A Good Marriage Read online

  In their early days, when they didn’t have two quarters to rub together, people had assumed countless things about Zach because Amanda was his wife. After all, if a guy who looked like him and who wasn’t wealthy could keep a woman like her, he must be truly special. Now that Zach was rich and successful, the explanations for their uneven union were more often at Amanda’s expense—what a gold digger she must be. But that was okay. People could think what they wanted. Amanda knew the truth.

  For her part, Carolyn would have been happy for Amanda to leave Zach altogether. She’d long complained, among other things, that Amanda and Case were nothing more than props for Zach. But if you thought about it, props were useful things, and there were worse things than being useful. Besides, everything was always so mercilessly black-and-white to Carolyn—she could afford that luxury. She’d been able to live her life without worrying about how to survive.

  “Case is fine. Better than fine,” Amanda said, getting Carolyn a cup of coffee—light and sweet, the way she always had it. It was comforting, knowing by heart those little details about her friend. “He couldn’t miss me less, in fact, which smarts a little. But I know it’s a good thing.” Amanda set the coffee down.

  Carolyn lifted it and took a big sip, eyeing Amanda over the top of her mug. “So what is it, then?”

  “I guess I miss him and I haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.”

  “Don’t tell me—your wacko dreams again?” Carolyn rolled her eyes this time. “Let me guess, a monster squid.”

  Once Amanda had dreamed she was trapped in a giant lobster’s claw while sleeping over at Carolyn’s house. Thrashing about, she’d whacked Carolyn so hard in the mouth, her lip had bled.

  “No squids. But I do keep having this dream I’m running barefoot through the woods in the dark. I’m looking for Case. Frantic, really. It’s ridiculous,” Amanda said. She hoped confessing the details might make them stop running over and over in her head: the cold wetness of the dress against her skin, standing in Norma’s diner and looking down at her bloodstained hands. A scream. “There are sirens, and I have blood on me. It’s horrific.”

  “Yeah, horrifically literal.” Carolyn laughed, then focused on Amanda, her eyes softening.

  “What do you mean?” Amanda asked. She already felt better that Carolyn had laughed.

  “Come on, you’re running after Case in the woods, covered in blood?” Carolyn shook her head and held her arms out wide for dramatic effect. “Your subconscious has obviously come to the same conclusion I have: that camp on the other side of the country was a dumb idea.”

  “Well, you’re in the dream, too,” Amanda jabbed back lamely.

  “Me?” Carolyn batted her eyes innocently.

  “At the beginning. You’re in this puffy seafoam dress, like for a bridesmaid. And I’m in a peach one. We’re eating pizza on a bed.”

  Carolyn smirked. “Ah, see where ignoring my advice and sending Case to that camp has gotten you? It’s spawned revenge of the junior prom.”

  “Junior prom?”

  “Those definitely sound like our junior prom dresses. But you swapped them in your dream. Yours was the seafoam one, remember? I lent it to you.”

  Amanda shook her head a little, as though hoping to shake the memory back into place. Yes, that was right. That was where that piece of the dream had come from. Carolyn had lent her a seafoam dress. Amanda had dropped out of school by the time the junior prom came around, but she’d gone with a boy who was friends with Carolyn’s boyfriend. She couldn’t remember much more than that.

  But the dance itself had been magical, hadn’t it? She’d felt like a regular teenager for once. Even without the details there was a feeling. It was sad that she couldn’t remember more. That was the problem with closing off so much of her past—sometimes the good memories went with the bad. This wasn’t the first time Carolyn had reminded her of some detail from their shared history that Amanda couldn’t quite drag all the way to the surface.

  “Junior prom, I know,” Amanda lied. “That’s why the whole thing is so weird.”

  “Let’s at least agree that Zach is to blame?” Carolyn smirked. “For everything?”

  Amanda ignored Carolyn’s baiting. She knew it came from a place of love; besides, there were times when Amanda felt a little bit of that resentment herself. It was kind of comforting to have Carolyn actually say it.

