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TROPHY WIFE
WHEN COSMETIC DERMATOLOGIST Jake Goodwin meets Briana Caulder, she leaves a lingering impression, and it’s not a good one. Beautiful. Entitled. Obnoxious. In short, his new patient is the caricature of a Fairfield County, Connecticut trophy wife. But when Briana returns days later, she’s a transformed woman: soft-spoken, polite, shy. And terrified.
GOODWIN IMMEDIATELY SUSPECTS she's a victim of spousal abuse. Trapped in his own faltering marriage, he can’t help but reach out to her. What harm could come from a conversation over coffee? But when friendship turns into something more, Briana’s powerful husband retaliates, with deadly consequences.
NOW A PATIENT IS DEAD – either the victim of an experimental beauty drug with a lethal side effect, malpractice, or murder. Goodwin stands to lose everything: his career, his family, even his life. But can he trust Briana to help him, or does she have her own dark, hidden agenda?
PROLOGUE
I’m not supposed to die like this: face down on a tile floor with the knee of some psycho rammed into my back. But there’s no escape plan. No way out of the nightmare I created.
The killer leans in close, his breath a hot splatter of blood on my cheek. “Don’t squirm so much, doc. This’ll go a lot easier if you just try to relax.”
Ignoring the advice, I try to arch my back. Nothing. Arms crush down against me – pistons of rigid muscle, sweat and homicidal loathing. The more I strain, the tighter his grip becomes.
“I told you not to fight it,” he warns, bouncing my head off the floor for added emphasis. My hands are taped behind my back, leaving me defenseless. I struggle to open my eyes, vision blurring with pain, blood, or both.
“Please!”
“That’s right. Go ahead and beg.”
I’m not talking to you, asshole. I strain to lift my head, eyes jerking past my frantic wife to the one person who might still be able to save us. She meets my gaze a second before I’m slammed back into the floor.
Does she understand what I want her to do? There’s no way of knowing now.
“I’m not a doctor,” the psycho taunts as he taps the syringe, “but something tells me this is gonna hurt a lot.”
Now he throws his full weight into the attack. One arm jerks my neck upward while the other raises the syringe into position.
“I won’t fight you! Just let my wife go.” My eyes shoot back to Jess. There must be some way to save her. “Please! She knows nothing. Our bank account… there’s…” I swallow the rock in my throat, trying to come up with a fake number that might appeal to someone like him. “There’s a half a million dollars. You can have it all, once I know she’s safe!”
He pouts like he’s actually considering the offer for a moment before shaking his head. “Sorry, Doc.” He plunges the needle into my neck. “No deal.”
The toxin burns like a blowtorch going in. Fire chokes off my screams, surging down my throat and into my bloodstream. The agony dissipates in seconds, only to be replaced by terror as the symptoms begin. My frantic mind ticks them off one by one – the tingling lips and tongue, followed by a gut-punch of nausea. The floating sensation. Difficulty swallowing. Breathing.
My killer is saying something now, but I can’t make out the words. Sensations from the outside world barely filter through. Locked into my body, I feel the numbness washing over me. The burn of oxygen-starved muscles. Then a new, stabbing pain in my throat.
How the hell could it come to this?
I take one last breath, feeling the weight of my eyelids as they close on the world for the last time.
***
CHAPTER 1
Three Weeks Earlier
Friday, May 28, Greenbeck Dermatology, Greenwich, CT
Jake Goodwin
“Um, Jake?” Erin asks in her perky, fresh-out-of-nursing school voice. “I hate to break it to you, but we still have one more patient.”
“You’re joking, right?” I follow her gaze to my schedule, which still displays one name. “I’m supposed to be done by four today.”
“Yeah, but here’s the problem.” She flops into a chair and taps the computer screen. “Last minute emergency add-on. Briana Caulder. 23 year-old VIP of Doctor Greenbeck’s. Demanded to be seen for – get this – an acne flare.”
“Shit.” I massage my temples, imagining how Jess is going to react to me being late again. It would be one thing if I were a trauma surgeon, but I’m a dermatologist, for fuck’s sake. “Who put her in my schedule?”
