The Rule of Three, page 9
“Yes.” I’m happy that I’ve gotten his attention. “But you go first.” I sit across from him and mirror his posture. The midmorning sun casts a lovely slice of yellow light on the table between us. If I were a cat, it would be a perfect place to sun myself. I smile at the thought and Spence smiles back at me, mistaking my warmth as directed at him. Relief enters his face, and I let him hold on to it for the time being. Still, he doesn’t say anything and looks at me peculiarly after a few seconds of expectant silence.
“What’s on your mind?” I say neutrally.
“I’m concerned about the amount of time you are spending at the Matherses’ house.” He is looking at something on the ceiling and then at the wall behind me. In an article after charges were first brought against Spencer, a former employee referred to him as “shifty,” and I haven’t been able to shake that description since.
I let the statement resonate before I ask a question that I already know the answer to. “How do you know how much time I’m spending at Laura’s house?”
He responds with a disapproving expression. I have a choice before me; I can reengage Spencer in our years-long debate about his tracking software on all our devices and vehicles, or I can forge ahead.
I pick happiness over being right.
“Of course,” I say. He looks surprised that I’ve rejected the bait.
“I’m just not sure why this is such an issue; you never monitored my social activities in California. I want friends, Spencer. I know these aren’t your favorite people, but I need to make an effort to be part of the community, no? Terry is the reason we moved here, right?”
I think back to when Spence was pitching the move from Santa Clara to Kingsland, as if I had a choice in the matter. I couldn’t bear the thought of any more upheaval in our life, but Spencer had been acquitted of criminal charges on a handful of technicalities that I still haven’t completely untangled in my understanding, and his career was over for the foreseeable future. We’d all but been run out of Northern California with pitchforks.
“We can start over,” he’d promised. “We can have the experiences that we didn’t get to have in the beginning of our marriage because I was working so much.” I’d felt some resentment at his singular self-reference, as I too had worked plenty hard to put our life together and make a home that was worthy of a tech giant when he was building Galapagos.
A new start sounded like exactly what we needed. I’d never lived east of Texas and always loved New York City when we’d visited many times for Spencer’s work. But it wasn’t Manhattan he’d had in mind.
He’d given me the hard sell about a very exclusive, private community of people who wanted to be out of the spotlight, away from the city but close enough to take advantage of its amenities. Kingsland was a community for discerning VIPs who wanted to live their lives quietly and without drama, and it was invite only. When I saw the images of the house Terry Barnes was offering, a stately home surrounded by grand-looking arborvitaes, protecting its occupants from the prying eyes of the world, I agreed to the move. Though I was sad and defeated to be leaving our home, my desperation to escape the press and our icy neighbors was greater.
Of course there was no mention of Gil Mathers being one of the illustrious residents of Kingsland. Spencer had no reason to think that I would have any opinion either way about a disgraced motivational speaker that he’d never even heard of. I do still wonder how that information might have changed the course of things. It is doubtful that I’d have been able to sway Spencer from the move without telling him the whole story of how I knew Gil in the first place, and that would have been another world of pain. And I never would have gotten to meet Vicky and Laura.
“Spence, they are my friends.”
“What exactly do you do all day?”
“We hang out by the pool and talk.”
“Why there? Why not Victoria’s?”
“Would you prefer that?” He shakes his head from side to side. “We go to Laura’s because Terry is always home. He’s annoying,” I say.
“That asshole is in constant need of an audience,” he cracks. “Anyway, we have a pool. You can sit out there unbothered all day long.”
“Unbothered and alone. I don’t want to be alone, Spencer.”
It isn’t lost on me that this conversation could as easily be between a father and his teenage daughter. The present feelings between us are probably closer to that dynamic.
“I’m here,” he says.
“But you aren’t really here. You are always someplace else in your head even when we’re sitting in the same room together. We barely talk anymore.”
“We talk all the time. We are talking right now.”
I sigh. “You know what I mean.”
He sighs louder. “This is what I’m talking about, Monica. Before we moved here and you started spending all of your time at Gil Mathers’s house—”
“Laura’s house,” I correct.
“Tomato, tomahto.”
I put my hand over my face.
“Before you spent all of your time at the Matherses’, you never complained about how much we talked or how much time we spent together. This is because you’ve been absorbed into this unnecessary self-made drama factory that this neighborhood perpetuates. Every last one of them has too much time and money and nothing useful to do with either.”
“Why is it okay for you to have a weekly poker game with two men who you claim to despise, but I can’t spend time with their wives?”
“That is completely different. That’s business.”
I laugh and pick at my cuticles. “Whatever, Spencer. So am I grounded from going to the pool with my friends?” I snap.
“This isn’t about the pool. This is about me not wanting you to get too close to those women. I don’t want you talking about our business with anyone.”
“What is it exactly that you’re afraid of?” I try not to cry.
“That they’ll take advantage of you. That they’ll get something out of you that you don’t realize you are giving up.”
“Give me a little more credit than that, Spence. Besides, there isn’t anything that we have that they could possibly need,” I say calmly.
