Page 72 of The Last Mrs. Parrish

“I picked it up for you a few weeks ago.” Flashing a smile, he continued. “I want you to weigh yourself every day and write it here. Then write down what you’ve eaten in the food journal part here.” He pointed to the page. “I’ll check it every night when I get home.”

I couldn’t believe it. He’d been holding on to this for weeks now? I wanted to curl up and die. Yes, I still wasn’t back to my pre-baby weight, but I wasn’t fat.

I looked at him, afraid to ask but needing to know. “Do you find me unattractive?”

“Can you blame me? You haven’t worked out in months.”

I held back the tears and bit my lip. “I’m tired, Jackson. I’m up with the baby in the middle of the night, I’m tired in the morning.”

He covered my hand with his. “That’s why I keep telling you to let me hire a full-time baby nurse.”

“I cherish that time with her. I don’t want a stranger here at night.”

He stood up, anger in his eyes. “You’ve done it for months, and look where it’s gotten you. At this rate, you’ll be as big as a house. I want my wife back. I’m calling the service today and getting a nurse here. You will sleep through the nights again and have your mornings back. I insist.”

“But I’m nursing.”

He sighed. “Yeah, that’s another thing. It’s disgusting. Your breasts are like two overblown balloons. I don’t want your tits hanging to the floor. Enough is enough.”

I stood on shaky legs, nausea overtaking me, and ran to the bathroom. How could he be so cruel? I took my robe off again and examined myself in the full-length mirror. Why hadn’t I noticed all that cellulite before? I took a hand and swiped at it on one of my thighs. Like jelly. Pushing both hands on my stomach was like kneading dough. He was right. I turned around and looked over my shoulder, my eyes drawn to the dimpling in my buttocks. I had to fix this. Itwastime to return to the gym. My eyes rested on the breasts my husband found disgusting. I swallowed the lump in my throat, got dressed, and went downstairs. Picking up the grocery list sitting on the counter, I added another item: formula.

Margarita had prepared a breakfast buffet that morning to rival the Ritz. When Jackson came in, he filled his plate to overflowing with pancakes, bacon, strawberries, and a homemade muffin. I thought about the journal he’d just given me and felt the heat spread to my face. He was crazy if he thought I’d have him dictating what I ate. I’d start my diet tomorrow and on my own terms. I grabbed a plate and picked up the fork on the pancake platter, ready to take one, when he cleared his throat. I looked over at him. He inclined his head ever so slightly toward the fruit platter. I took a deep breath, stabbed three pancakes with my fork, and dropped them onto my plate. Ignoring him, I grabbed the syrup and poured until they were swimming in it. As I lifted the fork, I held his gaze as I stuffed a fluffy slice of pancake slathered in syrup into my mouth.

Forty-Four

I paid for my little act of rebellion. Not right away, because that wasn’t his style. By the time he executed his plan three weeks later, I had nearly forgotten about it. But he hadn’t. My mother was coming for a visit. After my father died, she came often—every few months—and I encouraged her visits. The night before she was due to arrive, he exacted his revenge. He waited until Tallulah had been put down and came into the kitchen, where I was talking to Margarita about the menu for dinner the next night. He was standing in the archway, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, with an amused expression on his face. When she left, he walked over to me, pushed a lock of hair from my forehead, then leaned down to whisper in my ear.

“She’s not coming.”

“What?” My stomach turned to jelly.

He nodded. “I just got off the phone with her, let her know you’re not feeling well.”

I pushed him away from me. “What are you talking about? I feel fine.”

“Oh, but you don’t. You have a terrible stomachache from stuffing yourself with pancakes.”

Was he really still holding a grudge from weeks ago? “You’re joking, right?” I said, hoping he was.

His eyes were cold. “I’ve never been more serious.”

“I’m calling her right now.” He grabbed my arm before I could move.

“And tell her what? That your husband lied? What would she think of that? Besides, I told her that you had food poisoning and asked me to call her. I assured her you would be better in a few days.” Then he laughed. “I also mentioned that you’d been a bit stressed and that having her visit so often was putting a strain on you, that maybe she should let a little more time elapse between visits.”

“You can’t do this. I won’t let you make my mother think I don’t want her here.”

He squeezed my arm harder. “It’s done. You should have heard how sad she sounded. Poor, dumb hick.” He laughed.

I wrenched my arm away and slapped him. He laughed again.

“Too bad she didn’t die when your father did. I really hate having in-laws.”

I exploded. I raked my nails down his face, wanting to tear it to shreds. I felt wetness on my hands and realized I’d drawn blood. Horrified, I backed away, my hand to my mouth.

He shook his head slowly. “Now look what you’ve done.” Pulling his phone from his pocket, he held it in front of his face. It took me a minute to realize what he was doing. “Thanks, Daph. Now I have proof that you have an explosive temper.”

“You intentionally provoked me?”

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