Together Alone (30 page)

“She may have convinced herself that it wasn’t him.”

“No. She knows. Otherwise she wouldn’t have written what she did and left it
where
she did. She needed to tell me, and she didn’t know how else. Can you
imagine
her having to grapple with a thing like that?” Emily fought for control. “She always asked about him when she called. She wanted to know where he was and when he was coming home and what we were doing then. She told me she thought Doug and I should take a vacation, go somewhere together, like Bermuda. No. She knows. And she’s afraid. How can a father do that to his daughter?”

“Have you asked him?”

She took a shaky breath and shook her head. “I won’t do it on the phone. He called a little while ago to say that he wouldn’t be home Friday night after all, but Saturday. I assume he’s spending Friday night with her.” Her eyes held Brian’s. “I want proof.”

He looked wary. “What do you mean, proof?”

“I want to see with my own two eyes, maybe even take pictures.”

“Tail him?”

“If possible. The problem is that since I don’t want to tell Jill, I can’t ask her exactly where it was she saw him, so I don’t know where to look.” This was what she had come for. No. Maybe she had come to tell Brian the story, too. Maybe she had come to touch his hands and feel his warmth. But this was where he could help her the most. “I checked the Boston phone book, but Doug’s name isn’t listed. I want the address. Is there a way to get it? Local records that tell who owns what, where?”

“The Registry of Deeds. I could make a call.”

She had known he would offer, but she was doing this herself. “I want to do it. Are those records open to the public?”

“Yes.” His eyes moved over Jill’s paper. “Do you know the name of the street?”

“I checked a map. Given what Jill said, it’s Marlborough Street. What if the house isn’t in his name?”

Brian was still searching the paper. “This is pretty vague. If you don’t get a specific address, you’ll have to position yourself on the most likely street and sit and wait and watch. I’m not thrilled with that idea, Emily. You could be sitting forever on the wrong street. After a while, it would be unsafe.”

“Detectives do it.”

“Yeah, with a gun handy. You got a gun?”

She shivered. “I hate guns.”

“That’s good, because someone who doesn’t, who takes one look at a wisp of a thing sitting in a car in the wee hours of the night, would have it out of your hands and pointed at you before you could even
think
about the mace in your bag. Besides, detectives don’t sit blindly in cars. At least, they don’t do it often.”

“So how do they find people?”

“They get an address.”

“How?”

“Public records. Tips from informers. Phone bills.”

“But if the phone isn’t listed—” she stopped when what Brian had said sank in. “He may not have the house in his name, but he would be paying the phone bill, wouldn’t he. Or the electric bill. Or the gas bill. Or writing checks to her.” It was so simple, right in front of her, really. Doug’s office was filled with records, all neatly filed, all ready and waiting. “And he didn’t want me to work with the checkbook,” she muttered and made for the door. Halfway there, she did an about-face, returned to him, and gave him a hug. “You are a love.”

“I could make calls. I could get you your address.”

But she shook her head, as sure about this as she was about anything. “He kept me impotent, and I let him do it. He belittled me. He humiliated me. And I’m furious. I need to do this now. It’s a matter of my own self-respect.”

Doug’s office was a Pandora’s box that, once opened, gushed with condemning information. Emily was nearly as stunned by the ease of her access to it, as by its quantity. He hadn’t camouflaged anything. It was all there for the taking. Apparently it hadn’t occurred to the bastard that she would look.

She pored through bank books, paid bills and canceled checks, and the tax forms that she had so naively signed. She booted up the computer, turned to his calendar, and printed out his work schedule and lack thereof on certain days when he had told her otherwise. She studied the airline’s frequent flier statement, detailing dates and points of departure and arrival far different from what she had been led to believe. She found certificates of deposit and money market accounts.

For the most part, she was dispassionate, approaching the task as she would research for a book. The satisfaction of being proved right in her suspicions, of having solid evidence and feeling clever for a change, helped her through the inevitable moments of humiliation and fury. And there were both, in abundance. For years, it seemed, she had been blind to the extreme.

She thought of Celeste at one odd moment, and felt a glimmer of understanding. Celeste was taking control of her life. She had defined her goals and was steering herself their way. Emily didn’t necessarily agree with her methods, but she could identify with the motive. Control was important, all the more so after such a long time without.

