“You and everyone else it seems,” I said dryly, recalling the throng of reporters on my lawn.
I thanked her and returned to Greg’s room. He was sitting on the couch, staring intently at the journal.
He looked up when I came in. “Who’s Karen?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.” Fuck it. “I think you had an affair, Greg. Before the accident. I think Karen was your mistress. I don’t have any proof other than that note.”
He was quiet for a long time, lost in thought, searching for the memory. We were supposed to talk chronologically, and we had gotten up to Hannah’s first year. I had gingerly avoided the subject of Drew. I was delaying the hard parts—the affair, the memorial service, the divorce, my new life. But we couldn’t avoid them forever.
“The year before you disappeared, you were very withdrawn. Very… almost angry with me. I never knew why.” I retold Rochester in detail: the empty hotel room, the Thai restaurant. I told him about San Diego, the Grand Del Mar, the golf tee, and the fake business trips. He stared at the note, Call Karen at Omni S.D, tracing the letters with his finger, over and over again.
“Karen Caughee,” he said finally. “That’s her name.” Then he whispered, “Pronounced like coffee, the drink.”
I hadn’t known I was holding my breath until I expelled it, bursting out of me, relief and regret at once.
When he met my eyes, his were dry, but I’d never seen him look so sad. “She was my lover.”
Chapter 37
When I picked up the Hunterdon County Times on Monday, I wasn’t expecting to see my face on the front page. Then again, there was so little news in Clinton, that I supposed had I thought about it, of course, my story would be front page when it finally ran.
Weeks ago, I had pulled the business cards from the coffee can and spread them out on the dining room table. I focused on women only and, after doing some internet searching, chose the one who wrote the least scandalous and most boring stories. Rebecca Riley had reported on the inclusion of the rural outskirts of Clinton into the public sewage system and what that would mean for homeowners. I only hoped Rebecca would write my story with the same level of enthusiasm.
When Rebecca had shown up, I found her to be my age, slightly overweight, smart, and personable. I instantly felt comfortable and spoke honestly and candidly, which was my first mistake. When I got the paper after returning from my weekend with Greg, I gaped in shock. The front page displayed a close-up of my face on the night the media had been all over my lawn. My features were pinched, and my hand was up in the air. I looked bitchy. The use of that photo was surprising because Rebecca and I had taken a few pictures together in the house and out by the barn. I sat down to read.
Claire Barnes: Grieving Wife or Brilliant Opportunist?
By Rebecca Riley
To meet Claire, petite, mild-mannered, and cheerful, you would have no idea of the tragedy her family has undergone in the past two years. Her husband of eight years left for a business trip two years ago and never returned home. Claire and their two children, Hannah and Leah, have remained in the home they shared with her missing husband.
In the meantime, Claire has become involved with her childhood friend, Drew Elliot. Some might say, “Good for her. She’s moved on, made a life in the shadow of tragedy.” Unless you know who Drew Elliot is. Semi-famous in artistic circles, he shoots compelling photographs of poverty-stricken men and women in American cities and makes a nice living doing it. Prior to his photography venture, he was a self-made millionaire when he got lucky during the Silicon Valley years. Then, one begins to think, “Lucky for her. Her troubled marriage seems to end without consequence, she has the endless sympathy of the community, and she gets to shack up with a millionaire? Seems rather convenient.”
Claire is likeable. She’s expressive, cheerful, funny, warm, and kind. Her home is beautiful—an old farmhouse accessorized with appropriate antiques, yet stylishly updated for modern living. She comments that the kitchen was recently redone.
“Most of the rooms in this house have been redone, actually. Since Greg left. It was a way to cleanse, to start over and regroup. You need that when you believe your husband has died, to find your own voice. I needed to make my life mine, where it was once ‘ours.’”
But you can’t help but notice the fine craftsmanship of the redecoration: stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, handcrafted cabinetry custom built from refurbished barn boards. You notice and wonder.
The most jarring part of the whole scene is the knowledge that Claire’s husband did not leave her. Nor did he die. He was robbed at gunpoint and pushed in front of an oncoming car. He lay in a coma for a year and a half, and even after he awoke, had no idea who he was.