Page 52 of The Wife Upstairs
6-12-85.Bea’s birthday.
I enter it into the keypad on the front door, and step inside.
More similarities to Eddie’s house—ourhouse. It’s clearly been expensively decorated, but it’s designed to look lived-in, too. There’s darker wood here, darker furniture, the whole place a lot more masculine, a lot less… Bea.
As I stand beside the heavy front door, my surprise must register on my face because as Eddie steps past me with our stuff, he asks, “What?”
“It’s just…”
This house looks so much more like him. Even though Bea died here, her ghost doesn’t feel nearly as present.
“This is a very man-cavey place,” I finally say, and one corner of his mouth kicks up as he tosses his leather bag onto a couch done in green-and-blue tartan.
“This place was Bea’s wedding present to me,” he says. “So, she let me decorate.” Another smile, wry this time. “Which means I said yes to everything she picked out.”
So, Bea’s stamp is still here—it’s just her version of what she thought Eddie would like. Should like.
I move into the living room, seeing it through Bea’s eyes, imagining how she saw Eddie. Even though this is on a lake, not the ocean, there’s a whole coastal theme happening. Paintings of schooners, decorations made with heavy rope, even an old Chelsea Clock on the wall.
“I worked on sailboats when I was younger, up north. Charterboats in Bar Harbor, that kind of thing,” he says, nodding at the seascape over the fireplace. “I guess Bea wanted to remind me of it.”
“Because you liked it or because you hated it?”
The question is out before I realize what a stupid thing it is to ask, how much it reveals.
His head jerks back slightly, like the question was an actual physical blow, and he narrows his eyes. “What does that mean?” he asks, and I feel my face go hot as I shrug, nudging the edge of an area rug with my toe.
“You’ve just never mentioned that to me before, so I thought… maybe you were trying to forget it? Your past. Maybe this reminder of it might not have actually been a nice thing to do.”
“You think Bea was that kind of bitch?” he asks, and god, I have royally fucked this up.
“Of course not,” I say, but to my surprise, he just laughs, shaking his head.
“I can’t blame you for it. I imagine you saw some real cunty stuff when you worked in the neighborhood.”
It’s a relief, both that he doesn’t think my question was that weird, and also that he gets me. I may not always be honest with Eddie, but he still sees these parts of me sometimes, and I like it.
It makes me think that even though I’ve been playing a certain role, he might have picked me—the real me—anyway.
“It was still a dumb thing to say,” I tell him now, sliding closer to him. Over his shoulder is a glass door leading out to a screened-in porch; beyond that is a sloping green lawn, a narrow pier, and the dark water of the lake. This time of the afternoon, the sun sends little sparks of gold dancing across its surface.
It’s hard to believe that this pretty, sparkly water took Bea’s life. And Blanche’s. And it’s even harder to believe Eddie would want to be anywhere near it again. How can we sit out there tonight and drink wine andnotthink about it?
But Eddie just gives my ass a pat, propelling me slightly in the direction of the hallway off the living room. “Go ahead and get settled, and I’ll unpack the groceries.”
The master bedroom is nowhere near as big as the one back at Thornfield, but it’s pretty and, like the rest of the house, cozy and comfortable. There’s a quilt on the bed in swirling shades of blue, and a big armchair near the window with a good view of the lake.
I settle into the chair now, watching the water.
After twenty minutes, I still haven’t seen a single person out there.
No boats, no Jet Skis, no swimmers. The only sound is the lapping of the water against the dock and the wind in the trees.
When I come out of the bedroom, Eddie is pouring us both a glass of wine.
“It’s really quiet out here,” I say, and he nods, looking out the back door toward the water.
“That’s why we picked it.”
