“And stealing from her.” He then shrugs as he digs in the freezer. “Actually, I really don’t know how much she was involved. But Candy was all my brother could talk about. He was always trying to impress her. I guess not so shocking they married, but you said it was recent?”
“Yeah. Military came first, I think. Did you know she joined up?”
He walks to the microwave. “I guess again, not surprising. She never talked about college. Her dad wasn’t active duty when they moved to Windham, but the whole family breathed military. I think at least two of the older brothers were Marines.”
“Interesting she went Air Force.” I arrange cheese slices on a small platter of crackers to give Clint and me something to nibble on while I make the corn bread.
“Her version of defying her father?” Clint shrugs.
As I continue to ask him basic questions about Candy but avoid any more talk of Lucas, my mind is whirring on Betsey. Is there a connection between these two women that I missed? Maybe there’s a reason no sign of Betsey was ever found at the New York Stock Exchange. My arm aches as I beat the gritty cornmeal. I open my mouth and then close it. I avoid telling Clint about the mess at Garman Straub only because we all need to eat. This is what I tell myself.
After dinner, we volunteer Erika to clean the dishes.
“You heading to your office?” Clint says almost over his shoulder as he heads upstairs.
Is that his way of telling me he still needs space?
“I’d like to talk for a bit.” I try to keep my tone light.
“I’ve got nothing more to say about Candy.” He plods up the stairs.
“Not her.” I remain on the landing.
“Or Lucas,” he says.
“Something else.” I shove my hair behind my ears.
“I want to finish packing.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. It’s like we can act like we’re going to be okay for only so long. The rubber band stretches and stretches. Then, like now, it releases and slaps back into my face.
“Come up, let’s talk,” he says but doesn’t turn, just continues up the steps.
I stifle a sigh. I’ve become a wife who waits for an invite from her husband to come to her own bedroom.
“Do I need to sit down for this?” Clint says as we walk into our room.
Without the light from the large windows overlooking the huge oaks in the backyard, the room feels cold. “Maybe.”
He nods slowly as he sits in our white upholstered chair with faint blue lines. I perch opposite him on the bed bench.
“I signed a restraining order against Betsey on Monday.”
“Betsey, your sales manager?” His face looks like I’ve gone a bit mad.
“Yes. She was confronted here on Sunday, when we were... well, when we were supposed to be hiking.”
“But you shot up to Rhode Island instead,” he spits out and then takes a breath. He still hasn’t forgiven me for fleeing.
We’d never argued with venom like that before. I panicked at who we were—a husband and wife who tore into each other. But I never should have given him the space he said he wanted.
“What do you mean she was confronted? By the police? Why didn’t you tell me?” He waves his hands in obvious frustration.
“No police. Firm wanted to keep it in-house.”
“In-house. Whatever. Why didn’t you tell the officers that were here today? Did she have anything to do with the garage and car?” Clint runs his hands through his hair.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean, you know her. Seem like something she would do?”
