1
Audible
Youwereworkinglonghours, and I needed a little release, that’s all. Mariella meant nothing to me. Babe, I miss you so much—
Haley pitched the phone across the cavernous ivory living room. True to form, the phone hit the curtain—thanks to her shitty aim—and slid safely to the floor. Didn’t even crack the screen.
Shoulders slumped, her throwing arm nagging from a useless tantrum; she slogged across the frigid tile to grab the dang thing. Glaring at the traitorous device, she deleted the stupid email. And blocked the sender.
Ten years. Ten years she’d given to that creep. Eight years of marriage. They’d been so young. So foolish.
And come on. Long hours? She wrote her blog from home. If he’d needed any “release,” all he had to do was knock. Or at least have the decency to dump her first.
And it wasn’t just Mariella. Not that she had proof, at least not in the vivid way that she had with Mariella. That revolting vision was imprinted in her brain. Red lace. Big tits. Enthusiastically bouncing on top of her husband. In their bedroom.
Monthly girls’ night always involved excessive quantities of appletinis and sex tips. And, okay, maybe she was being paranoid, but it always seemed like those tips were awfully specific. Now she knew.
It wasn’t paranoia.
And they’d teased her for being a prude. With a snort worthy of a prized bull, she stomped across the room and plopped onto the stack of cardboard boxes. She wasn’t a prude. She was normal.
Sleeping with your friend’s husband was not normal. Nate had accused her of cheating weeks prior, in one of his many lame-ass excuses when he got caught, claiming a wife couldn’t be so disinterested, or so hard to please, unless she was getting it elsewhere.
Ha. Didn’t occur to him she wasdisinterestedbecause she wasn’t attracted to him anymore? That she was sick of being treated as a… a… athing, a showpiece, a housekeeper, rather than as an intelligent, independent woman? That she could only take so many digs before she realized this wasn’t what she’d hoped? And she’d been considering couples’ therapy.
A vigorous knock at the front door interrupted her pity-fest. No one knocked as aggressively as her mother. Dear Patricia did nothing mildly. Haley almost envied her mother’s fierce personality. Almost.
Thanks to a judge with keen insight that finalized her parents’ divorce, when Haley was suffering in silence while enduring puberty, figuring out boobs and periods and zits on her own, Haley was placed with her father. Miracle of miracles. Drake was a good dad. Not great, but there had been love.
“Hello, Mother?” she said as she pulled open the extra-wide, extra-thick front door that had cost more than her blog earned in a year. With a sweep of her arm, she welcomed Dr. Mallory into her home for the first time. And last.
Patricia breezed past her and tensed her shoulders, her platinum hair not daring to shift out of place as she eyed the paltry stack of Haley’s belongings. Haley had insisted they liquidate everything, especially the house they’d lived in not even two years, and a quarter of that was spent liquidating while moving at a snail’s pace through this mess of a divorce. Every time she thought she was free, he’d find another hurdle to slow the process. She didn’t want to spend months arguing over who owned the Waterford crystal glasses or the bone china that she’d detested from the moment Nate had insisted they add the finery to their wedding registry. Yet, that is exactly what had occurred.
“Haley, dear. How are you holding up?” Haley almost sighed and went in for a possibly maternal hug. Nope. Not Patricia’s style. Patricia didn’t even seem to catch the hint that Haley was drowning in need for simple affection. Nothing new, from her mother or her husband. “You must be so distraught.”
“Actually, I’m glad it’s finally over. I feel… relieved. Foothills sounds like the change of pace I need.”
“Well, I suppose Foothills could use another woman with excellent taste. You can commute to Seattle. I know a few people you can call for help to find a prime location to open an interior decorating firm.” Patricia’s calculating eyes were alight with her own brilliance. “We could carpool together every day. I have no doubt you will want to work the extra hours, anyway, like I do on surgery days.”
“Mother, I’m not sure that running an ‘interior design firm’ describes what I do. My blog is steady and my share of our assets should be enough to keep me comfortable.”
“You must have a long list of clients here in San Francisco. You’ll be able to acquire a whole new clientele in Seattle, but—”
“Mother, it’s ablog. Freelance at its best. All those photos were from my friends’ houses. I didn’t finish college and don’t know the first thing about starting a brick-and-mortar business. Nor do I want to.” Nate’s studies had come first. But she’d made the most of it. Of the loneliness during his long hours. Of ensuring they had a meticulously run home and social standing.
Her home decorating blog had been for her alone. It was more successful than she had anticipated, but she’d had unlimited use of Nate’s income to do regular remodels to keep her designs fresh. And elevated social status decried upgrading homes every few years.
Patricia pulled her bug-eyed sunglasses back down and stalked to the front door. “Well, load up your boxes. Our road trip will be such a fun adventure. I wish you could have kept the Porsche, but I suppose the Land Rover is more practical for the trip.” She almost shrugged, but her stiff shoulders couldn’t quite make the movement convincing. “Our first night is at a winery in Sonoma.”
“I’m sure it will be great.” She’d only seen her mother during summer and winter breaks as a teenager, and even less frequently over the last decade. The mother-daughter trip to move her back home had been Patricia’s idea. Having gone through several divorces herself, Patricia seemed almost sympathetic.
TouchdownFire,thisisit, San Francisco Fire wins the Super Bowl. What a play. Forty-yard pass nearly intercepted, Halseth snatches the ball and spins, making the final push into the end zone and… oh man, did he just—
Finn shut off the rehash.Get over it. He clenched his jaw, grinding his molars until he heard a crunch. His knee throbbed just watching the latest over-played recap. Best fucking game of his life. But not even the adrenaline of the TD could mask the pain as his knee bent ninety degrees in the wrong direction.
Two surgeries later, months of physical therapy, and he was almost back to a decent sprint. Not that any team in the NFL was going to touch him again. Twenty-eight wasn’t old, but it was for a wide receiver with an unstable knee.
He headed for the stairs, but halted when Pops strolled in the front door. The scent of smoked salmon wafted off him, honey and salty and soothing and familiar. Hmm, smoked salmon today. Pops had nailed the smoked meats and cheese recipes, carving out a unique niche in Foothills.
