Pie Girls

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

         After tossing and turning for hours alone, I'm a frazzled, nervous wreck. When the alarm chimes for the third time, I force myself to roll out of bed.

In my La Perla bra and panties, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My face is tear-streaked; my eyes are red and puffy. Even my hair looks matted and flat.

         It's the morning of Mimi's baby shower. The glamorous party of all parties, planned down to the last detail by yours truly. I'm supposed to play demure hostess and adoring friend.

         I’m an emotional train wreck.

And not at all certain that I can pull it off.

         All because Alton's lost his mind.

         As I peek into the living room at the sofa, I see that my husband's still snoozing, one arm tossed across his face to block the morning sun. I rub my temples and watch him. He never sleeps in. He never skips work.

         As Alton dozes, I consider that last night might have been a terrible dream. A nightmare, or a temporary mid-thirties crisis. Perhaps Alton has food poisoning, or someone slipped drugs into his drink at the airport.

         He did, after all, have a serious bout of cold feet before the wedding. Disappeared for a week. Didn't call, didn't send a postcard. His parents were wild with worry. Our wedding planner threatened to cancel the entire event. I suspected that he'd had a last-minute fling at a strip club, a wild guys’ trip to Vegas or Atlantic City, but I held my ground, promising everyone that he'd be back.

         Alton was on my doorstep the morning of the ceremony with a bouquet of gorgeous, fragrant purple and pink lilies. Once he came home, the reasons and excuses didn't matter. I pretended they didn’t, anyway. I wasn't going to be humiliated. I wasn't canceling the wedding. I was getting married.

         That was a decade ago.

         I ease out of the living room, deciding not to wake him. We can talk later, when he's had some rest and his head clears. When Alton comes to his senses.

         With my eyes, I trace the edge of his face, the contour of his jawline, and the way his hair falls across his forehead. We've been together since high school. I thought that I knew everything about my husband. I always prided myself in our open relationship—the fact that we share all of our family skeletons, dark secrets, and crazy, irrational fears.

         Or do we?

         My gaze lands on the open briefcase near his feet. With a cautious step, I ease my way toward the satchel, jam-packed with folders and papers. I crane my neck sideways and sink to my knees, holding my breath. With careful fingers, I flip through the files.

         Excel spreadsheets, memos, and financial statements. I stifle a yawn. Work, work, work. Boring. Until my thumb pauses on several pages of parchment paper.