Fidelity Files (36 page)

"I assumed you knew. I just don't want your relationship with Dad to turn out the same way."

I nodded weakly and stared at the license plate of the car parked in front of me. "Okay," I surrendered softly. "Maybe I'll give him a call."

After all, I had already let go of so many things this week. What was one more?

I hung up the phone and pulled my SUV back onto the road. Everything was becoming clearer now. The reason Julia was so overprotective of her own daughter suddenly made perfect sense. She was trying to shield Hannah from a world that she had never learned to forgive... just like me.

And suddenly I realized that Julia and I had more in common than I thought. But I was desperate for the decisions I had made in the past week, and even the past two minutes, to be what finally set me apart from her.

The biggest of which was about to start right now.

As I pulled up in front of Karen Howard's house, I could feel the butterflies start to multiply in my stomach. This was it. The very last one. The last million-dollar mansion that I would step into. The last suspicious wife I would attempt to console. And, in a few days, the last cheating husband I would allow to kiss me.

To my great relief, and now my mom's as well, I was finally starting to let go.

I went into this thinking I could help people. And I know I did. Lots of people. Even if I never got the satisfaction of knowing for sure they ended up better off, I believed in my heart that they were. Because I had seen what happens when you don't know. I had experienced firsthand what happens to a family that lives in denial.

And yes, I had fully contemplated the consequences of quitting. It would mean that more women would have to go through what my mom had gone through. And apparently Julia's mom, as well. But there comes a point, when the bad guy is after you, when the good guy can't break through to you, when a world of cover-ups and lies feels like it's going to come crashing down on top of you, when you realize: Sometimes you have to stop, take a step back, relieve your tired shoulders of the rest of the world's burdens, and take the time to help yourself.

Because truth be told, I
wasn't
a superhero. I couldn't fly. I couldn't spin intricate webs and cling to the sides of walls. I couldn't leap tall buildings in a single bound. I was just an ordinary girl trying to make a difference.

And I believed I had.

Now it was time to make
me
different. And that's exactly what I would do.

After this one, last, final, closing assignment.

I was about to step out of the car and walk to the front door when my personal cell phone rang. I fished it from my bag, and upon seeing Jamie's now stored name and number on the caller ID, I flipped it open with excitement.

Speak of the angel.

"Hey, you," I said.

He cleared his throat and spoke in a deep, self-important voice. "Yes, um...Mr. Jamie Richards for a Ms. Jennifer H., please."

I played along, lowering my voice to a sultry but professional tone. "I'm sorry. Ms. Jennifer H. doesn't know any Mr. Jamie Richards."

"Hmm... There must be an error here on my paperwork. I was calling to confirm a plane ticket to Paris and, well, I guess I dialed the wrong number. I'm sorry about the confusion, miss. Have a good—"

"No, wait!" I stopped him.

He laughed at my franticness, and then in his normal voice asked, "So have you started packing yet?"

"We're not leaving until
next
Saturday!"

"But you've thought about it."

"Maybe a little," I admitted nonchalantly, not wanting to confess
that I had pretty much the entire contents of my suitcase planned out in my
head. Not to mention the fact that every minute I was in my house I had to
hold myself back from pulling out my large, non-carry-on, non-assignment suitcase
from my hall closet and filling it to the brim with cute,
non
-assignment
outfits. It was hidden behind all of Marta's brooms and mops and things. I
imagined I would have to start using them myself soon. There was no way I
would be able to afford her on my unemployed, still salary.

"Are you home?" he asked.

I looked through the windshield at Karen Howard's large, two-story house looming in front of me. "Actually, I'm working right now."

I was
dying
to tell Jamie about the conclusive nature of my so-called work tonight. To allow my elatedness to spill forth through the phone and give him all the credit he deserved.
"
You
made me believe again.
You
gave me faith, something I haven't known since I was twelve years old!"
But I knew that (1) It was pretty heavy stuff for a relationship that hadn't even passed the four-date mark, and (2) It would require a
lot
more explanation. And given the fact that I was now running ten minutes late to my meeting, it would have to wait. And so I bit my tongue and said nothing.

"Ooh, working hard, huh? Burning the midnight oil on a Friday night, are we? Miss Important?"

I looked up at the beautiful home in front of me. Burning the midnight oil?

Not exactly.

Possibly burning a dishonest man's metaphoric castle of deception to the ground?

More like it.

"That's right," I replied. "And what are you doing?"

He sighed loudly. "I'm afraid I'm burning the oil as well. Gonna be here for at least another couple of hours. We're getting ready for the Paris trip."

My stomach did a small flip and I smiled into the phone. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. But I just wanted to check in and say hi."

