Now
Sunday, August 15
Woodstock, New York
The call came the moment I opened the door to the rental, still reeling from my meeting with Willa.
George. I held the phone in my palm, considered ignoring it, but on the off chance there was an issue with Alex, I felt I had to answer.
“Hello,” I said.
“Mary.” George’s voice was warm, open, every hint of anger and antagonism drained from it, like a sponge squeezed out.
“Is Alex okay?”
“He’s fine,” he said. “That’s not why I’m calling.”
The line hung blank for a moment, and then: “We need to talk,” he said. “I was too rash this morning. I thought when you let me sleep over, that meant . . .” His voice trailed off. “But I’ve been thinking, maybe you’re right, about all of this. This whole last year. I made so many mistakes. I want to fix everything.”
“What do you mean? How would you even—”
“Let me come over tomorrow,” he said. “I’d ask you over here, but Henry’s place is being renovated, and it’s a mess. I can fix this, Mary. I can give you what you want.”
“What I want?”
“What started all this. Her jewelry. You can give it back to her yourself.”
“It’s—it’s with you? Now?”
“No, but I’ll get it. Fuck Henry. I’m tired of cleaning up his messes at the expense of my own family. I’m tired of listening to him—to all of them—instead of trusting you. I just have to get some things in order first. I can come around eleven. Noon, latest.”
“It’s not just the jewelry, George. It’s . . . everything. You never let me make a decision. You never even let me have my own voice. You . . . you punish me every time I go against you. You messed with my work. Do you know how scary that is? The thought that you could, would, destroy my career just because you wanted to?”
A pause on the line, and I found tears in my eyes. They were words I’d wanted to say to him for so long, had never found a way to.
George’s voice was tender when he finally responded. “I know, Mary. You’re right, about everything. I wasn’t raised with the best influences. I was raised to get my way . . . always. It’s not an excuse, I know, but it’s the way it was. And I want to change that. I want to loosen up. I want to listen to you. I want to make all of this right, starting with this. Please.”
The tears spilled down my cheeks, because they were words I’d dreamed of, words I’d never, ever expected—not coming from him.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay. I have something to do at ten, but by eleven, I should be back to the rental. But this doesn’t mean—”
“I know, Mary, I know. It doesn’t fix everything, but it’s a start, isn’t it? I’m going to make this up to you, as best I can,” George said, taking a quick sharp breath.
“At least, I’m going to try.”
I woke just after eight the next morning, full to the brim with nerves.
George would be here in hours. George would be here with Cassandra’s jewelry. We had been fighting about it so long, I could hardly believe that he was actually going to relent, that I was going to have the chance to make things right with Cassandra.
I showered, tidied up the rental, in disarray from the day before, and unpacked my suitcases. Then I drove to the preschool for the tour, spent an hour listening to a chipper woman who looked like she could front a Grateful Dead cover band show me Montessori-style learning centers, an art room, a toddler meditation space, and acres and acres of property where the kids could run. I tried to focus on the gorgeous all-wood playground, the coop where the kids helped raise chickens, the sheet of numbers she handed me, detailing tuition costs (still steep, but better, by far, than Brooklyn), early-bird registration, and sibling discounts. It was no use, of course. My mind was only on George. On what today would bring.
On whether I could believe my husband when he said he really wanted to change.
It was eleven fifteen by the time I pulled back in front of my rental. George was nowhere to be seen.
For a moment, I wondered whether he’d changed his mind. Was this whole thing another charade, a lie, a game? Was he screwing with me? But he’d said he’d come by noon, at the latest, so I forced myself to take a breath, to wait.
Eleven fifteen turned to eleven thirty, eleven forty-five, noon, and then twelve fifteen.
I called him then, his phone ringing endlessly. And again fifteen minutes later. Fifteen minutes after that. Finally, at one thirty, I’d had enough. He couldn’t toy with me like this. Make promises, get my hopes up, and then not show up.
Besides, if he had that jewelry, I wanted it. Before he changed his mind, decided to align himself with Henry again.
Quickly, I googled Henry’s address here in Woodstock again, found it in my maps.
I walked up to Tinker Street, then up a block until I hit Waterfall Way, taking a left. I wandered past a creek and waterfall, until I found a little blue house, tucked among the trees. Not very large or anything, but big enough that with modern amenities and a little bit of a revamp, Henry would make another killing when he sold it.
Once I was at the door, I spotted the swath of paint—Farrow & Ball Lake Red—and knew, without a doubt, I was at the right place. I knocked, but heard nothing. Knocked again. Tried the bell. Then I called George again. It rang and rang. No answer.
There was a small window at the top of the door, and I stood on my tiptoes, peered through.
Red. All I could see was red.
On instinct, I tried the door, found it unlocked. I threw it open, stepped across the threshold.
Red was everywhere. Raked across the off-white walls. Caking onto all that original wood—an elaborate chair rail, an exposed beam ceiling. Dripping, even, onto a tufted ottoman, a sheepskin throw. Droplets on an antique mirror. Splashed across all the décor added to make this place look cozy. A mounted Gibson guitar. Antique snowshoes. A topographical map of Esopus Creek. Red, destroying what would have been a picture-perfect image, something you could pin up in the windows of the real estate office in town. I stepped forward, pulse pounding in my ears.
What the hell is going on? What happened here?
My eyes focused, and I spotted the open paint can in the corner, the brush dipped inside.
It wasn’t blood; it was paint.
And before me, scrawled in huge letters across the wall:
DIE RICH PIG
A break-in, of course. Another break-in. But what happened?
Was . . . was he here when it happened?
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
I turned to my right, but as I did, my toe caught on something soft and heavy, weighty and, and . . .
I fell forward, reaching out and scrambling to catch myself, my knees smashing against the hardwood floor, my hands barely breaking my fall. I struggled to push myself up, but once I did, I screamed.
Because there it was, red again.
But not paint this time. Blood. Spatters and splatters and splotches and pools.
And in the midst of the blood, a body.
Splayed out and large, frozen in horror.
My husband. The one I’d loved, the one I’d hated, the one who had seemed, for once, like he actually wanted to change.
The one I would never, ever get to talk to again.
George.