By dawn, Emily had two folders containing duplicate copies of the damning data, made on the machine that Doug had so cleverly bought for the business. She stood one of the folders in the kitchen between the cookbooks that she had used over the years in her efforts to please Doug. She wanted it handy, should he opt for denial when she confronted him.

She tucked the other away for safekeeping in Daniel’s room. That was the one place in the house that Doug would never look.

O
N FRIDAY MORNING, EMILY GASSED UP THE CAR,
with its new tires, new fan belts, and new muffler, and drove to Boston. She was there by noon, earlier than necessary, if the information on Doug’s calendar was correct. He had appointments in Bridgeport at nine and eleven. She figured he would be on the road by noon and in Boston by three. But she wasn’t taking a chance on missing him.

It took her half an hour of driving around the block before someone pulled out of the kind of parking space she needed. It was diagonally across the street from the address she had, an easy view past her front windshield.

But the view was where easy ended. There was pain in looking at that townhouse, a lovely brick three-storied thing, with tall windows and a carved oak door flanked by whiskey barrels filled with flowers. Even from outside, the draperies looked elegant, certainly heavier and more elaborate than anything Emily had ever sewn. Not that the woman of the house had sewn them. One window to the next, all the way up, spoke of a designer’s touch.

She tried to keep her mind blank as she sat there with her stomach in knots and her eyes on the front stoop of the townhouse, but all she could think was that this was Doug’s other home, the one in which he invested the energy and emotion that should have been hers. Maybe she was wrong, she tried to remind herself. Maybe there were explanations for the phone bills and the gas bills and the furniture bills. Maybe the woman who lived there had paid for the draperies. But Emily didn’t believe it, and as she sat, she began to simmer.

She had brought along sandwiches and a thermos filled with coffee, but she didn’t touch either. She kept her eyes on the townhouse and Jill’s camera in her lap. She was determined to get a picture. If Doug dared suggest that her allegations were crazy, she planned to whip out something to wash out his tan.

That tan was
another
thing. He hadn’t gotten it spending time with her, but playing golf at the nice little country club on the outskirts of Boston, where, according to his records, he had been a member in good standing for the past three years.

She wondered who the other members of the club thought was his wife. She wondered what would happen if she showed up there looking for him. She wondered what it would be like to cause a scene.

Not that she would. She couldn’t be ugly that way, didn’t have it in her. Nor, though, would she be lied to again.

She took her eyes from the townhouse only to dart quick looks at the clock or the occasional passerby. As one-thirty inched its way toward two, the leisurely lunch crowd merged with a more directed afternoon one. She saw students who might have been Jill, and businessmen who might have been Doug, but no one climbed the steps of the townhouse with the elegant drapes and the carved oak door.

By the time three o’clock arrived, the knots in her stomach were twisting. By four, she was thinking that Brian might have been right, that maybe she had made a mistake coming here blindly, without proof that Doug was on his way. She wondered if she should have just asked him, without coming at all. The file she had was incriminating enough. She didn’t need a photograph.

What she needed was self-confidence, which was the real purpose of the trip. She needed to know that she had taken Jill’s clue, found proof of its claim, and backed that proof up. She needed to know that she could beat Doug at his own game.

That was one way to fight the anger. As for the hurt, the humiliation, the profound sadness, she needed time.

Then she saw him. He rounded the corner on foot and approached the townhouse, Doug, bold as brass, looking dazzling in casual clothes—not even a
business suit
, the
bastard
—and totally oblivious to the possibility that she was lying in wait.

Trembling, she rushed the camera to her eye, but it was a minute before she could get her fingers to work right. She took one picture, jerked the film ahead, and took another. She advanced, refocused, and kept shooting, thinking, absurdly, that Doug would die if he knew what good use she was making of the camera he had so nobly bought Jill for a photography course junior year.

She wrenched the focus knob, too late realizing that her tears were what blurred the picture. Whimpering, she fought the devastation she felt, struggling to shoot, advance, and shoot more quickly as Doug climbed the steps of the townhouse.

