The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken (35 page)

I stand in Mom’s kitschy guestroom, hair still dripping wet, and try to wrap my head around the fact that Oscar switched bags sometime during the course of our journey. Which unquestionably qualifies as abnormal behavior. My heart starts racing. What is he up to?

I have to know. Of course, if I look inside, I’ll probably find nothing and end up feeling like a creep. I must have dreamed I saw the other briefcase in the car yesterday.

Except I know I didn’t.

I try to reassure myself that my unease is an understandable result of being burnt by Brendan. If I think about things rationally, I wouldn’t expect to uncover anything weird in Oscar’s luggage. Supposing I believe Olivia’s tawdry version of events—which I don’t anymore—it’s not likely he’d pack evidence of his infidelity on a trip with me. So I can’t even articulate why the bag is calling me to look inside.

Other than the possibility that he switched it with someone when he went to the men’s room at the airport. That’s the only time he’s been out of my sight. But what then? Is my guy a CIA operative? How sexy would that be? Or could he be some kind of high end drug mule? The little voice in my head demands to know where I come up with this stuff.

Why am I plagued by such nosy, immature urges? And if I peek now, where does it end? Do I rifle through his underwear drawer next? Or in the deep recesses of his bathroom closet? Or under his bed? Why can’t I trust him? He’s been nothing but wonderful to me. I should extend him the same courtesy and assert some control over my imagination.

I’m about to take the high road when the little voice in my head eggs me on. She says peeking will reassure me that he’s a great guy, just like when I snooped in his phone. And I won’t be able to relax until I
know
he’s not hiding anything. Which means I’ll be silently embarrassed at my unbecoming behavior for the rest of my otherwise perfect life with Oscar.

That seems like the lesser evil.

The briefcase feels heavier than it looks as I wedge myself in the chair and hoist it onto my lap. I make a silly deal with myself: I’ll try his birthday, which unlocked his phone. If that doesn’t work, I’ll abandon this pursuit once and for all. I arrange the dials on the clasp. The lock remains shut. Hmm. It can’t hurt to try one more combination. I adjust the dials to my birthday and the clasp springs open. Wow. I’m not sure why I attach great meaning to this development but I do. So much so that I leaf through the files on top almost absentmindedly, mulling if his use of my birthday means he’s decided I’m
The One
.

As suspected, all he’s carrying is a small pile of business documents, his laptop, which I can’t open without the password card he carries in his wallet, and this month’s
Food and Wine
magazine. I set it all on the end table, taking care to keep the pile in order. I’m already berating myself for my slimy behavior when I notice a pocket in the bottom of the briefcase.

The compartment is small and snug, and I have to wedge my hand between the leather lining to produce its contents. It yields an unsealed letter sized envelope and an Andorran passport. Interesting. He must have procured it during his marriage. I flip through the stamps. He’s used it in Andorra, Cyprus, and a bunch of islands in the Caribbean, over the past five or six years. And just this Monday, he was issued six-month, multiple-entry visas to Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam.

I realize I’ve been holding my breath and force myself to exhale as I open the envelope. It takes me a second to register what’s inside.

I’m holding a cashier’s check, drawn in U.S. dollars on some bank in Phnom Penh, made out to CASH, in the amount of $500,000. It’s wrapped in a sheet of paper that contains a series of wiring instructions, but doesn’t mention any financial institutions by name. There’s just a long list of account numbers.

My hands start to shake and my jaw drops. Who carries that kind of money? Certainly not upstanding young executives with normal incomes and traditional bank accounts, even if they’ve made brilliant investments along the way. I’d be an idiot if I didn’t smell something off. Very off. The sudden sound of small feet pattering in the hallway makes me jump.

“Auntie Zoë! Come play with us!” Courtney demands.

“Mommy says you have to, if you don’t want to help in the kitchen,” Ben adds.

Normally it would grate on me that Laurie presumes to tell me what I need to do, but I’m distracted enough to let it slide. “I’ll be there in just a minute.” I stare at the number in shock. Half a million dollars seems like an awful lot of spending money to bring along on a weekend to meet my family.

A chill shoots up my back and I pull my towel more tightly around myself. What the hell is Oscar doing on the side? Because it’s pretty clear he’s up to something. Takamura Brothers doesn’t pay him that well, and they certainly don’t compensate their executives with foreign cashier’s checks. Kevin’s warning echoes in my head. Does he know something he can’t share? No, that’s ridiculous. Kevin was motivated by simple, old-fashioned jealousy. Oscar can’t possibly be involved in anything below board. He’s so upstanding and clean cut, and besides, when would he have the time? When he’s not at work, he’s with me.

Except when he’s not. If I thought he had time for another woman, I can’t tell myself he doesn’t have time for a clandestine business venture.

Just because he tells me he’s at a meeting, or a client dinner, or the gym, doesn’t mean it’s so. There are just enough bizarre little details to raise my antenna. Maybe the story about replacing the damaged bag is horseshit. What if he’s always had two? And what if he’s been swapping bags with someone right under my nose? And why would he need a second passport to travel to
Southeast Asia
? My heart starts racing and a knot forms in my stomach and pulls itself tight.

No. My imagination must be going places it has no business exploring.

The children rap on the door again. “Nana! Auntie Zoë is too
slow
!” Courtney yells.

I re-pack the briefcase and obsessively check and re-check that the files are in the exact same order I found them, even though I know I didn’t re-arrange anything. As I pull my clothes on, I have an idea. The clock on the night stand shows that the guys have only been gone an hour. Plenty of time. I re-open the case, and empty the secret compartment again. The kids tackle me as I step into the hallway. “Santa’s going to be in the parade!” Ben announces, with wide eyes and a huge, dimpled smile. “Come watch with us so we don’t miss him!”

