“She doesn’t care about you,” Ginny says. “I promise you, she doesn’t care about anyone. She’s a sociopath, and the only thing she cares about is herself. Oh, and money.”
“Even if that were true, that doesn’t mean she’d steal my husband.”
There is a long pause.
“I mean, ex-husband.”
Ginny exhales before speaking slowly, choosing her words carefully. “I think that’s exactly what she’s trying to do. I think you represent everything she’s ever wanted, and she wants what you have. And I believe nothing will stop her.”
“Do you really think it’s that strong? ”
“I do,” Ginny says. “I finally figured it out. She wants to replace you.”
Kit takes the tea upstairs and pauses outside the office, where Annabel has been sleeping.
Pushing the door open gingerly, she goes to the closet and riffles around. Annabel’s clothes, and many of Kit’s, are crumpled on the floor. She reaches further into the closet and pulls out her own favorite cashmere wrap. It has been shoved damply in the back of the closet, and Kit spits with rage as she discovers the irreparable hole.
“Oh my God! ” She is instantly furious. “How dare she? ”
She sits down at her computer and gazes blankly at the screen, overwhelmed at the prospect of Annabel being dishonest. Could that really be the case?
And Adam. Could that be true, what Ginny has suggested? Could anyone be that duplicitous? To stay in your house, be part of your family, all the while knowing that sleeping with this person would hurt you more than you could ever imagine?
It wouldn’t just hurt her, she realizes. It would be . . . horrific. Even the thought of the two of them together—she allows herself a few seconds to close her eyes and imagine it, imagine Adam performing the moves she remembers so well, on Annabel—even the thought of it makes her feel physically sick.
Charlie asked if she had the hots for her ex-husband. She didn’t think so. Thought that chapter was well and truly closed. But it’s one thing choosing not to be with someone, quite another for them to choose to be with someone else.
With a start, she realizes that it has been easy to get on with Adam recently precisely because there has been no one special. Countless dates, and she is certain he has been getting lots of regular sex, but no one who was a threat to her, no one she had to compare herself with, no one who was mothering her children when they were not at her house.
She can go pumpkin picking with him and the kids, and pretend to be a happy family still, because there has never been anyone else. She was thinking of asking him to come along with them to the Christmas tree farm. It could be Steve who comes, but that would feel wrong. He barely knows her kids, her kids barely know him—the handful of brief meetings they have had don’t exactly count. There isn’t enough intimacy there, and—honestly?—she doesn’t even know if she wants him to come.
She realizes now that she has already envisioned the family outing to get the tree. They would head up to Maple Row in Easton, as they have done every year since the children were born.
They will all dress up warmly, thermal underwear, thick gloves, hats and boots, for it is always colder than they expect, and nobody wants a repeat of the year Tory cried nonstop because she was so utterly freezing.
They will start at the bottom, waiting in line at the food stand, and buy hot dogs and doughnuts first, hot chocolates for the kids, and warm apple cider for her and Adam, then sit on low benches around the fire, chatting with strangers, and Tory will fall in love with all the dogs that people bring along, and once again, as she has done every year for many, many years, she will beg her parents for a puppy for Christmas.
It has become a Christmas tradition, the begging for the puppy, the indulgent smiles of the parents as they explain, once again, why this year won’t be the year Santa brings a puppy, no matter how many times Tory writes to ask for one.
Then they will hop on the hayride to go up to the top of the field, their legs dangling off the back of the old wooden flatbed as they trundle up frozen dirt paths, passing the tiny newly planted trees first, then the medium ones, all the way to the top, where the trees to be picked this year will be ready.
They will collect their saws from the small shed, and wander through the trees, each looking for the perfect tree, wondering why none of them is quite big enough, or perfect enough.
“Come and look at this one,” Buckley will shout, and they will all follow the sound of his voice, trying to think of a nice way of telling him that a tree with half of one side missing probably isn’t the best choice.
“How about over here? ” Tory will say, although it is invariably Adam who finds the tree, but pretends it is one of the kids.
“What do you think of this one? ” Adam will say, when he has at last found the perfect tree, and the kids will pick up on his excitement and will agree.
Then Adam will lie down on the ground, inching his way in, to start sawing the trunk, and Buckley will lie on the other side, imitating Adam perfectly, instructing his dad to saw further to the left, or right.
Buckley will finish off the sawing, while Kit watches, a proud smile on her face, for Buckley loves nothing more than imitating his father, and they will tag the tree, hop back on the hayride, and wait for the tree to be brought down to the car, where they will hoist it onto the roof rack and tie it with twine, before bringing it home.
Adam will set it up in the corner of Kit’s living room, and he will stay to help decorate, a Christmas playlist ringing out from the iPod as the children hang the ornaments, most of which will be rehung in a more organized fashion by Kit, once the children have gone to bed.
It is a tradition that stretches back years, and no one saw any reason to change it after the divorce, but perhaps that is also because there has been no one else. Would the tradition continue with another woman? A stepmother? Maybe not. And would the tradition continue if that other woman, that potential stepmother, was Annabel?
