The Replacement Wife: A Psychological Thriller Page 6

It’s better than being homeless.

  “I just can’t understand why anyone would leave New Hope,” I say.

  I wonder if this is a good time to remind Tom about the car. He promised I’d get a new one soon. I’m thinking a two-seater would be nice. I decide against mentioning it just yet. Better to bide my time.

  “It was too much for her without Grant,” he says, reminding me I’m supposed to be discussing the Dunns, not pondering what color leather would look good with my vacation tan. Sometimes Tom is so boring I forget we’re in the middle of a conversation. “Says who?”

  “Says Beth.”

  I was hoping he might say that. The more I think about it, the more I like this Beth character, because now that I know who’s in charge, now that I know who’s calling the shots, I know where to focus my efforts.

  Chapter Six

  Tom

  The stuff they call music is several decibels too high to have any sort of effective communication. A fact I am quite grateful for, even if the sound offends my ears. At least it means I don’t have to talk to anyone. I’m not exactly what you’d call hiding; I’ve just never been a fan of social affairs. That’s not to say I don’t understand their necessity—it’s just not one I prefer. I observe on the fringes. I’m neither in nor out, but I’m here, and that counts for something.

  When you rule something out, you limit your focus. My father taught me this. You can’t go around parading your unconventional ways, he often reminded me. Don’t fool yourself into thinking it’s cute. Back then, I had no idea what he meant. I wasn’t fooling myself, only him. There was nothing cute about getting pummeled every day.

  When I came home with my fourth consecutive pair of broken glasses and third black eye, he sat me down and explained. “You’re different than other kids, Thomas. But that doesn’t mean you can’t blend. You can make friends. You just have to be smart about it.”

  I shook my head. “They hate me.” I was old enough then to know adults lied to kids when they wanted their way. “I’m never going back.”

  “You are going back.”

  I folded my arms and dug my heels in. Already, I was smarter than my father about some things. If I tried hard enough, I could be smarter about this. “You can’t make me.”

  “I can, and I will. You think you’re powerless?”

  I stared at the floor.

  “No one is powerless, son.”

  “They call me names. They beat me up—”

  “What names?”

  “Know-it-all. Nerd. Four-eyes…”

  He studied me earnestly. “Are you those things?”

  I shrugged.

  “You can beat them at their own game, you know.”

  “How?”

  “Influence.”

  I knew what the word meant. I didn’t yet understand how to use it.

  “Help them with their school work, let them copy your papers. They’ll come to depend on you.”

  “That’s cheating.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But you’re smarter than they are. There’s no way around that. And the sad truth, Thomas, is people will always find a way to punish you for making them feel inferior.”

  I need to remind Melanie to be careful at social gatherings. I thought I’d hammered this in the last time. Apparently not.

  She can’t help herself, I don’t think. I can’t help her now, so I sit complacently looking on from across the backyard. She’s kicked off her heels and let down her hair. She’s in her element, surrounded by admirers. I wonder if she knows what she’s in for. I wonder if she knows I can’t save her. Not even if I wanted to.

  She throws her head back and laughs at something Cheryl has said. She and her husband Adam are hosting. It was my surprise to Melanie, not telling her where we were going for dinner club. Of all the women, I think she likes Cheryl the most.

  Eventually, Melanie recovers from her laughing spell. I think she’s going to excuse herself. I’m hoping she’s going to find her way back to me. But then, she lightly touches the woman’s arm before doubling over again. I hope whatever she is laughing at was actually funny. Melanie tends to lean toward dramatics. I hope she’s smart enough to keep her energy concentrated at its strongest point. She doesn’t yet know intensity beats range every time.

  I have to look away. I am considering wandering into the house, down the hall, and into our host’s study to see what kind of books he keeps shelved. One can always get an accurate picture of another by taking a gander at their reading tastes. After all, as my father used to say, if you only know yourself, then you're fated to lose every battle. You must know your enemy's intentions.

