Chapter 1
“My mother prides herself on her ability to marry well. All five times.”
Cece Cavanaugh
My day began the way it had all week, cutting fresh lilacs from the bushes surrounding our patio. Dark clouds in the distance rumbled a spring warning.
My husband, Phillip, stepped out onto the textured pavement, wearing khakis and a white linen shirt, not his usual workday attire. “Cece,” he said.
“You’re late for breakfast.” I dropped two fragrant sprigs into the vase I held in the crook of my arm.
“Don’t start,” he said. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Why aren’t you dressed for work?” I reached for another cluster of lilacs and stopped. He never took a day off unless it involved a tee time, and he wasn’t dressed for golf. “You’re not ill, are you?” I had a hair appointment with my daughter’s best friend Sarah, a library committee meeting, and a tennis lesson. My daily planner did not include nursing a sick, grumpy husband.
“I’m fine.” He ran a hand through his sandy, silver-at-the temples hair. “We need to talk.” He crossed the patio in five strides, carrying his morning coffee and an attitude.
When he began toying with the change in his pocket, a niggling thought crossed my mind. He had something on his mind, something that would spoil my day, and I aimed to cut him off.
“The travel agent from Kingman delivered our tickets yesterday,” I said. “She suggested a bike tour in Chianti.”
Phillip set his cup on the table and pulled out a chair, motioning for me to sit. “I have something I need to tell you.”
I stopped clipping and glared at him. “Don’t you dare,” I said, ignoring the chair. “We’ve been planning this for a year. We’re going hiking, taking a cooking class, and don’t forget the winery tours. You’ll enjoy this trip.”
“About the trip.” The look on his face mimicked constipation.
“No excuses. We’re going.” I pointed the shears at him. “And when you finish breakfast, bring the luggage from the basement.”
A muscle in Phillip’s jaw jumped. “My bags are packed.” The words came out in a rush.
I stepped back, fear inching its way through my veins, carrying a burden straight to my heart. “You—you never pack yourself.” I stumbled over my words. “E-Esther always packs you.”
As if on cue, our housekeeper stepped through the door, carrying a breakfast tray. Phillip waved her off. “Not now, Esther.”
She mumbled under her breath and walked back into the house, leaving the door open a crack, her typical response when something went awry in the Cavanaugh household. Listen now, blab later.
Phillip pulled a letter from his pocket and dropped it on the table. “I’m leaving.”
“What? Why? Our flight isn’t until Sunday.” My stomach cartwheeled, end over end, over end. The bagel I’d eaten earlier joined the battle, threatening to make an appearance.
Phillip’s gaze traveled to the table and back to me.
I shifted the vase in my arm and smoothed open the letter.
“It’s an itinerary? That’s not a Kingman Travel logo.”
“I’m not going to Tuscany. I’m going to Rio.”
“Rio today? Then Tuscany on Sunday?” I asked.
Sadness clouded Phillip’s face, followed by the clench of his jaw. I’d witnessed his guarded look before. “No,” he said in a voice so quiet I strained to hear.
An impossible thought materialized in my brain. I dropped the vase. I dropped the shears. I dropped my dignity. The clatter crowded my ears. “If you’re so set against going, I’ll cancel the trip.” I felt like I was struggling for traction on an icy slope. “Next year. The year after. We’ll figure it out.”
“I’m going to Rio with someone else.”
“What? Is this your idea of a sick joke?” Questions rushed from my mouth, and scenes of sultry women, husband-stealing women dressed in sexy-near-nothingness, clouded my vision. “Who?”
“Willow.” Phillip glanced at his watch and headed for the door. “My flight leaves in four hours.”
I choked off a laugh. The seriousness of his demeanor held me back. “Willow? That—that—that ‘I stick my finger down my throat to stay so skinny’ girl from your office? She’s what? Twenty? We have a daughter older than her.”
“Willow’s none of your business.”
