Chapter 2 - The Cold Hearth In Evanston
Daniel drove through the quiet suburbs with the heater blasting against his numb hands.
He watched the speedometer rise and fall without paying attention to the road.
The suburban streets of Evanston were dark beneath the canopy of bare oak trees.
Every brick house along the lake looked peaceful, respectable, and asleep.
When he pulled into his circular driveway, he noticed that every ground-floor light in his house was ablaze.
The golden illumination spilled across the manicured lawn like an open stage.
His stomach twisted into a tighter knot as he killed the engine.
He sat in the dark interior of his car for three minutes, clutching the steering wheel until his knuckles went pale.
He convinced himself that this was the moment the storm would break.
She had maintained her composure in public to avoid a scandal, but behind closed doors, she would shatter.
He straightened his tie, smoothed his jacket, and prepared to play the repentant, wounded husband.
He unlocked the heavy mahogany front door.
The house smelled of roasted garlic, brewed coffee, and old books.
There were no suitcases in the foyer.
There were no clothes thrown down the curved staircase.
Daniel took off his shoes and walked slowly toward the living room.
Claire sat at the corner of the gray sectional sofa beneath a reading lamp.
She was wearing her worn Northwestern university sweatshirt and gray flannel trousers.
Her reading glasses rested on the bridge of her nose.
A hardcover biography lay open across her lap, her left thumb resting on the corner of page one hundred and twelve.
On the glass coffee table sat a half-empty mug of chamomile tea.
Daniel stood frozen on the threshold between the dining room and the den.
The grandfather clock in the corner ticked with deafening regularity.
Claire turned a page.
The sound of paper brushing against paper felt like a razor against Daniel’s temples.
“Claire,” he said, his voice cracking slightly.
She did not jump or flinch.
She looked up from the print and rested her glasses on top of the book.
“There is roasted chicken and penne in the refrigerator if you haven’t eaten,” she said evenly.
Daniel clenched his fists inside his pockets.
“Claire, stop this.”
“Stop what, Daniel?”
“Stop acting like you didn’t see me on Michigan Avenue an hour ago.”
“I saw you,” she replied, her tone as mild as an autumn afternoon.
“I saw the woman who runs public relations for the Vance Group.”
“Her name is Sabrina Keller.”
“I know her name, Daniel.”
“Then why aren’t you screaming at me?” he demanded, stepping closer into the circle of lamplight.
“Why aren’t you throwing things?”
“Why aren’t you demanding to know how long it has been going on?”
Claire closed the book, keeping her thumb marked between the pages.
She looked directly into his eyes, and there was no moisture in hers.
“Would screaming change where your hands were placed ten minutes before eleven?” she asked.
Daniel stopped breathing.
“Would breaking our plates make you suddenly respect the vows you took in that chapel in Maine?” she added.
“I made a mistake, Claire,” Daniel stammered, hearing how hollow the words sounded in the large room.
“It was an impulse, a lapse in judgment, an exhaustion that got out of hand—”
Claire offered him a faint, pitying smile that cut deeper than any dagger.
“A mistake is taking the wrong turn on the interstate, Daniel.”
“A mistake is not leasing an apartment on Chestnut Street six months ago under a dummy corporate account.”
Daniel’s blood turned instantly to ice.
His knees almost buckled beneath him.
The Chestnut Street apartment was supposed to be completely untraceable.
He had paid for it through a numbered LLC registered in Delaware.
“How do you know about Chestnut Street?” he whispered.
Claire set her book down on the mahogany table with extraordinary gentleness.
“Because I am the one who built the accounting infrastructure of Mercer & Associates, Daniel.”
“You seem to forget that before I became your wife, I was the one who balanced every ledger you ever signed.”
She stood up slowly, smoothing the wrinkles from her gray sweatpants.
“Get some sleep, Daniel.”
“You have an eight o’clock partner meeting tomorrow morning.”
“You wouldn’t want to look unraveled in front of your board.”
May you like
She walked past him into the kitchen without touching his shoulder.
She left him standing alone under the bright chandelier, shivering in a house that suddenly felt like a tomb.
