Page 50 of The Housekeeper

Chapter Twenty-one

I spent thenext half hour driving aimlessly around, trying to wrap my head around my father’s seeming indifference to my mother’s plight. I told myself that after years of playing nursemaid, it was only natural that he’d become somewhat inured to, even resentful of, her condition, and that in order to effectively care for her, he’d had to distance himself emotionally.

Not that he’d ever been the warmest, most sympathetic of men. And their relationship, perhaps understandably, had deteriorated along with her condition. It was pretty obvious that they hadn’t had any kind of sexual relationship in years, so it was only natural that he would enjoy the company of an attractive woman whose job it was to make him comfortable.

He just seemed a little too comfortable for my liking.

I told myself that I was being petty and judgmental. What was wrong with my father and Elyse watching a movie together?

Surely it was every bit as innocent as my dinner with Roger McAdams.

“Oh, God,” I said, pulling into my driveway and laying my head against the steering wheel.

I’m not sure what I’d been expecting when I arrived home, probably a continuation of the silent treatment I’d been gettingfrom my husband for days, or maybe a rebuke for coming home so late. But when I walked through our front door at just after nine o’clock, there were no complaints from Harrison about his having had to feed the children and put them to bed. On the contrary, he seemed genuinely happy to see me. “How’d it go?” he asked.

I told him about going to check out the condo at Harbourfront and then dropping in to see my mother. I left out the part about having dinner with Roger McAdams in between.

Best to let sleeping dogs lie,I heard my father say.

A fresh wave of guilt swept over me.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a jackass the last few weeks,” Harrison surprised me by saying, compounding my guilt.

“I’m sorry I was so late getting home,” I whispered.

Which was when he grabbed me, his hands seemingly everywhere at once, inside my blouse, under my skirt, ultimately tugging my panties down over my hips, unzipping his fly.

“The kids…”

“Asleep,” he said, pushing into me.

We made love with an urgency that took my breath away, standing up against the wall, my skirt balled around my waist, his jeans around his knees, as he thrust repeatedly into me.

Had he missed me these past weeks as much as I’d been missing him, I couldn’t help wondering, or was there something else at play here? Had Harrison sensed there was more to tonight than I was letting on?

He pulled out, giving my backside a playful slap. “I’m going to take a shower.”

I watched him bound up the stairs, then wobbled on unsteady legs into the living room, where I sank into one of the chairs, my happiness sinking under the weight of my guilt. I should never have had dinner with Roger McAdams. Flirting might be fun for other people, but it was definitely not for me. I had a husband who loved me, I told myself. Never again would I do anything to jeopardize that.

Which was when I heard the beep of an incoming message and noticed Harrison’s cellphone on the coffee table.

I’m not sure what made me pick it up, or what made me flip open the phone’s protective case and glance at the message. Of course, all I could access without my husband’s passcode was the first line, but that was more than enough:Can’t wait for the weekend…the message began.

The message was from @songbird. It didn’t take a psychic to figure out that @songbird was Wren.

I’m not sure how long I sat there, my body shaking, my legs unable to move. So it was Wren, and not me, who’d aroused Harrison’s unexpected and sudden passion. Clearly, my husband couldn’t wait for the weekend, either.

“Hey,” he called, coming halfway down the stairs, wrapped in the navy-and-gold terry cloth bathrobe I’d given him last Christmas. “Aren’t you coming up?” He stopped. “Jodi? Is everything all right?”

I held out his phone. “You have a message.”

He padded into the living room on bare feet, and took the phone from my hand, barely glancing at the screen. “You opened it,” he said, more acknowledgment than accusation.

“I did it without thinking,” I said, hoping to avoid a confrontation while organizing my thoughts.

He nodded. “You read it.”

“I didn’t mean to.”