Page 41 of Something Old

So why did you leave everything tangible that reminds you of us behind then? That doesn’t feel like love. It feels like you’re trying to forget. Lyle’s voice was thick. She imagined him by the window, as translucent as the glass he stood by. And he wasn’t alone. Ronny was there, quiet for once. And Lauren, who looked uncomfortable and irritated, the way she always did whenever her parents fought. The three people who had made her heart complete, who had practically been her heart, actually—all there, but ever, always beyond her reach. Madeline shivered and wished she had a sweater or that a hot flash would hit. They never came when you wanted them to, though, did they?

Don’t worry, Mom. I know you love me—love us.

“Thanks, baby.” Madeline’s eyes brimmed. She looked down at her phone, then traced one finger along the edge of its rubbery protective case.

After a long while, she looked up again. Lyle was still there. Ronny and Lauren were not. Madeline’s chest hurt, and her breathing was ragged. “I know you don’t understand, Lyle, and I can’t help you there because I don’t understand either. I don’t . . . understand any of this. But I had to go. I had to leave you. Had to disentangle me. You were everywhere I was all the time, smothering me, never giving me any peace. We couldn’t keep going like that. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t survive it.”

Lyle was fading fast.

“I’m sorry, though. So sorry. I’d change everything if I could. Everything.” Her shoulders were shaking so hard her teeth chattered—and then she heard a noise from the other side of the room behind her, the living side.

But how could that be? She’d locked the door, hadn’t she? She groaned aloud as she remembered that no, she hadn’t because it hadn’t been closing time right on the dot. Her mind was still wailing. It was hard to think. This was not a complication she needed. Whoever this was, how could she ever explain herself?

She turned slowly, her limbs and joints leaden with dread.

And there was Grant in the dining room’s arched doorway. For the amount of time that passes between slicing your finger with a knife and feeling the cut, relief hit warm and bright. Grant. Thank God! Exactly who she needed. She felt herself relax. And then the expression on his face registered with her. The hardness in his jaw. The flatness of his eyes as he stared like he’d never seen her before.

The warm feeling froze, then shattered. The brightness blinked out. Pain came.

Chapter 21

Grant could hardly comprehend what he’d heard, and he gaped at Madeline. She’d really played him for a sucker, hadn’t she? His stories about how Holly had managed to keep the wool pulled over his eyes must’ve been hilarious to her. And he hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He’d only come to find her, having changed his mind about dinner. If he hadn’t—or if he hadn’t been driving by and had texted his change of heart instead, would he ever have found out about her, what she was, what she’d done? Or would she have kept him in the dark forever?

Her back was toward him when he found her in the dining room after following the sound of her voice, which rose and fell in audible stress. He stayed quiet out of politeness, not wanting to interrupt. But then, fully taking in her side of the conversation, he thought his legs would buckle. He couldn’t interrupt at that point. Shock struck him mute, and he sagged against the door jamb for support.

Madeline, still unaware of his presence, had started sobbing with her final apology, but Grant was unmoved. She should feel bad. She told people she was a widow.

He shuffled, catching his balance, and the sound alerted her. When she turned and saw him, her tears stopped. For a split second, a ghost of emotion he didn’t understand one whit given the circumstance blazed on her face, confusing him even more than he already was. But just as quickly, the look fell away. Her features went blank, impossible to read.

“Do you need to end the call, or are you just going to leave him hanging again?” he snarled.

Madeline looked baffled, and Grant grew even more furious. She was an even better liar than Holly. He didn’t think that was possible. “The game’s up, Madeline. I heard you.”

She blinked.

He exploded. “Talking handsfree to Lyle, your supposedly-dead husband. Remember him? Does he know that in addition to leaving him after your child died—after your child died, how cruel is that!—that you tell people he’s deceased? That you’re a widow?”

Madeline’s mouth fell open. Her eyes darted to her phone.

That’s right, Grant thought smugly. Wiggle your way out of this one.

Comprehension dawned on her face, but it was a bleak expression. She slowly lifted her hands to her ears, tucked her hair behind them, then pivoted her head side to side so he could get a good look. No earbuds. He glanced at the table, knowing even as he did that he’d find nothing there. His eyes hadn’t left her once. If she’d been wearing headphones and removed them or pulled Bluetooth earbuds out and put them on the table, he would’ve seen it. As he suspected, the heavy oak table was empty, save for a few dishes and her phone.

He was momentarily stumped. “So, what does that mean?” he asked aloud, though he was talking to himself.

Madeline just looked at him.

“You weren’t on speakerphone. I would’ve heard Lyle’s side.”

To his shock—and triggering a queasy feeling—Madeline laughed. Then she spoke in the coldest voice Grant had ever heard.

“What do you mean you would’ve heard Lyle’s side?” Her tone said he was worse than an idiot. “How could you, when, as I told you, he’s dead.”

“But then . . . who?”

Madeline’s face was closed—against him.

A series of memories, details Grant hadn’t even realized he’d locked away, flitted through his mind. The long hours Madeline spent wandering the store in the half-light before it opened. The way she often seemed to be conversing with someone he couldn’t see—on the phone or with the cat, he’d thought.