  “The dream isn’t the real problem anyway,” Amanda said.

  “Then what is?”

  That stupid burn had returned to the back of her throat. “He’s calling again.”

  “No.” Carolyn dropped hard onto a kitchen barstool. She knew instantly what Amanda meant, even after all this time. “That fucker.” She sounded angry, but not worried, which was a comfort. Carolyn took a deep breath and then another big swallow of coffee. Then another. She stared down at the counter, considering. “I guess he was bound to slither back out of his hole eventually. Did he say anything this time?”

  “Not a word,” Amanda said. “Like last time. Just that breathing.”

  Carolyn knew about the last time, too, back when they’d been in California. Carolyn knew everything. All the ugliness. All the shame. She was the only person in the world who did.

  “He’s such a disgusting pig.” Carolyn’s face hardened. “Someone should deal with him permanently. Erase him from the surface of the earth.” Her voice was vicious, as she reached across the island to give Amanda’s hand a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

  What a relief not to be alone with it anymore. But now she needed to tell Carolyn the rest, to confess the most frightening part.

  “I think, um, I think he might be following me, too.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Carolyn’s eyes were like saucers as she turned toward the windows. “He’s in Park Slope?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I haven’t actually seen him,” Amanda said. “But I’m pretty sure he was behind me on my way to the Gate last night. I heard footsteps following me—who else could it be?”

  Carolyn’s eyes were on the front window. Amanda braced for her friend to argue, to say something like Come on, he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t go that far. But Carolyn knew better.

  “Fuck no,” Carolyn said with a new can-do tone and a clap of her hands. “We are not going to stand for him following you. Nope. No way.”

  “No?”

  “Enough of his fucking bullshit,” Carolyn said firmly. “Maybe we can’t have him exterminated. Or we won’t, at least not yet. But he can’t harass you forever. You don’t have to put up with it. You can have him arrested.”

  “Arrested?” Amanda looked toward the windows, filled with a mix of dread and delight. “For what?”

  “For following you! Get a restraining order.” Carolyn took another large swallow of coffee. She’d finished more than half the mug already. She’d always been that way, a fast drinker—coffee, soda, water. “Then when he violates it—which you and I both know he definitely will—you throw his ass in jail.”

  “A restraining order,” Amanda said, trying the words on for size.

  She’d heard of it, of course. It was a thing people did. It was theoretically a thing she could do. She’d gone so far as to file a complaint back in Sacramento when the calls had started the first time. The nice female officer there had heard Amanda out so patiently. She’d been pretty and young with fiery red hair, pale blue eyes, and a noticeably large chest. The kind of woman who might have experienced a fair amount of harassment herself.

  “His breathing,” Amanda had said at the time. “I’d know his breathing anywhere.”

  And the female officer had seemed to know exactly what that meant. She’d suggested to Amanda that a complaint would be a good first step. It was something they could do right then at the police station—no judge or other official process required. And while it might have no real legal implications, it would at least create a record.

  Carolyn was
staring at Amanda intently, waiting for a response. “So?” Carolyn asked. “Will you do it?”

  Amanda nodded, though she did not feel convinced. “A restraining order is a good idea.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a yes.” Carolyn knew her so well.

  Amanda smiled weakly. “I’ll think about it.”

  “There’s nothing to think about, Amanda.”

  “There shouldn’t be.” Amanda’s face felt hot as tears pushed into her eyes. She felt so terribly weak. “I know that.”

  “I believe in you,” Carolyn said firmly and with such love. “And I know you’ll do the right thing.”

  And now Amanda needed to change the subject. Because it was getting hard to breathe. She forced a bright smile. “I almost forgot, I have gossip for you.” Carolyn loved gossip. “I just heard it last night.”

  “What’s that?” Carolyn asked with narrowed eyes. She was onto this changing-of-the-subject nonsense, but she also seemed intrigued.

  “It sounds like, well, like they have some kind of sex parties here, in Park Slope.”

  Carolyn choked on her coffee. “What?”

  “Yes, apparently.”

