4 The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide Page 12

  “Yes,” I answer.

  I’ve got to hand it to him. Unlike Carl, his reaction to the bloody corpse of the woman he once loved and married was composed.

  Only one fallen tear gave him away.

  I got an hour’s head start before he called the Acme clean-up crew.

  When he came home, we pretended life in the Stone household was business as usual. We orbited the children, asking them questions about their day, their homework, and their friends. Did they notice Jack’s frosty politeness to me, or that I seemed a bit distracted?

  Now that they are in their beds and we are alone together in ours, I expect him to insist I feel his pain.

  He doesn’t disappoint. “You knew of her pregnancy, and you went ahead and killed her, didn’t you?” There is no doubt in his voice, only repugnance.

  I can’t believe my ears. “You think I could have done that…to her, while she was in that condition?”

  “You hated her, so yes. Tell me the truth, was it because you thought it was my child?” The ice in his stare causes me to flinch. It hurts more than any slap or punch.

  “How dare you! I’ve already told you! It wasn’t me, it was Carl!”

  He doesn’t say a word. He won’t even look at me.

  I can’t believe he thinks I’m lying to him.

  Saddened, I shake my head. “Carl was right.”

  He turns to me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He knew she was your weak spot, and that’s why, once again, he was able to pull the wool over your eyes.”

  Jack’s laugh is brittle. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “You may not want to hear this, but I’m telling you anyway, Jack Craig.” I move to his side, but Valentina’s ghost still stands between us.

  What can she say to him now? Nothing. It’s time he listened to me. “Carl won because he knew how badly you wanted to believe she cared for you. He won because you cared more about protecting her than about finding him.”

  The thought that Jack would think I’m lying to him makes me angry enough to say something I’m sure I’ll regret, but I can’t help myself. “Was he right? Was the baby yours?”

  In a flash Jack’s fist heads my way, stopping just an inch short of my nose. Like everything else that hangs between us, our mutual pain stops momentum in any direction.

  Carl knew he lost me to Jack.

  But when Jack lost Valentina, I lost Jack.

  So I guess I lost to Carl, too.

  I head toward the door. Jack doesn’t stop me.

  Once again, we’ll sleep in separate rooms.

  In the middle of the night, as Jack snores away gently in the guest room, I take his cell phone from the bureau.

  Then I go down to the kitchen, where Arnie munches away on cold fried chicken.

  I don’t have to drug him. Instead I beg him for one more favor: to scan Jack’s phone for any received texts containing a tracker that would have given Carl his location at any time.

  In less an hour, Arnie finds what I suspect. It is embedded in a text message that reads, simply:

  Thank you for caring, always, –V

  I will take no joy in showing it to him.

  It may prove I’m right, but then so is Valentina. He will forgive her because he respected her instincts for survival.

  It is a mother’s instinct. We may sacrifice ourselves for the greater good, but when it comes to our children, we will protect them at any cost.

  Even if the cost is the lives of others.

  Chapter 14

  How to Read His Moods

  The worst thing that can happen in your brand new relationship is that you misinterpret his moods. Here are four examples you should take to heart:

  1: He is sullen. This indicates that he needs some “alone time,” so forego any urge to (a) be next to him every minute of every day; or (b) follow him into the bathroom; or (c) shadow his every step, hiding behind corners whenever he turns around.

  2: He doesn’t acknowledge you when you talk to him. Again, he needs some alone time. Do him a favor and talk to your friends instead. Or a close family member. Or your shrink, especially if you’re having visions of beating him black and blue, just to hear him say “Stop! Please!”

  3: He doesn’t answer your calls to his cell phone. This is yet another indication that he needs some alone time.

  That said, do not (a) presume his phone is broken, and buy him the latest iPhone; or (b) trade in his brand new iPhone for an Android-equipped Smart Phone; or (c) lock him in your spare bedroom, so that you don’t need to call him in the first place.