  “So…how are things getting on?” Adam’s voice asks, interrupting my thoughts and subsequently my peace. I didn’t wander into the house. I felt him coming before I heard him, thanks to the shoddy music. When I look up, I’m not surprised to see he’s standing over me. The glare of the patio lights forces me to shield my eyes. “It’s a great party.”

  He moves to the right so that his head is blocking the light. “Can I get you anything?” he asks, ever the gracious host. “A beer, a whiskey…cocaine?”

  I hold up my glass of water to show I’m good.

  Adam grins, he can’t help himself. He’s rubbing it in that he’s caught me red-handed not enjoying myself. I won’t bother to correct him. Displaying defects on occasion is important. Only God and the deceased have the liberty to appear faultless.

  He shakes his own empty glass, rattling the ice. He takes another shot. “So how are things going?”

  “Sorry,” I offer, rising to my feet. “Couldn’t hear over the music.”

  He nods at Melanie and the others. “Such a great night.”

  I cup my ear. “What was that?”

  “I asked if you’re having a good time.” His voice rises as he edges closer. “I asked how married life is treating you.”

  “Look at her,” I say, following his gaze. “What do you think?”

  “I think she’s stunning. Young and stunning.”

  I swallow hard. Secondhand opinions are my least favorite kind.

  He sucks in air. “Any idea where I can find one like that?” When I glance over, he shakes his head slowly from side to side. “So pure. So uninhibited. So…fresh.”

  “It requires luck,” I assure him, which is a blanket statement to avoid having to explain the truth of the matter. First of all, not that it matters, but Adam is married. But even if he were to suddenly find himself single, or let’s say if Mark’s agenda were to succeed, the odds are not in Adam’s favor of finding another wife. Particularly not one as “fresh” as Melanie. Adam has a few things working against him. There’s his age, for starters. By the time an individual turns 40, the likelihood that he or she will ever become married, if the person is single at that point in time, is slim, as the percentage hovers around 15%, and remains relatively the same up to 60 years of age. Thankfully, not only was Melanie not married previously, not only was she for the most part pure, she is also younger than the pool of women in which Adam will likely have to choose, making the odds of his success less still. Younger women do not often fall for older men unless their income level exceeds that well beyond the average. Suffice it to say, I handle Adam’s taxes.

  “Remind me again.” He shifts slightly. “How’d the two of you meet?”

  “I thought I told you.”

  Adam shakes his head. “Uh-uh.”

  “On the street. Mel bumped into me, spilled coffee on my shirt.”

  His eyes widen slightly. I watch as the surprise registers in his expression. I have given him hope. I can tell by the way his bottom lip juts out. “Huh. Just like that.”

  I study Adam in my peripheral vision. His posture doesn’t immediately tell me how to respond. When in doubt, a question is best. “Why do you ask?”

  “She just seems familiar, that’s all.”

  I press my lips to one another. “Melanie’s not from here.”

  “I know. Boise
, she said.”

  “Idaho, yes.”

  “But I don’t know…” He shoves his hands in his pockets and then he turns to me. “I think I’ve seen her before. And I’ve sure as hell never been to Boise.”

  “No?” I say, meeting his eye. “You should visit sometime.”

  Adam leans back on his heel. He’s looking for a change of pace. “So who’s sponsoring her? Now that Josie is out?”

  “Beth.”

  “Oh, well,” Adam manages. He leans against the brick, a signal he’s settling in. “That’s great news for you. Beth is terrific at compliance.”

  The music changes. “Let’s hope.”

  “Say, should she be dancing? In her condition?”

  I scan the large yard. A conga line has formed. My wife isn’t merely dancing. She’s leading the pack. When the line makes its way past Adam and I, Melanie sticks her hand out and beckons me to join her. As a general rule, I don’t dance. But it’s hard to say no to Mel and further I want to get away from Adam. So when her fingers brush mine, I let her pull me in.

  “Just close your eyes,” she calls over her shoulder. “Relax. Feel the music.”