It is, Kit realizes, causing her a pain that is almost, almost, physical, and even before she suspected anything happening between Adam and Annabel, she was finding it hard to be around her sister, to see her getting on so well with her children, particularly Tory, who is so often, for Kit, a struggle.
Kit changes passwords on the computer, and, about to shut down, as an afterthought clicks on history. It is blank. Everything has been cleared, and since she is the only one to use this computer, the computer that is in the room in which Annabel has been sleeping, and she has definitely not cleared the history, she gets a plummeting feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Oh God. What has Annabel been looking at that she’s trying to hide?
Checking that Steve is still fast asleep—the less he knows about this the better, and there’s really no reason for him to know—Kit goes back down to the kitchen and softly shuts the door, picking up the phone and dialing a familiar number.
“Hey. It’s me. I need to talk to you in private . . . No, not on the phone. Is Annabel still with you? . . . Great. She can babysit. I’ll meet you in Starbucks in fifteen minutes, and don’t tell her you’re meeting me.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Adam does not feel good about this. Not that he ever had an affair while he was married, but now, as he climbs in the car and starts the engine, he realizes this must be what people feel like when their illicit affairs have been discovered.
Guilt.
There isn’t another word for it.
Although it’s not as if he’s doing anything really wrong. Okay, maybe a bit wrong, but it’s not like Annabel grew up with Kit and Annabel was his sister-in-law throughout his marriage. That, he admits, would be wrong.
Despicable.
Unforgivable.
But Annabel is barely her sister. A sister you have only known about for a few weeks hardly counts. Does it?
He is trying not to think about the fact that up until he met Annabel, he was seriously starting to wonder ab
out getting back together with Kit. Not that he even knew if she would be interested, but there is something so comfortable, so familiar, so easy with Kit. An ease that doesn’t exist with anyone else, and he has often found himself gazing at her and wondering how it went wrong, thinking that of all the women he has ever been with, Kit is the one with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life.
That was before Annabel crept into his brain, consuming whatever other thoughts he may have had. She is like a drug. He can’t stop thinking about her, planning when he will next see her, keeping his BlackBerry next to his bed and checking it intermittently throughout the night, checking for her texts, her funny, flirtatious e-mails.
He adores her voice, her clipped English accent, her sarcasm that he usually misses first time around. He adores her hair, her pale, smooth skin, her enthusiasm and energy. He adores her mouth, her smell, her taste.
And however wrong he knows it is, he just can’t get enough of her.
He could hear her and Tory last night, whispering secrets to one another as Annabel lay in Tory’s trundle bed, and he fought a flash of resentment against his daughter, willed her to go to sleep so Annabel could come into his bed. He lay still, wound as tightly as a spring, flicking through television stations, unable to concentrate on anything other than when Tory would sleep.
And finally, finally, the soft pad of Annabel’s bare feet as she came to his room, pushed open his door and locked it behind her.
“I had to be sure she was fast asleep,” she said, grinning as Adam pulled her on top of him. “Proper, deep sleep, or I’d never have dared.”
He hasn’t been able to think of anything other than Annabel for days, but this morning, Kit’s phone call was a sharp jolt back to reality. She knows, he is sure of it, and for the first time he is thinking rationally.
How does he explain it to her? He knows he should stop, not least because Annabel’s visa is running out soon, and she will be going home to England, but he doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t know if he can.
And what can he possibly say to Kit to make it okay? Kit, who, only a few weeks ago, he was imagining kissing again. Kit, who today he can only think of as a friend.
Should he deny it? Swear blind that nothing is going on? How could she possibly know, anyway? Would Annabel have told her? Absolutely not. And the children know nothing, of that he is certain.
So is it just guilt that is making him feel so . . . guilty? So certain? But what else could Kit want to talk to him about so urgently, making him sneak out of the house early in the morning?
He crept into Tory’s room, where Annabel was safely back in the trundle bed, and shook her awake.
“I’m running out to get stuff for breakfast,” he whispered. “And I might go to the gym.”
Annabel was bleary-eyed. “What time is it? ”
“Early. I can’t go back to sleep, but you should. I’ll be back soon.”
“Okay.” Annabel yawned, reaching up for a sleepy kiss.
It snowed last night, not for the first time this winter, but for the first time it has stuck, and although it’s barely there, just a fine dusting, perhaps less than an inch, it is already freezing, and Kit is driving carefully, aware that anything faster than a crawl could send her into a dangerous spin.
The roads are empty, and Kit crawls along, her mind spinning, not sure that she should tell Adam, and yet Adam seems to be the only person who can set her mind at ease.
Is there something going on with Adam and Annabel? Yesterday she would have laughed at the thought. Today it simply causes her pain. But the only thing she knows for sure is that she believes her mother, and she isn’t sure why. Perhaps it’s because Ginny, who loves drama, wasn’t dramatic. She was cool and low-key and concerned.
Kit has never seen her like that before, and although there is a part of her that wants to believe her mother is wrong, she needs the proof, and right now Annabel’s handbag and documents are at Adam’s house.
She needs Adam.