She got shots of him standing at the door, reaching into his pocket, unlocking the door, and stepping inside. She took one picture of the door after he was gone, then another and another until the camera slipped on her tears. That was when the absurdity of what she was doing hit her. Sitting here, witnessing firsthand the existence of Doug’s other life, was pure masochism.

She grabbed a tissue and tried to stop crying, but the tears kept coming. Her marriage was done, her life forever changed. The finality of it was heartbreaking.

Then she caught her breath. Standing on the sidewalk staring at her, barely two cars down from where she was parked, was Jill.

Emily made a sobbing sound when her heart hit her ribs. She swiped at her tears with both hands, praying that she had seen wrong, but Jill remained. For a split second, Emily was paralyzed by a fathomless grief. In the next instant, the mother in her was out of the car.

Jill’s face was pale, that of a child whose bottom had fallen out of her world. Knowing just how she felt, Emily took her in her arms and held on. She wasn’t crying now. Motherhood demanded she be strong.

But when Jill whispered, “I love you, Mom,” she lost it and burst into a fresh bout of tears. She held Jill for her own sake then, taking every bit of the comfort her mature woman-daughter offered.

It was a minute before she had the wherewithal to ease back and say a sniffly, “I love you, too, sweet-heart.”

“You read my paper.”

“Mm.”

“I didn’t know what to do,” Jill rushed out, “I wasn’t sure if it was him, but like, there were so many reasons why it could be, and then I felt guilty for thinking he’d do that. I wanted to tell you but I didn’t know how, so writing seemed the best way, since I
knew
you’d do something with my closet.”

Emily was wiping her eyes with her fingers. “Only the sweater basket. I haven’t touched anything else. And writing it down was fine.” Though she would have done anything to spare Jill this, she was relieved to have it out in the open. Misery loved company. She needed to be with someone she loved. “Have you come here before?”

“No. I told myself you’d do whatever had to be done. But I kept wondering anyway.”

“Why today?”

“Because the first time I saw him here was a Friday. And because he was strange last weekend. Nice to everyone but you. Who is she?”

Emily drew in a shaky breath. She had a name. But Jill was asking about the nature of the relationship. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe he had a business friend who died, and he’s checking up on the widow.”

It was a romantic notion that Emily had herself entertained in one delusive moment, but it didn’t explain why he had a key to the place, why he hadn’t told Emily about her, and it certainly didn’t explain what she had found in his files.

“How long has he been coming here?” Jill asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Who is the little boy?”

Emily’s throat tightened. She wasn’t ready to think about the little boy, and besides, she didn’t know how much to tell Jill about
any
of this. She was so frightened of making a mistake. She needed time to regroup. “Let’s go someplace where we can talk.”

They returned to the car and drove to a cafe close to Jill’s dorm. Once settled in a booth with warm drinks on order and their hands linked, Jill started in with questions again. “How did you know where to wait? I didn’t know the address.”

“I found it in your father’s den.”

“Just written down?”

“No. There were bills.”

“He’s
supporting
her?”

“Maybe not. I really don’t know, Jill. There could be a perfectly good reason for everything he’s done.”

But Jill was shaking her head. “When I saw them that first time, there was something about them together. They looked like a couple. They looked like a
family
.”

Emily felt the pain of that.
They
were a family. Emily and Jill were alone.

If the little boy was Doug’s, he was Jill’s half-brother. She wondered if Jill had thought about that.

“Will you ask him about it?” Jill asked.

Would she ever. She took a steadying breath. “Yes. I need to know what we saw.”

“When?”

“When he gets home.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Most likely.”

“Unless he calls to say he won’t be home until Sunday,” Jill grumbled, and her composure slipped. “I hate him for this. He calls to say he’s working, but he’s not, he’s doing something with another family.”

“Don’t,” Emily pleaded through new tears. Her greatest fear had always been having Jill hurt. She had done everything in her power to prevent it. But it was happening, inevitably and irrevocably. “If anyone should feel those things, it’s me, not you. The problem is with your father and me, not your father and you.”

“When was the last time he spent a week at home? He couldn’t even stay around the week before I left. Do you think he was really in Pittsburgh?”