  4: He takes off, without giving a forwarding address. I’ll bet you can guess the cause of this action. Yep, he needs alone time.

  Sadly, granting it will leave you in a quandary. How can you live without him? More to the point, how dare he try to live without you?

  The solution: plant a GPS chip in his arm and voila! You’ll finally know where he is at all times!

  On Saturday mornings, the husbands of Hilldale do their yard work.

  I’ve come to the realization that I can gauge the status of my neighbors’ sex lives by how early their lawns are sheared and their hedges are trimmed. Those men whose sleepy wives fend them off by claiming to be too tired for sex find the morning frost easier to face than a frigid dismissal of their amorous advances. On every block in our town, the buzz of at least one rider mower can be heard as early as seven o’clock.

  This morning, Jack was out of the house, and on our mower by six.

  We aren’t exactly sleeping well these days, let alone sleeping together.

  I take out my frustration on my bedroom windows. But no amount of Windex with Ammonia D and elbow grease will take away the pain of his distrust.

  Yes, had Valentina hurt him or my children, I would have been the first one to cut her throat. But I didn’t do the hit. Jack should know I could never kill a pregnant woman.

  Even one whom I suspect is Jack’s true love.

  I’m on the fifth pane of the second window when I see a man approaching our house. He has a grizzled beard that reaches almost to the waist of his flowing black cassock. At his neck is the white collar of a priest. I recognize his hat as a skufia, like those worn by Eastern Orthodox clergy.

  At first he hesitates when he sees Jack coming toward him on the rider mower. But then he straightens up and marches forward, a man on a mission. My killer instincts steel me for the worst. Should I run to my vanity table, where a gun is hidden in the false bottom of a drawer? And if so, can I make it back to the window in time to protect Jack?

  As it turns out, Jack also sees the man. He too is wary of him. He stops the mower, but doesn’t turn it off. The sound will muffle a gunshot, should one go off. Whereas his left hand stays on the steering wheel, his right arm goes limp at his side. If necessary, it will reach down by his ankle to grab the gun strapped under his track pants.

  They talk for a moment. I can’t hear what is being said over the hum of the mower, but the power of the man’s words can be seen on Jack’s face. I can’t even imagine what he might say that could sharpen Jack’s studied passivity into wariness, then cleave it with despair.

  Finally, the priest hands Jack an envelope and walks away.

  Each second seems an eternity when the man you love is in pain. It takes him a moment to rip open the envelope, and just two minutes to read its one-page contents. The mower is turned off as he contemplates its message. For the next six minutes, while he sits there staring straight ahead, the chirping of birds is all that can be heard.

  No sound is more deafening than grief.

  At long last, Jack leaves the mower and makes his way into the house. When he sees me at the top of the stairway, he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. I read the anguish in his eyes.

  When I get downstairs, I find him in the kitchen. He takes my hand and pulls me into the living room with him, but waits until we’re both sitting side-by-side on the couch to han
d me the envelope.

  When I open it, a key falls out into my palm.

  My hands shake as I take the letter and read it:

  My dearest Jack,

  If you are reading this, it is because I no longer walk the earth. Maybe that is for the best, since, if am to be honest with myself, I quit existing long ago.

  Even before I left you for Carl.

  In truth, I was dead to this world before we met.

  You did your best to keep me from being a living ghost. I betrayed you, and yet you still believed in me.

  But my dear sweet Jack, I had made a pact with the devil. He owned my soul.

  What you did not want to believe was that, eventually, he would come to collect it, no matter your attempts to redeem me.

  If you are now reading this, know that Carl succeeded in doing so.

  With my help, he found the Quorum through you.

  God knows I didn’t want to do it, but I felt it was necessary, for me and my child. Please find it in your heart to forgive me.

  Carl is devious enough to do his best to make any evidence of my death point to either you, or to Donna. Just as, should either of you had fallen prior to my own death, he would have done his best to make me out to be the perpetrator.