“If you’re leaving with her, she is my business.” I followed and grabbed him around the waist, resting my head against his back. “Why are you doing this to me? To us? To our family?”
“Don’t make this harder.” Unwrapping my arms from his midsection, he shrugged out of my embrace and went inside.
I kicked off my rubber gardening clogs and trailed him, step for step, across the kitchen, past a slack-jawed Esther, and up the stairs to our bedroom. “What about the girls? This will devastate Michelle. Jessie will never forgive you.”
He pulled a suitcase and an overnight bag from his closet, dropped them next to our bed, and disappeared into the bathroom. “Don’t be dramatic. Jessie’s grown, and Michelle will understand. Eventually.” The sadness in his voice betrayed the bravado of his words.
Hoping to find he’d packed for me, I opened the Louis Vuitton overnight bag he’d given me last year for my forty-seventh birthday. Instead, it contained chargers for his cell and tablet, a belt, and his golf shoes. My heart sank. He really was leaving me.
I jerked out the shoes and shoved them under my pillow.
He returned, dropped his toiletries into my bag, and zipped it shut. “We’ll talk when I get back.”
“Please don’t leave.” I reached for the bag, but he scooped it and the suitcase and left me standing at the foot of our bed.
I plucked the shoes from under my pillow and charged after him. “That’s my luggage. Come back here with my Louis Vuitton.” I stood on the top step of our winding staircase, clutching the golf shoes. “Why are you doing this? Don’t go.”
My husband hiked the strap of my overnight bag higher on his shoulder.
“I’ll get the rest when I return.”
Deep inside my brain, a spark ignited. “Wanna bet?” I launched a shoe, and it ricocheted off his shoulder.
Midway down the stairs, he spun around. “Are you crazy?”
His words snapped the synapses of my brain, sending a bolt of fiery anger straight to my heart. “Me? Am I crazy?” This time I aimed and sent the other shoe flying. It clipped his sturdy Cavanaugh chin, and blood spurted onto his shirt. “What do you think?”
Phillip grabbed his chin and dashed to the door. “I’d have you arrested for assault if I didn’t think I’d miss my flight.”
“Go ahead. I’ve got time.” I ran down the stairs in socked feet. When I hit the marble floor, my feet slid in opposite directions, and I crash-landed.
“You need to get a grip on yourself.” He shook his head and hurried out the front door, dragging my luggage behind him.
I picked myself up and followed, stopping on the porch when I saw his new golf clubs leaning against the wall. The custom set his mother bought for his birthday.
Phillip dabbed at his chin and scurried down the sidewalk to his Porsche.
“Hey, jerk face, don’t forget your clubs.” I pulled the driver out, slung it at his car, and followed with the pitching wedge.
“You crazy lunatic, those clubs cost thirty grand. Stop it!” Phillip scrambled after his precious clubs, a perfect imitation of a crab crossing scorching sand. I continued flinging.
I scored a direct hit with the nine iron. The sand wedge struck him on the ankle. I had let loose with the five iron when Angie Valenti, our neighbor who also happened to be a cop, rounded the side of our house. The club missed the side of her head and bounced off the garage door.
“Jeez.” Angie jumped back. “You’re supposed to use those to hit a ball, not your best friend.”
“Phillip!” I screamed. “The cops are here. You wanna have Angie arrest me?”
By now, he had gathered all the clubs, including the one I’d almost beaned Angie with, and shoved them into the car. He stopped at the driver’s door. His cheeks were flushed, and sweat gathered at his hairline. Rage contorted his face.
“You’re just like your”—he paused—“mother.” He spat the word like he’d taken a mouthful of spoiled milk.
It was lucky for him I’d dropped the gardening shears on the patio. I darted after him, intent on bashing him in the mouth and making him sorry he’d uttered those horrifying words. Angie must have read my mind. Before I could reach him, she tackled me, pinning me to the ground.
Phillip ducked into his car, gunned the engine, and sped off down the street, tires squealing.
