secret, but that was a technicality at best.

I decided to tell Ben, because I simply
had
to tell
someone
. If I didn't, I think I might have exploded, had some sort of freakish meltdown, gone all Exorcist (saw the movie on Netflix, super creepy!), and for sure my dad didn't want that to happen. I knew Ben could keep the secret the way I knew that one plus one equals two. Besides, I was basically doing what my dad asked by not telling Mom or Connor, who I think were his real concern. So Ben knew, my father didn't know I had told him, and I was fine with all my justifications.

I was with Ben in the library, working on a science lab that was worth 20 percent of our grade, which meant I was getting an A. Ben was as good at science as he was at math, not that I was any slouch. Together we formed an unstoppable team.

We used a basal thermometer and stopwatch to conduct our experiments on the effects stress had on body temperature. We had asked our test subjects (who included Mom, Connor, and Ben's parents—but not Simon) to rate their stress levels on a scale of 1 to 15. We then recorded their body temperatures (yes, we had the thermometer properly sanitized each time). Next, we asked our subjects to put a stack of mixed-up numbered pages one through fifty, in sequential order, on
a time limit. We told them to get as far as they could, as fast as they could, while a timer was counting down. Stressful, right? We then re-measured body temperature and recorded the results. Turned out that in most cases, stress did raise the body temp a few tenths of a degree.

We had charts and graphs and all that impressive-looking stuff. I was going to take it home, type up our conclusion, add some finishing touches, and 20 percent of our grade would be secure. But we were having a hard time focusing on the lab because my own stress was burning me up. I kept checking my phone every two seconds, hoping my dad (aka Tracy Nuts) had responded to the dozen or so messages I'd sent. All of my communications were variations on the same theme:
Dad is that you? Please message me back. Daddy I need to hear from you. I love you so much. Are you okay?

“Don't you think you should tell someone, like your mom, for instance?” Ben asked.

He had a Web browser open on the library computer, researching terms like “serotonin” and “hyperthyroidism,” looking to bolster our conclusion with the biological reason why our temps rise under stress.

“I can't,” I said. “He was really, really specific about it. It's bad enough I told you.”

I showed Ben the Talkie to Me request he'd sent as a reminder.

“And you're sure it's him?”

It was a bit embarrassing to share my dad's goodnight routine with Ben, but it was proof, or so I thought.

“My parents say stuff to me like that,” he revealed, sensing my discomfort.

I hated that now I was suddenly filled with doubt.
What if it was a trick?

“So, what are you going to do?” Ben asked.

“I'm going to wait for him to contact me. I can't risk it,” I said, sick to my stomach at the thought of losing my father again.

“Why do you think he doesn't want you to tell your mom or Connor?”

“Connor is easy,” I said. “He'd blab to Mom for sure. He couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it. Dad knows that.”

“So why not your mom?”

“That's the big question,” I said, feeling frustrated. “I don't know. He must have done something bad, something that forced him to go into hiding.”

Ben clicked through links about human anatomy, absorbing information at the speed of a computer. “Any ideas?”

“He was having an affair. Maybe something about her?”

I wished more than anything that I had the answer. I mean, what could make a devoted father, one who had kids who loved him, a wife who loved him, a great dog, and a great life, up and leave it? Not a word good-bye. Nothing. I said all this to Ben and we tried to piece it together.

“Let's make a list,” he suggested.

And so we did.

1. The other woman.
   
2. Dad's bank job.
   

That was it, that was the extent of our list.

“Not very helpful,” said Ben, looking it over.

“Not at all,” I agreed. “Why not just run away? Why this whole elaborate setup with Daisy in the boat, cutting himself with a knife to make it look like some kind of fatal accident or something?”

“Maybe there was another person involved. Maybe he got cut in a fight, but maybe something worse happened to the other guy … or girl.”

“Gross! So my dad's a murderer? You think he killed that waitress he was seeing?” I was horrified at the thought.

“We don't know, is all I'm saying,” said Ben. “And anyway, let's say he committed some crime, something really terrible, maybe related to his bank job, maybe not—why reappear now?”

“Maybe he knows we're in danger,” I said. “Maybe he's been secretly tracking us, and he knows Simon is some kind of freak.”

As if summoned by magic, Simon came strolling into the library, hands clasped behind his back, looking real casual. He came over as if there was nothing wrong, like that dumb family meeting had fixed all our problems.

“Hey there, Maggie. Hi, Ben,” he said, talking in that hushed library tone that wasn't nearly as quiet as people thought it was. “Happy accident running into you two. Say, do you have a few minutes to chat since we're both here?”

