The Widower's Wife Page 2

  He slid into his car’s front seat, turned the ignition, and cranked the heat.

  Tom no longer watched from the doorway. Wooden slats barred the front windows, blocking the view inside. Good window treatments make good neighbors. Unfortunately for Ryan, shutters made shitty witnesses.

  He put the car in drive and rolled past the silent house, thinking of his unanswered questions. What had happened behind those blinds to make a young mother desperate enough to jump ship?

  2

  August 11

  “So I’m worth more dead than alive.”

  The words stuck in the silence separating me from my husband. Tom sat on the opposite side of the concrete dining table, one hand dangling from the back of his chair, the other gripping a wine glass. His body language declared victory. But this wasn’t a fight. My husband loved me. He knew how hard I worked chasing after Sophia and keeping the house, especially now with the job on top of it all.

  He reached for the slender neck of the bottle between us and poured. Bruise-colored liquid trailed down the sides of his glass. Light from the chandelier above reflected through the olive bottle, tinting his face.

  He returned the wine bottle to the tabletop. A red teardrop dangled from the mouth before drooling onto the table’s gray surface, seeping into the millions of microscopic holes in the honed material. I snatched my cloth napkin from my lap, dabbed it in my water glass, and pressed it to the stain.

  “You really should have chosen a better table.”

  I glared at the spot rather than my husband. I didn’t have the energy to justify the table’s purchase. Besides, I couldn’t. When I’d bought it, I’d thought only of its beautiful lines and grand size. The parties we’d have gathered around it. I’d never considered what it took to maintain. A living finish—that was what the furniture company said when I’d called to ask why water, let alone wine, stained a four-thousand-dollar tabletop. Europeans relished the character, according to the New Jersey saleswoman. I’d explained that, as an American, I needed something capable of retaining its original appearance. She’d explained their final sale policy.

  I blotted the stain. “I just don’t understand what you’re saying. You mean—”

  “Ana, you’re getting upset. Don’t get upset.”

  He said my name in the same tone I used to scold our daughter. Sophia, don’t rock the chair.

  His glass clinked as it connected with the tabletop. Wine lapped at the sides of the crystal. I should get him a coaster. One thing at a time.

  “Well, sorry for taking it the wrong way, but you’re telling me that some life insurance policy would be worth more than me.”

  A smile twisted the corner of Tom’s mouth. He wiped it away with his palm. “I’m not saying that. I’m—”

  “Just saying that I’d be worth more—”

  “Babe, there’s no need to get emotional over facts. I just looked it up, okay? People in their thirties without health problems can get five million in coverage for less than the cost of a car payment. Think of it in terms of ROI. You make, what? Seventy K a year? If you work until you’re seventy-five, you’ll still only make a bit over three million. That’s before tax.”

  “My salary will increase.”

  Tom snorted. “Yeah, with inflation.” He reclaimed his wine glass and gestured toward the spiral staircase behind him. It led to the second floor and the bedrooms—to Sophia. The handheld monitor hummed beside me. Our daughter lay in her bed, arms stretched above her head. Three years old, yet she slept like a baby in the starfish position: on her back, completely vulnerable.

  “Admins top out at a hundred fifty thousand dollars a year, even at a hedge fund,” Tom said. “By the time you get there, Sophia’s college will probably cost that each semester.”

  I’d taken for granted that we would pay tuition for our little girl and any siblings to come, though we’d never set aside money for it. The house, the cars, nursery school, ballet lessons, sending cash to my struggling parents—all had seemed more pressing than saving for something fifteen years into the future. We’d put away enough for a rainy day, but not a deluge like this.

  Tears threatened my eyes. I, of all people, knew circumstances could change in an instant. Why had I not prepared for the worst?

  Tom didn’t share in my sadness. Two imploding stars shone beneath his brow, each radiating a hot, blue fire that belied my husband’s casual body language. Tom hated the boss who fired him after he made half a billion dollars for clients in six years. He hated the buddies at competing banks who refused to open their doors. He hated the friends we’d entertained with Cabernets and crudités for slinking away. Sometimes I thought he hated me for bearing witness to it all.