  I gladly played the pawn in his attempts to fester the doubts that plague you both. I reveled in the knowledge that you might still love me, despite my deceptions. Only from beyond the grave can I summon the courage to tell you the truth:

  I could never love you with the passion with which you loved me.

  For me, passion is dark and illicit. It is a cruel master who takes everything and regrets nothing.

  It was inevitable that Carl was my passion.

  Please forgive me, Jack. I know the truth hurts. Now that I am free from the pain of my desire, I can set you free, too.

  If you have not yet deduced Carl’s plan, it is to remake the Quorum with investors of his own choosing.

  To impress them, he has planned an extravagant exhibition of terror. You already know it is to take place on Donna’s birthday. I leave you with this key, which you know well. It leads you to the one last bit of intelligence you seek: where to find the devil who has plagued us all, before he completes his mission for world annihilation.

  It is my very late attempt at redemption, dear Jack.

  I wish I had more to give you. In truth, I wish I could give you back all the love wasted on me. I was never worthy of it, whereas she has more than proven that she is the one you were meant to love.

  Don’t waste a lifetime figuring this out. My final prayer is that, unlike me, you’ll have nothing to regret.

  Valentina

  So, there will be a new Quorum. One molded by Carl. One rebuilt in his image.

  Talk about trading one hell for another.

  Jack waits until I drop the letter in my lap before reaching for my hand. He doesn’t speak until the last of my tears has fallen. “Donna, she’s wrong about two things.” He looks me right in the eye. “I figured out a long time ago that she never loved me. But I was worried that you would never believe me if I told you I had accepted this and had moved on.”

  “You’re right. I thought you hadn’t gotten over her. I guess that’s why I asked you if the child she was carrying was yours.” I sigh. “I’m glad you didn’t hit me. At the same time, you had every right to be angry. Once again I doubted you.”

  “That’s only because Carl is a master at head games. For once, though, Valentina outplayed him.” He pats my hand. “Donna, I also know you chose me over Carl, even before you thought he had killed me.”

  “Jack, when I thought I’d lost you… and then you came back to me… all I could think of is how you’d say goodbye again if she wanted to come back to you…” Can he make out my words through my sobs?

  “Donna, I swear to you! I would have told her what I’m telling you now: that yes, I had loved her once, a lifetime ago. And yes, I grieved her loss for a very long time.” He pauses. “But I would have told her I’d finally found the love of my life. That I’d found my family.”

  Now I’m bawling like a baby.

  He’s crying, too. Or maybe he’s laughing. I can’t tell, because his face is blurred by my tears, which just won’t stop.

  "Donna, when I met you, I saw my pain mirrored in everything you did, and said. In how you channeled your grief in our profession. And how you protected your precious family. I wanted to protect you. I...I fell in love with you.” He stops to clear his throat. “But I had to wait until you no longer doubted my feelings for you. Until you realized that I love you. Always and forever.”

  My kiss takes him by surprise. Why is that? Can’t he guess I’ve waited much too long to hear him say this?

  Valentina was a fool to love Carl. I was that foolish, too, once long ago.

  Jack forgave us both.

  Without forgiveness, there is no love.

  Finally, our lips part. My hand reaches for his and the key falls into my lap.

  Can it save all of us from Carl?

  I hold it up. “This is too small for a door lock, but too large for a safety deposit box. Do you know what it opens?”

  “Yes. A very special keepsake box that once belonged to Valentina’s father.” He pulls me into his arms. “And I also know where I’ll find it. Time to pack up again.”

  “Where to, this time?”

  “Paris,” he says sadly. “While we’re there, we’ll lay her to rest there.”

  I lean back onto him. Through his tee-shirt I can feel his heart pounding steadily, like a metronome meting out all the reasons why he will always be worthy of my love.

  Trust. Devotion. Passion. Honor. Courage.

