The savory aroma of Beef Bourguignon filled the kitchen, reminding Olivia that she hadn’t eaten all day. After peeling each stalk of asparagus and placing it in the steamer, she opened a bottle of wine, a 1983 Jordan Cabernet—Jonathan’s favorite—and poured them each a glass. She knew she shouldn’t drink, but a small glass wouldn’t hurt her. Her doctor had even said as much.
The timer on the oven chimed in sync with the old-fashioned grandfather clock in the dining room. Seven o’clock, which meant that Jonathan would be walking through the door momentarily. She pulled the Bourguignon, topped with a crispy pie crust, from the oven and set it on a rack to cool. Then she flipped on the burner to cook the asparagus, removed her apron and paced the length of the generous kitchen, waiting like an anxious puppy dog for the arrival of its master.
She was surprised to feel the acceleration of her heart and the clammy moisture lining her palms. She’d literally done this thousands of times—made dinner for her husband and awaited his arrival—and with the exception of the first time she’d cooked for him, she’d never been nervous, or anxious. But tonight was different. Tonight was a new beginning. Tonight was a celebration.
Thirty minutes later, Jonathan was still not home. Anxiety gave way to fear. He’d never been late without calling. She lifted the receiver of the phone, checked for a dial tone, and hung it up. Then she picked it up again, dialed the first three numbers and hung up, sure that she was overreacting.
For God’s sake, Olivia, it’s only been thirty minutes.
Yeah, but he’s never been late.
Thirty little minutes!
Yeah, but...
Ignoring the inner voice she resumed pacing, wearing tracks into the off-white Berber carpeting that blanketed the living room floor. By eight o’clock, she could stand it no more. She picked up the phone, dialed his number at work, and waited. No answer.
Something’s wrong. I can feel it.
With an unsteady hand, she reached for the crystal wine goblet and took a few gulps. She alternated between pacing and gulping until the bleating of the doorbell stopped her cold. Her eyes darted over to the grandfather clock, which told her it was almost nine o’clock. Too late for Betty Applebaum.
She took one tentative step, and then another, until she reached the front door. Still clutching a now-empty wineglass in her hand, she peered through the peephole. It was the police.
The glass slid from her hand and splintered into a million tiny fragments as it struck the marble tile in the foyer.
Her hand froze on the doorknob. Fear tumbled through her as she imagined Jonathan lying on a marble slab in the morgue. The thought sent icy shivers up her spine, but what else could it be? If he’d been maimed in a car accident, they would have called her, told her where he’d been taken. But no call came. And here they were.
She yanked the front door open and stood, rooted to the ground, her body now a quivering mess, and gaped at the two young officers.
“Good evening, ma’am,” one of the officers said. “Are you Mrs. Hunter?”
Her mouth snapped closed and she nodded.
“May we come in? There’s something we need to speak to you about. I apologize for the late hour. I hope we aren’t disturbing you.”
Disturbing me? Disturbing me?! My husband is dead and you’re worried about disturbing me?
She stepped through the broken glass on kitten-heeled slippers and ushered them in. One of the officers led her by the arm into the living room and poured her into the overstuffed leather chair next to the sofa. She melted into it.
“Mrs. Hunter, we had a report of a disturbance at your residence this afternoon. Called in by a Mrs. Betty Applebaum. Did you—”
She laughed. Big gurgling sounds of laughter erupted from her throat and she clutched her sides. The officers looked at each other in obvious confusion.
“Mrs. Hunter?” the one whose name tag read Giacomo asked. “Is everything okay?”
When her sides hurt from laughing, she nodded. “Oh yes,” she said, giddy with relief. “I’m fine. I thought you came to tell me—” She laughed again and noticed Officer Giacomo roll his eyes at his partner.
When she remembered that Jonathan was still not home, the laughter stopped as abruptly as it had started. “I’m sorry. I thought you came to tell me something else. I bought a new car this morning and forgot to retrieve my garage opener and the hide-a-key from the old one, so I had to climb in through the kitchen window.”
Officer Giacomo nodded. “I see.” He jotted something down in a small notebook. “Well, I guess that explains it. Is there something else we can help you with tonight?”
In the silence that followed, she heard the opening of the garage door. She flew off the sofa, raced toward the kitchen, and then stopped and turned to the officers. “No, thank you. Everything is fine now. Do you mind showing yourselves out?”
As the front door closed, she hurried into the kitchen and waited on rubbery legs for Jonathan to appear. Her heart thundered inside her chest. She was going to launch herself into his arms, pull him close, smother him with kisses. She didn’t care that the dinner was ruined or that he was nearly three hours late. All that mattered was that he was home. Not lying on a slab in the morgue, but home. Home, sweet home.
But when he finally walked through the door, she was unprepared for what she saw. She inhaled sharply; her hands flew to her mouth. Everything about him was uneven, disheveled. His sandy brown hair—normally held neatly in place with gel—now stood on end. His tie hung limply around his neck as though he’d forgotten to tie it, and his sweater vest was crumpled and stained with...blood, or something red. Wine, maybe. And he smelled like a distillery.
“Jonathan, are you all right?” She took a step toward him, reached a hand toward his cheek.
He stepped back. “Don’t,” he said in a voice she did not recognize.
Panic gripped her, held her, consumed her.
He sidestepped around her and moved to the table. He lifted the glass of wine to his lips and guzzled the contents.
She watched him, unable to move or speak.
When he finished the wine, he poured himself another glass and turned to her. “I have something to tell you,” he said.
“I...I have something to tell you, too.” She wanted to tell him about her day, about losing her job, about how she’d had to break into their house like a common criminal—in her lucky Chanel suit of all things—and about busybody Betty Applebaum. But most importantly, she wanted to tell him what a fool she’d been, how sorry she was that she’d been so busy focusing on all the bad things that had happened that she hadn’t been able to see the good in her life. But she saw now, with absolute clarity, that the most important thing in her life was him, them, and that it didn’t matter if they ever had children as long as she had him.
But instead she said, “You first.”
He scrubbed a hand across his stubbly cheek and stared at her with eyes that were flat, one-dimensional. Lifeless eyes. Eyes that told her she was not going to like what he was about to say.
She steeled herself, bracing for the news. Did he have cancer, or some other incurable disease? He’d gone to the doctor last week but he said everything was fine. Had he lied? Was he going to die? Oh God, please don’t let him die.
He drew in a deep breath and pushed it out hard, opened his mouth to speak but no words emerged.
She wanted to shake the words out of him. “Just say it, my darling. Whatever it is, it will be okay.”
His eyes traveled to his Oxford loafers, brown and shiny. “Liv, I...had an affair.”