The New Husband Read online

“Out,” said Nina. “With friends. They can’t take the chaos. Neither can I.”

  “And Simon?” Nina caught the slight hesitation in Ginny’s voice, though she wasn’t surprised. Not long ago both her friends had been trying to talk Nina out of making this move. They didn’t have anything against Simon, per se, but each had reservations about the speed at which the relationship had evolved. They weren’t the only ones.

  Nina’s parents hadn’t embraced her choice to move in with Simon either. Her mother liked Simon well enough, but thought Nina was setting a bad example for the children to be living with him before they were married. It was an argument that didn’t quite adhere to her mother’s views on personal choice, but Nina saw it for what it was—a poorly disguised way of masking her hope that her only daughter would move back home to live with them. Her father, who had loved Glen like the son he’d never had, worried Simon was taking advantage of a vulnerable woman in a very tricky situation, concerns that Nina herself understood.

  Before her life had taken a U-turn, Nina had scoffed at those dolled-up reality show contestants who professed their undying love for each other after a few staged dates. Now she knew there were more than a few kernels of truth to their mawkish sentiments—and that a TV show wasn’t the only way to accelerate romance. Trauma, true bone-jarring trauma, did the job just as well, if not better.

  “Love what you’ve done with the place…” Ginny said, spinning around in a circle as she surveyed the disordered kitchen. Susanna sent Nina a sympathetic look. This was the third time since move-in day they’d showed up to help unpack, and the place still looked like it had been ransacked by raccoons. Nina had wondered if her lack of progress was a subconscious reaction from a part of her that wasn’t wholly embracing the move. It wasn’t only her daughter she worried about. As much as she loved Simon, Nina harbored a mostly unspoken fear of opening herself up to being hurt again.

  After uncorking the wine, Nina cut three big pieces of vanilla buttercream cake. The lasagna could wait. Susanna went to the fridge after announcing her intention to whip up a quick salad, took one look inside, and had to think again.

  “Someone’s vying for the Mother Hubbard of the Year Award,” she said.

  Nina laughed. She might have lost her mind in the mess, but not her sense of humor.

  “The children aren’t starving, I swear. I just haven’t made it to the supermarket.”

  “Like, since you moved in?” said Ginny, after checking the pantry.

  “It’s been hard,” Nina said, slumping down on a metal stool at the kitchen island.

  “A toast then,” Susanna proposed, raising her glass. “To a happy, healthy home.”

  “Cheers to that,” Nina said as all three clinked glasses.

  Susanna took a sip of wine and then went to work emptying the box closest to her, aptly labeled KITCHEN. Nina felt supremely grateful to have such good friends in her life, and couldn’t imagine where she’d be without them. Back when everything had first exploded, when her ordered world had become unmanageably disordered, Susanna had functioned as the family spokesperson. She was the perfect choice, already experienced with handling the media from her years as a reporter. An attractive woman with long chestnut hair and kind brown eyes, Susanna was a natural on TV. But now the cameras were long gone, and Nina’s great ordeal was nothing but a tabloid footnote.

  When Ginny went to help Susanna unpack the box, the first thing she pulled out was an old issue of Real Simple magazine. “Thank goodness you brought this,” she said with a laugh.

  But Nina wasn’t laughing. She hadn’t even realized she’d put that magazine in the box, but of course she had. She couldn’t have thrown it away. It was a reminder, a memento from the day that everything had changed.

  * * *

  NINA HAD been in her living room—her old living room—ready to decompress during a rare moment of downtime. A cup of chamomile tea waited on the coffee table, and that Real Simple magazine sat on her lap. She was interested in the cover story about—of all things—making life simpler. The issue also featured an article on four summer recipes to make outdoor entertaining easier than ever, which she found annoying because it was only the first week of spring.

  She got cozy beneath a soft fleece blanket, sinking deeply into the faded beige cushions of her couch. She flipped to the desired article and read a page until her eyes glazed over. She remembered thinking she should have been working on the PTA newsletter, or even getting an early jump on the live auction, but no—she had been cocooned, supposedly guilt-free, beneath a fuzzy blanket, preparing to relax.