  His heartbeat also reminds me that if we’re to stop Carl, time is of the essence.

  My birthday is less than a week away.

  Chapter 15

  Planning Your First Weekend Getaway

  Squeeeee! He wants to take you away for the weekend!

  So that this is the first of many fantasy getaways with the new man in your life, take these items with you. They’ll ensure you take off as much as you carry on:

  Item #1: A bathing suit. Stay away from the one your mother bought you. Instead take something with tiny straps that break easily, especially when you’re being hit by a ten-foot wave. Nothing says “I’m available” like a naked woman on the beach!

  Item #2: A sun hat. The bigger, the better. However, to avoid helmet hair, don’t wear a hat that is (a) wool, (b) leather, (c) baseball (d) a helmet, or (d) ten gallon.

  Item #3: A paddle. Yes, you can use it to play Ping-Pong in the hotel’s rumpus room. But it is more than likely he’ll be using it on your sunburned rump, after you’ve expressed your fantasy to “be his little girl.” Be careful what you ask for!

  Item #4: A taser gun! Consider this an emergency only item. For example, you can use it in case he (a) books you in a roach-infested hellhole inhabited by a lot of lowlifes, (b) makes you carry both his bag and yours, up several flights of stairs, or (c) he somehow forgets your safety word. With one shock, he’s sure to remember it the next time.

  The flight to Charles De Gaulle puts us in Paris just after dusk. It takes an hour by car to get into the city proper. Billowing blankets of rain, caught in the streetlamps, shimmer around us in a blustery wind.

  Our first stop is the Cimetiere du Pere-Lachaise, where we will bury Valentina.

  She’ll be in good company. Besides Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, Chopin and Gertrude Stein, Valentina’s father was also laid to rest in one of the graves among Pere-Lachaise’s tree-lined cobblestoned streets of the dead. He was a Romanian professor whose anti-government discourses made him an enemy of the state and put him in a notorious hard labor camp.

  It also put Valentina, a teen gymnast at the time, on the path to espionage. She was a reluctant spy for the SIE—Romania’s Foreign Intelligence—before Jack turned her into an Acme asset.

  When her cover was blown, he ma
rried her to give her diplomatic immunity.

  Along the way, he fell in love with her.

  We arrive right at dusk. I stand beside him as her coffin is lowered into a freshly dug hole in the center of this one-hundred-and-ten-acre garden of stone angels. Like Jack’s, their anguish is etched in every pore of their faces.

  He crouches down and scoops up a handful of the freshly churned dirt, only to let it filter through his fingers. Each clod and pebble hits her coffin, a timpani of regrets.

  When she was alive, I could not stop him from having feelings for her.

  Now that she is dead, I cannot stop him from mourning for her.

  To love him, I must accept this.

  As we walk away, we pass a man in a wheelchair. He wends his way carefully down the old cobblestone paths, steering clear of the gnarled roots of the oak trees that shade this sad city of the dead.

  In the mere second his eyes meet mine, I am touched by the sadness I see there.

  I know in my heart that my own reflect something very different: the hope that Jack can now love me fully, and with an open heart.

  We reach Avenue de New York in time to see the light show on the Eiffel Tower, which splashes and sparks to the delight of the crowds at its base.

  If only Jack and I could be among them, enjoying the sights and sounds of the most famous city of love.

  Despite our dire circumstances, Jack is actually smiling. “I know a little place we can grab a quick bite to eat. It’s right around the corner from my old place.”

  He takes me into the neighborhood known as Le Marais. The bistro is in a narrow alley. Inside, it is packed with locals. As we wait for our fish entrees to arrive, the hum of lively conversation hits us on all sides. Anyone watching us would think he only has eyes for me, but I know better. Like any good spy, his ears are perked and his eyes shift just ever so slightly as he takes in the hubbub around us. Before Acme assigned him the role of my husband in order to smoke out the real Carl Stone, he was running Acme’s European operations.