Page 27 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

“He never hurt me,” she said, “but in the end, he scared me. When he got drunk or high, he would become angry and unpredictable. Anything could set him off—the way I was dressed, the wrong food in the refrigerator, the way a waiter spoke to him.” Her voice dropped so low I had to lean forward to hear her.

“There were holes at our house where he’d punched through the drywall.

And a lot of mismatched glasses and plates because when he worked himself up into a rage, he liked to throw things. ”

“It sounds awful,” I said.

She shrank into herself, as though rebuking herself for her mistake.

“I know you’re probably wondering how I could have married someone so messed up, but when we dated, he kept the worst of it hidden from me.

He was charismatic and fun, always ready to have a good time, and he had a way of making me laugh whenever I needed a boost. Obviously, living with him was a revelation. ”

“When did you know that you had to leave him?”

“I suspected he was an addict within three months, so I brought it up to my friend Dax. I’ve known Dax for years, and he works as a substance abuse counselor here in town, so I asked him whether he thought Griffin could change, or if he thought rehab would help if I could persuade Griffin to go.

When Griffin found out that I was sharing details about our marriage with Dax—right around the six-month mark—he went berserk and threatened to kill us both.

We were at the farmers market of all places when he found out, and Griffin became totally unhinged.

That was when I knew, for my own safety and sanity, that I had to get away.

Besides, I couldn’t wait any longer because of the property here. ”

“What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled.

“Do you remember when I said the house and property were held in trust?” When I nodded, she went on.

“The trust terminates three years after my grandma passed away, which is in another month or so. I’m the sole beneficiary, and even though we’re separated, Griffin is dragging out the divorce proceedings in the hope of claiming joint ownership.

” Her mouth tightened, and her hands clenched around her mug.

“He honestly believes he’s entitled to half of it, just like he thinks he’s entitled to money from the dealership, even though he doesn’t do any work for them.

My grandma will roll over in her grave if that happens. ”

“Can he claim ownership? Even if it’s an inheritance?”

“My attorney is confident, but I’m more in the scared-but-hopeful category,” she said. “The problem is that I borrowed money using the trust as collateral to purchase furniture for his house, and now Griffin is claiming that the trust was part of the marital pot all along.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” she said. She took a long, slow breath as though trying to calm herself. “Anyway, after that incident at the farmers market, I moved back here. I let him keep the furniture and never even went back to pick up my clothes.”

“Did you ever get them back?”

“Oh, sure,” she said. “Griffin eventually brought them to the edge of the property and dumped them. Unfortunately, they were covered in paint. He said he accidentally spilled a can on them, which is why you see me these days in the same few outfits. Pretty much everything else I owned was ruined.”

I was quiet for a long time, thinking about what she’d said concerning Nash and Griffin, unsure how to comfort someone who had been through so much. “It sounds like you’ve had a really hard year,” I said, wishing I could offer more.

“Yeah,” she said with a wan smile. “I would have been better off in the psychiatric hospital with you. And I haven’t even told you about Dax yet.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“And I’m too tired to tell you about it now. Between the three of them, I think that’s why I’ve felt so scattered lately.” She held her eyes closed for a moment. “I feel bad about burdening you with all of this.”

“I’m glad you did. It makes me feel like I know the real you.”

“Warts and all.”

“I like your warts.”

She smiled, but there was sadness in it. “Don’t let Griffin hear you say that,” she said. “According to him, I’m the devil.”

“I’m not worried about Griffin.”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t think you would be.”

The parlor grew dimmer as the storm intensified. Rain began to sheet against the windows. As if on cue, her figure took on a translucent quality, gray shafts of light passing through her as she gazed out the window. I swallowed, trying to ignore my persistent worry.

“Do you want to try Charades again? Or Boggle?” I suggested.

“No,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow. I feel like I need to hunker down tonight and figure some things out. Would that be all right?”

“Of course,” I said.

“What are your plans for tonight?”

“I’ll probably run into town and pick up dinner, something for tomorrow, too.”

“You weren’t kidding when you said you didn’t cook, were you?”

“No.”

“What if I show you how to make something tomorrow?” Her expression brightened. “On cold or rainy days, I used to make beef bourguignon over mashed potatoes and eat it with crusty bread. It makes the house smell heavenly. I can give you a list of ingredients to buy.”

“Is it hard to make?” I asked doubtfully.

“Not if I’m there telling you what to do.”

“Will it take long?”

“It takes a while to cook, so the flavors come together.”

I pictured myself standing beside her while we cooked, basking in the sound of her laughter while a storm raged outside.

I imagined drinking wine in front of the fireplace, feeling the warmth of the flames slowly fill the room.

“I can’t think of a more idyllic way to spend an afternoon,” I said, and she smiled.

“I’m glad,” she answered, holding my gaze. “Because I can’t either.”