I Love You More: A Novel (12 page)

People tell rumors to hurt someone else. People tell lies to save themselves.

Or someone they love.

TWO
Lies

(The Events Preceding the Murder)

A lie told often enough becomes the truth
.

—
LENIN

It’s hard to remember when the three of us became
we
. Perhaps it was that day we first met at Rainy Cove Park. We’d chosen the setting because it was centrally located between Hollyville, Raleigh, and Boone, and because a trek through nature on a lovely autumn day seemed safe, neutral. We’d chosen the day and time, Wednesday at noon, because it accommodated our varied work and child-care schedules. It was odd how we all drove through the entrance at the same time—Diana in her silver Toyota crossover, Jewels in her bright blue Porsche Carrera, Bert in her rusty and dented Chevy Blazer—and then proceeded to park, get out of our vehicles, and walk toward one another, naturally, no huge smiles or feigned politeness, no nervous chatter, as if we’d been doing it our entire lives, as if we’d seen one another yesterday and would do so again tomorrow.

As if time was our friend.

We followed the worn dirt path deeper and deeper into the dense forest. The sound of swishing water made us pause. Peering through the trees, we saw a lone kayaker paddling in the distance. The dirt path led on, but without asking one another, we veered onto untamed ground. Twigs crinkled and snapped beneath our shoes. Tall grasses and wildflowers brushed our calves. After some
time, we came upon the spot that would become our home away from home, a lovely private clearing nestled in the woodland. We marveled at the quietude. None of the noises of civilization were present: no hustle and bustle, honking horns, or squealing children. There were only the sounds of nature, the singsong wail of the cool autumn breeze, undulating drum of the cyan lake, high-pitched chirp of the graceful birds. We decided it was
our
place, a place that promised shelter and comfort. Perhaps, ultimately, that was what had glued us together in time and place: We all needed comforting.

We hurt.

Diana had brought along a plaid wool blanket and picnic basket, Jewels a brown paper grocery bag with two bottles of chardonnay in it, Bert a brightly woven tote with pink terry-cloth fabric spilling over its edge. We didn’t speak as we prepared our space. Diana opened the blanket, snapped it in the air, its center billowing for a moment like a parachute then reluctantly falling to the ground. We smoothed out its edges, set the basket, bag, and tote in its center, claimed our corners, sat, crossed our legs Indian style, breathed in the musky scent of pine, spruce, and hickory.

It was Bert who broke our silence. “I brought towels. I thought we might want to swim.”

We looked at one another, smiled, and as if we’d grown up together, seen one another naked a thousand times, as if Bert’s swollen belly was as natural and beautiful as a bird’s breast, began taking off our clothes. We ran to the water’s edge laughing and screaming like children, stretched our arms toward the sky and dove, kicked our legs, went down deeper and deeper, watched each other’s bodies—Diana’s slim sensuous contours, Jewels’s sharp athletic angles, Bert’s round voluptuous curves—bending and floating and twirling: yellow, black, and brown hair streaming like mermaids. Then we straightened, thrust our arms to our sides, shot to the surface, and paddled back to shore. We wrapped
ourselves in the plush pink towels, dried our skin, our hair, lowered our backs to the blanket, and slept naked under the warm autumn sun.

Perhaps we slept for only minutes, perhaps it was longer, but when we woke it felt as if hours had passed. We felt rested, refreshed, prepared to face a new dawn. We dressed, gathered ourselves into what would become our sacred circle.

Diana opened the picnic basket. “Egg salad?”

“Sounds divine,” Jewels said. She uncorked one of the wine bottles.

“To us,” Jewels said.

“To us,” Diana and Bert said in unison. The sound of glass hitting glass rang through the air.

We sipped, assessed one another. These were the other women our husband had married? Didn’t most men prefer a
type
? Our height, weight, facial features, hair color, skin tones, mannerisms, speech patterns, everything appeared dissimilar. It would be awhile before we understood that Oliver’s initial interest had more to do with our mental states than physical characteristics. At the time each of us met Oliver, we were perfect prey for a man who thrived on the game, the victory, and the foil: We were broken. And Oliver preferred to keep it that way. But that day, our first rendezvous at Rainy Cove Park, we were yet to recognize the extent of our codependence. We still hid behind a veil of lies, secrets, and confusion. Rather than blame Oliver or ourselves, we blamed circumstance and one another. If asked why we’d agreed to meet, we would have said, and believed, that our decision had been based on some virtuous combination of concern and curiosity, when in fact our sole motivation was fear: fear of losing Oliver, fear of one another, fear of the unknown. Keeping one another close meant keeping control. And yet that day, though we’ve since wondered at the ease in which we did so, we opened our hearts and souls to one another. We talked and talked, and listened and listened,
and not because we were eager to know one another’s stories, on some level we already knew them, we’d lived them, but because we
needed
to know who the others were. Because, you see, we no longer knew who
we
were. We were lost. It had always been Oliver’s story. While none of us had chosen to be part of the sordid tapestry we found ourselves in, we’d unwittingly become threads of its cloth. What was odd is that we didn’t discuss our children or Bert’s pregnancy. We didn’t pull pictures from our handbags, brag of such feats as strong heartbeats, first steps and words, or academic accomplishments. Perhaps this was because, intuitively, we understood that our children were the one pure, uncomplicated part of our lives.

