The next day, Becks slept until nearly noon, leaving Gretchen alone in the kitchen with Elizabeth and her opinions for far too long. Cassandra had yet to arrive for the meeting with Scotty and Mikey Pearce—a briefing about additional evidence that had apparently been disclosed by the prosecution.
Don’t worry!! Everything is going to be fine!!!Scotty had texted when he arranged the meeting.
Too many exclamation points and not enough details. Things were bad. Very bad.
Gretchen tried to focus on the pancakes she was making. It had been a while. These days, she and Richard split a grapefruitand maybe yogurt on a wild morning. God, pancakes. When was the last time? Even when Becks was home, he slept in long past breakfast.
But once upon a time, things had been so different. They’d been nearly perfect, hadn’t they? Gretchen hadn’t imagined it, no matter what Elizabeth thought.
***
Gretchen had looked at Richard’s phone that morning two weeks ago only because she needed to see the time. That was the truth. His phone had been there on his side table, hers all the way downstairs. She could have leaned over to check the clock on her own nightstand, but something had drawn her to pick up the phone instead. Perhaps some deeply rooted instinct.
Before Africa, Richard had always been a put-his-phone-down-and-forget-it kind of person. But since he’d gotten home, he had been fixated on it—checking for messages, scrolling through Instagram constantly. He did it even when he and Gretchen were in bed together!
A wife could feel a real threat in her bones.
Sure enough, that morning there had been a text right there on the lock screen from Frankie.Hope you sleep well, too. xo.Thexofelt like an electric shock. Even worse, it was clearly a response to something Richard had written.
And then there was the issue ofwhenhe must have sent the previous message. He’d probably started texting Frankie the night before, while Gretchen was reading the new Elizabeth Strout for her book club like a fucking moron. She was dying to know what his text had said—maybe there hadn’t been anyxo. But Gretchen purposely didn’t know Richard’s password. She was too afraid she might be tempted to scour his phone someday. Her suspicions were rooted in ancient history that she would have sworn had been wiped clean.
But no. This was what she had been reduced to: hoping the beautiful young woman her husband had been messaging whilein bed with Gretchen was the first to sendxo’s? It was utterly pathetic.
—
“What’s wrong?” Ilya had asked as soon as Gretchen had lain down on the reformer machine in his airy second-floor studio.
Gretchen had been seeing Ilya, a former member of the American Ballet Theatre who’d emigrated from Russia when he was fourteen, for ten years—more for his warm, attentive conversation than for the exercise. He had glowing hazel eyes and sculpted features, gold-highlighted shoulder-length hair. But Ilya wore his beauty lightly, like a diamond necklace he didn’t know the value of.
“What do you mean?” Gretchen asked as she slid herself up and down the rails of the machine. There was hardly any resistance—there never was.
Ilya shrugged his sinewy shoulders. “You just seem distracted. Like your mind is very far away. And a little bit…sad, maybe.”
Gretchen was quiet for a moment. “I think Richard is having an affair,” she heard herself say finally. Even though she had not been planning to. She hadn’t fully realized she suspected it herself until the words came out of her mouth.
“What?” Ilya asked as if he had no idea who she could possibly be referring to. Then his eyes popped wide. “No!”
Gretchen swallowed hard. “I think so,” she managed.
“Who is she?” Ilya demanded. “This is not okay.”
“Her name is Frankie Callahan. She’s an artist. Richard climbed Kilimanjaro with her.”
Ilya stuck out his tongue, mock retching. Gretchen nodded pitifully and bit down on her lip as she pushed back against the machine again. The tears in her eyes were multiplying, threatening to break free.
“You know,” Ilya said, “I have a cousin who might be able to help.”
Gretchen stopped moving. She was suspended in midair on the reformer, legs extended straight. “Help how?”
Ilya gestured at her to release the carriage. “Come on—take a minute.”
Gretchen did as she was told and reached for her water bottle. “Help how?” she repeated.
“He has friends.” Ilya gestured vaguely. “Maybe they could suggest she stay away from a man who is not her husband.” He locked eyes with Gretchen. “For instance.”
***
“Who are these pancakes for, exactly?” Elizabeth asked, her voice filled more with confusion and concern than disdain. Like Gretchen was a psychiatric patient.