  I go around three times, and I never do relax, and I never do feel the music. But I do blend, and I do avoid Adam, and that’s the point.

  Although, nothing good lasts forever. This is evidenced as I’m waiting for Melanie by the front door. We’d already said our goodbyes and were halfway out the front door when she realized she’d left her handbag in the guest room upstairs. When I turn, Adam is there. Melanie calls for me from across the room. She mouths something I can’t read. His eyes follow mine. A smile lights up her face. “Man, I swear I know her from somewhere,” he sighs. “I can’t place it… can’t quite put my finger on it.” Adam’s jaw lengthens which is made more apparent by the way he rubs at it. “But don’t you worry.” He moves in closer, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “It’ll come to me. I have a memory like an elephant.”

  Chapter Seven

  Melanie

  When I come downstairs, Tom has fixed breakfast. Same as every morning: two eggs over easy, two pieces of bacon, one slice of toast. Butter, strawberry jam, thinly spread.

  I join him at the bar, taking the high-backed stool to his right, even though I know he prefers me to his left. It’s the gentlemen’s way, he explained once. Something about defending a woman’s honor. Swords and stuff. I forget the rest.

  Right now, I couldn’t care less about honor. I care about breakfast.

  I stab my fork into the eggs and shove them into my mouth.

  Tom glares at me. “Something wrong with the eggs darling?”

  It’s safe to say, I’m not a morning person.

  I smile and swallow. That’s what got me into this mess. “They’re perfect,” I assure him. He senses I’m lying, but he can’t prove it because I take another bite and then another. The best kind of lie. If they’re going to suspect you, might as well go the extra mile to ensure they can’t prove it.

  The truth is, he isn’t as good a cook as the chef I had at mom and dad’s. The truth is, I hate it when he’s condescending. I hate it when he calls me darling. But what can you do? I guess something is better than nothing. Plus, I’m confident I can talk Tom into a chef of our own if I play my cards right. Shouldn’t be too hard. I already managed a maid. Still, I’m so sick of casseroles. I don’t know what I might do if I’m forced to eat another. Just the thought makes me want to pick up my plate and hurl it across the room. The rage is building like a pressure cooker. I don’t know what I have to do before it’s too late.

  “This visit,” I say, reaching for my o.j. but then opting for the toast instead. “With Beth—” I take a bite and chew. “It isn’t about our sex life again, is it?”

  Tom looks at me crossly. It annoys him when I talk with food in my mouth. Regardless, he knows what I mean. I’ve already been reprimanded once by Josie for breaking some rule in that regard. Bless her. Even I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. Did I think it was a bit weird that ‘the church’ was involved in our sex life? Well, weird is subjective. Especially these days. But, okay, yeah, maybe a little. However, Tom is pretty inept at social stuff, so I didn’t for a minute put it past him to have someone else do his bidding.

  “No,” he says. “It’s about the dancing.”

  I shove the rest of the toast in my mouth and roll my eyes. Tom shifts my glass away from me slightly, so that once again it’s at the perfect angle. He’s explained why this is important before, but I forgot to listen. Before I know it, he has shifted his position. He is facing me full on. “With Josie gone, Beth needs someone she can rely on.”

  I realize he’s just parroting what he’s heard. His recycled ideas annoy me on account of it being so early in the day.

  “I bet she does.”

  “Please, Melanie. This is important to me,” he says, and it soothes my anger. It’s my favorite aphrodisiac to hear people beg. It’s nice that he cuts right to the heart of the matter. I understand what Beth wants. Tom doesn’t have to tell me. She wants someone who won’t quit on her. She needs someone who is compliant. She wants to believe that someone is me. All I have to do is let her think she’s right. Thanks to Tom and his explaining everything, I understand how to play my role thoroughly. Nothing is more effective in seduction than letting the seduced think they are the ones doing the seducing.

  “What’s wrong with dancing, anyway?” I ask adjusting the juice to my liking, handle facing me. I watch my husband’s jaw twitch. He hates it when I’m testy. “Is it against the rules, too?”