“Sure,” Ben said, for some reason thinking he was a part of the discussion Simon wanted to have.

“Actually, Ben and I are doing our lab report for science,” I said, spitting out the words, concocting some half-baked reason on the fly. “It's a huge project, worth twenty percent of our grade, so—”

So go away … so no, so I don't want to talk to you.

The teacher part of Simon understood the significance; the other part of him pretended to care.

“What's your report about?” he asked.

Of course, Ben told him. He even talked about hyperthyroidism.

“Very interesting,” said Simon. “Listen, Ben, could I have a minute alone with Maggie? Would you mind?”

Ben grew noticeably uncomfortable, because he knew I would be uncomfortable, but he didn't know how to get either of us out of it.

“Um … um … um…” he stammered.

“It's okay,” I said, coming to his rescue. “I'll take this home and finish it up. I know what to do. Just give me that paragraph on serotonin or whatever before the end of the day.”

Ben got up from his seat, hurriedly collected his things, and left with a wave good-bye.

When he was gone, Simon said, “So, Maggie, I've been thinking a lot about what happened and I can't apologize enough for what I did. I was out of line and feel really stupid about it.”

His words were kind, but his eyes were cold.

“That's okay,” I told him, thinking maybe that would be enough and he'd go, but no, he stayed.

“I … I just…” Like Ben, he was struggling for the right words. “This hasn't been easy.”

And I thought:
The understatement of the year award goes to …

“I'm trying really hard here, but for whatever reason I keep messing up.”

“It's fine,” I said. “I broke your musket. We're even.”

Not even close, but whatever. Winker.

“Forget about that, sweetheart,” he said. “I just want this to work out for all of us.”

And I wanted to scream:
Did you just call me sweetheart?
What was next?
Pumpkin? Oh. My. God. Please, please, please, just go away.
I was about to lie about needing to get to class when my phone buzzed. I glanced at it, naturally, even though Simon was still pouring his heart out to me, repeating his excuse about how teaching children and living with them wasn't the same thing. When my eyes went to the phone display, my heart leapt to my throat. I'd received a new Talkie to Me message from Tracy Nuts.

“So what can we do to make it easier on everyone, especially your mom?” Simon asked. “I've been thinking maybe we should start family counseling.”

I only half heard him. All I wanted to do was open that message from my dad. I wanted to see it, read it, touch it. My head and heart hurt with a desperate need, but I didn't want to do anything to clue Simon in.

I knew my own weakness well, and if I broke down in tears in front of him, he'd ask questions, and that could lead to problems. It destroyed me to wait even a fraction of a second. Maybe my father wanted to chat—right now, online—and this was our only moment. Maybe the police were closing in on him (for reasons unknown) and this was it, our last chance to communicate before he vanished again for good.

I held my breath, tried to block out the images of my dad sitting in a car, or at a park, or somewhere, clutching his phone, eyes glued to the screen, sirens blaring in the background, and him going, “Come on, Maggie. Where are you? Where are you? I have to say good-bye. I have to tell you one last time how much I love you and how sorry I am for everything.”

“It's fine,” I blurted out, my legs bouncing like I had ants crawling on my skin. “Talk to Mom about it, okay? I don't know. I … I have to go.” I gathered up my papers and books as fast as I could.

“I just want us to be friends,” Simon said.

“Yeah, okay,” I said, and off I ran, out of the library and into the hallway, bringing my phone to my face.

I opened the Talkie app and tapped on Dad's message, reading while walking.

Sweetheart it's me. Have your phone available Monday at noon. I'll have a few minutes to chat online with you. I'll tell you what I can, but I can't tell you everything.

It's never going to end with Maggie and Simon,
Nina thought glumly as she arrived at Dr. Wilcox's office for her afternoon therapy session. The big family meeting from the night before had produced a tense truce, but little more. Simon had told Nina in a brief phone conversation earlier in the day that he'd spoken with Maggie at school and tried apologizing again. He thought he'd made some progress, but said she was acting oddly, really distracted, visibly upset by something. He didn't get the sense it was related to him.

“I'm really worried about her,” Simon said, and suggested to Nina that she and Maggie have a heart-to-heart conversation.

That was probably sage advice, thought Nina. Despite Rona's assurance about a gentle ramp-up period, the work had been piling up at a steady rate. Perhaps Simon was right to think Maggie didn't like the competition for her mother's attention.

As much as Nina wanted to get home to help sort it out, she had a more pressing need that required Dr. Wilcox's expertise.