  Carolyn’s face was positively aglow. “The patron saints of sanctimony? That is the best thing I’ve ever heard.”

  It wasn’t that Carolyn disliked Park Slope, but she was suspicious of perfect things. And Park Slope, with its picturesque tree-lined streets, gorgeous brownstones, and giggling children, had been ripped from a storybook, then had all the artificial flavoring and high-fructose corn syrup rinsed clean.

  Amanda smiled. “I thought you’d enjoy it.”

  “Oh, yes,” Carolyn breathed. “But now I need details. All of them.”

  “I’m not saying they do it every weekend, but it sounds like there’s at least this one party every summer.”

  Carolyn’s mouth was agape. “Wait, do your friends Maude and Sarah have sex with each other’s husbands?”

  “No, no,” Amanda said, like that was so absurd. “At least I don’t think so. Sarah doesn’t participate—or hasn’t. It sounds like that’s maybe only because her husband won’t. For Maude and her husband, apparently, it’s a regular thing. They go with other people, not only at their parties but all the time.”

  “How can you sound so calm about this!” Carolyn cried.

  “I don’t know,” Amanda said, but for some reason, none of it bothered her in the least. It seemed ordinary almost. “Maybe it was the way Maude described it. And it was her decision, not her husband’s. She’s so comfortable with who she is and what she wants. I don’t know. It made it sound like … freedom.”

  “Well, well, well, Amanda. After all these years, you finally have surprised me.” Carolyn was grinning now. “And I have to meet this Maude person. Anybody who can make you loosen up like that is definitely somebody I want to know.” Carolyn set her coffee mug back down on the marble counter. She checked the time on the stove. “Oh, shit. Now I’m going to be late. I’ve got a meeting. Work on a Sunday. Like your husband. I’ve got to go.”

  “Go, go,” Amanda said, even though what she really wanted to say was Please stay forever. But how needy was she going to be? Carolyn already did so much for her.

  Carolyn got off her stool and walked over to Amanda. She put a hand on each of her arms. “Go to the police. Today. Enough of this shit.”

  “Okay,” Amanda said, but too quickly.

  Carolyn eyed her doubtfully. “I mean it, Amanda. I’m not trying to freak you out, but I have a bad feeling this time.”

  “I’ll go talk to them,” Amanda said. “I will.”

  “Today?”

  Amanda nodded. “Today.”

  After the two hugged goodbye, Amanda watched Carolyn disappear from the kitchen, then turned to dump Carolyn’s coffee in the sink. As she watched the coffee swirl down the drain, she felt her conviction sliding away with it. If Carolyn could be there at her side all the time, that would be one thing. Though it was hardly strength if you had to rely on someone else for it. Carolyn was right; she needed to do something. Besides, it was one thing to ignore the calls and even the following while Case was away, but what about when he got back? Amanda wouldn’t allow this to continue. For the sake of her son, she could not.

  Upstairs, Amanda passed by the front bedroom windows on her way to take a shower. She spotted something on the sidewalk down below, in front of their gate. Something purple and low to the ground.

  Amanda squinted, but was unable to make it out. She headed back downstairs, chest growing tight. These days, there were no good surprises. She checked out the window before she opened the upstairs door to be sure there wasn’t somebody out there waiting for her. With no one in sight, she stepped out on the stoop. It was chilly, especially for June, and Amanda shivered as she made her way down the front steps to the gate, barefoot. There on the ground was a huge bouquet of lilacs, wrapped in violet tissue and tied elegantly with natural twine.

  Lilacs were Amanda’s favorite flower. She’d planted them in large pots at every house she and Zach had ever lived in, including in the small backyard of the brownstone, where they had promptly died.

  Without touching the flowers, Amanda stood up and looked around again. Maybe someone had left them there for safekeeping while they ran back to retrieve something? But they were not lilacs by coincidence. And the sidewalk was empty in either direction.

  Oh, God, why had she let Carolyn leave?

  There was a card. Amanda held her breath as she bent down, hands trembling, to pick it up, hoping it would be made out to someone other than her. She squinted as she tugged the card out of the envelope.

