The Good Widow_A Novel Read online

  ALSO BY LIZ FENTON & LISA STEINKE

  Your Perfect Life

  The Status of All Things

  The Year We Turned Forty

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Liz Fenton & Lisa Steinke

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503943445

  ISBN-10: 1503943445

  Cover design by Rachel Adam

  To our fathers, for teaching us how to be strong.

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  She can kill with a smile

  She can wound with her eyes

  She can ruin your faith with her casual lies

  And she only reveals what she wants you to see

  She hides like a child

  But she’s always a woman to me

  —Billy Joel

  CHAPTER ONE

  BEFORE

  His fingers slithered like a snake to find hers. She opened her palm and accepted them. There was something about the commanding way he reached for her. It felt like a statement. You are mine.

  The reality was less clear. Because she was and she wasn’t. And it was in this contradiction where their relationship lived, where it took its deep sighs and shallow breaths, where the highs felt like the top of the most beautiful mountain. Breathtaking. Exhilarating. Peaceful. And the lows felt like the La Brea Tar Pits she had visited as a child. Trapped. Anxious. Uncertain.

  She ran her free hand through her hair, sticky from the wind that whipped through the rented Jeep after they’d decided to take the top down to feel the sun, the air, maybe even the spray of the ocean. They were both a bit quiet; it had been a long drive with so many turns, both on the road and in their relationship, so she leaned back and let the silence between them comfort her. She needed to confess something to him. And as long as the wind continued to swirl around them, as long as they kept winding their way slowly down the tortuous and twisty back side of the road to Hana, she could hold it on the tip of her tongue, where it had been resting for the last twenty-four hours. She squeezed his hand to check in, and her heart fluttered when he echoed it and made eye contact for a moment before looking back to the treacherous road.

  There’s something I need to tell you. She had attempted to force the words out several times since she’d found out. As they lay in bed, wound tightly together, their faces shamelessly close. He’d shared his own secrets, their lips brushing as he spoke. But when it had been her turn, the words would not come. She had not been ready for him to know. To face what might happen after.

  The lush rain forest opened up and presented the ocean, the view so magnificent that she gasped slightly. He squeezed her hand, then pointed down below the cliffs they were navigating, the creases around his eyes deepening as he smiled, his hand leaving hers again only to downshift as they reached the top of a steep incline. She often wondered why he had chosen her. Why he’d risked so much to be with an average-looking woman, the owner of a nose that was a little too small for her face, lips that were just slightly too thin. A girl who worked hard but still hadn’t found a career.

  But in moments like these, this man’s love, or lust, or even his affection—she was never quite sure what to call it—buoyed her. When he looked at her just like that, she knew that she’d do anything he asked. She might have even jumped off that bridge with him, as long as he’d held her hand on the way down. Granted, these thoughts of devotion were often fleeting. She questioned him almost as much as she revered him. But right then, in the Jeep hugging the side of this mountain, the unpaved road so riddled with potholes that she was getting carsick, she felt like they could overcome anything together. That the world could be theirs.

  That’s probably why she took off her seat belt. And decided to lean in close and breathe her secret into his ear. She could have simply called out her confession over the wind, but she needed to deliver the news gently. The rest of their lives together depended on it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JACKS—AFTER

  I’m FaceTiming with Beth for the second time today when the police show up. I swing the door open, half listening to one of my sister’s long-winded, albeit hilarious, stories about some moms at her children’s elementary school who want to petition the school board to allow them to “manage” their kids’ school projects. “They come out so much better when we’re involved,” one of them had said without a trace of irony in her voice.

  “Are you Mrs. Morales? Wife of James Morales?”

  I nod, dropping the phone to my side, my sister still speaking loudly as her view changes from my mud-brown hair and matching eyes to the dark denim of my jeans. I take in the static sound coming from the walkie-talkie on the female cop’s slender hip, the handle of a gun protruding from the holster of her stout partner with a thick mustache, their squad car in the background.

  She rattles off their names, which I immediately forget, then points to the olive-green front door, the only thing distinguishing our modest tract home from the others on the block. “May we come inside and speak with you?”

  “Why? Is something wrong? Is James okay?” I ask as I study the knotted skin between the female officer’s deep-set eyes, my mind clicking the pieces together.

  “Mrs. Morales, may we come in, please?” she repeats, and I wonder, in a flash of annoyance as I stare at her partner’s thick black hair, if they’d planned this. That she’d talk to me? Deliver the bad news I sensed was coming—woman to woman? She steps closer, and I jerk my body back, the heel of my shoe catching on the doormat. I lose my balance and grab onto her arm to steady myself. She offers me a sad smile, but still, I don’t
invite them inside. I want a few more seconds of not knowing.

