Remember Me

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Finn

S ix p.m. I’m slouched on my favorite chair in our family room, my legs stretched out on the coffee table. A heated-up Indian concoction from Trader Joe’s on my lap. A Heineken in my hand. Yup, my romantic dinner; pity party for one. The big screen TV’s on. Some rerun of Criminal Justice, Las Vegas with Nicole Farrell guest-starring. I swear there could be a whole 24/7 Criminal Justice network, a series that my wife, for some reason, won’t watch. That Greenberg guy I met today must be worth a fortune. No wonder he’s one of the world’s foremost art collectors. I can only begin to imagine what’s in his collection. Maybe later I’ll google him and find out. That one of my paintings may one day be among them is still hard for me to believe. I take a glug of my chilled beer, and as the frothy beverage shoots down my throat, I hear a car pull into the driveway. It must be Skye. Sure enough, the front door unlocks and the clickety-clack-clack of her heels reverberates in my ears, getting louder and faster as they near me. I’m eager to tell her about my exciting news. But instead of popping in to say hello to me, she whisks upstairs.

My heart sinks and I take comfort in my beer, my eyes glued to the TV. I don’t think I’ve seen this episode before. A missing wife. A suspect husband. As the show goes into a commercial break, heels sound again, clambering down the stairs. My head swerves toward the hallway and I catch sight of Skye scurrying my way. She looks hot as sin. In a tight black mini-dress that accentuates her curves, and strappy metallic heels. Her honey- brown hair pulled back, she’s wearing more makeup than usual, her lips painted Russian red, and her lashes thickened with black mascara. My spirit brightens, and I feel a tingle of excitement. Maybe she’s had a change of heart and decided to go out for a romantic dinner with me. Arranged for a babysitter for Maddie. It’s not too late. I’ve eaten only half of my frozen dinner and am more than willing to scrap the rest. To be honest, it tastes like crap.

“Hey, baby,” I say as she swoops into the room. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks,” she mutters, fiddling with the gold locket that hangs from her neck and draws attention to her cleavage. I gave it to her when Maddie was born. It cost a bloody fortune, and I had to finally barter with the jeweler, giving him three of my paintings to afford it. Inside is a small photo of the three of us taken on the day we brought our newborn daughter home from the hospital.

Skye has a tendency to toy with it when she’s thinking or stressing. Close-up, she looks on edge. Maybe she had a rough day.

“How was your day?” I wish she’d asked me first, and I could share my great news. My type-A wife is not one for small talk.

“Fine.” Her voice is clipped. “What time is it?”

I glance down at my watch. “Six-thirty.”

“Shit. I’m late.”

Late? “Late for what?” All dolled up, is she going to some kind of cocktail party? Or awards event? My fantasy of a romantic dinner has just evaporated into thin air.

Nervously, she snaps open her small beaded purse and checks inside it. “I’m about to break a story.”

What story? The secret one she’s been working on? This is not the first time she’s gone out this week, looking like this. Wearing a sexy dress and a pair of skyscraper stilettos I’ve never seen before. Same excuse. Breaking a story. In this outfit? My mind wanders. Maybe, she’s hiding something. Then, as she snaps her bag shut, I notice she’s not wearing her wedding band. A shudder rolls through me. Maybe she’s seeing someone. Had enough of me. I’ll be the first to admit that since Maddie was born our marriage has been strained, juggling our careers with parenthood and trying to make ends meet. Life in LA is expensive. And stressful.

“Can’t you tell me about it? Even a little?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry. I still can’t.” She quickly changes the subject. “I checked on Maddie. She’s fine. If she wakes up—and she probably won’t—there’s a bottle already made.”

“What time will you be back?” I ask, disappointment coursing through me. This is not the time to share my exciting news.

“I’m not sure. Don’t wait up for me.”

Suspicion again creeps into my veins. My turn to stab the word “fine” back at her, and then almost as an aside, I wish her a happy birthday. A half smile flits on her lips. Bending to give me a peck on my forehead, she slings the purse over her shoulder by its dainty chain, pivots on her heels and hurries toward the front door. My eyes stay riveted on her shapely ass. It better belong to me.

Only me.