The First Time Page 2

  Except that he didn’t love her. Not then. Not now.

  And truth be told, Mattie wasn’t sure that she’d ever really loved him.

  That she’d been attracted to him was beyond question. That she’d been mesmerized by his good looks and effortless charm, of that there was never any doubt. But that she’d actually been in love with him, that she didn’t know. She hadn’t had time to find out. Everything had happened too fast. And then, suddenly, there was no time left.

  Mattie secured the towel at her breast and ran up the dozen wooden steps toward her kitchen, pulling open the sliding glass door and stepping inside, dripping onto the large, dark blue ceramic tile floor. Normally, this room made her smile. It was all blues and sunny yellows, with stainless steel appliances and a round, stone-topped table, decorated with hand-painted pieces of fruit, and surrounded by four wicker-and-wrought-iron chairs. Mattie had been dreaming of such a kitchen since seeing a picture layout in Architectural Digest on the kitchens of Provence. She’d personally supervised the kitchen’s renovation the previous year, four years to the day after they’d moved into the three-bedroom house on Walnut Drive. Jake had been against the renovation, just as he’d been against moving to the suburbs, even if Evanston was only a fifteen-minute drive from downtown Chicago. He’d wanted to stay in their apartment on Lakeshore Drive, despite agreeing with all Mattie’s arguments that the suburbs were safer, the choice of schools better, the space unquestionably bigger. He claimed his opposition to the move was all about convenience, but Mattie knew it was really about permanence. There was something too settled about a house in the suburbs, especially for a man with one foot out the door. “It’ll be better for Kim,” Mattie argued, and Jake finally agreed. Anything for Kim. The reason he’d married her in the first place.

  The first time he’d been unfaithful was just after their second wedding anniversary. She’d stumbled on the incriminating evidence while going through the pockets of his jeans before putting them in the wash, extricating several amorous little notes, the i’s dotted with tiny hearts. She’d ripped them up, flushed them down the toilet, but pieces of the pale lavender stationery had floated back stubbornly to the surface of the bowl, refusing to be dismissed so easily. An omen of what lay ahead, she thought now, though she’d missed the symbolism at the time. Throughout the almost sixteen years of their marriage, there’d been a succession of such notes, of unfamiliar phone numbers on scraps of paper left lying carelessly around, nameless voices lingering on the answering machine, the not-so-quiet whispers of friends, and now this, the latest, a receipt for a room at the Ritz-Carlton, dated several months ago, around the time she was suggesting the possibility of a second child, the receipt left in the pocket of a jacket he’d asked her to take to the cleaners.

  Did he have to be so blatant? Was her discovery of his indiscretions necessary to validate his experience? Were his conquests somehow less real without her, even if she had thus far refused to acknowledge them? And was acknowledging his affairs precisely what he was trying to force her to do? Because he knew that if he forced her to acknowledge his infidelities, if he forced her to actually confront him, then that would mean the end of their marriage. Was that what he wanted?

  Was that what she wanted?

  Maybe she was as tired of this charade of a marriage as her reluctant husband. “Maybe,” she said out loud, staring at her reflection in the smoky glass door of the microwave oven. She wasn’t unattractive—tall, blond, blue-eyed, the stereotype of the all-American girl—and she was only thirty-six years old, hardly old enough to be put out to pasture. Men still found her desirable. “I could have an affair,” she whispered toward her gray, tear-streaked reflection.

  Her image looked surprised, aghast, dismayed. You tried that once. Remember?

  Mattie turned away, stared resolutely at the floor. “That was only that one time, and it was just to get even.”

  So, get even again.

  Mattie shook her head, drops of water from her wet hair forming little puddles at her feet. The affair, if you could properly call a one-night stand an affair, had taken place four years ago, just before they’d moved to Evanston. It had been fast, furious, and eminently forgettable, except that she hadn’t been able to forget it, not really, although she’d be hard pressed to recall the details of the man’s face, having done her best to avoid actually looking at him, even as he was pounding his way inside her. He was a lawyer, like her husband, although with a different firm and a different area of expertise. An entertainment lawyer, she recalled his volunteering, along with the information that he was married and the father of three. She’d been hired by his firm to buy art for their walls, and he was trying to explain what the firm had in mind before he leaned in closer, told her what he had in mind. Instead of being shocked, instead of being angry, as she’d been earlier in the day when she’d overheard her husband on the phone making dinner plans with his latest paramour, she’d arranged to meet him later in the week, so that on the same evening her husband was in bed with another woman, she was in bed with another man, wondering, with joyless irony, if their orgasms were simultaneous.