We felt numb as the details of Oliver’s three lives unfolded. How had he pulled it off? He’d juggled three offices, three families, three wives, yet never once had he confused our names, not even in the heat of passion. There was the Oliver who golfed, grew up Episcopalian, and had no interest in the arts in Hollyville. There was the Oliver who played bridge, turned his back on Catholicism, and collected fine art in Raleigh. There was the Oliver who read literature, was a devout Lutheran, and bought coffee-table art books in Boone. Yet, although Oliver had gone to great lengths to create distinct personalities, we discovered one similarity. He told each of us that he loved us more than anyone and anything in the world, and, as if he were slicing the palm of his hand with a knife and comingling our blood, he pledged his undying love with the same, now haunting words:
I love you more than life itself
.

The first time we heard those words, we melted. It wasn’t just the words that caused our unexpected reactions; it was his eyes. They were unwavering. They contained an unmistakable sincerity. Tears welled inside them. Softened by his vulnerability, tears came to our eyes as well. He reached his hand behind our necks, drew us to him, and kissed us. We had been kissed before, but this was like no other. At that moment we wanted to give ourselves to
him fully, completely, without hesitation. Without fear or doubt or concern for the outcome.

And we did.

Diana was twenty-five. She’d sworn off men and attachments of any sort. Her long-term relationship with her college boyfriend had ended badly, and she was suffering from the unique pain, distrust, and loneliness that can only result from his particular transgression: He’d slept with her best friend. She met Oliver in a martini bar a few months after she became single again. It was happy hour, prophetic she later thought, because at least in the beginning, she had never been happier than she was with Oliver. Diana and her social companion (she’d also sworn off friends), Lillian, sat at the bar drinking apple martinis. The stark difference between the two women, Diana’s elongated silhouette, blond hair, and white dress against Lillian’s petite frame, dark hair, and black dress was, given the situation, an asset. A handsome man with dark, curly hair sat with an attractive redhead at a table nearby. He wore a dark blue tailored suit and yellow tie; his crisp white shirt glowed against his tan skin. She wore a low-cut, sleeveless emerald green dress. They were deep in conversation, now and then laughing heartily. Diana couldn’t take her eyes off them, perhaps because they reminded her of what she once had, perhaps because they reminded her of what she would never have.

“He’s a dream, isn’t he?” Lillian asked.

“Who?” Diana asked.

“Ten o’clock,” Lillian said. “Mr. Bedroom Eyes.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Diana said. At the time, she believed that.

“You can’t be serious,” Lillian said.

Diana hunched her shoulders. “He’s okay, I guess, but as you can see, he’s with someone.”

“Her?” Lillian asked. “No future there. Besides, she’s not even with him. She came from that table over there. See? The
Sex and the City
foursome? He’s been checking you out for the past hour.”

“No, he hasn’t,” Diana said.

“Trust me, he has,” Lillian said.

“Let’s go,” Diana said. “I’m just not into this.”

“Okay,” Lillian said. She chugged the rest of her martini.

Diana felt a tapping on her shoulder as they passed through the door, and when she turned she found herself face-to-face with Oliver. Diana was five foot nine and wearing four-inch heels.

Oliver’s smile was disarming. “I’ve been admiring your lipstick.”

“My what?”

“Your lips, actually,” he said. “But I thought that might sound too forward. If it is, I apologize.”

“I’ll get a cab,” Lillian said. “See you tomorrow?”

Diana thought she protested, but she wasn’t certain. She wasn’t certain about much that happened that evening. Perhaps Oliver bought her another drink, perhaps two, before he drove her home. But there was one thing she was certain of: She remembered what happened when he walked her to the door of her apartment. He’d stood staring at her for a while, his eyes moist, and then he put his hands on her cheeks, kissed her long and hard. Like a gentleman, he stopped, stepped back.