As we walk out the front door, I notice a beautiful oil painting hanging in the front hall. A lush sunset in the classic shades of orange, red, and gold, but the artist has created it out of entirely unexpected shapes: A square sun dipping low under triangular golden clouds. Octagonal tree branches with slim hexagonal leaves. Everything isoff-kilter, angular, quite spectacular. It looks sort of familiar. Have I seen it before?
Lynne grabs her car keys from the hook and notices me admiring the piece. “Lovely, isn’t it?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“I fell in love with it the minute I saw it.”
“I can see why you bought it.”
“Actually,” she says, “it was a gift from the Harrisons.”
Really? I had no idea the families knew each other that well. Over the weeks, Amber has mentioned lots of friends—her besties Lynda and Laurie; her tennis partner Jill; Connie and Eve and Seth and a handful of old college friends. But Lynne Swanbeck? No. That’s a name I would have remembered.
Or maybe it’s just slipped my still-shaky mind. Tomorrow, when things settle down and I’m once again firing on all cylinders, I’ll try to remember if Amber ever mentioned her.
CHAPTER 68
BACK HOME AT THE HARRISONS’. After the craziness of the day, it really does feel like home. Hailey is being super-nice. She actually offered to make me dinner. Okay, it’s just cheese and tomatoes on whole wheat. But still.
I’m taking it easy, as the EMTs suggested, curled up on the couch under a blanket with the dogs on either side of me like bookends. I’m pretty relaxed, all things considered. But then I realize that I have to tell Metcalf what happened. Just as the EMT guy was checking my vitals, he finally answered my Loxton texts with a vague, snarkyYes, know all about it. No explanation for why he waited so long to reply or whether they’d ever spoken.
So I text now:Car accident today. Definitely somebody following me, slammed into rear, major damage to Amber’s car.
This time, he texts back quickly. With anyone else, I’d expect a warm, touching message asking if I’m okay, was I hurt, is there anything he can do. But Metcalf is not anyone else.
Here’s what he wrote:WHY were you driving Amber’s car?
Me, responding:She’s been away. Left Ben. Took baby.
Him:WHY didn’t you tell me this before??
I can think of several answers.
Because you never want to hear about anything but Ben and made it clear that anything else was useless information.
Because I didn’t think you’d give a damn about a wife’s unhappiness.
Because you’re basically a single-minded prick with zero compassion for anyone or anything, and I hate your guts.
Instead, I write:No particular reason.
Then I add,By the way, in case you’re interested, I survived.
He doesn’t respond.
CHAPTER 69
ACTUALLY, IT WAS A GIFT from the Harrisons.
When I wake up the next day, Lynne’s words are still going through my mind. She called this morning about driving Hailey to school, and I should have asked her then. But I was asleep when the phone rang. I could barely mumble, “Thanks.”
If it was a gift from the Harrisons, the painting must have come from his gallery. Wait a minute: The night of the gallery party, I secretly took pictures of everything on Ben’s bulletin board. Could that be where I saw it?
I check my phone. Lots of photos of paintings. But Lynne’s canvas is not there.
I google some of Ben’s previous exhibits. In July, he had anexhibit calledRecent Landscapes. That’s where Lynne’s landscape would have been listed. I scan through the catalog. It’s not there. Like every gallery owner these days, Ben lists all his artworks online—Instagram, TikTok, Facebook, Pinterest, YouTube. His social media team has built up an impressive following. Catalogs have glossy photos of paintings, listed by number. If you want to know more about the work (artist, materials used, dimensions, price), you need to go to the pages in the back. I do. I notice one odd thing: Painting #43,The Boardwalkby Madelon Strauss, leads directly to #45, a charming watercolor,Nantucket, Midmorningby Richard Holt. But there’s no #44. And no explanation.
Another surprise: when I see the actual prices. All the paintings in the show range from ten to fifty thousand dollars.