“Yes.” His frequent flyer account had confirmed it. “Most of the time he tells us the truth.”

“You’re defending him,” Jill charged.

Emily was trying hard to be fair. More than anyone else, she had a right to distrust Doug, but being spiteful wouldn’t help Jill. “He
was
in Pittsburgh. And earlier this week he was in New Haven, like he said.”

“And tonight? Where did he say he’d be?”

Emily was caught. She sighed. “Bridgeport.”

“Aren’t you
furious?
”

“Of course, I am!” she cried, letting go a little. “I’ve been raging all week. I’m furious and hurt and confused and embarrassed—the list is endless. I go through periods of disbelief, then shock, then out-and-out nausea. I’ve been married to your father for twenty-two years.
Twenty-two years
. This isn’t easy.”

Jill quieted. “I’m sorry.” She frowned. “It’s just that I don’t understand. Is something wrong with us? Why does he need to be with them?”

Emily took a deep, shaky breath. “That’s one of the things I have to ask him.”

Their drinks arrived, espresso for Emily, mocha latte for Jill. Emily put her fingertips to the cup, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Jill. Her daughter was beautiful, but that was nothing new. What was new was an expression that spoke of illusions dashed. It was the last thing Emily had ever wanted to see.

“What?” Jill asked.

“I’m sorry, so sorry for all this.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Maybe if I’d been a different kind of woman, or if I’d grown more along with your father—”

“Don’t
say
that. There’s nothing wrong with you.
He
’s the one with the problem. He cheated on his wife.
And
on his daughter.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Emily cautioned, trying hard, so
hard
, to be fair. “He walked up a set of steps and into a townhouse. That’s all we saw. We don’t know what goes on inside. It might be innocent.”

“You’re doing it again, Mom. Don’t defend him. He lied to you. And
keeps
lying to you. You’re too good. You let him get away with too much. I think you should divorce him.”

“Shh.” Emily doubted Jill had considered the effect a divorce would have on her life. She had barely started to consider it, herself.

“Will you?” Jill prodded.

“Not if there’s an explanation for what we saw today.”

“There isn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because,” she said, looking at Emily with something so sad and sure that Emily couldn’t possibly doubt her, “this has been coming. You and I both know it. We’ve been walking on eggshells around Daddy for years. We coax him into doing little things with us, and then rush to smooth things over when he gets antsy. We act like nothing’s wrong and that this is just the way things are when a man has to travel the way Daddy does, but he never says, ‘Wow, am I glad to be home.’ He doesn’t plan things for us to do. He doesn’t seem to care if we do anything. You two won’t take a vacation together. We three won’t take a vacation together.”

“We don’t have the money,” Emily said out of habit, but Jill was knowing, even in that.

“
We
don’t,” she replied dryly and studied her drink. She took a breath, seeming ready to say more on that score. Then she closed her mouth and frowned. “He calls me sometimes at school, really talkative. He asks questions about my friends and my classes, and listens to the answers and then asks more questions. I can’t get him off the phone sometimes.”

“He loves you.” Emily did believe that, at least.

“It’s guilt. Do you know how far that townhouse is from my dorm? Fifteen minutes by foot, three by car. How often do you think he’s been there since I started school? Once a week?”

“No. He was in London for two weeks.” When Jill shot her a skeptical look, Emily insisted, “I saw the tags on his luggage.”

“Was he with her?”

Emily suspected he was, though she didn’t know for sure.

Jill wilted. “What am I going to say to him, Mom? I could play the game before, because I wasn’t sure that was him on those steps, but now that I know it was, what am I going to say when he calls? I don’t want to talk with him. Not after what he’s done.”

Emily took her hand and squeezed it while she searched for an answer.
Tell him to go to hell
, was what she wanted to say, because Doug didn’t deserve Jill. But Doug wasn’t the one who mattered. Jill was, and Emily wanted only what was best for her. “He’s still your father.”

“He’s treated us like
shit
.”

“If he didn’t love you, he wouldn’t be calling.”

“He feels guilty, that’s all.”

He’s not feeling guilty about me
, Emily thought.
He’s not calling me. He’s not asking me dozens of questions about my life, and keeping me on the phone for hours
.