  “Jacks?” Beth says my nickname, and I silently turn the phone around so she can see the cops.

  “Mrs. Morales?” The officer looks down, and I realize I’m still gripping the heavy fabric of her uniform, my knuckles bright white against the blue polyester. She puts her hand over mine, her skin cool and smooth. She guides me through the doorway, her partner easing the front door shut behind us. The three of us silently lower ourselves onto the red chenille couch. Ironically, it was purchased on one of my shopping binges when I tried to fill what my therapist had defined as the hole created by James’s perpetual absences while traveling for work. I have a closet full of shoes, a bathroom filled with cosmetics, and a kitchen stacked with gadgets, all bought in the same mindset. Beth would come over to survey my latest haul, then give me one of her looks.

  I stare at my sister on the screen of my phone resting in my palm, and together we hear the news that will seem surreal for weeks, like a bad dream I’m fighting to wake up from. May twenty-first. Maui. A car crash. The road to Hana. Cliffs. Lava rocks. A fire. His wallet with ID found several hundred yards from the car. Yes, they’d need his dental records to be absolutely sure, but they felt confident it had been him—confident enough to show up on my doorstep and tilt my world on its axis.

  I try to process the words into separate thoughts, but they all blur together into one long rambling sentence. Beth starts to cry the kind of heavy tears I’ve always envied; my emotions have always been much harder to conjure. I know my sobs will come, but I won’t have any idea when—just that my body will finally give.

  The screen of my phone goes dark, and I know Beth has hung up and will be on my doorstep in just minutes—she lives only a mile and a half away. She will arrive with a tearstained face, staring at me incredulously when mine isn’t like hers. It’s hard to explain, but from the moment I hear he’s dead, I’m both desperate for and afraid of feeling my husband’s loss.

  I stare at the two officers flanking me on the couch that has never been as comfortable as I wanted it to be, then eye the laundry basket filled with mismatched bath towels that I’d been folding earlier that morning. I wish it were five minutes earlier. Because five minutes ago, I was just a fourth grade teacher taking care of the dirty clothes that had piled up this week while I was cleaning out my classroom and getting ready for summer hiatus. Five minutes ago, I was laughing with my sister and making plans to meet her for lunch. Five minutes ago, I wasn’t a widow.

  I wonder what the officers will do when they leave my house. Will they think about me again? Or will I be quickly forgotten as they stop at Starbucks for iced caramel macchiatos on the way back to the station?

  The male officer speaks for the first time since arriving, his baritone voice sounding out of context. “Is there anything we can do? Anyone we can call? I mean other than—” He doesn’t finish his sentence; instead he motions toward my cell phone.

  “My sister—she’ll be here any minute,” I say.

  “Okay, good,” he says, and scoots forward on the couch. “Do you have any questions?”

  I stare into his eyes. They are kind—pale blue with errant flecks of brown dancing around the pupils. The truth is that there are so many things to do. And there is an overwhelming number of calls to make. I imagine breaking the news to all the people who loved James. I’ll dial their numbers, then lean my head against the cold granite in the kitchen as they cry, in the same desperate, unbelieving way I haven’t, but eventually will. Oh, how I will.

  And of course, there are so many questions. But I only have the strength to ask the cop with the kind eyes the most important one.

  “What the hell was my husband doing in Maui?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  JACKS—AFTER

  It’s ridiculous how your life doesn’t need your permission to turn upside down. You think you have it under control. That you’re good at handling the colossal disappointments: the ticket for the illegal U-turn, the late fee on your credit card that sends your APR through the roof, the dry cleaner’s fuckup. Okay, maybe you weren’t so good at dealing with that last one and would probably take back that terrible Yelp review you wrote. They’d refused to admit to ripping your favorite black pants that made your legs appear longer and leaner. You’d never find another pair that slimmed you that way again. It was a tragedy.

  But then your husband dies, and you think how you’d beg for the apocalypse of the torn pants. Because now it’s your life that has ripped apart at the seams you thought were so tightly sewn.

  I’ve been binge watching Shark Tank because I can’t sleep. And it reminds me of James—he’d always wanted to invent the next great thing. When the smug college freshman turns down Mr. Wonderful’s fifty-thousand-dollar offer for his pointless collapsible hangers, I want to tell the kid that life is short. To take the damn deal. That he’ll never miss the 5 percent of equity he’s hanging on to like a life raft. James would have said yes, wrapped Mr. Wonderful in a tight bear hug, and thrown the hangers into the air in celebration while all the sharks erupted in laughter. James charmed people in the same way he took a deep breath: easily and without much thought.