Erin runs a hand through ringlets of copper hair, nose crinkling. That’s her Nina expression. Probably what she looks like when she smells vomit too.
“Sorry,” she says, hazel eyes filled with sympathy. “I know you wanted to beat the Memorial Day traffic. It’s not fair. Why’d Nina dump this on you?”
“Because she and Al are hosting a party in their Southhampton estate tonight. Wait…” I arch an eyebrow in mock surprise. “Didn’t you get your invitation?”
When she giggles, the old hens that roost at the reception desk whip their heads around, lips pursed with disapproval. They’d be scowling too if their foreheads weren’t stretched and Botoxed into submission. The rumor mill’s been in high gear ever since Erin joined Greenbeck Derm. Whenever she calls me “Jake” instead of “Doctor Goodwin” or casually touches my arm, I hear the old biddies clucking their disapproval. Only here one month and poor Erin’s already been pegged as a home-wrecker.
“Seriously,” she whispers, touching my arm again. “They’re taking advantage of you. Tell Nina she needs to check with you before changing your schedule.”
I shrug, which is pretty much how I respond whenever Jess gives me the same advice. Sure, I’m supposed to be in charge of my own schedule, but only two people at Greenbeck Dermatology really run the show: Albert Greenbeck and his wife Nina, the practice manager from hell. Until I pay off some of my student loans, I’ll just have to suck it up until a better opportunity comes along.
“Right,” I say, rolling my eyes to the exam room. “Enough bitching. Let’s see if we can save another life.”
I read in some Cosmetic Surgery journal that it takes a tenth of a second to know if someone is hot or not, and that’s definitely all it takes with Briana Caulder. She’s a knockout. Slender build, graceful curves, long legs crossed at the ankles. Waves of blonde, shoulder-length hair frame what must be a pretty face, even though I can’t see it yet because she won’t look up from her cell phone. As she continues her conversation, my eyes drop to the huge emerald-cut rock on her ring finger, then take in the grape-sized pearls dangling above her cleavage. Each new detail supports the same conclusion. This is a trophy wife – some wealthy lawyer’s or banker’s gift to himself, wrapped in pretty silk and satin packaging.
Which means I’m totally screwed. Trophy wives are the worst.
“Hello?” Erin clears her throat. “Are you ready for us now, or should we come back later?”
Briana Caulder glances up and gives us this squinty look, like we’re so rude for interrupting her. “Yes, the doctor’s here now,” she purrs into her pink iPhone. “I know, finally. I’ll call you back later, ‘kay?”
She drops the cell into her purse, then turns to face me with frosty blue eyes.
“I’m Doctor Goodwin,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Caulder. So you’re having a problem with –”
My mind freezes as I take in the details of her supermodel face. High cheek bones. Delicately chiseled nose and chin. Full, pouty lips. And those smoky eyes… When middle-aged women bring in magazine clippings of what they want to look like, this is pretty much it.
“Acne,” she says, smiling like she’s used to finishing men’s sentences.
“Right.” I jam my hands into my white coat. “When did it start flaring?”
As she describes her pimple drama, I move in for a closer look. Except for a solitary red spot on her chin, her skin’s as rosy and blemish-free as a newborn’s butt cheeks.
“You said this kind of break-out is new for you,” I recap. “How about when you were a teenager? Did you have acne then?”
“No. My skin used to be perfect.”
Standing behind us, Erin holds an imaginary gun to her temple and pulls the trigger. Then she rummages through the medicine cabinet to get a bottle of Kenalog – the steroid shot I’ll inject to make Trophy Wife’s mountain-out-of-a-mole hill pimple disappear.
“Well,” I promise, “it will be back to perfect again in no time. Let’s start with a steroid shot, injected into that small acne cyst to make it clear.”
After the ten-second procedure, Erin drops a few gauze pads into our patient’s lap.
“How long does that stuff take to work?” Caulder asks, dabbing a pinpoint of blood from her chin. “I’m hosting a big event this weekend.”