  “You were supposed to mingle. You were supposed to be welcoming.”

  “What does that mean exactly, Tom—to be welcoming?”

  His brow furrows. I can see he doesn’t know what to say.

  I scoot to the edge of the barstool. “Does it mean to have sex whenever you want?”

  Suddenly, I’d like a fight to go along with my bland toast and my bland husband and my new bland life.

  “Partly, yes.”

  I shift the nightie I’m wearing away from my thighs, pulling it up toward my hips. Slowly, I part my legs. Wide. A little wider. All the way. “Do you want sex now Tom?”

  “Not when you’re angry.”

  I roll my eyes. “You know nothing about women.”

  “You’re right.” He’s not good at lying, this conventional husband of mine. It’s almost like he doesn’t even try. I watch as he lines up his utensils. When he’s finished, he meets my eye. “But it’s not good for the baby, for you to have cortisol flooding your system this way.”

  “You have a point,” I admit. In all areas of life, never give the impression that you are angling for something—this will raise a resistance you will never lower. It’s best to approach people from the side. “But I think if you were to fuck me, I’d feel better.”

  He glances at his wrist. “I have to be at work in a half hour. It takes me twenty-four minutes to drive there. Six minutes is not enough time.”

  “I thought it was in the agreement,” I counter. I should have taken another angle, this gives him the chance to remind me I wouldn’t know. I never read the damn thing. But it’s a fight I’m looking for, and with Tom often that requires a bit of prodding. He doesn’t fight directly. “I thought it says one is never to refuse their spouse.”

  His phone dings. He fishes it from his pocket and checks it. He knows I hate it when he does this. To make matters worse, he doesn’t look at me when he speaks. “There are stipulations.”

  “Stipulations raise my cortisol level, Tom.”

  The muscle in his jaw twitches again. Something in his expression shifts. I’m pretty sure it’s his resolve.

  “Hypothetically speaking…” I start. He looks up briefly. And then back at the phone. “Say we were to fuck…what hormones would flood my system then?”

  He likes to explain the things he thinks I don’t know. It appears to be his brand of foreplay. To each their own, I say.


  “Endorphins and oxytocin.” He answers matter of factly. His eyes are on the phone.

  I lower my voice, even my tone, arch my back and reach for his belt. “Perfect. You’ve got five and a half minutes.”

  Of course, Tom goes with it. To his credit, he is very efficient. Sure, he didn’t finish his breakfast. But he seemed satisfied nonetheless. And in the end, I was too. After all, I earned equity I could later cash in on. I won this round, fair and square. Tom is no easy opponent. He doesn’t think with his feelings and only on occasion with his dick.

  When it was over, I was a bit shaken. Those three and a half minutes might have been the best sex of my life. Hard and rough, raw and angry, it was different than it normally is. I was concerned I felt something. Something more than the thrill of winning. There’s nothing like it, but this felt like more. I guess sometimes things catch you by surprise.

  Chapter Eight

  Tom

  I dial Beth on my way in to work. Just as soon as I’m out of the driveway, in fact.

  I’m relieved when she answers on the second ring. “Howdy, friend.”

  “I’m afraid we need to take action,” I caution. There’s no time for pleasantries. “It’s worse than I thought.”

  “What happened?”

  I step on the brake. “I don’t have time to go into it right now.”

  She sighs, and I hear the exasperation in her voice before she even speaks. “Tom.”

  “I’m late for work,” I huff. “Just trust me when I say, this has to escalate.”

  A male voice says something in the background. She covers the speaker so that his voice becomes muffled. I realize it was probably a bad idea to call, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  I clear my throat. “Are you there?”

  “Sorry,” she tells me. I flinch at the sound of her finger moving away from the microphone. It crackles in my ear. Beth sighs again. “You men, I swear. If it isn’t one thing…it’s another.” I don’t have time for another woman complaining in my life. She doesn’t seem to notice. “You have no idea how many fires I’ve put out just this morning.”