Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN
Three days after I left, Vanessa Reed called me.
I recognized her voice immediately.
Soft.
Musical.
Carefully sweet.
"Emma?"
I stood in my kitchen, holding a mug of ginger tea.
"Yes."
"It's Vanessa."
"I know."
A pause.
Then she said, "I think we should talk."
I looked out at the hills.
"About what?"
"Dominic."
I almost laughed.
"That seems unnecessary."
She sighed.
"I know you're upset."
"Upset?"
"Emma, please."
I closed my eyes.
"Vanessa, what do you want?"
She hesitated.
Then said, "I don't want you to blame Dominic for everything."
The words were so astonishing that I sat down.
"Excuse me?"
"He was lonely."
I stared at the wall.
"He was lonely?"
"Your marriage wasn't working."
I felt something cold settle inside me.
"Did he tell you that?"
She didn't answer.
I continued.
"Did he tell you he had been pretending not to hear me for three years?"
Silence.
Then Vanessa whispered, "What?"
I smiled bitterly.
"Interesting."
"Emma, I didn't know—"
"He did."
She swallowed.
I continued.
"And you knew he was married."
"Yes, but—"
"Then whatever story he told you, you still made a choice."
Her voice cracked.
"I love him."
I looked down at my bare left hand.
"Then I hope he learns how to love someone back."
I ended the call.
That afternoon, I went into town.
Galena was beautiful in early spring.
Brick storefronts.
Antique shops.
A bakery with cinnamon rolls displayed in the window.
I walked slowly along Main Street, trying to remember what ordinary life felt like.
At a bookstore, I bought a notebook.
Not for household schedules.
Not for Margaret's medication reminders.
For myself.
On the first page, I wrote:
Things I want to do before the baby arrives.
Then I stopped.
For five years, I'd organized my life around other people's needs.
I didn't know how to make a list that belonged entirely to me.
Eventually, I wrote three things.
Find a doctor nearby.
Repair the upstairs bedroom.
Remember who I was before Dominic.
I stared at the third line.
Then closed the notebook.
Before marrying Dominic, I'd worked as a contract administrator for a Chicago architectural firm.
I loved the work.
Not the glamour.
The precision.
The challenge of understanding complicated agreements and making sure projects moved forward properly.
When Dominic proposed, he asked me to leave my job.
He said his family needed discretion.
He said we'd travel.
He said we'd build a life together.
I believed him.
Instead, I became the unpaid manager of an estate where nobody ever seemed satisfied.
I handled contractors.
Staff schedules.
Charity commitments.
Margaret's medical paperwork.
Even Dominic's business dinners.
But none of it appeared on a résumé.
And almost none of it was appreciated.
That evening, I opened my laptop.
I searched for remote contract-administration positions.
Then I found an old email from my former supervisor, Olivia Chen.
Three years earlier, she'd written:
If you ever want to return, call me. You were one of the best people we had.
I stared at the message.
Then replied.
Olivia, I think I'm ready.
Back in Lake Forest, Dominic was discovering how much I'd done.
The first problem was Margaret's medication refill.
Then a missed specialist appointment.
Then a household contractor who hadn't been paid because Dominic didn't know where the invoices were stored.
By Friday, the estate manager had requested an emergency meeting.
Dominic reportedly slammed his hand on the table.
"How did Emma handle all this?"
The manager looked uncomfortable.
"She handled it because you asked her to, sir."
Dominic stared.
Then said, "Find someone to replace her."
The manager hesitated.
"With respect, Mr. Moretti, you may need several people."
May you like
For the first time, Dominic began understanding the difference between having a good wife and treating one well.
Unfortunately for him, understanding had come too late.