“That pimple should dry up within twenty-four hours, but what you really need is a good routine to keep your skin clear.”
“You mean this isn’t just a onetime thing?”
“It might not be. Hormonal acne is really common for women in their twenties and thirties. It’s not just a problem for teenagers.”
This news seems to stun her. “But I never used to have acne.” She sniffs. “Why am I getting it now?”
“Your flare was probably triggered by normal hormones, but there could be other causes.” I glance at her chart, searching for clues. “Did you recently start any new medications?”
She shakes her head.
“How about oral contraceptives?”
When she gives me a blank look, I clarify. “You know, birth control pills, patches, shots, IUDs. All of these contraceptives contain hormones that can trigger acne flares, either when they’re started or stopped.”
“No,” she snaps. “I don’t use any of those things.”
Woah. That hit a nerve. “Okay. How about your menstrual periods? Are they regular?”
She nods uncomfortably.
“I’m just looking for any hormonal changes that might be triggering your acne. For instance, could you be pregnant?”
As soon as the P word leaves my lips, Trophy Wife’s eyes flicker with panic. It takes her ten long seconds to come up with an answer. “No,” she murmurs, slowly shaking her head. “That can’t be it.”
Well, shit, I think. Greenwich, we might have a problem.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes! That’s just not possible.”
“I’m only asking because –”
“Listen!” She crosses her arms like a kid who just got denied a lollypop. “Just give me something to clear up my skin, okay? Do your job. That’s all I want!”
Still standing behind us, Erin mouths an incredulous “OMG” as Caulder continues to rip into me.
“I mean, seriously! I’m not here to answer a bunch of pointless questions! One of my girlfriends saw Doctor Greenbeck last month and got a few shots and a prescription for Accutane. Can’t you just do the same thing for me?”
“Sure,” I say, blood rushing to my cheeks. “We’ve already done the shot. That should help, but Accutane’s another story. That’s a type of medication called isotretinoin. We can start the process today, but it’s not as simple as your friend made it sound.” I explain that before starting Accutane, she would need to register in a government-run tracking program called I-Pledge.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“No, I’m not. Accutane’s powerful stuff. It can cause serious birth defects, so you’d need to start taking birth control pills before I can even prescribe the drug. We’ll also need baseline blood work. We can start –”
Caulder springs up from her seat to cut me off. “So what you’re saying is you can’t help me,” she announces breezily. “I’ll just come back when Doctor Greenbeck is available.”
“Sure.” I smile, knowing that will piss her off even more. “We’ll be happy to set that up for you.”
“And how long will that take?”
“I have no idea. I’m not Doctor Greenbeck’s secretary.”
She huffs out a melodramatic sigh. “Well, that doesn’t help me much, does it?”
“Listen!” Take a slow breath, Goodwin. Stay cool. You’re a professional. “I mean, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Caulder. I get that you’re frustrated right now, but I’m only trying to keep you safe here. I’m happy to discuss other options, but Accutane’s off the table. If that’s what you want, you’ll need to see someone else.”
Judging from Trophy Wife’s stunned expression, that’s not the response she expected.
“So,” she pronounces with ice in her voice, “it looks like this has been a total waste of time.”
“No kidding,” Erin agrees. “For all of us.”
“Ex – cuse me?”
“You heard me.” My nurse crosses her arms. “You’re the one who came in to see Doctor Goodwin, right? On a Friday evening. Before Memorial Day weekend.”
Caulder’s response – delivered with the kind of over-the-top contempt I thought only existed on reality TV shows – is directed squarely at me. “Yes, well I can see that was a big mistake.”
With that, she storms out of the room, putting a snarling punctuation mark on what has already been one of the roughest weeks of my life.
What’s sad is that work has little to do with that fact.
I leave Greenbeck Derm a few minutes before five, slowly navigating through the rush hour traffic. Greenwich Ave is jammed, with high-end Lexus SUVs, BMWs and Audis jostling for the rare parking space. Traffic cops stand at every intersection, struggling to manage the chaotic jumble of cars and pedestrians. On the sidewalks, shopping bags bob up and down in a sea of brightly colored sundresses and Bermuda shorts. That must explain the extra traffic. Guess it’s time for the pre-Memorial Day summer wardrobe update.
