I walked up the front lawn toward the door but stopped when I realized there was another woman standing in the shaded space before the front door, nearly hidden in the shadows. She swayed when she saw me, glancing over her shoulder. Tall, blonde, and incredibly skinny, she was beautiful for her age, which was probably double mine. I couldn’t remember her name, but I knew who she was. Lucas’…what, exactly? Girlfriend, I guess. She’d said she was dating Lucas for…twelve years. Just under half my life, but I was the one he’d chosen to marry. I was the one carrying his child. I had to believe I was the one he loved.
“Alaina?” she asked, her voice deep and scarred from cigarettes. She’d been smoking just before she arrived, I’d bet, based on the scent that carried past me on the wind.
I nodded, stepping up next to her. “Hi.”
“Clara,” she reminded me of her name. “What are you doing here?”
“Same thing you are, I’m guessing.” I jutted my chin toward the door. “Naomi contacted you, too?”
Her gaze faltered, obviously uncomfortable, and she looked back at the door. “What do you think she wants to know?”
“I know what I’d want to know…if the situation were reversed.”
She waited for me to go on, but I didn’t bother, though the questions I’d have—the questions I assumed she had—were still on my tongue. Who killed my husband? Why did he choose you? Why wasn’t I enough? “Did you knock already?”
She nodded, looking away. The awkwardness in the air was palpable, and I couldn’t help thinking, again, of the Lucas I knew so well. How could he have loved someone like Clara and someone like me the same? We were totally different. Clara looked tired and worn, while I was full of life. The fake tan she was sporting was sure to eventually give her cancer if the diet soda in her hand didn’t manage to first. Her boobs were fake, her teeth too white. I didn’t understand. How could he look at us and feel anything similar?
The door finally swung open and the woman from the funeral stood in front of us. Naomi Martin. While Lucas claimed he hadn’t believed in social media, over the past week, I’d come to find out his wife did. Since the funeral, I’d spent many nights flipping between her Facebook albums—she wasn’t on Instagram—to catch a glimpse of what her life looked like with Lucas. My Lucas. But also hers. Also Clara’s.
“Hi,” Naomi said, pulling me from my thoughts. She was dressed in a simple black top and jeans, a high ponytail holding her chestnut brown hair back. “Good. You’re both here. Thank you, ladies, for coming.” She stepped back from the door and held her arm out. “Come in, please.”
Clara stepped through first, and I watched her steps slow as we made it across the threshold and into the home. The first room was a simple foyer with white, marble floors, and a curved set of stairs against the wall to our left led upstairs. Naomi led us to the left and past the stairs to a living room with high, vaulted ceilings and floor-to-ceiling drapes in a deep auburn color. The floors in this room were a stained ebony-brown hardwood straight from the magazines, but my eye was immediately drawn to the large, black and white canvases with family portraits of them. They were beautiful together, Lucas, Naomi, and their baby girl, who I’d gathered from Facebook to be named Rebecca. He looked happy, the smile he wore was undeniable, and there was no stiffness to the way he was with her.
It hurt more than seeing it online because, here, it was real. He lived here within these walls with her. He may have even hung the pictures I was staring at. It took the breath from my lungs to look over them, and I felt as though I might pass out.
“Please, sit,” Naomi instructed, right on time, walking past us and taking a seat on a gray armchair with dark brown legs. Clara sat across from her on the matching gray sofa, while I took the recliner at the far side of the room, keeping my sweater pulled away from my belly. I didn’t want them to notice the bump. I couldn’t handle it yet.
Naomi watched me with a stiff, almost pained expression, and the moment I sat, I realized why. The chair smells like him. The smell of his mint and bergamot cologne hit me all at once, and I felt tears sting my eyes. I wanted to hold him. It was an embarrassing realization while sitting across from his wife and other girlfriend…lover, whatever she was, but it was still there, and I couldn’t shy away from it. I wanted to see him again, to kiss him. To be with him.
There was a tray with three empty glasses and a pitcher of cucumber water on a white, marble coffee table in front of us, and Naomi scooted toward the front of her seat, gesturing toward the pitcher. “Would you like anything to drink?”
Fat chance. I’d learned my lesson about drinking anything I didn’t prepare myself. “I’m okay.”
At the same time, Clara said, “Please.” She cleared her throat for the hundredth time as Naomi poured her a glass, then she poured one for herself. She took a sip, letting it settle on her tongue before she began.
“So, I know you probably weren’t expecting to hear from me. If I’m being honest, I had hoped I wouldn’t have to hear or think about either of you again.”
I couldn’t tell if she was being polite or verbally assaulting us. Her expression was still and cool, yet her tone was warm.
“But, I’m afraid this couldn’t wait. I know we all probably have questions about Lucas…about what he meant to each of us and how exactly he made…” she gestured to each of us, “this work, but right now my main concern is to get answers about what happened the day he died.”
Her words sat squarely on my gut, and I swallowed. A cold sweat formed on my brow. What does she mean? What does she know? What is she asking?
“The police are still treating his death as suspicious, and…if either of you know anything, I’d…well, I’d really like to know.” She brushed a stray tear away from the corner of her eye, the shell she was hiding behind disappearing all at once. “I’d like to be able to give my daughter some answers about what happened to her father one day.”
“Are you asking if…we… What? If we killed him?” I asked, venom in my tone. Was she serious?
“Of course not,” she said. “I’d just like to know what happened. What was going on with him on the day that he died. Where his head was. If it was an accident, or God forbid, suicide, then so be it. But if there’s more to it…the police would like to know, and frankly, so would I. Had either of you seen him that day? That week? Is there anything you can tell me about what might’ve been going through his mind? Maybe he’d been having trouble with a patient…or someone else? Is there anything suspicious you can think of at all?” She ran her hands over her knees. “I just want to know the truth.”
“The truth about what, Naomi? What do you think happened?” Clara asked, reaching for her hand across the table. She froze, pulling it back. “I’m sorry. I feel like I know you. Luke told me so much…” She trailed off, rubbing her finger across her bottom lip. “It’s not my place.”
“Lucas lied to us all about…” Naomi rolled her eyes, batting back tears. “About so much. I don’t want all of the truth. I’m…not sure I can handle all of it, but I’d like to know enough to get the police to close the case. To put this to bed so my family and I can move on.” She sniffled, rubbing a finger under her nose delicately. “As far as I know, the police don’t know anything about either of you, but if you can help them, help us… Well, it would be very appreciated. If you loved Lucas like I assume you did, we all want the same thing, right? I just want to know the truth of what happened.”