  Even when she worked at it, Nina could not quite get a handle on how to unwind. It simply wasn’t in her DNA to turn off and do nothing. There was a time, years ago, when her entire life had been her career as a social worker. Then came Glen, who was work-obsessed even during their honeymoon phase, and admittedly Nina was too, at least until the kids were born. Then they became her whole world, until they didn’t need her as they once had. To fill the void, Nina found herself unable to say no to whatever favor, obligation, committee, or volunteer effort came her way. In this respect, she didn’t stop working—she just stopped getting a paycheck.

  Surrendering her downtime, Nina tossed the blanket aside. Today there would be no relaxing; she really had to work on that newsletter. Moments later, the issue of Real Simple lay atop a pile of other magazines on the floor by her cluttered desk.

  It wasn’t until Nina had returned to the living room to get her cup of tea that she saw a police car parked in her driveway. The car’s roof-mounted light bar was off, and that gave her a moment’s comfort: not an emergency. Still, her first thought had been of the children, always the children.

  Maggie was with her best friend, Laura Abel, and Connor was at a weekend football practice, punishment for the team’s lackluster performance during the previous night’s game. She wondered if he had been hurt—but surely one of the team moms would have called if something awful had happened.

  Nina watched through the window as two police officers, female and male, exited the car. They were dressed identically in khaki pants and blue polo shirts with official-looking embroidery stitched over the right breast pocket, guns strapped to their waists, their expressions grave.

  Under normal circumstances, Nina would have felt a stab of embarrassment at the weeds growing between the paving stones. The yard didn’t look all that great, either. Glen’s busy work schedule left little time for the honey-do list. Nina could have used vinegar to get rid of those pesky weeds herself, but somehow—hello volunteering, organizing, chauffeuring, cooking, cleaning—she never seemed to have the time. Those quick thoughts fled as she opened the door to watch the two police officers make their way up the brick front steps.

  “Can I help you?” Nina asked, a slight quaver in her voice.

  “Are you Nina Garrity?” asked the man. He removed his sunglasses the way cops sometimes did on TV shows, slowly and full of intent, revealing eyes that were a striking, steely light gray.

  He tilted his head slightly, his edginess giving way to something more congenial. Or was it sympathy? Nina couldn’t tell.

  “Yes. Can I help you? Is everything all right?” Her voice was tinged with dread.

  “Is your husband at home?” the female cop asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Nina said. “Who are you? What’s this about?”

  “I’m Detective Yvonne Murphy, and this is my partner, Detective Eric Wheeler,” the woman said. “We’re with the Seabury Police.”

  They showed her their badges.

  “Are you home alone?” said Murphy.

  “Yes,” Nina said. “I’m alone. Is this about Glen?”

  “Glen is your husband?” Wheeler asked.

  “Yes,” Nina said.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Nina answered Wheeler with a single word: “Fishing.”

  “What time did he leave?” asked Murphy.

  “Before sunrise. Maybe four A.M.
Maybe earlier—I don’t really know, I was asleep. Is everything okay?”

  “Was he going with anyone else?” asked Wheeler.

  Nina shook her head slightly, trying to clear her mind so she could answer correctly. Her heartbeat quickened.

  “Saturday is his fishing day. With the kids so busy on the weekends he almost always goes alone,” she said.

  “And do you know where he usually goes?”

  Nina’s pulse ticked up another notch, her throat tightening.

  “The launch near Governors Island. Tell me, what’s going on?” Her voice rose sharply.

  The two detectives exchanged glances before Murphy headed back to the police car, leaving Wheeler alone on the front steps to answer Nina’s question.

  “Somebody found a boat, a Starcraft, floating near that boat launch this morning,” Wheeler said.

  “There was a dog aboard,” Wheeler continued, “but no operator.”

  “Where’s Glen?”