Hours ago, Nina had wrapped up her first home visit since resuming her career—a trip to Wendy Cooper's house to conduct a formal assessment for the custody hearing. While it was an extremely productive session, it had also dredged up feelings she desperately needed to discuss.

“So what was it about the home visit that has you so on edge?” Dr. Wilcox asked, parroting Nina's words back to her.

Nina mulled this over a moment. “Wendy was lovely and the kids were great,” she said. “There were no red flags. I didn't sense anything amiss.”

“But—” Dr. Wilcox correctly guessed there was more.

“But even though I was there as an impartial professional, I couldn't help but reflect on my marriage. I wondered if my story was somehow similar to Wendy's. I mean, her big complaint was that her soon-to-be-ex, Michael, was a workaholic, which was Glen's MO as well.”

“It's natural for anyone to make comparisons and look for parallels to their life experience. Did you pick up on other similarities between you and Wendy?”

Nina nodded. “For sure. The kids came to Wendy for everything—a glass of water, help finding the TV clicker, help with homework. We were probably interrupted five or six times for this or for that. But I didn't think anything of it until after I left, because that was my life, too. I was the go-to person in the family for everything and Glen would breeze in and out when his work commitments allowed. I know it's a common story, but it definitely caused tension in my marriage, Wendy's, too, but what's strange for me, and I guess what I wanted to talk about today, is that it actually made me think of Simon. I kind of have the reverse problem with him. It's like I'm the workaholic, even though I'm not anything like Glen, or Michael Cooper, from what Wendy described.”

“Can you say more on that?”

Nina gave it some thought.

She was reticent to admit it aloud, but if ever there was a safe place to share, it was here. “I guess…” She cleared her throat. “I guess, lately, this tension between us, over my job mainly, it's made me feel a little more uneasy about my decision to move in with Simon.”

Dr. Wilcox's brow furrowed. “Why do you think that is?”

“I'm not sure,” Nina said. “I knew getting married, even engaged,
would be too much change too fast for Maggie and Connor, for me as well, but honestly I didn't think Simon living with us would create so many challenges. He keeps saying my working is bad for Maggie, but I get the feeling it bothers him for some other reasons.”

“Maybe those insecurities of his.”

“Maybe. And on top of all that, my good friends, Ginny and Susanna, are upset with me because I'm not seeing them nearly as much as I used to—dinner plans, movie plans, all canceled at the last minute. I know they blame Simon for it, but there's always a valid excuse.”

Nina told Dr. Wilcox about the most recent incident, when Simon bought theater tickets as a surprise for the same night she had had dinner reservations with her friends.

Simon had been upset about the conflict, but told Nina to go to dinner if that was her preference. Of course she couldn't go; it didn't seem right, and those tickets were expensive. But finding a new date to get together with her friends was proving to be a bit of a chore.

“It seems I'm always canceling plans with them,” Nina lamented. “And my new job isn't helping matters any.”

“Have you talked to Simon about it—his issues with your work, your friends' concerns?” asked Dr. Wilcox.

“No, because I'm sure he'd deny it all. He'd say he was happy I was working again and that Ginny and Susanna were overreacting. I know he means well.”

“Good intentions don't preclude your feelings. Perhaps now would be a good time for Simon to come in and we could meet together, or separately if he'd prefer.”

Dr. Wilcox's suggestion made Nina cringe. It seemed incredibly indelicate to bring this to Simon now that he, not Glen, was the focus of these sessions.

“You're hesitant for him to come here,” Dr. Wilcox said after a brief silence.

Nina thought of several lies she could tell but opted instead for the truth. “I haven't told him I'm seeing you,” she confessed.

“Really? Why not?”

Nina explained that she didn't want Simon to think she wasn't perfectly happy with him, or saddle him with doubts at the start of their new life together.

“It sounds to me, Nina, like what you're really confessing here are your own doubts.”

“I can't afford to make another mistake with a man,” Nina admitted.

“We've talked about this before, but let me ask again. Have you learned more about Simon's past, his family?”

Perhaps this was at the root of her mounting anxiety. Therapy was a magical thing, and Dr. Wilcox had helped reveal something Nina had tried to deny. The shock and wounds she'd suffered with Glen made it impossible to feel totally comfortable with Simon, and his newly revealed insecurities around her job were compounding the issues.

“There's not much on his family other than what I told you—father was strict, ex-military, rule oriented.” Nina didn't go into Simon's fixation about the tree branches, and how his upbringing probably played a role in that obsession. “And from what Simon's told me, aside from her depression, his mother was a very kind, loving, stay-at-home mom. Both his parents sadly died when he was in his twenties.”