My stomach flipped again, and my body seemed to melt right into the car seat. "That's so sweet." I checked my watch. It was already 8:12 P.M. "Well, I should probably get back to work," I added.

"Me, too. Talk to you tomorrow?"

"Definitely."

I ended the call and rested the phone against my lips as if trying to suck the conversation right out of the pink metal and into a safe, photographic memory bank in the back of my mind.

I put the phone back in my bag, opened the car door, and stepped out into the crisp October evening air. I took a ceremonial walk up the front steps, pausing frequently so I'd remember the feeling I had with each step, as they were about to become my last.

Karen Howard's house was almost as beautiful as she was. Both well groomed, well polished, and furnished with expensive accessories.

She welcomed me nervously into the living room, and I tried to focus on the task at hand. I just had to get through this meeting, the assignment, and then I was home free.

Off to Paris.

I quickly stopped myself before slipping into another daydream.

"Thanks so much for meeting me," Karen said warmly as we sat down in the living room.

"It's no problem. Why don't you tell me why you called," I replied, gently attempting to push the process forward and eliminate all small talk.

"Right," she began cautiously. "Well, my husband..."

"Mr. Howard?" I said assumingly, jotting down the name in my notes.

"Actually, no. Howard is my maiden name. I gave it to you over the phone because I...I don't know, I guess I was just nervous about the whole process and I didn't want to give out my real name, just in case—"

"I understand," I said quickly, striking a line through the name I had just written on the page. "Many women do that. It's quite normal. I've seen it several times."

I fought to keep my tone calm and steady. The worst thing I could do to this woman was make her think I was trying to rush her. She certainly didn't need to know that I was in a hurry to get through this meeting, especially in the state she was in. I've learned over the years that women in her condition need all the patience and attention you can give them. It's that lack of attention that probably drove them here in the first place.

"So what
is
your husband's name, then?" I asked.

Karen swallowed hard and fidgeted with her hands. It was as if saying his name aloud to me was making this whole process even more real. A bit too real.

"It's okay," I offered sympathetically. "We can come back to that part if you'd like."

"No, no," she insisted. "I'm fine." She clasped her hands together tightly and held them in her lap. "My husband's name is Jamie... Jamie Richards."

I ABSENTMINDEDLY started to write down the name Karen Howard had just given me until I got to the letter
R
of his last name. I stopped cold. "Jamie Richards?" I clarified, certain I had heard it wrong.

"Yes," she repeated.

My heart started to pound. I struggled to keep my breathing steady. Surely there were several Jamie Richards in the city of Los Angeles. Surely.

I mean, there
had
to be.

I attempted a smile. It came out more like a possessed lip spasm. "What does Mr. Richards do?" I asked professionally. "Construction? Medicine? Law?" The speculations were spewing uncontrollably from my mouth like water coming out of a hose that someone had dropped on the ground and suddenly appeared to have taken on a life of its own.

"Oh, God no," Karen said, with a meek smile. "Jamie hates lawyers."

I nodded slowly, practically engaging in a staring contest with her mouth, as I desperately anticipated the next words to leave it.

"Jamie's a marketing consultant," she said, leaning back in her chair, her eyes wandering toward the ceiling. "For Calloway Consulting."

And that's when I threw up.

Not then and there, on Jamie Richards's plush, Burberry
married
carpeting. Although I really would have liked to have left that little present for him.

Rather, I excused myself quickly, asking – no, more like
demanding
– to know where the bathroom was, and ran from the room.

I vomited twice in the toilet, flushed, and then rinsed my mouth out with water. I stared into the mirror. All the color had completely vanished from my face. Even my eyes, normally a sharp shade of green, seemed to have turned gray and lifeless. My lips, despite the double application of gloss I had applied before leaving the house earlier, were dull and pale.

I swallowed hard.

This was not happening.

This was not real.

It was all in my head.

I would march out there, double-check all the details, and then reassuringly hear Karen's lighthearted laugh resonate through the room as she said, "You thought I said
Jamie Richards
? Hahahaha. No, no, no. I said Maley Pichards!"

Yes, that's exactly what would happen.

I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow and another one from my upper lip, flipped off the light switch, and with my head held high in the air made my way back to the living room to put an end to this silly little confusion.

But as I quietly took my seat again, it was evident that carefree laughter was nowhere to be seen – or heard. Instead she looked at me curiously, wondering if this whole running from the room at the mention of her husband's name was all a normal part of the process. After all, this fidelity inspection business was completely new to her.

"Is everything all right?" she asked warily.

I attempted a smile. "Yes, I believe so. Sorry about that."