  I poked at my plate of cubed chicken. Gravy-laden brown rice stuck to the meat like the feathers of a sea bird caught in an oil slick. No wonder Tom would rather drink than eat.

  He gestured toward me with his glass. “Point is, even if you managed to bring your salary up by ten percent a year, we’re talking far less than five million dollars, and the tax man can’t take any of the insurance.”

  “I don’t even know why we’re discussing this. Term insurance only pays when you die. You can’t borrow against the policy, so what does it matter if we could get a huge dollar amount?”

  “We have Sophia to think of.”

  “We have so many other bills that we can’t pay, honey. We don’t need another one.”

  Tom pinched his chin, creating another wrinkle to match his furrowed brow. I told myself that I wasn’t the source of his anger. Tom had been the breadwinner; now his stay-at-home wife supported the family—poorly in comparison. He was disappointed, mostly in himself.

  I softened my tone. “It will be okay. You’ll find another job soon.”

  “Yeah, well, million-dollar-a-year jobs aren’t a dime a dozen—not like admin positions.”

  I continued moving the mess of General Tso’s chicken with my fork. Sauce seeped from the meat to the rice pad below, staining the white rusty orange. I should have ordered pizza. Cheap pizza topped budget Chinese.

  His thick hand covered my wrist. “Listen to me. We have to stop pretending we’ll just get through this. I am not getting a job before the next house payment is due. We can’t live like this on a secretary’s salary.”

  The touch felt like the man I’d married, though Tom no longer quite looked like him. The chandelier overhead cast deep shadows beneath his eyes, accentuating puffiness from stress and lack of sleep. The stubble on his jawline made the bottom half of his face appear fuller, less boyishly handsome. But still attractive. It would take more than a rough year to dull Tom’s good looks.

  “I know we can’t keep the house.” The words burned like whiskey. I chased them with a hard swallow. “I spoke to Stacy. She said she’d list it for a discounted fee, three percent.”

  “We’ll never get close to what we paid.”

  I blinked away more shame. To think I hadn’t even worried when the housing market dropped 40 percent. I’d been so confident in Tom’s ability to make the payments. The house was our home, not an investment.

  “The bank owns the house,” Tom went on. “We won’t get a dime back.”

  “So we’ll downsize for a while. There are good towns farther from the city with solid schools. I’ll just need to commute a little longer.”

  “And stick me with the kid.”

  I pictured Sophia gazing at him with those giant brown eyes, waiting for him to acknowledge her with more than a pat on the head, to give her something—anything—to do for him, like an overattentive waitress at a fancy restaurant. No one was ever stuck with Sophia, especially not her daddy.

  “Our daughter goes to daycare until nearly four and I’m always home by seven. You could try to enjoy the three hours in between: throw a ball in the yard or read a book to her.”

  The lines between Tom’s eyebrows deepened. Parenthood confounded my husband, though I couldn’t blame him for it. His own folks had died w
hen he was barely a preteen, leaving him without any strong memories of what parents did.

  “You think I don’t want to just enjoy our kid? I can’t here. It’s such a fucking rat race. No matter how much you make, you always need more: a more expensive house in a higher-ranked school system so your kid can compete or a better car so the neighbors know you belong or nicer clothes to look the part and—”

  “None of that matters. We don’t have to care what our neighbors think.”

  “Others determine our fate, babe. We must always care what they think.”

  One of Tom’s hands rested beside his wine glass. I stretched my arm across the table. My fingertips grazed his knuckles as though testing a plate of hot food. Since losing his job, Tom could interpret even an encouraging gesture as patronizing.

  “We don’t need other people,” I said. “We have each other. We’ll get through this.”

  Tom’s hand fled my touch. I left my palm outstretched on the table, a sign that I was there to support him. He offered a sheepish smile in return, an apology for recoiling. Glance and gesture are the language of the long-term couple.

  My husband sighed. “It’s just not easy.”