When I phone Jess to apologize for being late, her cell cuts straight to voicemail. Our home number just gives me the answering machine, which means she’s pissed enough to screen my calls. The plan was to get an early start, trying to beat the holiday traffic en route to her parents’ house on the Cape. I close my eyes, massaging my temples as I picture Jess’s likely reaction to my late arrival. The averted eyes. The slow head shake. The smoldering resentment.
I just asked you to do this one small thing for us, and you couldn’t come through.
Disappointment, yet again.
My iPhone vibrates as I turn onto North Street, passing a stone church that would fit well into an English countryside scene, minus the nearby Macmansions. The answering service. Fuck. I’m supposed to be signed out this weekend, but that’s obviously not going to stop the calls. I fumble with my Bluetooth connection, exhaling deeply as I connect with the service.
“Yes, doctor,” a polite male voice announces. “I have an urgent message for you.”
“Sure. Patient name and number, please.”
I hear rapid keyboard tapping as the answering service guy pulls up the information. “It’s from a Miss Caulder.”
Double fuck. Trophy Wife. Why the hell would she be calling me now? What could she possibly want? Nothing good.
“Would you like me to connect you?” Answering Service dude asks.
“Okay… go ahead.” And kick me in the balls with a steel-tipped boot, while you’re at it.
Biting down on my lower lip, I brace myself for Briana Caulder. Instead, I get her chirpy voicemail (“This is Bree. Leave a message. Bye-ee!”) I tell her I’m sorry to miss her call, that I’ll be out of town for the weekend, and that Doctor Markum is on call for any emergencies. Then I disconnect without saying good-bye.
There! Take that, Bree.
I feel better already. Almost good enough to try Jess again. This time, she picks up on the third ring.
“We’re all packed and ready,” she informs me, her voice calm but distant. “I’ve been trying to reach you for the past hour. Don’t you check your cell anymore?”
I glance at my iPhone, wincing when I notice the “3” next to the message icon. Oh, fuck me to infinity. A quick check of the device settings reveals the reason why I missed the calls.
“I’m sorry, Jess. Jamie must’ve switched my cell to silent mode when he played with it this morning.” I picture the drooling little menace, gumming the touch screen and pushing random buttons.
Instead of the sort of teasing come-back I used to expect from my wife – something like “Nice. Blame it on the baby!” – all I get is a listless “Fine… just remember to check your messages in the future.” Then the line goes dead. No “Drive carefully” or “See you soon.” No “Love you.” Judging from her clipped and professional tone, I may as well be one of her law firm clients.
As I merge onto the Merritt Parkway, an obnoxious cliché bubbles to mind, something about indifference being the polar opposite of love. Not hatred. Just cold, dead-eyed indifference.
*
Thirty minutes later, I turn into the driveway of our North Stamford home, where I find a fully loaded Ford Explorer and restless family waiting. As I pull into the garage, Jess wheels a suitcase past me, shaking her head. I mentally rehearse my apology, fine-tuning the story about the malfunctioning cell phone and hectic work day.
“Finally,” Emma huffs, welcoming me with a full dose of six-year old attitude. A few months ago, she would have rushed into my arms, but today, she greets me with cultivated indifference.
“Honey,” Jess coaxes. “Give your dad a hug. He’s had a long day.”
“Well, I’ve had a long day too.” My daughter pouts, refusing to look at me. She’s standing at the mouth of the garage, her head turned away, her peevish expression partially obscured behind locks of auburn hair and a stylish pair of pink wire-frame glasses. In the background, I hear our nanny Rosa’s calm, melodic voice, followed by a high-pitched shriek and laughter, then the unmistakable thumping of my son’s unsteady footsteps as he runs in our direction.
“Dadadadada!” Jamie babbles, grinning with excitement. “Up! Up! Up!” He wraps his arms around my leg, cooing as he strokes the fabric of my trousers.