  She never saw the man again, although he’d called several times, ostensibly to discuss the paintings she was selecting for the firm. Ultimately he stopped calling, and the firm hired another dealer whose taste in art was “more in keeping with the sort of thing we had in mind.” She never said anything about the affair to Jake, although surely that had been the point—where was the sweetness of revenge if the injured party remained unaware of the injury? But somehow she couldn’t bring herself to tell him, not because she didn’t want to hurt him, as she’d tried to convince herself at the time, but because she was afraid that if she told him, she would be handing him the excuse he needed to leave her.

  And so she’d said nothing, and life continued as it always had. They carried on the pretense of a life together—talking pleasantly over the table at breakfast, going out for dinner with friends, making love several times a week, more when he was having an affair, fighting over anything and everything, except what they were really fighting about. You’re fucking other women! she screamed underneath her rants about wanting to renovate the kitchen. I don’t want to be here! he shouted beneath his protests that she was spending too much money, that she had to cut back. Sometimes their angry voices would wake up Kim, who’d come running into their bedroom, immediately taking her mother’s side, so that it was two against one, another joyless irony Mattie doubted was lost on Jake, who was only there because of his daughter.

  Maybe Kim was right, Mattie thought now, glancing at the phone on the wall beside her. Maybe all that was needed was a little show of support, something to let her husband know that she appreciated how hard he worked, how hard he tried—had always tried—to do the right thing. She reached for the phone, hesitated, decided to call her friend Lisa instead. Lisa would know how to advise her. She always knew what to do. And besides, Lisa was a doctor. Didn’t doctors have an answer for everything? Mattie pressed in the first few numbers, then impatiently dropped the receiver back into its carriage. How could she disturb her friend in the middle of her undoubtedly busy day? Surely she could solve her own problems. Mattie quickly punched in the proper sequence of numbers, waited as Jake’s private line rang once, twice, three times. He knows it’s me, Mattie thought, trying to shake away the annoying tingle that had returned to tease the bottom of her right foot. He’s deciding whether or not to pick up.

  “The joys of call display,” she sneered, picturing Jake sitting behind the heavy oak desk that occupied a full third of his less-than-spacious office on the forty-second floor of the John Hancock Building in downtown Chicago. The office, one of 320 similar offices making up the prestigious law firm of Richardson, Buckley and Lang, had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Michigan Avenue, and stylish Berber carpeting, but was too small by half to contain Jake’s growing practice, a practice that seemed to be skyrocketing daily, especially since the press had lately tu
rned him into something of a local celebrity. It seemed her husband had a knack for choosing seemingly impossible cases, and winning. Still, Mattie doubted that even Jake’s considerable skill and formidable charm would be enough to win an acquittal for a young man who’d admitted to killing his mother in an act of undeniable premeditation, and then proudly boasted of the killing to his friends.

  Was it possible Jake had already left for court? Mattie glanced at the two digital clocks on the other side of the room. The clock on the microwave oven said it was 8:32; the clock on the regular oven below it read 8:34.

  She was about to hang up when the phone was answered between the fourth and fifth ring. “Mattie, what’s up?” Jake’s voice was strong, hurried, a voice that announced it had little time for small talk.

  “Jake, hi,” Mattie began, her own voice delicate and tentative. “You were out the door so fast this morning, I didn’t get a chance to wish you good luck.”

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait for you to get up. I had to go-”

  “No, that’s fine. I didn’t mean to imply—” Not on the phone ten seconds, and already she’d managed to make him uncomfortable. “I just wanted to wish you good luck. Not that you’ll need it. I’m sure you’ll be brilliant.”

  “You can never have too much good luck,” Jake said.

  Words to write on a fortune cookie, Mattie thought.