  His eyes flitted to his empty wine glass and the bottle destined for the recycling bin. He stood and strode around the table to the butler’s pantry, where the light from the chandelier didn’t quite reach and where we kept the hard alcohol. His half-lit form opened the overhead cabinet and dipped inside. Glass tapped against glass. A new glass meant Scotch.

  “We’ll just have to find a more middle-class area,” I said.

  He pulled in his bottom lip as the tumbler returned to chest level, licking the last drop of liquor. “No. We should leave the U.S.”

  “We can’t just up and move to another country. We don’t have work visas or speak other languages. Where are you even thinking?”

  “Someplace in South America. Maybe by your folks, where the money will stretch further.”

  “You want to raise our daughter near favelas? Do you know how violent—”

  “Don’t be stupid. I want to raise her someplace where we are the wealthy people. Where we can give her everything without killing ourselves.” His finger flew to his chest like a soap opera protagonist making a point. “Without me killing myself.”

  He’d called me stupid. My tongue pressed against my teeth. I couldn’t let our argument, or whatever this was, devolve into a schoolyard shouting match.

  “I don’t even know if we can get jobs there.”

  Tom scoffed. The sound erupted as a half giggle, half gasp. “I don’t want to get a job there. I want to retire. You should see the mansions you can buy on the southern coast for just over a million.”

  Was this the alcohol talking, or had the year of unemployment pushed my husband over the edge? Retire? At thirty-four?

  “Tom, what are you talking about? Our savings are near gone.”

  The conversation had become ridiculous. We’d have to eat humble pie for a time. My husband would have to swallow it. I collected the empty wine bottle and my full plate. Might as well scrape it into the garbage.

  Tom grabbed my arm as I headed into the kitchen. Too rough. The wine bottle and my plate toppled to the floor. Orange sauce splattered on the hardwood and across the cabinet. A spot landed on the edge of his white shirt. How the heck would I get that out of linen?

  “Damn it, Tom.”

  A chicken chunk rested atop his bare big toe. His nose wrinkled as he shook it off. “We’re not done talking.”

  “Well, I was done eating.”

  He relinquished my arm. I grabbed the paper towel roll beside the farmhouse sink. Hands wrapped around my waist. Liquor-scented breath whispered by my ear. “I’m sorry about the plate. I didn’t mean—”

  “I need to clean all that food before it stains the floor.” I yanked several sheets of two-ply off the roll.

  Tom rested his chin on my shoulder. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”

  I wanted nothing more than to wipe up the food, take the trash out to the garage, and call it a night. The clock above the microwave flashed 9:58. I needed to leave in eight and a half hours to get to work before the head trader came in. But I could hear the need in my husband’s voice.

  I faced him. My long bangs fell into my eyes as I turned. “I’m listening.”

  For the first time all night, the lines between Tom’s brows faded. “All the pressure in that job, trying to make enough to give you and Sophia everything and support your parents—it was too much. I can’t work like that anymore.”

  I reached up to scratch the back of his head, the way I did with our daughter when she needed comfort. Oily strands slipped through my fingers. Tom’s Ivy League haircut, always neat in the back, had devolved into an unwashed grunge style. “You don’t need to. It will be okay. I’m working again and—”

  “You can’t make enough. Just look around.” His arms opened wide to indicate our massive kitchen. Calacatta countertops. Gleaming white cupboards with matching paneled fridge and dishwasher. Stainless steel range. Built-in espresso maker and microwave. An island topped with a marble slab big enough to require a special cut at the Italian quarry.

  Crying over things is a waste of tears. Still, my eyes welled. I stood in my dream kitchen, in our dream house. We’d been spoiled. I could never provide this. Short of winning the lottery, I would never be able to afford to live in a decent public school district, let alone the best school district in the state. I would never be able to pay for all the extras we’d planned on giving our child: ballet lessons, art classes, tutoring. I wouldn’t be able to send much money, if any, to my parents. And with both of us working—eventually Tom would have to do something—we wouldn’t even be around to give Sophia the parental attention that we’d both agreed kids needed.

