The Wife Upstairs Read online

  I try to think about the bridal store again, the way Huntley smiled at me and treated me like I had just joined an exclusive club, how good that had felt. Emily’s hug and bright smile as she’d looked at the ring.

  That’s what matters now.

  When I walk in the house, Eddie is already home, changed into shorts and another one of his button-down shirts. Now that I’ve seen inside his closet, I know he has dozens of them in a variety of colors. Men can do that—find one thing that looks good, then wear it for the rest of their lives, pretty much.

  “There’s my girl,” he says brightly as I walk in. I smile as I greet him, but it’s clear I’m upset because he immediately frowns.

  “Everything okay?”

  I step easily into his arms, sighing as they come around me, my head fitting just there underneath his chin.

  “Long day of wedding dress shopping,” I say, and he chuckles at that, his hands making soothing strokes up and down my back.

  “Sounds exhausting,” he says. “Beer?”

  I nod even though I already have a slight headache from those two glasses of champagne earlier, plus it’s barely even three in the afternoon.

  Pressing a kiss to my forehead, Eddie lets me go and walks to the fridge while I set my purse down and go into the kitchen, grabbing a couple of limes from the silver bowl on the counter.

  “You’re sure you’re alright?” Eddie rubs a hand down my back, and I make myself smile at him as I chop limes into wedges for our beers.

  “Yeah, fine,” I say, then shake my head, using the back of my hand to push back a lock of hair from my forehead. “I just ran into Tripp Ingraham today, and he was weird.”

  Eddie stills, looking down at me. “Weird how?”

  I’m not actually sure how much of this I want to get into with him. My nerves are still jangled, and I’m afraid Eddie will get the wrong idea if I tell him the truth. That he might think what Tripp said about Eddie and boats got to me, scared me.

  I tell myself that it didn’t.

  So, I smile up at Eddie, letting the knife fall to the counter. “Oh, you know. The kind of thing you’d expect from a guy like him.”

  I twine my arms around Eddie’s neck, pressing my body close to his. “He thinks I’m marrying you for your money.”

  Some of the wariness leaves Eddie’s face, and he puts both arms around my waist, hands resting on my hips. “Hope you told him that you were actually in it for the sex.”

  “Obviously,” I say, and when he lowers his head to kiss me, I nip at his lower lip, Tripp Ingraham and his bullshit forgotten.

  17

  Later, we sit outside in the big wooden Adirondack chairs in the yard, a fire crackling away in the big stone ring in front of us. Nearby, the grill smokes, and the scent of cooking meat reminds me of those summer nights in Phoenix, when the air was so still and so dry it felt like a loose spark could send everything up in flames.

  The grill turned over, the burning coals spread over the gravel yard, Jane, the real Jane, crying, Mr. Brock’s red face, a sweating beer can in one hand, a pair of tongs in the other.

  His KISS THE COOK apron with a giant frog on it, its lips red and obscene in a pucker, me sprawled in the rocks, my hand burning, my face stinging, thinking how stupid that apron was, how stupid it was that a man like him had this much power over all of us.

  I haven’t thought about that for such a long time. I’ve pushed it all away, but now here it is, this ugly memory, in this perfect place.

  Looking down, I study my engagement ring again, turning my hand this way and that, catching the light of the flames.

  That’s over. That can’t touch you. No matter what John says.

  Next to me, Eddie sighs, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

  He really does look good tonight. I think of how slightly ragged he was when I first met him, how those edges have smoothed a little in the past few months, and I feel a little surge of satisfaction. I did that, I think. I’ve made him happy. He’s like this because of me.

  And soon, I’m going to be his wife.

  I think about the wedding dresses I saw today, the veil there in the window I’d itched to put on my head.

  “I think we should elope.”

  I don’t know I’m going to say the words until they’re out, but then they are, and I realize I don’t want to take them back.

  Eddie pauses, his beer lifted to his mouth. Then he takes a sip, swallows, and lowers his arm before looking over at me and saying, “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “It’s just … I don’t have a big family,” I say. “And I hardly know anyone in Birmingham, or at least no one I’d want at my wedding.”