Adam has a look on his face Kit has never seen before. Guilt. She is absolutely sure of it, and, in that second, she is sure that even if nothing has happened, it is not for want of trying.
He brings their drinks back to the table—regular coffee with half and half for him, and a skim frappuccino for her—and sits as Kit leans forward, her voice low and impassioned, and repeats, word for word, what her mother told her about Annabel.
Adam listens, sipping his coffee occasionally, as the torrent of words continues.
“So,” Kit says finally, “mother is sure Annabel is here with some ulterior motive. She told me that Annabel had stolen before, and is convinced she’s after money. And then I changed all the passwords to my accounts, and I just looked at the history to check”—she pauses, and takes a deep breath—“and it was cleared. The only person who could have done that is Annabel. So I feel sick with wondering what she’s been looking at. And my mother thinks she wants to replace me. She thinks . . .” She stops, nervous as to whether or not to say anything; but she’s come this far, she has to say it all. “She thinks there’s something going on with you and Annabel.” Kit looks up at him expectantly, hoping that Adam will instantly reassure her, say whatever words it will take to still the little voice that has been whispering to her since her mother arrived, the voice that tells her Ginny is right.
Adam says nothing. He sips his coffee, then looks at Kit, who notes in alarm that his left cheek is twitching with a nervous tic that only appears when he is stressed. Or angry.
“I think you are out of your mind,” he says finally, his voice low and cold.
“What?” Kit fights the tears threatening to well up in her eyes.
“I mean it,” Adam says. “Your mother swans in here with her drama and her ridiculous stories, and you believe her. I think this is disgusting. It’s a witch-hunt.”
“Look, I agree my mother has a tendency toward the dramatic, but I swear, Adam, she wasn’t the way she usually is. I believe her.”
“I wouldn’t believe anything until I had proof.” Adam snorts. “It’s ridiculous. Traveling under a false passport? Checking your bank accounts? Trying to replace you? Sleeping with me? If it wasn’t so completely insane, I’d be sitting here laughing.”
“I agree, it sounds . . . unbelievable. But even if you think I’m insane, her handbag is at your house. Could you just check? Even to rule it out? ”
“You’re asking me to sneak around and look at her passport without her permission? ”
“Yes. Maybe you’re right. Maybe my mother is crazy. But at least that way we’ll know.”
“So because she had some trouble in her past you want to judge her today based on her past? It won’t tell you anything anyway, that’s what’s so ridiculous about it.”
“It will,” Kit says vehemently. “It will prove she’s lying, and if she’s lying about that, then I can start to believe that my mother isn’t completely crazy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? ”
“It’s supposed to . . .”
Kit’s voice tails off as she looks at Adam intently, a cold shiver running up her spine as she realizes exactly why his attitude is so odd.
“Why are you so angry? ” she demands. “Why are you defending her so much? Why am I feeling like the one who’s done something wrong? ”
“What are you trying to say? ”
“Fine. If I have to spell it out for you, I will. Are you sleeping with Annabel? ”
Adam leans back, forcing a smile on his face. “I knew it. I knew that’s what this was about. Your jealousy, still, even after we’re divorced.”
“This isn’t about jealousy. This is about the right thing. And any way you slice it, if you and Annabel are sleeping together, that is not the right thing. To sleep with your sister’s newly ex-husband would not be appropriate in any way, shape or form.”
“Shall I tell you what I think? ”
“What? ”
“I think you’re jealous.”<
br />
“I’m not jealous!” Kit shouts, and Adam shushes her. “I’m just trying to get to the truth and right now it feels like everyone’s lying to me.”
“I’m surprised at you,” Adam says simply. “I’m surprised that you would believe your mother over Annabel. Your mother, who has done nothing but let you down your entire life, and you are choosing to believe her with this stupid tale of Annabel replacing you.”
“Adam”—the tears are almost there—“I’m not saying I believe my mother. I’m saying I don’t know who to believe. I’m saying I need your help. You’ve always been there for me, you’ve always helped me, and now, when I really need it, you don’t want to know.”
“Don’t start blaming me in this,” Adam says. “This has nothing to do with me.”
“But it does! If my mother is right, it has to do with all of us. Me, you, our children. Don’t be so damned blind, Adam. Whether you’re sleeping with her or not, this has everything to do with all of us.”
“So what do you want from me? ”
“You could start by answering the question.”
“What’s the question? ”
Kit wants to scream in frustration. “Are you sleeping with her? ”
“I can’t believe you’re still asking that.” Adam looks away, can’t meet Kit’s eyes, and that gives her the answer. There is a long silence, and eventually Adam turns to Kit, and she sees the guilt in his face.
“How could you? ” she whispers.
“I . . . I didn’t mean . . .” But there is nothing else he can say. Nothing that can mask the shame that he feels as Kit stands and walks outside then makes her way to her car, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Adam drives home slowly, sick with guilt. Oh God. He never meant to hurt Kit.
He stops at the grocery store and fills a basket with eggs, bacon, muffins, thinking all the time about the conversation he has just had, hating himself for not being able to restrain himself when it came to Annabel, especially when he knew—of course he did—that he was doing the wrong thing.