“Hey there, Big J! At least someone’s happy to see me.” I kiss Jess’s averted cheek, then say hi to Rosa and hoist Jamie onto my shoulders, prompting more happy shrieks. Emma flashes me a hurt look before marching toward the Explorer.
“Em!” I call after her. “How was school today?”
She returns, but only to tug on Jess’s sleeve. “Come on, Mom! Grandma and Grandpa are waiting. Let’s go!”
Jess flashes me one of her inscrutable looks – Pity? Annoyance? Exhaustion? – before placing a calm hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Okay, honey. Just let me finish saying goodbye to Rosa. We’ll be ready to go in a few minutes. You need to learn to be patient.” She jerks her head in my direction. “Now give your dad a hug.”
“But he’s late. And he’s irresponsible. You said so.”
Jess looks away before I can read her expression. “I would never say that. And you know it’s not nice to be rude to your father. You owe him an apology.”
“That’s okay,” I say, putting Jamie down to offer Emma a hug. Instead of accepting the olive branch, she pirouettes to show me her back.
“Emma,” Jess warns. “You need to apologize. Right. Now.”
“I won’t! He should say he’s sorry! He’s irresponsible!”
“You’re right, Em.” I kneel down so we’re at eye level, hoping there’s still time to defuse the situation before things escalate into a full-blown temper tantrum. “I should’ve come home sooner. Sorry I’m so late. It was irresponsible, but that shouldn’t ruin our weekend. Let’s move on, okay?”
“But…” Her lower lip quivers. “Rosa had to stay late, and then Mommy was so upset over the phone, and the baby was crying. Where were you?”
“At work, Em. Sometimes, I have to work late.”
“But Mommy has to work late too!” Her eyes well up.
“I know she does, but hey… we’ve got the whole weekend together.”
She stares into my eyes, like she’s trying to figure out whether or not I’m telling the truth. When did she start doing this?
“Come here.” I hold out my arms, and this time, sniffling, she lets me pull her into a hug. “Don’t be so sad. We’ll have a great time.”
“We will?”
“Sure. I’ve got some terrific plans for us.”
She lifts her head, wiping at her eyes beneath tear-smudged glasses. “Like what?”
“It’ll be a surprise, okay? Now I just have to go inside and change, then pack a few things and we’ll be ready to go.” I make solid eye contact, like our child psychologist Bonnie Eaton advised me to do during one of our weekly sessions. “Okay?”
“Okay.” Apparently satisfied, she darts into the back of the Explorer and buckles herself into the child seat, all smiles and sunshine. “Hurry up! We’re late!”
“See?” Jess pushes a stray lock of chestnut hair out of her eyes. “She’s moved on already. But you’re too easy on her. I know it’s hard, but you have to set limits. She’ll appreciate it later.”
I let out a sigh, agreeing to have a talk with Em later. Her mood swings have gotten worse over the past few months, putting an even greater strain on our marriage. Of course, our fighting only causes her to act out that much more.
It’s a vicious cycle that only promises to get worse in the coming months.
Fifteen minutes later, as we pull out of our driveway, the excitement etched on my daughter’s face pierces my heart. I wonder how she’d feel if she knew the true purpose behind this trip.
It’s a test run. If she and Jamie adjust well, they’ll spend the summer with their grandparents. So will Jess, while I’m stuck in limbo in Connecticut, left to wonder what the hell happened to my perfect family.
***
CHAPTER 2
Saturday, May 29, Chatham, MA
Jake
I wake up the next morning feeling totally disoriented, until I notice the crisp floral bed sheets. Laura Ashley, with bright purple and pink petals to match the hydrangeas outside. I’m in Jess’s old bedroom in her parents’ summer beach house. The window is open a crack, letting the salty Cape breeze tickle my face. The sensation brings back all the happy memories associated with waking up in this bright, sun-soaked room. Damn, life’s sweet.
But then I remember that it isn’t. I remember the six brutal hours of holiday traffic. The pungent smell of Chicken McNuggets, fries and spilled soda wafting up from the back seat of the Explorer. The jarring sound of the kids’ DVD player, playing Pixar’s “Finding Nemo” in an endless loop. Jess’s zoned out expression and virtual silence during the entire hellish car ride.