  Eddie smirks slightly at that, raising his eyebrows.

  “I don’t want that John asshole at my wedding, either.”

  Reaching over, he takes my hand, his thumb making circles on the heel of my hand.

  “Janie, say the word, and we’ll get married at the courthouse tomorrow. Or we’ll go to the lake. Hell, we can go up to Tennessee if you want, rent one of those cheesy mountain chalets. I think they even have drive-through wedding chapels in Gatlinburg.”

  I smile, but don’t say anything, ignoring the weird sinking in my stomach at the idea of marrying a man like Eddie, but still having the kind of wedding girls like me always get. Cheap, fast, tacky. When I suggested eloping, I was imagining saying our vows on a white-sand beach, an intimate wedding night in a big bed with gauzy mosquito netting. I wasn’t imagining pulling up to a window like we were grabbing french fries and heading to a motel advertising free parking on a neon sign.

  Still, what I know for certain is that I can’t get married here. I can’t walk down an aisle at a big church in a big dress and see the Campbells and the Carolines, Bea’s friends, comparing me to her.

  I head inside, picking up our empty beers as I go. When I slide the patio door open, there’s a sound from somewhere above me.

  I freeze there in the doorway, one ear cocked toward the ceiling, waiting.

  There’s another thump, followed by a second, a third.

  Sliding the patio door closed behind me, I glance back out at Eddie.

  He’s still sitting in his Adirondack chair, hands behind his head now, his chin lifted to the evening sky, and I creep a little deeper into the house.

  The sounds are rhythmic now, a steady thump thump thump like a heartbeat.

  I think about that story they made us read in middle school, the one with the man buried under the floorboards, his murderer thinking he could still hear the old man’s heart, and for a horrified moment, my brain conjures up Bea.

  Then the sounds stop.

  I stand there, practically holding my breath, the empty beer bottle dangling from my fingers as I wait.

  Three sharp raps at the front door make me nearly jolt out of my skin, one of the bottles crashing to the floor as I make a sound somewhere between a shriek and a gasp.

  It’s coming from the front of the house, though, not upstairs. Someone knocking at the door.

  “Jane?”

  I see Eddie through the glass door, still sitting outside, the words tossed casually over his shoulder, his head barely turned toward me.

  I scowl at the back of that head, that perfectly tousled hair. “I’m fine,” I call back. “Just someone at the door.”

  There’s another knock just as I reach the foyer, and when I open the door, a woman is standing there.

  She’s wearing khakis and a blue button-down, and there’s a badge snapped to her waist.

  She’s a cop.

  My heart is beating so fast in my chest that I feel like she must be able to see it, and I lay a hand there against my collarbone, suddenly grateful I have the diamonds and emerald on my finger, to let her know I am somebody.

  I have no reason to be afraid anymore, I remind myself. The woman standing on the porch doesn’t see the girl I used to be, doesn’t know the things I’ve done. There’s no
suspicion in her gaze, no narrowed eyes and thinned lips. She sees a woman who belongs in this house, a woman wearing Ann Taylor and real jewels, a woman whose dishwater-blond hair isn’t pulled back into a scraggly ponytail, a woman wearing the kind of expensive makeup that’s meant to make her look like she’s not wearing any makeup at all.

  That’s who she sees—the future Mrs. Jane Rochester.

  But my body doesn’t seem to want to acknowledge that. Heart still pounds, stomach churns, knees go watery.

  “Hi there.” She smiles, offers her hand to shake.

  “I’m Detective Laurent, and I sure am sorry for interrupting your dinner.”

  Her hand is warm and callused, and I shake it even as my left hand stays where it is, pressed to my chest.

  “We weren’t eating,” I say, and then I think about Campbell and Emily, how they would handle a detective on their doorstep on a spring evening.

