Put simply, the night before the wedding, Emily asked Myron to come over. He went. They had sex. The result — though Myron wouldn’t know this until some fourteen years later — was a son, Jeremy, who Greg unwittingly raised as his own.
Yep, a mess.
Myron had always blamed Emily. Just as he had started to move on from the pain of losing her, she had been the one to call him that night. She had provided and encouraged the alcohol and made the first move. She had a plan of sorts, destructive as all get-out, and he was just a pawn in it. That was what he’d spent years telling himself. But now, with more distance and objective hindsight, Myron realized that his thinking was old-fashioned. He’d wanted to paint himself the good guy and ultimately the victim. Classic self-rationalization.
Man can justify anything if he puts his mind to it.
“Myron?”
It was Emily. Present-Day Emily. Boy, Win had warned him about letting old trauma back into his life, hadn’t he?
“So you two divorced,” Myron said, pushing away the past. “But then years later, you got back together, right? You even got remarried.”
Emily didn’t reply.
“And then, what, Greg just up and ran overseas without explanation?”
“There’s more to it.”
“I’m all ears, Emily.”
She did the lip gnaw again. “I didn’t tell the police this. Just so we are clear. I wasn’t trying to hide anything. It’s not their business. None of this is.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not your business either.”
“Okay.”
“Greg and I had an arrangement.”
Myron waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he asked, “What kind of arrangement?”
“A transactional one.”
Most arrangements are, Myron knew, but instead of raising that, he went again with: “Okay.”
“Greg was rich.”
“Right.”
“You know this better than anyone.”
“Okay.”
“Stop saying okay,” she snapped. “Anyway, he promised to take care of me.”
“Financially?” Myron asked.
“Yes. It’s how I can afford to live here. Greg set up a generous trust for me. For Jeremy too, of course. Win helped him set all that up.”
“Seems normal,” Myron said.
“It wasn’t. I mean, our relationship...” Emily stopped.
“Are you saying you weren’t really married?”
“Yes. Well, no. We were legally married. But I mean, what is marriage anyway? Greg spent his life on the road with basketball. That’s always been the case. During the off-season, he mostly hung out in South Beach. He only stayed with me when he visited New York, which was, I don’t know, maybe a month, six weeks every year.”
“And when he did stay, did you two—”
Myron motioned coming together with his hands, accordion style, wondering why he would ask a question like this in the first place. Did it matter?
“We had separate bedrooms,” Emily said, “though we sometimes hooked up. You know how it is. We’d go to a fancy dinner party or charity ball. We’re all dressed up, we’d have a bit to drink, we’d come home, we’d remember what it used to be like and it’s late and it’s too hard to find someone else...”
She met Myron’s eye. Myron said, “Got it. Go on.”
“What else is there?”
“For one thing, why did you want this arrangement?”
“I wanted financial stability.”
“And what about Greg?”
Emily turned away from him and headed toward a glass bar cart. “Drink?”
“No, thank you.” They were getting to the heart of it now. “Whose idea was this arrangement?”
“Greg’s,” she said, reaching for a glass with one hand and a bottle of Asbury Park gin. “This part is a little harder to explain.”
“Take your time.”
“I’m also not sure it’s relevant.”
“Your ‘dead’ husband is being accused of double murder,” Myron said. “It’s relevant. Why the arrangement, Emily?”
She stared at the bottle, but she didn’t pour. “At first, I wasn’t sure myself. Greg and I still had Jeremy in common. Even after he grew up and joined the military. Jeremy is so strong and brave and heroic and all that, but he’s also... there’s something fragile about our son.” She turned and stared up at Myron. Our son. That’s what she said. Our son. And there were two ways to hear that. Emily started pouring. “Really, Greg and I had no real interest in one another. We were long, long over. But once his anger dissipated, you know from what we did to him...”
Myron felt the squeeze in his chest.
“...there was something else there. I don’t know what you’d call it. Friendship isn’t really accurate. He and I didn’t talk much or have a lot in common. But we had trust. And a bond.”
She took a sip. Myron finished the thought for her. “Jeremy.”
“Yeah, I guess. Whatever, I’m not telling this right. But one day Greg came to me and said that he wanted us to get remarried. He offered up a generous financial package. I took it.”
“And he never explained why?”
“He said something about appearances. He wanted to look committed to one woman and that it would be good for Jeremy.”
Myron mulled that over. “Did that make sense to you?”
“No. I figured that Greg had gotten himself in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The kind of trouble where it would look good to be married and have a family. I don’t know exactly what, but Greg didn’t have great impulse control. I thought maybe he’d met an underage girl in some club. Or maybe he screwed someone’s wife again. Yeah, ironic, right? Greg was into that. Sleeping with married women. Lot of them. I told my shrink about it. He’s sure that Greg’s trauma was a byproduct of what we did to him.”
Myron stayed quiet.
“No reply?” she asked.
“No,” Myron said. “None.”
“Anyway, Greg just said he needed to be married. We would go to events together, play the part of the happy couple for the media, the great redemption story, and in exchange he would set up the trusts. I liked that for a lot of reasons. The money obviously. But socially too. Friends don’t invite you places when you’re single. Especially me. You once told me I gave off a sex vibe.”
“Emily, I was young and—”
“Oh, I’m not offended. Jesus. Everyone gets so weird about everything nowadays. I do give off that vibe. I always have. I know it. Anyway, married couples — well, the wives anyway — they don’t want that vibe around their husbands. Not when you’re a single woman, even though, ugh, zero interest on my part. Anyway, it worked. Greg and I Part Two. He did his thing, I did mine.”
Emily’s eyes were everywhere but on his. That wasn’t like her. Myron said, “You’re not telling me something.”
“I’m working up to it. It was Greg’s private business. I’m not in the mood to drag it out in the open.”
“It’s not ‘in the open.’ You’re only telling me.”
“That doesn’t make it better. You know that, right? But if Greg’s dead, what does it matter now? And if he’s not dead, if he’s somehow alive...” Emily chewed that over for a bit. Myron gave her space. “Let me show you something.”
Emily took out her mobile phone, her fingers dancing across the screen.
“As Greg got older, he got weirder. I don’t know how else to put it. More reclusive. More online.”
“Greg?”
“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t sound like him, does it? Anyway, so one day he leaves his phone out on the kitchen counter. He’d been on it nonstop the whole morning and I knew his passcode — he always used the same one for everything. So you can guess what I did.”
“Invaded his privacy.”
“Exactly. Anyway, I find he’s got Instagram. This is so foreign to me. Greg. Can you imagine? Greg has an Instagram account.”