Читать книгу A Stranger on the Beach - Michele Campbell, Michele Campbell - Страница 15

The night after I first saw Aidan on the beach, my twenty-year marriage fell apart. I swear to God, one thing had nothing to do with the other. It was a total freaking coincidence, the worst coincidence of my life.

I was sitting barefoot on the big L-shaped couch in the great room, going over my guest list for the housewarming and feeling pretty good about life, when Jason called to say he wasn’t coming to the party. And that’s not even the bad part.

“Honey, I’m sorry. I can’t make your housewarming thing” was how he put it.

“My housewarming? Last time I checked, this house belonged to both of us.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Seriously, Jason? That’s not okay. You have to come. It’s not just a housewarming. It’s for your birthday, too.”

“My birthday isn’t until next month.”

“But I put it on the invitation. I ordered an expensive cake. I invited people from your firm and your golf club.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Well, they’re coming. And you know who else is coming? People I need to impress for the design business.”

I’d been a successful interior designer once. I could be again, with my beautiful new house as my calling card. Did he not get that?

“You want me to start making money, right?” I said.

“Of course I do.”

“The party is important to that, Jason. Magazine people are coming, and decorators and architects. I need you there.”

“I’m sorry, hon. I would if I could, but I’m stuck in Cleveland on this deal.”

Cleveland? What the hell? He’d told me he was going to Denver.

And that’s when it hit me. He was lying.

I cradled the phone against my neck and picked up my iPad from the coffee table. With our family plan, I can track everybody’s devices. I’d done it a few times with Hannah, when she was out late, and I was worried she’d been kidnapped by the Uber driver. But I’d never checked up on Jason before—I was that oblivious. Now I hit FIND MY IPHONE, and waited for the map to load showing his location. My heart was in my throat. I could feel that something bad was coming. And boy, was I right.

That little dot loaded like a punch to the stomach. Jason wasn’t in Cleveland, or in Denver. He was in the city, a three-hour drive from me. But not at our apartment. At an address near Times Square. At ten thirty at night. I zoomed in on the map. That address—it was the Marriott Marquis. He was in a freaking hotel in Manhattan.

Why would a man go to a hotel at that hour, in a city where he owns a perfectly lovely apartment?

To cheat on his wife, obviously.

What an idiot I was. Jason was never home, and yet I never suspected. He was secretive, and hard to reach, and had been for a while now. He’d get a call late at night and walk out of the room to answer. Or rush to close a text or email when I walked up behind him. When he was away on business, it was impossible to get him to call me back. But somehow, I never saw it coming. I was way too trusting. No, wait, I’m letting myself off the hook too easily. The truth, warts and all. It’s not just that I’m trusting. I’m too damn full of myself. It never occurred to me that a man would cheat on me—at least, that Jason would. I was a cheerleader in high school and student body president in college. I got every guy and every job I ever wanted. Jason always said I was his dream girl. I never doubted him, because I never doubted myself. But I was wrong. His feelings had changed. When had that happened? How long had this been going on?

I was floored.

“Caroline? Are you there?”

I took a deep breath. I wasn’t going to cry. I would be calm, and dignified, but call him on his bullshit, because I wasn’t a doormat. I would make him tell me the truth.

“What aren’t you telling me, Jason?”

“What? Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re hiding something.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Are you cheating on me?”

“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.

But I had proof. At least, I had proof that he was in a hotel in Times Square right this minute, when he claimed to be in Cleveland. I couldn’t tell him that, though. If I confronted him with the evidence, he’d know I was tracking his phone, and I wanted to be able to keep doing it.

Jason sighed, like I was the one causing trouble. “Enough drama, babe. It’s late. I’ll do my best to get to your party, okay? But no promises. You need to cut me some slack. Things are complicated at work right now.”

He was lying to me, and I knew it, but he refused to own up to it. What more could I do?

“Caroline?”

“I have to go,” I said, and hung up on him.

I sat there on the sofa, too stunned to cry. It was like I aged twenty years in the space of that one phone call. I hadn’t realized until right that minute that I wasn’t little Caroline Logan anymore, with my high ponytail, my cute figure, my cheerleader outfit. I was middle-aged Caroline Stark, semi-unemployed housewife, empty nester. And my husband was cheating on me.