  “Has something happened?” I ask, furrowing my brow with concern and also confusion. A police officer showing up at their houses would only be confusing, after all, hardly a cause for personal concern, because of course they hadn’t done anything wrong. In Thornfield Estates, police weren’t to be feared, they were to be trusted. They were always on your side, after all.

  Detective Laurent frowns, deep parentheses forming on either side of her mouth. She’s older than I’d first realized, and now I can see the slight sprinkling of gray in her black hair.

  “Is Mr. Rochester at home?” she asks, and my mouth is dry now. It’s happened. John has called someone, they know, that’s why I was remembering Phoenix earlier, because I somehow sensed that it was coming for me, that this was all over, that—

  “Detective Laurent.”

  Eddie is just behind me, and he slips an arm around my waist, his hand laying heavily on my hip. Just his touch makes me feel better, and I hate that a little bit. I’ve never been the type to cower behind a man, but I have to admit it’s nice to have him there, as the detective’s eyes drop to Eddie’s Rolex, to his bare feet on the marble floor.

  “Nice to see you again,” he says, flashing a smile, and I blink, looking up at him.

  Eddie’s nervous.

  His body may be loose and relaxed against mine, but I know that Eddie doesn’t do this, doesn’t turn on this kind of charm for no reason.

  And when I lower my eyes to his throat, tan, framed by the vivid green of his shirt, I can see his pulse thumping steadily there.

  Detective Laurent smiles at him, but it’s tight, a perfunctory response rather than a genuine expression.

  “We just had a few more questions to ask you, if you don’t mind,” she says. “About your wife.”

  PART IV

  BEA

  Bea hadn’t wanted to do dinner with Blanche and Tripp tonight, but tradition is tradition, and this is theirs—every other Thursday night, the four of them meet up somewhere. Tonight, it’s a new place in Homewood, fancy barbecue, overpriced drinks. They sit outside in a courtyard at a wrought-iron table, fairy lights in the trees, and Bea fights the urge to check her phone every ten minutes.

  She’s started to realize how little she actually has in common with Blanche these days, and lord knows, Eddie and Tripp don’t have much to talk about. They exhaust football as a topic of conversation before the first drinks arrive, and then Tripp launches into some diatribe about a new family moving into the neighborhood, how they’ve put up a basketball hoop, how he’s going to complain to the HOA.

  Eddie smiles at him, but his voice has an edge to it as he says, “Or you could just let the kids play in their own driveway? Maybe the better option?”

  “That’s what I told him,” Blanche says, rolling her eyes and reaching over to shove at Tripp’s arm. She hadn’t shown up half-drunk tonight, and her wineglass is still mostly full, which Bea takes as a good sign.

  She also notices that Blanche looks nicer tonight than she has in a while, her makeup subtle, but pretty, her simple pink sheath dress making her complexion glow.

  Another good sign.

  Bea knows Blanche is unhappy, knows she’s bored with Tripp and Thornfield Estates and her life, that all the committees and boards she’s signed up for aren’t filling the void, but it’s nothing they’ve been able to talk about. Every time she tries to bring it up, Blanche changes the subject or, if she’s had too much wine, makes some catty comment about Bea working all the time.

  But tonight, she’s relaxed, happy, and Bea is relieved to see it. Maybe the old Blanche is still in there after all.

  They’ve just gotten their main courses when Blanche says, “You know, we were so inspired by the work y’all did on your house that Tripp and I were thinking about doing some renovations of our own.”

  That’s a surprise. Bea knows that money has not exactly been abundant for the Ingrahams lately, but it’s not like she can say that out loud.

  Apparently, she’s not the only one surprised. “We were?” Tripp asks. He’s on his third bourbon now, leaning back in his chair, his food mostly untouched on his plate, his cheeks red. He’s still handsome in his way, but every time they do one of these dinners, Bea can’t help but think how much better Eddie looks in comparison.

  Blanche waves her husband away. “I talked to you about it,” she says. “You probably just forgot. Or weren’t listening. Or were drunk.”

  There’s the bite Bea has gotten used to hearing in Blanche’s voice whenever she talks to Tripp.

