Chapter 2 - The Packing of a Life
The four days leading up to Evan’s departure were an exercise in surreal performance art.
Evan was frantic, rushing between his downtown office and our Lake Forest home, packing three years' worth of tailored suits, designer shoes, and high-end electronics. He moved through the seven-bedroom stone mansion like a conqueror preparing to inspect a new province, entirely oblivious to the fact that the moving company I had hired was already scheduled to arrive thirty minutes after his car left for O'Hare.
On Thursday night, two days before his flight, his mother Diane and his sister Paige came over for a farewell dinner.
I had spent the afternoon preparing a three-course dinner, not out of affection, but because keeping my hands busy stopped me from screaming. I roasted prime rib, whipped garlic potatoes, and chilled a bottle of premier cru Burgundy that Evan had been saving for a major career milestone.
"Oh, Claire, the meat is slightly overdone on the edges," Diane said, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin without looking at me. "Evan likes it rare. You know that. You really ought to pay more attention when you’re roasting expensive cuts."
"I’ll remember that for next time, Diane," I said smoothly, taking a sip of water.
Paige swirled her wine, her phone resting on the table beside her plate. "Mom, don't pick on her. Claire’s going to have a lot of free time to practice cooking once Evan leaves. Though honestly, Claire, if I were you, I’d take up Pilates or something. You’ve let your shoulders drop lately. It’s so aging."
Evan didn't look up from his phone, his thumb flying across the screen—no doubt typing another encrypted update to Brooke. "Paige, leave her alone. She’s going to be busy helping Mom with her knee injections while I’m away. I’ve already set up the schedule."
I set my fork down with a quiet clink against the porcelain plate. "You set up a schedule?"
"Yeah," Evan said casually, waving a dismissive hand. "Mom’s physical therapist comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You'll need to drive her because her driving anxiety is getting worse. And Paige needs someone to watch her dog when she goes to Miami next month."
"I have my own life, Evan," I said, my voice dangerously level.
Diane let out a sharp, aristocratic laugh. "Oh, Claire, darling, don't be tedious. Your 'life' is this house. Evan earns the money that pays the taxes on this estate. Taking care of his family while he advances his executive career is the very least you can do to contribute."
"Besides," Paige added, smirking into her wine glass, "it’s not like you have a job to go to. It’s been what—five years since you sat in an office? You’re basically a high-end housekeeper at this point. You should be grateful Evan built all this for you."
I looked at the three of them sitting around the mahogany dining table that I had spent three weeks sourcing from an estate in Connecticut. I looked at the crystal chandelier hanging above them, reflecting the candlelight in thousands of sharp, cold points.
They truly believed I was a captive. They believed that because I had loved Evan enough to set my ambitions aside while he climbed his corporate ladder, I was now entirely incapable of standing on my own two feet.
"You're right, Paige," I said, forcing a calm, sweet smile to my lips. "I really should be grateful for how clear everything has become."
Evan finally looked up from his phone, frowning slightly as if sensing an anomaly in the atmosphere, but the moment passed as his screen buzzed again. He smiled down at it—a secret, satisfied smile—and stood up from the table.
"I need to take this," he said, stepping into the hallway. "It’s the transition team in France."
"Brooke?" I asked quietly.
Evan froze for a fraction of a second near the doorway, his back to me. "It’s a corporate call, Claire. Don't be paranoid."
He walked out, his polished leather shoes clicking against the hardwood floor.
May you like
Diane shook her head, looking at me with cold disappointment. "You really must stop questioning him, Claire. A man in his position doesn't need a suspicious wife dragging him down. If you keep this attitude up, you won't like where you end up."
"Oh, Diane," I whispered, reaching for my wine glass, "I think I’m going to like it very much."