“Don’t be so sure of that,” he says cryptically, then releases his other heavy hand from my shoulder and comes to sit in the chair catty-corner to mine.
“You don’t exactly tell me the details about what’s going on anyway.”
“I tell you what you need to know,” he says darkly.
“I don’t like this side of you, Spence.” I frown. He is already back to his phone screen.
“And steer clear of Gil Mathers,” he mutters.
My throat tightens.
“You realize how incredibly controlling this is all sounding, right?”
“You are not seeing the bigger picture, Monica.” He emphasizes every syllable of my name as a warning. “We just need to finish out our time here and then we can move on.” He takes off his glasses and begins cleaning them with a special microfiber cloth that costs more than my cell phone. “And yes, Terry Barnes is the reason we are here, but that reason is entirely business.”
“I thought we were here for a new beginning.” I catch his eye before it darts away.
“This is a means to an end. We are not required to socialize with them, no matter how hard Barnes bullies us to,” he counters.
“I want to socialize. Vicky and Laura have been good to me.”
“Mon, you can’t ignore the fact that your friends are questionably trustworthy and undeniably married to two liabilities. And they are sisters. And if you think that Laura and Victoria don’t tell their husbands everything, the way you do with me, you are being naive.”
An urge to correct Spencer on this matter knocks at me, but my pride is right sized by common sense.
“I just wish you, Terry, and Gil would get along. The three of you are like teenage girls.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are all talking shit about each other and then acting like everything is fine.”
“What have you heard?” He watches me closely.
“Nothing. Just that Terry’s been stressed about some deal and Gil’s been over at their house a lot this month behind closed doors,” I tell him.
“Do you know what about?” he presses.
“No. We don’t really talk about you all as much as you’d like to think.”
Spencer scowls.
“Would you prefer that I have Vicky and Laura come here during the day?” I ask, knowing full well that he doesn’t want anyone in our house.
“No. I don’t think that’s the answer.”
“Then what is the answer, darling? That I spend all of my time alone with nothing to do or no one to talk to?” I say bitterly.
“You’re making it sound like you’re a prisoner.” He sniffs. “You know you can come and go as you please.”
“I know.” I stand and move my chair close to his. He seems surprised by the counterintuitiveness of the gesture, especially when I put my palm lovingly on his cheek.
“What is it you’re afraid of, Spence?”
“I only agreed to move here because of Barnes’s help with the case. I thought we’d have more privacy here, but it is the opposite.” He catches himself.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter since we are moving. You haven’t said anything to them, right?” His eyes narrow.
“Of course not. I promised that I wouldn’t,” I lie. “I already told you that I’m not going anywhere, so there’s no reason to even bring it up with Vicky and Laura.”
“Monica. Be reasonable. There is no good reason to stay here. I’ve already found some places in Colorado that could be perfect.”
“Colorado? Spencer, you think going even further away from society is going to solve our problems?” I struggle to keep my cool.
“I can’t work here, Monica. I need space and quiet. You know I’m right at the threshold of something really big. I can get us back to where we were. Back into Santa Clara into our old house or an even better one. This neighborhood is just a chessboard for Terry Barnes to play with when he’s got nothing else to do.” Bitterness oozes.
“Okay,” I concede. “As long as we’re together, Spence. That’s all that matters.”
“Really?” He regards my face skeptically. “You’re okay about the move?”
“Yes.” I yield. “And I will not say another word against the move on two conditions.”
He raises his eyebrows. It isn’t like me to bargain with Spence; he has been known to trash billion-dollar deals over power plays.
“What are your conditions?” he asks, vaguely amused.
“In the time left here, I can spend as much time as I want with Laura and Vicky.”
He furrows his brow. “Maybe. And the other?”
“You go with me to the Barneses’ Fourth of July barbecue this weekend.”
He groans and shifts in his seat. “Is that really necessary?”
“It is if you want me to accept my being uprooted for the second time in a year and leaving behind my friends.”
“You didn’t have any friends left in California,” he says.
I’m stung, but I don’t let on. “Think of it as a going-away party for both of us, one only we know about. It might be fun.” I hold his hand and look up at him with the most loving expression that I can muster.
“Fine. I’ll go to the barbecue, but only for a little while, and I’m not going to enjoy myself,” he says finally.
“You never know, Spence. Stranger things have happened.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
VICTORIA
“They’re for the upside-down cake, honey.” I add a little sugar to my tone as Terry scrunches his nose in disgust at the sight of the pineapples standing atop the counter of the kitchen island that separates us. “Don’t worry,” I continue. “I won’t let them anywhere near the fruit salad. Promise.”
“What about me?” he whines, half smiling. “Where’s my sweet treat?” Buried beneath the teasing comment is an actual petulance bordering on the infantile. It’s one of my husband’s least attractive qualities, and the one I relish pushing back against the most.