  “Look, Mattie. I really have to get going. I appreciate your call—”

  “I was thinking of coming to court this morning.”

  “Please don’t do that,” he said quickly. Far too quickly. “I mean, it’s not really necessary.”

  “I know what you mean,” she said, not bothering to disguise her disappointment. Obviously, there was a reason he didn’t want her in court. Mattie wondered what the reason looked like, then pushed the unwelcome thought aside. “Anyway, I just called to wish you good luck.” How many times had she said that already? Three? Four? Didn’t she know when it was time to say good-bye, time to exit gracefully, time to pack up her good wishes and her pride and move on?

  “I’ll see you later.” Jake’s voice resonated with that fake, too-cheery tone that was too big for the thought being expressed. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Jake—” Mattie began. But either he didn’t hear her or he pretended not to, and the only response Mattie got was the sound of the receiver being dropped into its carriage. What had she been about to say? That she knew all about his latest affair, that it was time for them to admit that neither was happy in this prolonged farce of a marriage, that it was time to call it a day? The party’s over, she heard faint voices sing as she hung up the phone.

  Mattie moved slowly out of the kitchen into the large center hallway. But her right foot had fallen asleep again, and she had trouble securing her footing. She stumbled, hopping for several seconds on her left foot across the blue-and-gold needlepoint rug while her right heel sought in vain to find the floor. She realized she was falling, and even more frightening, that she could do nothing to stop it, ultimately giving in to the inevitable, and crashing down hard on her rear end. She sat for several seconds in stunned silence, temporarily overwhelmed by the indignity of it all. “Damn you, Jake,” she said finally, choking down unwanted tears. “Why couldn’t you have just loved me? Would it have been so hard?”

  Maybe the security of knowing her husband loved her would have given her the courage to love him in return.

  Mattie made no move to get up. Instead, she sat in the middle of the hallway, her wet bathing suit soaking into the fine French needlepoint of the large area rug, and laughed so hard she cried.

  TWO

  Excuse me,” Mattie said, crawling across the stubborn knees of a heavyset woman, dressed in varying shades of blue, toward the vacant seat smack in the middle of the eighth and last row of the visitors’ block of courtroom 703. “Sorry. Excuse me,” she repeated to an elderly couple seated beside the woman in blue, and then again, “Sorry,” to the attractive young blonde she would be sitting beside for the better part of the morning. Was she the reason Jake didn’t want her in court this morning?

  Mattie unbuttoned her camel-colored coat, shrugging it off her shoulders with as little movement as possible, feeling it bunch at her elbows, pinning her arms uncomfortably to her sides so that she was forced to wiggle around in her seat in a vain effort to dislodge it, disturbing not only the attractive blonde to her right but the equally attractive blonde she now noticed to her left. Was there no end to the number of attractive blondes in Chicago, and did they all have to be in her husband’s courtroom this morning? Maybe she was in the wrong room. Maybe instead of Cook County versus Douglas Bryant, she’d stumbled into some sort of attractive-young-blondes convention. Were they all sleeping with her husband?

  Mattie’s eyes shot to the front of the room, locating her husband at the defense table, his head lowered in quiet conversation with his client, a coarse-looking boy of nineteen, who appeared distinctly uncomfortable in the brown suit and paisley tie he’d obviously been advised to wear, the expression on his face curiously blank, as if he, like Mattie, had wandered into the wrong room and wasn’t quite sure what he was doing here.

  What was she doing here? Mattie wondered suddenly. Hadn’t her husband specifically told her not to come? Hadn’t Lisa advised the same thing when she gave in and called her? She should get up now and leave, just get up and slink away before he saw her. It had been a mistake to come here. What had she been thinking? That he’d be grateful for her support, as Kim had suggested? Was that why she was here? For support? Or had she come hoping to catch a glimpse of his latest mistress?

  Mistress, Mattie thought, chewing the word over in her mouth, fighting the sudden urge to gag as she craned her neck across the rows of spectators, sighting two young brunettes giggling at the far end of the first row. Too young, Mattie decided. And too immature. Definitely not Jake’s type, although, truth be told, she wasn’t sure what her husband’s type actually was. Certainly not me, she thought, eyes flitting briefly across a head of brown curls occupying the aisle seat of the second row before moving on down the rows, stopping at the perfect profile of a raven-haired woman she recognized as one of the junior partners in her husband’s firm, a woman who had joined Richardson, Buckley and Lang at approximately the same time as Jake. Shannon something-or-other. Wasn’t her specialty estate planning, or something equally nondescript? What was she doing here?