A slim shadow crossed Dr. Wilcox's face. “Of what?”

“Ovarian cancer for his mom, and a heart attack for his dad a few years after. Simon says his dad died of a broken heart.”

Dr. Wilcox's tight smile acknowledged the bittersweet sentiment.

“What about other family?”

“He was an only child,” Nina said. “And I think there was animosity with extended family on both sides after his parents died. Bad blood from settling two estates. He hasn't been in contact with any of them for years, and he doesn't talk about it much.”

“Not the first time that's happened. Death is easiest for the deceased. What about his past relationships? Do you know much about them?”

“No. Allison, his first wife, ran off, Emma killed herself, and that's all I know.”

“Any photographs?”

“Of Allison, no,” Nina said. “After she left him, Simon had a meltdown of sorts and burned all their photographs, thinking that would somehow ease his pain. All gone. Up in smoke.” Nina raised her hands as though they were the smoke rising.

“And Emma?”

Simon might have had a photo album with Emma's picture in it, or a digital archive somewhere, but she imagined how that conversation would go:

“Hey sweetie, do you have photos of your dead wife I could look at? I'd like to have a peek at her. Get to know her because—well, well…”

She didn't find it unusual that Simon hadn't shared Emma's picture with her. It wasn't like Nina went around flaunting photographs of all her ex-boyfriends for Simon's benefit. Sometimes the past was the past, and opening doors served no purpose other than opening wounds. Emma's death had shattered Simon, and she could think of no good way to explain why she wanted him to relive that pain.

Nina explained all that for the benefit of her therapist.

“I see. No wonder you're feeling … unsettled. You have the stresses surrounding Glen and now a new man in your life who isn't a completely clear picture to you. It's difficult to know where his insecurities about your job, time with your friends, and all that come from, which naturally would bring up questions for you. I think you should come in together, or it would be fine if you want to find a couples counselor for a fresh start on your own. Either way, there are concerns here worth exploring in depth.”

Nina folded her hands on her lap, no doubt a defensive posture, because Dr. Wilcox had just sunk an arrow into the heart of the matter. It was all about trust—trusting herself, trusting a new man who had been nothing but kind to her and the children. Wendy Cooper had been a mirror of sorts, and thanks to Dr. Wilcox, that reflection was now a bit clearer.

On her drive home, Nina ruminated on her session. Now that
she was seeing things more clearly, a thought struck her hard. It was understandably hard to trust fully in the face of so many questions, so much missing information. Maybe, to Dr. Wilcox's point about unresolved feelings, it wasn't just Simon she had to better understand, but Glen as well. Maybe clearing that ghost would make it easier to clear the way for a new beginning with Simon.

Wendy had gone to great lengths to show Nina how capable she was at mothering compared to Michael, whom Nina would observe with Chloe and Chase at some point in the coming weeks. Had Nina gone to similar lengths to show herself as the more competent parent—the parent to seek out for approval, direction, and affection? Had Glen come to resent her for it? Who knows?

But the question did leave Nina wondering. What if Glen had confided in Teresa about his wife? Was it possible something he had shared might give Nina answers about his thinking back then, some concrete reasons for his erratic and completely uncharacteristic behavior? She had to know, desperately wanted to know, what role she had played, if any, in his destructive choices.

She thought of calling Ginny or Susanna to talk it through but didn't want to get an earful about the latest plans she'd canceled on them.

But there was another call she could make.

Pulling over on the side of the road, Nina used her phone to look up the number of the Muddy Moose. It was worth a shot, she told herself. Maybe she could track down the woman at the center of it all and get herself some real answers.

A female voice answered her call. Nina presented herself as a friend of Teresa's who had just moved back to town and wondered if she knew how she might get in touch with her.

“Well, you could show up here Monday afternoon,” the woman said. “Teresa's scheduled to work. Can I tell her who's calling?”

Nina couldn't believe her ears. Teresa was “gone, gone,” from what the bartender had told her way back when, as in never coming back to Carson.

She had called the Muddy Moose thinking she might get a lead on the waitress's whereabouts, not her damn work schedule. Could she be back with Glen? Had Glen emerged from the shadows to resume living his double life? Is that what had pulled Teresa out from wherever she'd been hiding? Nina's pulse spiked, pondering the possibilities. A plan formed in her head, one that cut through the initial confusion with razor sharpness.

“No need to say who's calling,” Nina said. “Better if it's a surprise.”