“Sorry, Troye.” I gave up on the explanation. “You’ll have to spin your own bullshit. I’ve got to go. I need to strike something while the iron’s hot …”
Monday. Lunchtime.
I’D THOUGHT IT WOULD ONLY TAKE TEN MINUTES TO GET HOME from the gallery, but I was wrong. The route I ended up taking was twice the distance I’d expected. And it took three times longer than it should have, due to a jackass in a silver Audi who’d pulled out of Troye’s parking lot in front of me. He’d seemed eager enough to get on the road, but then hesitated before every turn and dawdled through each junction as if he were happy for every other car in the county to pull out in front of him. He was so indecisive I couldn’t understand how he’d made up his mind to leave his house in the first place. Maybe I should have felt sorry for him. He’d probably been drifting aimlessly around all morning, ever since the breakfast-time rush hour had left him in its wake like a piece of automotive flotsam. But since he was all that stood between me and the work I was raring to begin—and because he stayed resolutely in my way right up to my street—I couldn’t help cursing him instead.
I turned into my driveway and for a moment I thought the silver Audi was already there, ahead of me. Then I realized it was Carolyn’s car. A silver BMW, which cast Troye’s crazy theory in its true light. Me, a car guy now? Hardly.
CAROLYN HAD THE DOOR open before I was halfway up the front path, and even from that distance her presence lit up the entrance to our home. She was wearing the navy blue suit I’d watched her set out the night before—at least I assumed it was the same one, because there’s no way to adequately compare clothes on a hanger with clothes that Carolyn’s wearing—and her hair was still pulled back in the severe style she uses for the office in the hope that people don’t see blond and think stupid.
“You’re home early, gorgeous.” I leaned down to kiss her, and imagined how she’d look with her hair set free and the suit replaced by a bathrobe. Or by nothing at all …
“Where have you been?” she demanded, pulling away from me and breaking the spell. “I was worried. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
I followed her inside and took my phone out of my pocket. It showed twelve missed calls and three voicemail messages. A four-to-one ratio. And I knew from experience—coming from Carolyn, that spelled trouble.
“Are all these from you?”
She glowered.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. It was on silent, I guess. I had a meeting with LeBrock, first thing. It was a surprise one. An ambush, really. It didn’t go too well, and when I came out, I must have just spaced turning the ringer back on.”
“I can’t believe you.” She turned and headed for the living room. “Why are you always so inconsiderate?”
“Be reasonable.” I followed her. “I had other things on my mind. Like being shit-canned by one of my oldest friends. When’s that ever happened to you? How about a little sympathy?”
She moved to the chair farthest from me and sat down, brushing a stray hair from her cheek and then crossing her arms and legs.
“I did try to call you. I left you a message. Didn’t you get it?”
“Of course I got it. And when I tried to call you back, you’d disappeared. What was I supposed to think?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that having been stabbed in the back, I needed a little time to recover? That I’d fill you in tonight, like I said in my message?”
“Leaving me to get the news tonight, when it was cold? When you were done recovering from it? I should be the first one you tell, Marc. The one you talk to about things like this.”
“You were. You are.”
“We should have talked then. Right away.”
“We couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“You were working. You didn’t answer your phone. I guessed you were busy.”
“You could have come and found me.”
“No, I couldn’t. I was shut down. Thrown off the premises.”
“Then you should have kept calling till I picked up. I’d have dropped everything and come to you.”
“Would you? Are you sure?”
She looked away without replying, so I took the chair closest to hers and leaned forward.
“Sweetheart, let’s not fight over this. What’s done is done. The smart thing is to draw a line and move on. Plus, I’ve had a great idea. I’m dying to tell you all about it. Do you remember—”
“Where did you go?”
“What about my idea?”
“I want to know where you went.”
“When I left AmeriTel?”
“Yes, when you left AmeriTel. Who did you talk to?”
“Oh, I see where this is coming from. This isn’t about supporting your husband. It’s about protecting your career. You’re worried about the fallout. What my contract being canceled might do to your reputation. You wanted to get to me first, to make sure I didn’t run my mouth.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“What do you see when you look at me, Carolyn? Tell me.”
“I see my husband. Same as always. Why?”
“I don’t think you do. I think you see a problem. Something to be handled. A potential banana skin on the path to your next big promotion.”
“That’s not fair,” she snapped, but the spattering of pink that began at her neck and spread to her cheeks said otherwise.
“Well, I’m sorry. But that’s how it seems to me.”
“Only because you always see everything in black and white, Marc. You don’t get the gray areas. Everything has to be either right or wrong in your little world. But real life? It’s more complex than that. I can be worried about you and my career, believe it or not. Two things. At the same time. Equally. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.”
“If they were equal, maybe you’d be right. But they’re not. You know what? I sometimes think you’d have been happier if you’d married AmeriTel instead of me.”
“What does that mean?” She added a sharper edge to her voice. “You think you don’t get enough attention? Because how could I give you more? You’re never here.”
“Neither are you. That’s my point. You need to get your priorities straightened out.”
“No, I don’t. There’s nothing to straighten out. I value my marriage. To you. And I value my job. At AmeriTel. I work extremely hard at both. I need both. I shouldn’t have to pick between them. It’s not a competition.”
“I’m not asking you to pick. I just think it says a lot about your priorities when you spend more evenings at the office than you do at home.”
“That’s temporary. We’re still a finance manager down, after Melanie Walker’s accident. Which is hardly my fault. And I never wanted to work at AmeriTel in the first place, remember. I only went there as a temp. Then I had to stay when you got fired—the first time—and needed someone to support you while you were busy becoming mayor of nerd-central. My dream job went out of the window. I sacrificed it, for you. It was too late for me, by the time you were back on your feet. Don’t blame me for making the most of what I was left with.”
“It was me getting back on my feet that got us this house. Your car. All your fancy clothes. Your—”
“So your work is more important than mine?”
Not this again …
“Not more important, no. Just different.”
“Don’t patronize me!”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’ve never valued what I do. I thought, if we worked together for a while? If you saw firsthand what I did? But no. Minute one, what did you do? Found a corner to hide in. Locked yourself away with your computers. Started poking into people’s private lives. And let me tell you, when the computers are the only ones doing the networking, not the people, something’s very wrong.”