  Amanda, thinking of you. xoxo

  Lizzie

  JULY 8, WEDNESDAY

  The office of the Hope First Initiative was in a gritty converted factory. It was hard to imagine elegant Amanda there, and so I pictured her wearing white gloves, her hands hovering over the handrail as she glided up the cracked stairs. Amanda probably glided everywhere. I believed this even though Zach had already told me that Amanda came from a poor background, and I’d already read myself about her addicted father and her being raped by some boy who’d then made her go watch Marley & Me with him. It was amazing how I could conveniently disregard all these tragic details so I could return to my initial impression of rich, beautiful Amanda: that she was a woman to be envied, even when she was dead.

  What an awful person I was.

  At least self-loathing was a feeling, though. I’d been disturbingly numb since I’d found the earring. There were many ugly explanations for my husband having some other woman’s earring in his bag: an affair, a prostitute, a stripper. Out of these, an affair seemed the only real possibility. Sam had a genuine aversion to anything that even hinted at exploitation.

  At least, as far as I knew.

  There were innocent explanations, too. Sam could have found the earring on the street or in a café; he was holding it so that he could launch a search for the rightful owner … But Sam had always been a big believer in the “Leave it, they’ll come back for it” school of thought. I couldn’t see him picking up a stranger’s earring. Was I too quickly jumping to the worst-case scenario this time? Maybe. After all, I’d had a lot of experience being blindsided.

  Ironically, I might have had some actual answers, had I not deliberately avoided confronting Sam. After spending the rest of the night upright and awake on the couch, I’d left while he was still sound asleep. I’d parked myself at Café du Jour near Hope First to check in on my other cases. Everything had taken a back seat to Zach these last few days, and I needed to catch up. It turned out the DOJ was filing charges against three members of the battery manufacturer’s board. Paul wanted me to have a joint motion to dismiss ready to go. I’d never been so grateful for such tedious work.

  When I was finished, I saved the motion document and pulled one of Amanda’s journals from my bag. What I really needed was her most recent one—but I’d have to go back to Zach’s t
o look for that. In the meantime, I couldn’t stop reading the older ones. It was a compulsion now, like gawking at somebody else’s car accident to distract from your own wreckage.

  Finally I got to an entry that made clear what had happened to Amanda all those years ago was even worse—so much fucking worse—than I’d ever imagined.

  March 2004

  I watch the cross on the living room wall and pray that little Jesus will tug himself down and help me. So far he hasn’t. But maybe it has to be your cross. This one was on the trailer wall when we moved in.

  He always does it there in the living room. Right under the cross. On the rough yellow couch. Maybe out there it’s easier for Daddy to pretend he’s not really doing it.

  But he is. Little Jesus knows.

  As I climbed the steps to the Hope First building a half hour later I still felt sick. Amanda’s father had raped her, repeatedly. When she was twelve. Raped as a child and now she was dead. It was horrifying. All of it. My phone buzzed with a text, when I was almost at the door, snapping me out of my numb haze. It was Paul’s friend from the DA’s office, Steve Granz: Wendy Wallace. Sorry.

  That was it. The whole text. While the name didn’t mean anything to me, evidently having Wendy Wallace assigned to prosecute Zach’s case was not good news, at least as far as Steve was concerned.

  I quickly googled Wendy Wallace as I pressed the buzzer for the Hope First Initiative. “Three Heirs to the Throne” was the first article that popped up. I tapped on it and skimmed. As Zach’s public defender had mentioned, there was indeed a high-profile contest brewing for a handpicked successor to the Brooklyn DA. In Brooklyn, the real race was always the primary, since no Republican stood a chance, and Wendy Wallace, the Homicide Bureau’s chief prosecutor, was one of three leading contenders. The knock against her was that she lacked name recognition, but a case like Zach’s would solve that problem. Her name would be all over the papers, even better if that coverage were strategically timed to maximize her involvement. This was surely the reason the most salacious details hadn’t yet been in the papers.