  “Marine Patrol and Fish and Game are searching the water right now.”

  Nina’s hand went to her mouth, but not in time to stifle a gasp that became a sob. “He fell overboard?”

  “We don’t know,” answered Wheeler. “We also found a Ford F-150 parked at the boat launch. We’ve towed the truck and boat to our impound lot. Registrations show this address. Checked the dog’s microchip, and believe she belongs to you.”

  At that moment, Murphy opened the rear door of the patrol car and out came Daisy. She bounded up the walkway at full speed, squeezing past the detectives to get inside, eager to be home.

  “I guess she’s your dog,” Wheeler said, almost with a smile.

  “Yes, this is Daisy,” answered Nina as she patted her dog reassuringly. Overjoyed, Daisy reared up on her hind legs and placed her front paws on Nina’s stomach. It was a habit of hers long ago broken, but instead of saying “Down,” Nina noticed dried blood matting the fur around Daisy’s paws.

  “What’s going on here?” Nina said, pointing to Daisy’s paws.

  “There was some blood found.”

  “Blood? Where?”

  “In the boat,” said Wheeler. “Look, why don’t you take a minute to get yourself together. Make arrangements for your children if you need.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you should come with us to the police station,” Wheeler said. “Better if we talk there.”

  * * *

  AS THE memory of that terrible day faded, Nina’s eyes filled with tears. A cry broke from her lips, sending her shoulders quaking. Susanna and Ginny were at her side in a flash.

  “Oh sweetie, I know it’s not the best magazine, but it’s not that bad.”

  Nina managed a weak laugh before she relayed what that magazine actually signified—that day, when she first got the news.

  “Have you talked to somebody?” Susanna asked with concern.

  “I talk to you girls,” Nina said defensively.

  “No, I mean somebody professional,” Susanna said.

  “A therapist,” Ginny added, not that the clarification was needed.

  Maggie and Connor were both seeing a therapist, but for some reason, Nina hadn’t found one for herself. Everything was still so raw that talking about it felt like poking an open wound. And then, when Simon came along, her life seemed to stabilize. The welcome distraction from her troubles had made it possible to suppress her feelings, but maybe no more. Maybe her friends were right. The move was a trigger, and perhaps the time had come to get real help. She should have done it ages ago. She was a social worker and honestly knew better. But then again, the cobbler’s kid not having proper shoes was a trope for good reason.

  “Anybody have a recommendation?” asked Nina.

  “Mine’s great,” Susanna and Ginny said simultaneously.

  The three laughed and hugged, and Nina’s fresh tears felt like a cry of relief.

  CHAPTER 4

  Dr. Sydney Wilcox worked on the second floor of a redbrick office building, in a neighborhood dotted with small businesses. The office itself was cozy and intimate with muted walls and a beige rug. The bland aesthetic was clearly intended to encourage patients to contribute their own color and energy to the environment. The soothing gurgle of a miniature fountain blended with the nearly inaudible hum of a white noise machine put there to ensure privacy. It was all carefully orchestrated to convey one critical message: this was a safe place to share.

  Nina sat in an oversize armchair facing a stout woman in her early sixties who had a pageboy haircut that was more salt than pepper. Plastic-frame glasses gave Dr. Wilcox a professorial air, but there was nothing intimidating about her. She had her notebook open, her expression relaxed and nonjudgmental.

  “How do we start?” Nina asked.

  Nina kept her hands clasped on her lap, allowing her interlaced fingers to nervously caress her knuckles. Why so anxious? she asked herself. She’d been in the business of untangling human messes, and it wasn’t like this was her first time in therapy. There had been some bumpy days early in her marriage, typical intimacy problems and communication snares that snagged lots of young couples shocked by the cold-water plunge of child-rearing.

  “Where do you want to start?” Dr. Wilcox asked.

  Nina should have expected her response—therapy was the fine art of asking questions. “Where do you want to start?” might as well have been “What brings you here today?”

