Free The Widower's Wife: A Thriller by Cate Holahan Page B

stream again. He gargled and spat at the bathroom floor. “I’m sorry you were worried. I just lost track of time.”
    He switched off the water and then opened the door. His hands reached out toward me. I batted them away and folded my arms across my chest.
    He exited the shower and strode over to the towel rack, making a trail of wet footprints. “I always get you one.”
    “I never forget our daughter at daycare and fail to pick up my phone.”
    “My phone died. I’ve said I was sorry.” His tone didn’t contain any contrition.
    I didn’t care anymore if he thought that I doubted his story. “Who did you even go out with?”
    He rubbed the towel over his face as he talked. The fabric muffled the words. “This recruiter I used to work with all the time. I thought it would be a good way to get some leads on a job.”
    Investment banking was a male-dominated industry. Recruiting was the opposite. More than half of all recruiters were women, and his deliberate avoidance of a pronoun confirmed the gender. “So you got bombed with some bimbo.”
    Tom scowled. “You are so fucking dismissive, you know that? I met with someone who might be able to help me get a job.”
    “Well, did she have anything for you?”
    “Not right now. But it’s a good relationship to keep up.”
    “Until nearly midnight?”
    He picked something from his teeth. Steak? An olive? He frowned at his reflection, or perhaps the realization that whatever he’d dislodged had been visible at least part of the night.
    “Look.” He finally faced me with a conciliatory expression. “I jumped at the chance to meet an old colleague who might be able to help me find something and I lost track of time. Once I got into the city, she had to postpone for a couple hours because of a client, so I had to hang around. My phone died. She took me out to dinner to apologize for the wait and talk about prospects for me. It can take an hour to get home from the city with traffic. You know that. I was trying to help our—” He made a praying motion that opened up into a plea for sympathy from an unseen chorus. “You know what? Forget it.”
    He gathered his clothes from the floor. Footprints marked the marble as he marched from the room.
    The abrupt end to what had not even approached a proper apology infuriated me. How dare he act self-righteous? “You should sleep downstairs.” I didn’t want to wake Sophia, but I couldn’t control my volume anymore. “I don’t want you in our bed.”
    “Whatever, Ana.” He sounded like a spoiled teenager. I’d won the part of nagging mom to his irreverent boy. Cruel casting. I shouldn’t have needed to scold him. He should have come home humble, apologetic.
    “You know what? You’re right. My fault for worrying. I clearly shouldn’t have given a crap,” I shouted. “It’s not like you do anything around here, anyway.”
    He spun so fast that I feared he’d slip on the wet floor. He advanced toward me. Eyes narrowed. Teeth glinting.
    His fist unfurled as it flew toward my face. A pointed finger stopped inches from my nose. I flinched. In our five years together, Tom had never hit me. Before he’d lost his job, he’d never even yelled at me. Things had changed. His career disappointment had spread like a cancer, infecting his brain, altering his personality. I couldn’t trust him, especially not after jabbing his ego in its most sensitive area.
    “I bought this house. I paid for the cars, the private nursery school, Sophia’s lessons.” Tom’s voice started at a whisper, but it increased in volume with every word, a kettle whistle as the water neared boiling. “The landscapers, the housekeeper, the swim club membership. All while you sat on your ass for years .”
    “Are you kidding me?” I nearly screamed, daring his finger to hit my forehead. “I cared for our child and this home. I worked with the contractors to get it built. I furnished it. I cooked the meals. I cleaned. I ran all your errands.