  I gazed at the ceiling’s embedded lights, little on-demand suns in a Venetian plaster sky. I’d agonized over the paint finish. My first-world problems. What I wouldn’t give to have them back.

  “How can I help any more than I am?” The question slipped out along with my tears. “I work ten hours a day, twelve with the commute. I’m pretty much the only one taking care of Sophia, not to mention the cleaning and the cooking.” I choked out a sob. “I’m sorry that I can’t go from being a stay-at-home mom to making millions overnight. But I am trying.”

  Tom watched me cry as though I were a wounded animal and not his wife. Anger overwhelmed my sadness. How could he just stand there? Helpless. I threw up my hands. “What more can I do?” I shouted. “Really, Tom, what else do you need me to do?”

  He grasped my forearms. “It’s not you. Okay? I know you’re doing everything you can. I’m trying to talk to you about what I can do.”

  He cupped my cheek with his palm. The gesture warmed like a good memory. I wanted to lose myself in it, spend time in before, when we were happy.

  My eyes closed a moment longer than a blink. When they reopened, Tom was staring at me, jaw set tight.

  “I want to take out a life insurance policy,” he said. “Then I want to fake my death.”

  3

  November 16

  The traffic light switched from green to yellow. Ryan slid his foot off the gas and let the Dodge slow to a roll. He could have gunned the six-cylinder engine and, in all likelihood, made it through the intersection before the light turned red, but he didn’t take idle risks. Twenty-five percent of accidents resulted from running a red. Another 23 percent were blamed on weather conditions like the tire-stamped slush on the road.

  Goons gambled with their safety. And though many of the investigators that Ryan had met were little better than goombahs with gun permits, he wasn’t one of those. Ryan was a numbers man. Part detective, part mathematician. He prided himself on his ability to make informed decisions, to calculate the odds of potential outcomes, drawing from the encyclopedia of stats that he recalled with such ease. He figured he had a touch of Asperger’s syndrome, though he’d never been tested
. He did have the symptoms: fixated interests (statistics), an inability to read body language (a problem he’d solved with countless hours researching and analyzing behavior), and relatively low empathy (very much an issue, if you asked his ex-wife).

  The light flipped red. Ryan scanned the sights of downtown suburbia as the car idled. A sprawling two-story school building extended from the side of a modest church. A café sign hung above a converted train station beside snow-packed tracks. Not much to see—just as with his case.

  Tom hadn’t given him anything to indicate that Ana had been depressed, and probably wouldn’t if he could help it. Ryan needed to find someone without a financial interest in Mrs. Bacon’s psychological condition.

  Ana’s parents in Brazil might know if she’d been suicidal. But they also had too great a stake in the insurance benefit to come clean about it. Though Sophia was Ana’s primary beneficiary, Anna had set aside a small portion of the death benefit for her parents’ care. Moreover, Ana had made her folks Sophia’s secondary guardians. If anything happened to Tom, then Ana’s parents would gain control of the ten million and Sophia. Still, Ryan would have to talk to them, if only to check a box on his report.

  A horn interrupted his thoughts. The light had changed. In his rearview, a woman gesticulated as she yelled. Ryan pressed his foot on the gas, a touch too hard. The Dodge lurched into the intersection and then skidded several feet on the icy ground. Distracted drivers caused more than 40 percent of accidents. He flipped on his right blinker and turned into town.

  Gray snow, piled a foot high by plows, pressed against the curb separating the tracks from free street parking. He stepped out of his car and into an unavoidable inch of salty slush. Boots already wet, he took the direct route to the café’s side door, clambering over the snow median and limping through the accumulation on the abandoned railway.

  A bell jangled when he entered the coffee shop. Two women were eyeing a row of pastel macaroons behind a display case. Ryan asked if they were in line. His question wrested the slightly taller woman’s attention from the sweets. Although she wore what appeared to be gym clothes, thick navy eyeliner encircled her dark-blue eyes. Her forehead was near reflective, a sign of too much Botox. She mumbled something affirmative and pulled her companion a few steps closer to the register.