Karen let out a sigh. "Good, good. Well, anyway. Jamie works a
lot.
" Her emphasis on the word left no doubt that his work schedule must have been a problem area in their marriage.

In their
marriage
! So it really
was
happening! I couldn't believe this. Jamie Richards... the perfect, adorable, charming, "Come to Paris with me" Jamie Richards was married! As in "I do," as in "Till death do us part" – or more like, "Till I meet some chick on an airplane who's stupid enough to believe that I would be single!"

Every conversation we had had, every single movement that he had made was swirling around in my head. I tried desperately to slow the images down and look for clues. A wedding ring tan, a mention of a "we," nervousness around the topic of marriage. Something I might have missed. But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing!

Except...

I suddenly thought back to that moment outside my front door after our second date:
"I really like you, Jen. I just think we should take this slow...I don't want to rush into anything."

That
was the reason he didn't want to have sex with me? Because he was
married
? And this whole time I thought he was just being sweet. Considerate. Genuine. But in reality, it was just code for "I'm actually married and I don't want to do the whole full-blown sex cheating thing? I'm perfectly happy with just the half-ass, making-out, cheating thing."

For God's sake, he invited me to Paris!

But why even bother with the half-ass thing? If you're going to cheat, why not just cheat and get it over with! Why drag it out?

"Are you
sure
you're all right?" Karen's voice snapped me back into the moment, and it was then I realized that my mouth was half open and my head was cocked to one side.

I quickly jerked my body upright and shut my mouth. "Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?"

She shot me a strange look but then appeared to brush it off. "I was just saying that my husband works a lot. He's always traveling for business. I just have no idea what he does when he's away. I'm worried he might...you know..." Her voice trailed off.

Oh, I
knew
! Did I ever! I wanted to pipe in right then and there and inform her of just how much I actually did know about her husband's little business trips. But instead I just nodded.

"He's going to Paris next week," she continued. "And I don't know how far you normally travel for this sort of thing, but I thought maybe that would be a good time to..." She swallowed. "Test him...or whatever it is you do."

"Yes!" I exclaimed loudly. Karen jumped at my unexpected enthusiasm. I cleared my throat and played it off. "I mean, yes... that would be a
very
good opportunity to test your husband."

Well, if this wasn't the mother of all last assignments. In fact, this wasn't even
just
an assignment anymore. This was personal. In one swift, unexpected motion, this had suddenly turned from just another day's work into just um...
my life
!

"Of course, I'll pay for all of your travel expenses," she offered. "I just really want to know ...I
need
to know."

That makes two of us,
I thought.

"I understand," I said calmly. I could feel the heat rising in my stomach. I knew that after a few more seconds in that chair the anger would probably boil over and come spilling out of my mouth in the form of many profanities and inappropriate gestures. I had to get out of there.

So I listened impatiently as Karen ran over all the details of the trip. I pretended to write down every one of them, although, in reality, I'd had them memorized since the day Jamie e-mailed me our itinerary. The lovesick idiot that I was.

As Karen walked me to the front door, she finished listing all of Jamie's hobbies and interests, his background, and his likes and dislikes. And upon hearing all the familiar things I had only just started to learn about the man I had been so very wrong about, the anger slowly started to dissolve into a flood of tears. I fought to keep them back. I just had to get out of that house.

As the door closed behind me, the first tear fell.

And as soon as I sat down in my car, the floodgates opened. I lowered my head onto the steering wheel and sobbed uncontrollably. I couldn't even remember the last time I had cried that hard.

I hated myself right then. I hated myself for believing. For trusting. For feeling. I never wanted to feel anything again. Nothing had to be better than this.
It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?
Fuck Shakespeare! That's a load of crap.

I wiped away some of my tears, started the engine, and drove away.

Normally I would have driven to Sophie's apartment...or even to Zoë's. But for some reason I didn't think that a normal "session" was quite going to cut it this time.

I didn't want to see anybody. I didn't want to talk to anybody. I just wanted to drive home, fall onto my bed, and cry.

So I did.

I DIDN'T answer my phone for a full twenty-four hours. I watched it ring. In the span of a day I had three "concerned" calls from Sophie, two from Zoë, in which she proceeded to call either me or the person who dared share the road with her both a "whore" and a "dumb ass," one from John, two from blocked numbers, and two from Jamie.

Sophie eventually came knocking at my door. And when I didn't answer, she used her key.

She found me lying on my bed in the same clothes I had been wearing the day before when I met with Karen Richards, wife of the cheating bastard, also known as Jamie Richards.

"What happened?" she asked, running to the bed and sitting down on the edge. She tenderly stroked my hair.