“Get off me!” I yelled, my face planted in my bluegrass lawn. Just because she was a cop didn’t mean she had to act like one. I arched my back and tried to buck her off. She held steady. All those years of cop training paid off.
“I’ll let you up when you calm down.” She didn’t budge.
I unearthed my face. “He said I was like my mother!”
“Better yours than that witch he calls Mother,” Angie said, loosening her grip. “Hazel Cavanaugh makes your mom look like a saint.”
“Ha!” I said. “That’ll be the day.” Hazel might have a high opinion of herself, but my mother held no opinion of herself. No self-worth at all. She had five husbands under her belt to prove it, not including the guy she was shacking with now. Angie relaxed, and I used the opportunity to squirm out from underneath her and scramble to my feet.
She stood and smoothed a strand of burgundy hair that had escaped the bun knotted at the nape of her neck. “What happened?”
I struggled to draw a breath. “I-I-I can’t do this. Not now.”
Angie grabbed my arm, ushered me across the porch, past the empty golf bag, and into my living room. After she pushed me onto my sofa, she said, “Spill it, girlfriend.”
I shut my eyes, wondering how my life had taken such a horrendous turn. They say as you grow older, you become more like your mother. I had already seen her crow’s feet clawing at the corners of my eyes. Her voice often screeched out of my mouth when my youngest daughter, Michelle, stretched my nerves beyond their boundaries. Now, for the first time in my life, I had begged a man not to leave. Something I’d watched my mother do all too often. A rush of heat crept up my neck and spread across my cheeks.
Phillip was right.
The cushion next to me gave, and Angie’s arm slipped around my shoulders. That was all it took for the dam to break. Tears rushed down my face. I lifted one shoulder, then the other. “Rio de Janeiro.” My voice sounded far away but not as far away as Phillip. “With Willow.”
“The giant beanpole from his office? Why?”
I pulled away and frowned. “Do I have to draw a picture? He left me. For her. She’s young and pretty and doesn’t have hair sprouting from her chin.”
Angie leaned back. She was a striking woman, especially in her police uniform. Her nose was a tad long and her eyes wide-set. She had dewy-pink skin, smooth and clear, with a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Most women our age—me, for instance—envied her complexion. Especially me, considering my face was blotchy and swollen from crying.
I pulled up the hem of my shirt and wiped my face.
“How tall is she?” Angie asked.
“I don’t know. Tall. Stupid tall,” I said. “She’s like a freaking Amazon.” Angie disappeared into the bathroom and returned carrying a wad of tissue.
“Bet she has feet the size of a barge.”
“A cargo ship,” I said, taking the tissue. “An ocean-going cargo ship.”
“She’s gotta be, what, a foot taller than Phillip and at least twenty-five years younger?” Angie never missed an opportunity to get in a good insult. She only tolerated Phillip because of our friendship.
Bolstered by an idea, I drew myself up and wiped my face. “He’ll be back. This is a midlife crisis. Men have them all the time. Don’t they?” I sounded pathetic.
“Gah! Don’t do that.”
“I thought we had a good marriage. What did I do wrong?” Other than a cheating husband, I had a good life. Emphasis on had. We owned a beautiful home in Harris Arbor, the classy side of our small community in Wickford, Missouri.
Sixteen years ago, when Michelle was born, I’d put my nursing career on hold and turned my attention to community projects, charitable organizations, and taking care of my family. As wife of the CEO of Cavanaugh Structure and Design, it was my job to make sure my husband had a home fit for entertaining.
Angie ran her hands around the back of her head and tugged her bun. “Listen to yourself. He’s cheating on you. You did nothing to deserve this. Find yourself a good divorce lawyer and sue Phillip’s butt.”
She thought my husband was selfish and domineering, and she constantly urged me to stand up for myself. Angie was like tree bark, rough. I didn’t know if it was because she dealt with criminals or because she hung out with cops, but she always said what she thought, straight to the heart of the issue with no possibility of misinterpretation.