  Tripp is used to it, too, though, and he just snorts, taking another sip of his drink. “Do what you want, my love,” he tells Blanche. “You always do.”

  Ignoring him, Blanche leans forward, focusing on Eddie. “Of course, we’d want you for the job,” she says, and Eddie grins as he slices his brisket.

  “I was going to say, I hope you’re bringing this up because you’re planning on hiring me, otherwise this is going to get very awkward.”

  They all laugh at that, and Bea reaches over to lay a hand on Eddie’s thigh, squeezing slightly. “Your schedule is kind of full right now, honey,” she reminds him, and she sees the way Blanche glances at them, at Bea’s hand there on his leg.

  She can’t explain why she doesn’t want Eddie working on Blanche’s house. She wants to tell herself that it’s because she knows Blanche and Tripp don’t have the money, that this is going to be a waste of everyone’s time, and besides, since she gave Eddie the capital to start his contracting business, she has a say in what projects he takes on.

  But it’s more than that. There’s something going on here, something she can’t quite put her finger on.

  Something about the hard look in Blanche’s eyes even as she smiles at Bea.

  Eddie pats her hand, and goes back to his food. “I can always make time for friends,” he says easily.

  Blanche’s smile widens. “Great!” she says. “I already have, oh god, about a hundred and five different ideas.”

  The rest of the dinner passes in something of a blur for Bea. She drinks a little more than she’s used to, and she keeps watching Blanche, wondering what this is all about, fighting the urge to blurt out what she knows about Blanche and Tripp’s money problems.

  And when Blanche says, “I’ve always loved how open y’all’s kitchen is. Maybe that’s something we could do?” Bea comes so close to making a snide comment, she actually feels the words sitting heavily on the tip of her tongue.

  Of course, Blanche wants what they have. Of course, their house is nicer. Of course, Blanche can’t stand it that Bea has come out on top after all these years.

  The evening wraps up as it so often does, with Tripp drinking too much. This time, it’s bad enough that Eddie has to help him to the car.

  Bea and Eddie are parked on the street while Tripp and Blanche are in the small parking lot in the back of the restaurant, so Bea goes to the car alone, the keys in her hand.

  It’s only when she’s opening the passenger door that some urge overtakes her, and suddenly she’s hurrying across the pavemen
t, ducking around the side of the restaurant to the little lot where Blanche and Tripp’s car is parked.

  She sees Eddie and Blanche clearly in the streetlights, standing next to Tripp’s massive SUV. Eddie must’ve already gotten him in the backseat because it’s just the two of them, just her husband and her best friend, standing there.

  Blanche is standing close to Eddie, too close, in Bea’s opinion, her face awash in the orange light. She’s smiling up at him, and Eddie is smiling back.

  It’s the same smile he turned on her in Hawaii, the deep one that gives him a trio of wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, the smile that had made something in her chest feel warm, because she’d somehow known he didn’t smile like that at everyone.

  That smile she’d thought was just for her, and now it’s Blanche’s, too.

  Bea feels numb as she turns away from them, her heels clicking on the asphalt.

  So, this is what Blanche wants. This is what the “renovations” are about.

  She doesn’t want Bea’s house.

  She wants Bea’s husband.

  SEPTEMBER, TWO MONTHS AFTER BLANCHE

  This is going to sound bizarre (but then again, what about this doesn’t?), but I’m settling into a routine in here.

  We’re settling into a routine.

  Eddie doesn’t come every day, but every three days. Every time is the same. He brings food and water, enough to get me through until the next time he sees me. Actually, more than enough. I’ve got extra bottles of water lined up against the wall.

  For the first few weeks, I hoarded all of it, rationing out food and water to myself in case he didn’t come back, but—another bizarre thing—I’ve started to trust that he’s not going to just leave me up here to starve to death.

  He still doesn’t talk to me, though, and there are a million questions I want to ask him. Not just the obvious things like, “Why the fuck are you doing this?” but little things. I want to know what he’s told the world about me, I want to know what’s happened to Southern Manors.