  As if aware she was under observation, Shannon whatever-her-name-was did a slow turn in Mattie’s direction, eyes stopping directly on Mattie, a slow smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She’s trying to figure out where she knows me from, Mattie understood, recognizing the look, smiling confidently back. Mattie Hart, her smile announced, wife of Jake, the man of the hour, the man we’re all here to see, the man you possibly saw last night in rather more intimate surroundings.

  Shannon whatever-she-called-herself broke into a huge grin of recognition. Oh, that Mattie Hart, the grin said. “How are you?” she mouthed silently.

  “Never better,” Mattie answered out loud, giving the sleeve bunched around her elbow another tug, hearing the lining rip. “You?”

  “Great,” came the instant reply.

  “I’ve been meaning to call you,” Mattie heard herself announce, almost afraid of what she was going to say next. “I want to change my will.” She did? When had she decided that?

  The smile vanished from Shannon whatever’s lips. “What?” she said.

  So maybe her specialty isn’t estate planning, Mattie thought, lowering her gaze, signaling the end of the conversation, looking back several seconds later, relieved that Shannon whoever-she-was-and-was-she-sleeping-with-her-husband had returned her attention to the front of the courtroom.

  You don’t want to be here, Mattie decided. You definitely don’t want to be here. Get up now. Get up and go before you make a complete fool of yourself. I want to change my will? Where had that come from?

  “Let me
help you with that,” the blonde to her left volunteered, tugging at Mattie’s stubborn coat sleeve before Mattie had time to object, smiling at Mattie the way Mattie smiled at her mother, the expression a little forced, containing more pity than goodwill.

  “Thank you.” Mattie flashed the woman her most sincere smile, a smile that said, This is the way it’s done, but the young woman had already turned away, was staring toward the front of the stately old courtroom, holding her breath expectantly. Mattie straightened the folds of her gray wool skirt, fidgeted with the collar of her white cotton blouse. The blonde to her right, who was wearing a pink angora sweater and navy slacks, shot her a sideways glance that said, Don’t you ever sit still? which Mattie pretended not to notice. She should have worn something else, something less schoolmarmish, something less Miss Grundyish, she thought, smiling at the image of Kim that popped into her brain. Something softer, like a pink angora sweater, she thought, glancing enviously at the woman beside her. Although she’d never liked angora. It always made her sneeze. As if on cue, Mattie felt a sneeze building in the upper recesses of her nose, had barely time to fumble in her purse for a tissue, before burying her nose inside it, the force of her sneeze ricocheting through the room. Had Jake heard her? “Bless you,” both blondes said in unison, inching away from her side.

  “Thank you,” Mattie said, stealing a glance in her husband’s direction, relieved to find him still deep in conversation with his client. “Sorry.” She sneezed again, apologized again.

  A woman in the row in front of her swiveled around in her seat, soft brown eyes flecked with gold. “Are you all right?” Her voice was deep and vaguely raspy, older than the round face it emanated from, a face surrounded by a halo of frantic red curls. Nothing quite matched, Mattie thought absently, thanking the woman for her concern.

  And then there was a slight stir as the county clerk asked everyone to rise, and the judge, an attractive black woman, whose curly dark hair was flecked with specks of gray, like ashes, assumed her seat at the head of the courtroom. It was only then that Mattie noticed the jury, seven men and five women, plus two men who served as alternates, most of the jurors hovering around middle age, although several looked scarcely out of their teens, and one man was likely closer to seventy. Of the fourteen, six were white, four were black, three were Hispanic, and one was Asian. Their faces reflected varying degrees of interest, earnestness, and fatigue. The trial had been going on for almost three weeks. Both sides had presented their cases. The jury had, no doubt, heard all it wanted to hear. Now what they wanted was to get back to their jobs, their families, the lives they’d put on hold. It was time to make a decision, then move on.