  Every day since James’s memorial two weeks ago—still a blur of dark suits and tearstained faces—has started the same way. I haul myself out of bed a little after 10:30 a.m., the haze of the sleeping pill I took the night before still lingering. I pour a cup of dark coffee, add three lumps of sugar, turn on my laptop, and wait for the numbers on the digital clock to hit eleven—eight in Maui. I picture Officer Keoloha staring at his phone as it rings. I know from my Google Images search that he has a round face, thick brown hair speckled with gray, and a wide inviting smile. I can imagine his jolly expression shifting when my 949 area code illuminates on his caller ID and he debates sending me to voice mail. To his credit, he never does.

  The first time I talked to him was the day after I found out James had died. After the female cop had pressed her card into my shaking hand with Officer Keoloha’s name and number written on the back. After she and her partner had waited with me until Beth arrived. After Beth had thrown her arms around my shoulders and stroked my hair as if I were a little girl. After she had spent the night and held me in our guest bed as I fell in and out of sleep, the harsh reality of the news I’d been given hitting me all over again each time I woke.

  Officer Keoloha listened as I told him my story. How I was shocked to find out James had been in Maui, because he was supposed to be in Kansas. I rambled about how we’d been married eight years, about how he’d never lied to me before—that I knew of. I was aware I sounded like a desperate widow not wanting to accept that her husband had secrets, but I couldn’t stop talking. And it didn’t help that he didn’t try to fill the lulls. I think he knew I needed someone to understand that this wasn’t supposed to be my life.

  When I asked how he could be sure it had been my husband in the car, he gently walked me through much of what the officers who’d come to my house had already told me: How James’s brown leather wallet with his driver’s license and credit cards had been found not far from the wreckage; that they’d interviewed Heidi from the rental car company, who’d confirmed James had rented the Jeep and that the signature on the agreement matched the one on his ID. They’d also verified that James’s name was on the manifest of a United Airlines flight from LAX to Maui. That he’d used the same Citibank Visa (which I had no idea existed) that had been in his wallet to pay for four nights and several sightseeing excursions at the Westin Resort and Spa in Ka‘anapali.

  His voice became tender when he reminded me about the next part, that because of the fire, the only way to be 100 percent sure it was James’s body that had been in that car was for our dentist to confirm James’s dental records. I couldn’t bring myself to think about what that meant. So I held on to the sliver of hope that provided—that there was a possibility it had all been a huge misunderstanding, and James was in Kansas closing the
software deal he had told me was so important.

  But then our dentist, Dr. Matias, delivered bad news all over again.

  So, it was confirmed. My husband was dead. But why had he died in Maui?

  Every time I think of James tearing out of our house the morning he left, my insides ache. He was wearing a starched white button-down and gray trousers that rose up a bit too much when he sat. His light-brown hair was longer than usual, hitting the collar of his shirt, his five-o’clock shadow already in full force, dotting his deep-olive skin. Ironically, I had the thought that he looked more like a surfer going to the beach than a salesman on his way to a conference. He blew past me with a tight grip on his carry-on, muttering obscenities in Spanish, his worn black leather laptop bag slipping off his shoulder as his sturdy body barreled toward the driver parked out front. I could see a man with a short white beard watching us and could only imagine what he’d been thinking—how many of these types of scenes he’d witnessed in his amateur driving career. And the worst part? We’d had this fight before, so many times. And I knew we would again. Or at least I thought so.

  Was that why he’d gone to Hawaii? Because I couldn’t give him what he wanted? Because I’d let him believe that I could?

  That, I was not ready to explore.

  I’ve walked through our (my?) house day after day since I found out he died, looking for an answer I’m realizing I’ll never find: why.

  I’ve tried to find out why James wasn’t in Kansas like he was supposed to be. But the answer eludes me, the same way his truth seemed to. So right now, I have decided to focus on something I can control, something manageable, mundane.

  I’m trying to get the kitchen spout to stop leaking.

  The water is almost therapeutic, causing a rhythmic echo as it hits the inside of the sink, reminding me of those drummers in the New York subway making music by hitting the top of a paint bucket. I turn the handle of the faucet to the right, remembering my father’s instruction from when I was a little girl and he’d directed me to turn off the hose that was attached to the Slip’N Slide. Lefty Lucy, righty tighty.