Dave, Angie’s husband, said her straightforwardness was what he loved most about her. He said he always knew where he stood, no questions. As a plastic surgeon, he had seen more boobs than Playtex and Maidenform combined. Half the women at our country club were his patients, and the other half would be, as soon as they spotted the first wrinkle or sag.
I sniffed and rubbed my eyes with the tail of my shirt again.
“Gross, use the tissue,” Angie said. “Girl, you need to grow a set of balls. It’s time Cece Cavanaugh stood up for herself.” She clamped her lips together to emphasize her point.
I twisted a tissue in my hand and contemplated what she’d said. The more she talked, the more depressed I became.
“You’ve got two legs. Use them and walk away. He’s controlled you long enough.”
“What are you talking about?” I sniffled and blew my nose.
“When’s the last time you made a decision?” Angie crossed her legs and swung a brogan-covered foot.
“I planned our trip to Tuscany.”
Angie wagged her pointer finger. “You might have planned it, but who suggested it?”
“Hazel,” I said, hanging my head. Darn my mother-in-law. Sticking her nose where I didn’t want it.
“So about your last decision?”
When I didn’t answer, Angie plowed ahead. “You can’t remember because you don’t make them. He does. Phillip decides where Michelle goes to school, and who vetoed the sensible car and bought her a Mustang? He even chose the color of your Lexus. And the club? You wouldn’t be hanging out with those vultures if it weren’t for him.”
Angie was right about the country club. I hated the fakey nice-nice, but it was the norm. Phillip expected it and so did Hazel. Lord knew we couldn’t go against Hazel.
“I make decisions,” I said.
“Name one.”
“Don’t be condescending. You make it sound like I’m a twit.”
“I see it all the time in the battered women I deal with.”
I pushed off the sofa and swung around to face her. “You’re comparing me to women who get beaten by their husbands? Phillip’s never raised a hand to me.”
Angie pulled me back to the sofa. “Calm down. I know he doesn’t do you physical harm, but he’s abusive all the same. It’s called mental abuse. When you make a decision, he overrules it. For pity’s sake, he even tells you what perfume to wear and how to dress. I’ve kept my mouth shut all these years to keep peace. Now that you have the opportunity, take it. If Willow wants him, let her pick up his wet towels and dirty socks.”
I interrupted her rant. “I don’t clean after him.”
“Huh?”
“I have a housekeeper.”
“Oh, yeah. Whatever. He litters your brain with his mental refuse, and you let him. Tell the creep you’re through.”
“It’s not that easy,” I said. “He waited until Michelle left for school. I’ll have to tell her and Jessie he’s gone.”
“What’d you expect?”
The phone interrupted my reply. “Now what?”
“Let it go to voice mail.”
“I can’t. It might be one of the girls. Or Phillip. Maybe he realizes he made a colossal mistake.” At the thought, I tore through the house and snatched the handset off his desk. Please let it be him. Please let it be him. Please let it be him.
“Is Phillip there?” a male voice asked.
“No. This is his . . .” The word caught on my tongue. “Wife. I’m his wife.”
The man cleared his throat. “Cece, this is Keith Jenkins.”
My pulse tapped a staccato beat against my temples. Phillip’s attorney. “He’s . . . he’s . . . he’s already filing for divorce?”
“Divorce?” His voice hiked an octave. “Good grief, no.”
“Oh.”
Keith sighed. “Phillip’s avoided my calls all week. I need his approval on a payment plan for the mortgage company.”
“Payment plan?” The grandmother of all hot flashes crept up my back, breathed fire on my neck, and roared full force up and over my scalp. Beads of perspiration sprouted across my forehead.
Papers rustled on Keith’s end. “Your mortgage is in default.”
“There must be a mistake.” After this morning, who knew what was going on? I leaned against the desk to brace myself.
“Cece, there hasn’t been a payment in six months. You’ve got ninety days to get the mortgage current, or your house goes to foreclosure.”