“Well, sweetheart.” I’ve fully taken on the voice of an adult addressing a toddler. “Your doctor said that’s no good for your blood pressure, remember?” Apparently, my inner sadist has decided to come out and go a few rounds with the guy. “So, only fruit for you.” I tap my finger to the air as if I’m booping him on the nose.
“Fine,” he says, the suggestion of a smile having left his face. His irritation is only encouraging my feeling of glee in the moment.
“My hands are tied,” I say with a shrug, in a comically haughty tone. “Our guests have come to expect certain traditions when attending the Barnes Annual Fourth of July Barbecue. I’m afraid they’ll revolt if there’s no cake.”
“Yeah, ‘revolt’ is the word for it.” He mimes sticking his finger down his throat and gagging.
“Oh, chin up, Terry. It’ll be a fun time.” He glares at me, unconvinced, and I have to tamp down a grin. As much as I’m enjoying this personally, the real reason for taking him down a peg is to provide a service to both my husband and the guests at our upcoming party. In years past, he’s gotten into the habit of turning insufferable over the course of the festivities, doing his whole cock-of-the-grill routine and getting a little too alpha with the men and flirty with their wives. By the time he’s been a few beers in, I’ve found myself fantasizing about grabbing the garden hose and spraying down the fucker with it. So, really, my infantilization of him is just a proactive service, letting some of the bluster out, like the air from the tires of a Jeep you’re about to drive onto the beach. It simply wouldn’t do to have my husband getting stuck in the rut of his own arrogance in front of our friends and neighbors. Again.
“Sure,” he grumbles. “Speaking of which, have our illustrious guests done us the courtesy of RSVPing?”
“Well.” I stretch out the word as I retrieve the sheet of paper from between the pineapples and unfold it. “Milly and Roger have confirmed.”
“Terrific.” He rolls his eyes. “Just who I was hoping for.”
“Oh, you can play nice for a few hours,” I chastise.
“The guy’s a total drip,” he complains.
“I know,” I say. “But take pity on him. The poor thing’s been browbeaten into submission. Plus, he does work for you, Ter.”
“Yeah,” he huffs. “I’m nice enough to give the guy a job, and in return I’m treated to him coming over once a year, standing around my yard yammering away and eating all my food.”
“Well, he’s never really home. The man spends all of his time in the city. It’s not his fault he’s still working.” I can feel the air cool around me as soon as the words leave my mouth. Terry clears his throat and raises his eyebrows, his glare equal parts wounded and angry. I’ve located the line. “Not what I meant,” I say, showing him my palms.
“Uh-huh,” he grumbles.
“Listen, you’re welcome to entertain Milly, if you’d rather.” He flinches at the suggestion, and I laugh in spite of myself.
“Well, now. I wouldn’t want to ruin all your fun,” he counters.
“You’re a real doll,” I deadpan, glad for the break in tension.
He slips his phone out of his pocket and begins tapping the screen. “So, who else’s company do I have to look forward to?”
“Laura and Gil will be in attendance,” I respond.
He sighs. “This just keeps getting better.”
“Ter,” I say tightly. “Watch it.”
“Not her,” he clarifies. “I’m talking about her egotistical asshole of a husband.”
I nearly scoff at my husband’s pot-kettle description of his supposed friend but manage to keep my expression neutral. “You’re just mad because he took all your money at poker last week.”
His eyes widen. “Who told you that?” he demands.
“What, you don’t think us ladies talk? Come on.”
The look of embarrassment on his face quickly morphs back to one of annoyance. “Fucking guy. He’s got no table manners at all.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“He’s a cowboy.”
“Huh?”
“He bets recklessly,” says Terry by way of clarification.
“It is gambling, right?”
“Yes, Vicky. But there’s an etiquette to it.” His tone has taken on the quality of a figurative pat on the head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
I feel the heat climbing through my collar and up my throat as I return to the list in my hand. I tamp it down and turn up the cheer. “Diana Porter will be there. And the Prestons, from over on Juniper. They’re bringing the coleslaw.”
“Uh-huh,” he responds absently.
“Oh, and Spencer and Monica just confirmed.”
This gets his eyes away from his screen and back to me. “Mmm-hmm,” he answers, an indecipherable expression on his face.
“What’s wrong, Ter? Did he take your money too?”
He lets out a snort and smacks a hand against his thigh. “That’s rich.” My husband laughs, a little too heartily. “He wishes.”
“Oh yeah?” I encourage him.
“Babe, I’ve got that guy’s number all day.” He smirks, pleased with himself. “He’s nothing but tells. It’s embarrassing, frankly.”
“Good for you,” I say. “Glad to hear you’re getting along with one of your friends, at least.”
He answers that with a derisive grimace. “Meh,” is all he bothers to muster.
“Oh, come on. What’s your problem with Spence now?”
“Ask him,” says Terry. “Guy’s been acting weird lately. Squirrelly.” He drifts off, lost in whatever set of considerations is spinning through his brain. “Just trying to figure him out.” He trails off for a long pause before snapping back into the moment and looking at me self-consciously. “Never mind,” he says, waving off his previous musings. “I’m just talking my shit.”