“It’s going to be a while before it’s Santa’s turn. He’s always the big finish. Auntie Zoë needs to go in Grandma’s study to make a copy and then I need to dry my hair, and then I’ll come down. I promise. Why don’t you go check on the parade? Maybe they have something fun on right now.”

“Okay,” the twins say in unison and stampede off in the direction of the stairs.

My mother’s study features an almost un-navigable labyrinth of boxes, books and piles of loose paper, arranged in towers like skyscrapers in a small-scale city all over the floor. Mom may have never held a job outside the home, but that hasn’t stopped her from joining every committee, social movement, and neighborhood outreach organization she could find. Her desk isn’t much better. The laptop almost gets lost in the other chaos. So many plants line the window sill that they block much of the natural light, which means most of them look a bit anemic.

I move a stack of literature on sustainable farming off the printer/scanner/copier and place the wiring instructions on the glass. It produces a single photocopy at what feels like a glacial pace. I repeat the exercise with the check and the photo page of his passport. I grab the originals and the copies and dart back to the guest room before anyone has a chance to way-lay me. My fingers tremble as I restore Oscar’s treasures to their hiding place. I check four times that the briefcase is resting in its exact original position by the closet, before folding the photocopies and stashing them inside a box of tampons.

So this is how my fairy tale romance ends. I try to steel myself as I dry my hair, rolling each segment out with my wiry round brush, just like I do almost every morning before work. Something is seriously up. My prince charming has been less than forthcoming at best, and at worst, he’s a common criminal. God knows what he’s doing to rake in that kind of money, but he’s obviously hiding something major. Why did I have to bring him here? Why couldn’t I wait to confirm or deny my fears first, as Angela, even in the midst of her own crisis, so wisely advised? I’m surprised I don’t feel more unhinged. Or maybe that comes later, after the initial jolt dissipates.

All I feel is a sort of crushing emptiness, a loss so out of nowhere that I can’t begin to process it yet. I’m not getting stuffed up, or teary, or even lumpy in the throat. I take a deep breath and watch the color start to drain from my face in the mirror. I have to pull it together. If my happy ending is about to be torpedoed, I want to be the one to decide that. Not have it unravel in a flood of hysteria in front of the whole family. I need to decide whether to push through the weekend with a cowardly smile and pretend all is perfect, or end things immediately. Though that sounds messy, and therefore so
not
tempting, it might be the most reasonable course.

I’m over the stove, stirring gravy under Laurie’s zealous supervision, when I decide there’s no way I will be able to wait through the entire long weekend for answers. I need to know what Oscar’s up to. A large, possibly pretzel shaped knot has formed in my stomach, and despite my best efforts at willful denial, I know I won’t think of him the same way, at least until I get some answers. I’m already bracing myself to learn something I’d rather not know. The little voice in my head taunts me, saying she knew he was too good to be true all along.

When my mother floats into the kitchen to start assembling the salad that will constitute the centerpiece of her holiday meal, I foist the wooden spoon into her hands, and dash upstairs, still sporting the floral apron Laurie fastened around me earlier. I raid the box of Tampax for my photocopies and hole myself up in Mom’s study again. This time I double check that the door locks behind me before placing the first sheet of paper on the scanner. I don’t know why my heart is pounding. Oscar isn’t expected for another couple of hours, and my female relatives seem unlikely to leave the kitchen and inquire about my emailing activities.

Once the document appears on the desktop, I log into my Gmail, attach the new PDF file to a blank message and write, “Kevin, Will explain background later. No time now. Found this in his briefcase. What do you suppose it means? Thanks in advance. Zoë.” My hand hovers over the mouse. Of course I could be way off. Maybe my imagination has gotten away from me. Also, I’m not sure why I’m turning to Kevin for help. Probably because he was the first person to articulate any doubts about Oscar. And because he has an incredible network of connections who seem able to find out anything about anyone. Anything unsavory, at least.

I click the send button without allowing myself to reconsider all the potential fallout from my chosen course of action. With a great deal of willpower, I make myself log off, double delete the PDF, and restore the copies to their hiding place.

When I rejoin Mom and Laurie in the kitchen, Mom is bemoaning Laurie’s plans to use real butter and cream in the mashed potatoes. She can’t abide the thought of such “morally bankrupt” products in her home. The kids have given up on the parade and are chasing each other around the island, wielding carrots as swords and giggling maniacally. Some member of the rat pack or other croons over the stereo. My heart rate starts to slow back to normal as I begin cleaning a mountain of green beans. At least I’m exploring my fears. I’m not going to bury my head in the sand. If Oscar isn’t who I think he is, I’d rather know as soon as possible. So why do I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut?

Kevin calls just as I hear the men coming back through the front door. I duck into the downstairs guest bathroom and answer. “Wow,” he says, in lieu of any greeting. “Zoë, I really have no idea what any of this means, but we need to look into it. Today, if possible.”

Suddenly weeks of tension on my part towards Kevin dissipate. We may be going through an awkward phase, but he’s still in my corner. Why did I ever doubt that? “I didn’t know what to do. I felt like the biggest heel for snooping, but then I found the passport and the check, and spying suddenly felt like the lesser evil.” I make a concerted effort to keep my voice down. This house has the paper-thin walls often featured in new construction.

In the background, I hear his mother yelling that she is sick of slaving for her thankless family, and some of her useless children had better come lend a hand in the kitchen and pronto.

“Do you need to go?” I ask, thinking, please don’t cut this short.

“I’m sure my sisters are on it, plus it’s her own fault for giving the housekeeper the weekend off. So listen to me. Let’s forward this to Angela. Her sister’s husband will be able to make sense of the banking information way faster than we could on our own. He’s got the FBI’s full resources, whereas we have a hunch.”