I looked at her with tired, sleepless eyes. I hadn't eaten in over a day and my energy level was at an all-time low. "Jamie's married," I said lifelessly.

"What?" Her hand stopped cold in the middle of my forehead.

My voice was monotone and drained. "My last assignment. Karen Howard. Actually, Karen
Richards
."

Sophie stared at me in utter shock. "Maybe it wasn't the same Jamie."

I looked her directly in the eye. "She's sending me to Paris, because he's going there for business next week."

"Oh."

I rolled onto my side so I was facing away from her and tucked my hands under my cheek.

Sophie was silent. I knew she didn't have a clue what to say. And I was almost more grateful for her silence. At least it was honest.

We sat there for a long time. A few minutes even. Then finally she asked, "So are you going to go?"

Without even turning back to face her I replied, "Yes. I want this cheating bastard caught and brought to justice."

Sophie cracked a smile. "You sound like a district attorney."

"Well, now I know what it feels like to be one."

"But why even go? Why put yourself through it? You know he's a cheater. Cancel on him and tell his wife that he failed."

"Because
I
have to know," I insisted.

"Know what?" Sophie asked, puzzled.

"If he'd really do it. Really
cheat
."

Sophie reflected momentarily. "You mean sex?"

I twisted my neck and turned my head toward her, struggling to give her an obvious nod. "Um, yeah! We still haven't had sex! He said he wanted to wait...no reason to rush into anything, let's take it slow . . . blah, blah, blah... asshole."

"And you think he did that because he's married?" Sophie asked.

"Can you think of any other reason?"

She took a deep breath. "But sex or no sex...he still cheated."

"Did he?"

She looked at me and our eyes locked. She knew what I was getting at. It was the question that all of us women ask ourselves. It was the age-old question of relationships. The question as old as the institution of marriage itself.

What constitutes cheating?

Is it the removal of the wedding ring? Is it the failure to mention a wife? Is it kissing? Flirting? Touching? Talking?

Where's the line? And when do they cross it?

When do you consider your husband to have cheating tendencies? When is it confirmed that he has an "intention" to be unfaithful? And is an intention even enough?

But these were questions I left up to my clients. Questions I never had to answer myself.

Until now.

Because now it was
me
who needed to know.

It was me who had to define the act of cheating.

And it was suddenly a whole different ball game.

"So you're going to have sex with him?"

I closed my eyes tightly. "I can't now!" I practically yelled. "I wanted to. I mean, what's more perfect than making love for the first time with someone in Paris? It's like a movie."

Sophie nodded. "Yeah."

"But now, if I have sex with him to prove a point...to myself, or to anyone... then
I'm
just as bad as he is! I'm having sex with a married man. A man I
know
is married. That's just plain wrong."

"So what then?" Sophie asked. "What are you going to do?"

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. "I guess the same thing I always do."

"Intention?"

The tears began to form again. "The very highest level of it."

"But you guys are sharing a hotel room, right? Isn't that pretty much proof of an intention right there? I mean, he didn't book you separate rooms, did he?"

I shook my head. "No. But a hotel room is not enough. I have to be absolutely sure. I have to know if he'd really go through with it. If not for his" – I paused and fought back a break in my voice – "wife... then for me."

Sophie looked at me and gently reached over to wipe away a stray tear that had rolled down the side of my face. "But Jen," she began. "What if he doesn't? What if he doesn't go through with it?"

I let out a frustrated laugh. "I've thought of that," I admitted. "And I think that's the scariest outcome of them all."

What
if
he didn't go through with it? Would that make him honest? Faithful? What? Would I be able to actually add him to the sacred list in my secret, wooden box and say "Yea!" for all the faithful couples in the universe? I hope they're all very happy. Maybe they can form a club and celebrate together. All ten of them. Or nine, or whatever the real number was. I didn't have a clue anymore.

Hell, I didn't even know if my best friend's future husband was the cheating type. I didn't know anything these days. And the things I thought I knew, the things I thought I could be sure of, turns out they're a bunch of crap, too.

It just wasn't fair. The first time – the
only
time – I let my guard down, I get stuck with a complete jerk-off who parades around as a decent guy, asking me to go to Paris and take things slow. And after I'd been so careful for two years not to fall for anyone because, as I'd just proven, they call it "falling" for a reason. If I remember correctly from age five: You fall, you hurt yourself. You scrape your knee or your elbow and you have to wear an obnoxious, brightly colored,
Sesame Street
bandage to show off your wound to everyone. Look at me! I got hurt. I was running around the pool even though I was told not to and look how well that turned out.