As if sensing the change in Eliza’s demeanor, her husband reached for her rubber gloves and peeled them from her arms. Tossed them into the sink. Spun her around, pressed his lips to hers.
Eliza felt her breath sigh out as he molded his body to hers and deepened the kiss, settling into a lovely, familiar rhythm. When his fingers hooked over the edge of her yoga pants, her entire body sizzled.
He teased her with his fingers through the soft fabric, dipped his head as his tongue flicked against her skin and sent shivers racing across her body. Then he pressed into her, took her against the kitchen counter, and sent Eliza’s mind into a black spiral as they moved together until finally, she called his name as they collapsed into one another.
Roman winked, then backed away. He broke into a low whistle as he turned on a heel and sauntered out of the kitchen. With flushed cheeks, Eliza looked and saw the window open. The neighbors, she thought briefly before she adjusted her bra strap and set the coffee maker to brew.
When it was done and she had two cups in hand, she followed Roman’s path from the kitchen and found him in his office. He closed his laptop when he heard her enter, slamming it shut a bit too swiftly before swiveling to face her.
“What is it?” Roman accepted a mug of coffee from Eliza. “When you look at me like that, I know you’ve got something on your mind.”
“I quit my job today.” Eliza leaned against the wall, feigning nonchalance.
“Why?”
“I’ve decided to start my own company.”
“I thought you liked your job?”
Eliza ran a finger around the rim of her mug. “If I’d stayed where I was, I would always be second to Harold. It’s time I started something of my own.”
“Well, you know I support you.” Roman paused to consider, then shook his head in time with a deep chuckle. “If anyone can succeed at starting their own company, it’s you.”
“Thank you,” she said briskly. “I hoped you’d see things that way.”
Roman turned back to his computer, signaling the conversation was complete. Trembling from the anxiety of it all, Eliza dragged herself upstairs into their bedroom, straight into their beautifully remodeled shower. She studied the eye-wateringly expensive bottles of soaps and shampoos from high-end boutiques, knowing that she’d filled them with knockoff replacements from Target. It was all a façade. Everything was a façade.
Flicking the shower on, Eliza climbed under the stream of hot, hot water. She scrubbed and scrubbed, her fingernails raking angry paths down her arms. She washed herself until her skin was red and raw and she was cleansed of the lies. Then she climbed out of the shower and studied her bedraggled, bare face in the mirror.
Sick with the weight of secrets, Eliza plodded barefoot and naked into her walk-in closet. She selected the fluffiest robe in her collection and wrapped it around her body. Then she knelt and very carefully pulled out a box.
She fingered her grandmother’s fine china. One of the teacups was broken, chipped. She’d dropped it in her haste to hide the collection from Roman just before she’d fired Andrea.
Eliza ran a hand over the sharp edge, let it prick at her skin. And she wondered with a heavy heart when the rest of her life would shatter into pieces and the lies behind the curtain would pour forth into the world.
TRANSCRIPT
Prosecution: Ms. Sands, when did Eliza Tate discover that you were having an affair with her husband?
Penny Sands: I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask her.
Prosecution: What if you had to guess?
Penny Sands: I suppose she probably knew the night I met her at the Pelican Hotel.
Prosecution: Did you and Eliza become friends at any point over the past year?
Penny Sands: I thought so.
Prosecution: And you didn’t think that was odd? That Mrs. Tate would befriend her husband’s mistress?
Penny Sands: Maybe a little. I just assumed she didn’t know about me and Roman.
Prosecution: But you just stated for the court that you suspected Eliza Tate knew about you and Roman at the Pelican Hotel.
Penny Sands: I said I didn’t know for certain, but you made me guess. In retrospect, I think Eliza knew a lot more than she let on. Eliza always knows more than she lets on.
Prosecution: What makes you say that?
Penny Sands: When Eliza Tate invited me into her home, I suspect she knew exactly what she was doing.
Prosecution: Why did you go?
Penny Sands: Because I was curious. Curiosity killed the cat, I guess.
Prosecution: Interesting choice of words, Ms. Sands. On February 13, whose idea was it to discuss murder at book club?
FOUR
Eight Months Before
June 2018
Penny hunched forward in her seat, scribbling notes in cramped handwriting to preserve the pages of the notebook her mother had sent to celebrate her twenty-seventh birthday. As an actress, a creator, a writer, an artist, there was nothing Penny loved more than the sight of a fresh notebook or the accompanying gleam of ink when pen touched virgin paper. The options were endless in that split second before ideas were ruined by reality.
The gift was more cherished by Penny than ever because she no longer had the luxury of purchasing a new notebook every time the whim struck. She couldn’t run to the local art store and browse the rainbow selection of pens. She couldn’t choose several at random and add them to her credit card tab, knowing it would be paid off at the end of the month by a steady salary.
Over the past month, Penny’s credit card had become a revolving door, never quite in the black, her bank account never quite plump enough to provide any sort of cushion. Everything Penny made, she scrimped and saved and spent on her education. Writing courses— everything from stand-up comedy to TV pilots to a Second City sketch class—acting workshops, directing classes, any and all free seminars she could find.
Meanwhile, her cupboard was thinly stocked with a bag of dry white rice. She’d learned the hard way that it took ages and ages to boil the cheap bag of red kidney beans from the store. She’d also learned that beans gave her awful heartburn, a symptom she’d grown intimate with because Tums were alarmingly expensive and didn’t fit into her new budget.
“Stop.” A hand reached down, fingertips coming to rest on her notebook.
Penny vaguely became aware that the voice washed over her from above. The voice of her favorite instructor. He spoke with a staccato, slightly accented tone that lilted with passion and had become comfortingly familiar over the past six weeks.
When Penny had found this class amid a sea of others, she’d glommed on to it, immediately knowing that this time, it was different. He was different. She was different because of him. She couldn’t hand over her credit card fast enough to pay for more sessions from the marvelous Roman Tate.
She glanced at the male hand that covered her paper, noted the sturdiness of it. The dark hair that crept up his arm, slid under his shirt, and peeped out the collar of his V-neck.
“S-sorry,” Penny stuttered. “I didn’t realize—”
“You’re missing everything.” Roman didn’t seem to be chastising.
Merely disappointed by her lack of understanding. “Come.”
“Where?”
“With me.” He beckoned for Penny to follow him onstage. “You won’t learn anything by scratching notes on that pad of yours. You learn by doing.”