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I hadn’t yet finalized the trip. While I’d booked a suite at the Four Seasons, I was having a problem getting flights. And the latter was complicated by the fact that Tanya couldn’t find her passport. Which also meant that I couldn’t buy her a ticket back to England, having decided it would be in everyone’s best interest if she went home after the holidays. I called the British Consulate and explained the situation, but unfortunately they had no appointments available and would be closed for a week beginning on Christmas Eve. Paige had been right—I should have asked for her passport and kept it with the others in our safe.
The following Monday, I felt a little stronger. I got out of bed and, for the first time in over a week, took a hot shower and got dressed. With my hair washed and blown and a tad of makeup, I looked human again. Donning a pair of skinny jeans that were now baggy on me and a cashmere turtleneck, I ate a decent breakfast and even had a cup of coffee. While I was still not up for major socializing, I was able to catch up on things.
Thank goodness for online shopping. In a matter of an hour, I was able to buy all my last-minute Christmas presents. For the kids, Tanya, Matt’s family, Blanca, and even one for Bear. Using one of Matt’s credit cards I still had access to, I treated myself to a new cashmere bathrobe and throw. Why not? I deserved them and was going to need all the comfort and warmth I could get in the tumultuous months ahead.
As for Matt? He had his own special present coming.
Without consulting him or the kids, I canceled the trip to Hawaii and almost put a kibosh on any kind of vacation. Fortunately, my inner voice screamed out at me to give the kids one last family vacation all together—with their dad—before we separated. Not to tell them we were divorcing until after the holidays. Yes, it would be memorable but not in a good way. And at least Matt was paying for it.
After researching several options, I decided we would go skiing in Big Bear, only a couple hours away, something we hadn’t done for a few years, but all enjoyed. We could stay at the nearby dog-friendly Lake Arrowhead Resort and Spa. Go for facials and massages, and sit in the hot tub if we didn’t want to ski. Even bring along Bear, who loved the snow.
Best of all, because it didn’t require air travel, it solved the Tanya problem. She could come with us. I’d barely seen her over the past week, and was more convinced than ever that the poor thing could have mental health issues. Even so, I was going to miss her terribly when she went back home to England. I’d grown to love her like a daughter, for better or worse. Fingers crossed she’d get into Stanford and I could visit her. Or she could fly down and spend some weekends with us. And I could get her some professional help.
Just as I finished booking rooms at the hotel, the doorbell rang. I jumped up from my stool at the kitchen island and hurried to the front door. Catching my breath, I peeked through the peephole. No one was there. Hesitantly, I opened the door and on the stoop was a large, white envelope. In front of my house, a helmeted man took off on his motorcycle. When he was out of sight, I bent down and retrieved the envelope.
It was weighty, with my name written on the back—Mrs. Natalie Merritt—in thick red marker, the block letters similar to those anonymous, threatening notes I’d gotten before I fell ill. It was sealed with Scotch Tape.
I felt my pulse rev up. Was it yet another attempt to intimidate and unhinge me? A shiver skittered down my spine. I was afraid to open it. As I was about to toss it in the trash, my phone rang. Prising it out of my jeans, I glanced down at the caller ID and sighed with relief. It was my attorney, Jason Nussbaum. I hit answer. His voice eclipsed mine.
“Natalie, I just had the incriminating photos dropped off.”
“In a padded envelope?”
“Yeah. Have you taken a look at them?”
“N-not yet.”
“Well, we’ve got a good case. Make that great. Are you alone?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good. Open it. I think you’ll be pleased.”
Maneuvering the phone in my hand, I peeled off the tape and slipped out the contents.
Dozens of glossy black-and-white photographs. My fingers quivering, I flipped through them.
One after another of my husband sexually engaged with women I knew. Mariel. Heather. Christina, and more. Everything from kissing them in his office and banging them over his desk to sharing a bed in a hotel room and having wild sex.
“Hey, Natalie, are you there?” Jason’s voice filtered through the phone, but words died on my lips before I could respond.
I thought my flu was gone, but it returned with a vengeance. Clutching the photos and my phone, I ran to the guest bathroom and puked in the toilet.
My illness had a name. Not swine flu. Not SARS. Not Covid.
One four-letter word.
Matt.
I recovered quickly from my initial shock. My strength and resolution surprised me. Rather than unhinging me, the sickening photos fueled me. So when Matt came storming into the living room two days later while I was putting the finishing touches on our tree, I was prepared for him.
“What the hell!” he screamed as I was about to hang another ornament on a bough. The Wizard of Oz Tin Man, one that Anabel had bought for me.
“Excuse me?” I didn’t stop what I was doing or turn to face him.
His heavy, rapid footsteps thudded behind me, and before I could hang the ornament, he snatched it out of my hand and flipped me around.
I stared at him. His face was beet red. So red he looked as if he was having a heart attack. If only. Letting the Tin Man fall to the floor, he fisted his hands by his sides. So tightly his knuckles turned white.