  Nina spoke of Glen, Maggie, and Connor, providing Dr. Wilcox with the necessary background information. She recalled the day the police came to inform her that Glen was a missing person, then told her that he was still missing, and that many months later, with the help of a successful quiet-title lawsuit that transferred the property title to her name exclusively, she’d sold her home in Seabury, bought a new one in the same town, and moved in with a new man, all in the span of little more than a year and a half.

  Nina waited for a flicker of recognition to come to Dr. Wilcox’s eyes—Oh, you’re that woman!—but saw nothing of the sort. Maybe she didn’t watch the news, or maybe, like anyone outside her immediate friends and family, Dr. Wilcox had forgotten all about the Glen Garrity story. After all, tragedy was personal, and like a wound, it mattered most to those people left with the scars.

  “How has the move gone?” asked Dr. Wilcox.

  “Good, good,” Nina said, worried she sounded like she was trying to reassure herself. “I mean, Maggie is taking it the hardest.”

  Nina explained how Maggie had grown hostile when Simon became more than a friend.

  “What about Connor? Does he get along with Simon?”

  “Well, yes. Maybe because he’s older. But Connor had some difficulties with his father.”

  “Difficulties?”

  “Glen was something of a workaholic. My nickname for him was Glengarrity Glen Ross.”

  “From the play,” Dr. Wilcox correctly noted.

  “And movie about those crazed salespeople trying to save their jobs.”

  “He was a salesman?”

  “No, he worked at a bank. Not in a branch, in the main office. He was a senior financial advisor. Always busy with something. The first night after his dad went missing, Connor confided how he was sad they didn’t spend much time together.”

  Dr. Wilcox took notes with her pencil.

  “I tried to convince him that his father loved him very much and that they did do things together. Glen always went to Connor’s games, and they watched sports together on TV. But that wasn’t the same—it wasn’t what Connor wanted or needed, and Maggie had her own frustrations with her dad, mostly to do with his availability or lack thereof.

  “When I tried to talk to Glen about his work habits, his obsession with his phone or email, he’d remind me that all the financial pressure was on him, and guiltily I’d let the behavior slide. I don’t think I realized the effect it had on Connor, but that night he told me he didn’t feel like he really knew his dad, which turned out to be true for all of us.”
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  Dr. Wilcox’s eyebrows rose slightly. “How so?”

  “Maybe next session,” Nina said. She knew it would be too much information, and therapy was a process, after all.

  “Fair enough.”

  “Anyway, Connor wanted more from his father—more of a connection.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  Nina gazed up at the ceiling, trying to piece together her feelings.

  “It wasn’t a perfect marriage by any stretch,” she explained, “but I guess it was enough for me. I had the kids, my friends, my life; in some ways it was easier not having Glen involved in everything. I could make decisions and not be second-guessed all the time. I got what I needed, Glen got what he wanted, but poor Connor felt like his father was uninterested in him, and that was hard to hear.”

  “Connor never talked about it with you before?”

  “No, he could be stoic and stubborn, like his dad, so I only learned all this after Glen was gone.”

  Dr. Wilcox nodded in understanding. “Does Connor feel comfortable with Simon? Do they do things together?”

  “Yes,” Nina said as a pang of bitterness toward Glen and his failings came over her. “It’s been sweet, actually. Simon is good with tools, more so than Glen, so he shows Connor how to do minor home repairs, that sort of thing. He’s also studied YouTube videos to learn how to throw a football, and now he helps Connor practice all the time. And, miracle of miracles, he’s gotten Connor interested in history. Simon’s a social studies teacher as well as the middle school’s robotics coach. He and Connor are building something robotic in the basement together. I’m just hoping it doesn’t have arms.”

  “I see,” Dr. Wilcox said. “And how does Maggie feel about their closeness?”

  “I don’t really know. She doesn’t talk about it with me. She’s angry, and I understand why. She thinks her father is coming back.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “No, I don’t,” Nina said. “I think he’s dead. I think he’s down in that lake somewhere.”

  “Did the police explain why they couldn’t find his body?”