The Liar Next Door by Nicola Marsh

Thirty-Six

Frankie

THEN

When I let myself into the beach cottage using the spare key hidden in a conch shell tucked under the back step, I’m surprised to find the living room blinds up and a tempting aroma of garlic bread and simmering tomatoes wafting from the kitchen.

I’d called Walter to ask him if it was okay if I spent a few days here and he’d agreed, saying the cottage had been vacant for months since the last tenants left and he hadn’t been near the place. Either he has squatters who cook divine Italian food or he’s forgotten he’s rented the place out to someone else.

“Hello?” I call out, placing my suitcase near the door before making my way to the kitchen.

“In here.”

I’m surprised to hear Walter’s deep voice. The last thing I want is my ex-husband hanging around while I contemplate strangling my current one.

I enter the kitchen to find the small dining table set for two, with the mismatched crockery we’d once joked about, a bottle of uncorked Merlot next to a bowl of salad in the middle. “What are you doing here?”

“You sounded pretty bad on the phone so I thought you could do with a meal.” He lifts the lid on a pot and my memory receptors leap for joy. About the only good meal he cooked while we were married was spaghetti bolognaise and I realize I haven’t eaten since last night. When Andre had arrived home this morning I’d had an orange juice, foolishly thinking we could grab brunch at our favorite deli.

“You didn’t have to do all this.” I point at the table. “But I’m glad you did.”

He dishes the spaghetti onto two plates and covers the pasta with bolognaise sauce. It gives me a chance to look at him. He hasn’t changed at all since I last saw him two and half years ago, in this very house when we parted and he wished me well. He didn’t come near me during our year-long separation and when I informed him why I’d be leaving the cottage, to move to Manhattan with Andre, he’d been upset yet stoic.

There’s comfort in familiarity and when he turns and catches me watching him, the corners of his mouth kick into a smile of understanding. “Long time no see, huh?”

I nod. “I was just thinking that.”

Rather than badger me for information, he places the plates on the table and gestures at the seat opposite. “Let’s eat.”

After not being able to swallow a sip of water past the lump in my throat since Andre delivered his bombshell this morning, I find myself ravenous and I eat two helpings of pasta, salad and garlic bread before I speak a word.

True to form, Walter leaves me to eat, his gaze watchful but content, like he’s pleased with me for eating. When I drain my second glass of Merlot and he lays down his cutlery in the middle of his empty plate, I’m ready to talk.

I could hedge around why I’m here, even lie about it and make up a story, but in the end I blurt, “Andre cheated on me.”

He recoils, his mouth twisted in distaste. “Stupid bastard.”

Walter isn’t one for swearing and my eyebrows rise in surprise. “Cursing? I see you’ve picked up some bad habits since I’ve been gone?”

“Fuck, yeah.”

We laugh and I marvel at how easily we’ve slipped into our old camaraderie. Being with Walter has always been comfortable and while I may have resented his presence initially I’m glad he’s here. Admitting out loud what Andre did has dissipated its hold on me, like maybe I have a chance of eventually moving past it. Or maybe that’s Walt’s calming effect on me, the way he truly listens to anything I have to say.

“You said on the phone you needed a few days out here to think?”

“Something like that.” I shrug. “We’ve been happy, so when he confessed this morning it threw me. He had a drunken one-night stand with a woman in Hartford while on a work trip.”

“The man’s an idiot to cheat on you.”

He sounds so outraged on my behalf I want to hug him. He’s always supported me and despite our divorce he’s still on my side. It means a lot, especially when I’m still reeling.

“Honestly? I don’t want to be twenty-five and have two divorces under my belt so I’ll probably go back and make a go of it once I calm down.” Sadness wells in my chest. “Though I’m still so damn mad at him I could hit something.”

He pretends to duck. “Do you want me to go mess him up?”

The thought of sedate Walt getting physical with anyone makes me smile. “You’d do that for me?”

“You know I’d do anything for you.”

I know he’s joking but his serious expression makes me realize how much I used to depend on this man, how I knew without a shadow of a doubt he was always in my corner. I miss that reliability, especially now Andre has shattered my trust in him.

“You’re a good guy, Walt, but I need to deal with this on my own. Besides, I love him and I’m not willing to throw that away.”

He flinches and I’m stricken as I realize what I’ve implied. That I didn’t love him so I willingly threw him away.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that—”

“It’s okay.”

But it isn’t. I see pain lingering in his gaze before it dips to his plate and I’m gutted that I’ve caused him heartache again.

So I do what I’ve always done when uncomfortable. I deflect. “How’s Julia?”

“Away at a conference.”

Which explains his presence here.

“You two are solid?”

He takes an eternity to answer and when he finally raises his gaze to meet mine, he’s resigned.

“She’s not you.”

His declaration makes my breath hitch and then I’m crying, the tears I’ve been suppressing all day spurting out of my eyes in a torrent.

“Hell, Francesca, I’m sorry.”

His use of my full name makes me cry harder and he pushes back his chair and comes around the table to drag me into his arms. I bury my head into his chest, the fragrance of his laundry detergent and citrus soap mingling in a familiarity that makes me want to cling to him forever.

He strokes my back as I cry, his head nestled next to mine, his soothing words like “It’s okay” not helping as much as the familiar lulling cadence of his voice.

When my tears finally stop, I’m still clutching at his shirt and it reminds me of the last time he comforted me on the beach when I told him we were over.

I can’t believe this man is as dependable now as when I first met him, how he’s still willing to be here for me despite the way I treated him.

I ease back but he doesn’t let me go, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist, and when I look into his eyes I know he’s offering me more than a hug.

“You’re not a cheater and neither am I,” I murmur, hating how tempted I am to prove the opposite.

“It’s up to you,” he says, rubbing the small of my back in slow, concentric circles. “You’ll always be the one I love, Francesca, and I hate to see you hurting. If all I can do is offer you comfort for a night, I’m okay with that.”

“You’d let me use you?” I leave off “again?”

“I’m here if you need me.”

He releases me, giving me a chance to decide.

This is wrong on so many levels.

But as I look into Walter’s eyes and the peace I’m seeking washes over me, I know what I want.