CAIT RUSHED DOWN THE stairs. She’d spent close to an hour getting ready. The shower, shaving, plucking, blow-drying and curling. Then the body spray, the choosing of clothing, the dressing and makeup. Her hands hadn’t stopped shaking.
Marta was upstairs with the little ones. Her parents were gone. She carried her shoes in her hands so she wouldn’t make a sound.
There was only one way out that would be silent and dark, and that was through the kitchen. If she went anywhere near the backyard, the floodlights would come on. In the front, the dog would bark.
She walked across the marble floor, past the island with the stools, the massive black cooktop and refrigerator drawers. She reached the back end where her mother kept her computer and desk. The mudroom was just beyond it and she needed a coat. She was almost past it when she saw a paper on the ground.
Looking back first to make sure she was still alone, she picked it up and began to place it back on her mother’s desk. But then she saw the name on the letter.
It was so nice to see you in Florida. Hope you are continuing to enjoy the warm weather. We’re freezing up north!
I’m writing about the consideration of the Conrad family for membership. As you know, I am in favor of supporting the Livingstons, who are a lovely couple. I have been informed that the committee is leaning towards the Conrads, but I would like to discuss the matter upon your return next week for your granddaughter’s christening. I still have my concerns, as you know. Call at your convenience.
Yours truly,
Rosalyn Barlow
Cait read it again until she realized why it had captured her interest. As she set it down on the desk, the pieces fell like dominoes. TF. The Bear. The guy who screwed her then never called. The guy from the junior class. And now that guy was hitting on a girl who belonged to a club—the club his parents wanted to belong to because they were losing ground in Wilshire.
She wanted to scream. How could this be? She fought to deny it, to deny the evidence, but it was all there in front of her. She saw the headlights through the trees. They were not moving; the car was parked at the edge of her property.
She had been consumed by a torturous wanting whose antidote was waiting for her in that car, and now the choice was no longer a hazy pool of maybe’s. Maybe he likes me. Maybe this will be it, the one thing that will make him mine. She knew the answer now. It was undeniable. She meant nothing. And still the wanting remained.
Moving even faster than before, Cait grabbed her coat and headed outside.