Then I remember her brutal words. We need a break. From each other.
I toss under the sheets, brushing against Emma’s over-sized teddy bear. She’s lying next to him, sprawled out and taking up most of the bed. The kid may hate me during daylight hours, but this is the third time this week she’s joined me in the middle of the night. As usual, I find myself relegated to a narrow strip of mattress and a few inches of bedcover. It’s amazing how a six year-old can take up so much space, but then again, that’s Em in a nutshell. She’s a skinny little thing with a huge personality.
I sneak out of bed and go downstairs, where I find Jess grilling French toast on a skillet. She looks up at me with the hint of a smile. Not much, but it’s enough to brighten my mood. Maybe this is all that we needed: a simple change of scenery.
Jamie sits in his highchair, babbling and glomming large chunks of fruit from a tray. He welcomes my arrival with an enthusiastic squeal.
“Good morning, J. I see you’re on a diet.”
He grins up at me, chunks of strawberry stuck to his chin.
“Welcome to the party,” Jess says, looking over her shoulder to give me a fuller smile. It’s the kind of warm, casual gesture that reminds me of happier times together. “Where’s Em?”
“Asleep upstairs,” I tell her, emboldened enough to rub her shoulders and kiss the top of her head. “You’re still working on that huge environmental case, right? I’d love to hear more about it.”
Jess eyes me suspiciously, probably because the last time this subject came up, it lead to a massive argument that left us not speaking to each other for days. “You’re really interested? No kidding?”
“Sure, as long as it’s not a malpractice case against me. Tell me all the thrilling details.”
She rolls her eyes and I sidle up next to her, listening as she gives me an update on the case, which recently made the front page of the Boston Globe.
Some multi-billion dollar energy consortium is trying to build a liquefied natural gas terminal on a platform in Nantucket Sound, a few miles offshore from the resort community of Bourne.
I study her features as she speaks, enjoying all the little details I love so much about her appearance. The way her green eyes draw you in, communicating her emotions like mood stones. The way her full lips part when she talks, conveying the perfect blend of sensuality and sweetness. How her delicate nose turns up slightly, giving her a playful look even when she’s trying to be serious. I notice the fine freckles on her face and lips, spotted there by too much time spent in the sun as a kid. I could fade them with one laser or chemical peel, but I’m glad she’s never asked. I’d miss them too much.
“Hey.” Jess interrupts my daydreaming with a light shoulder jab. “Are you tuning me out again?”
“No way. You were just saying the Cape Energy Consortium’s environmental impact statement is total BS, right?”
“Yeah, but…” She gives me a skeptical look. “Your eyes are starting to glaze over. Don’t worry. I get it. It’s really technical stuff. The details can be sooo boring.”
I reach out to grab her hand. God, how much easier life could be if I could just channel all my emotion through that touch. I’m no good with words. Never have been.
“You’re never boring,” I say. “And I love to hear about your work. If I seem a bit distracted, well, that’s just because…” I sweep a stray lock of hair away from her eyes and tuck it behind an ear. “It’s been a while. I miss you.”
“Yeah,” she says, exhaling the word like a sigh. “I know. I miss you too.”
Before I can reply, she kisses me lightly on the cheek, but I can already feel the tension building in her body; it’s as if her muscles are trying to speak for her, struggling to convey what we both already know to be the painful truth.
It’s simply too late to go back to the way things were.
“So,” I ask, suddenly eager to change the subject. “Where are Meg and Walter?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, you know the usual morning routine. Dad’s off playing golf at the club. Mom’s out by Nauset Light, doing her morning walk with some girlfriends.”
“Sounds like a pretty good life. Maybe we should think about retiring early?”
She smirks and says “yeah right” before returning her attention to the stove top. The future may be uncertain right now, but one thing Jess and I will always have in common is that we’re both incurable workaholics. For us, early retirement is about as likely as a moonwalk.
I rest a hand on her shoulder, inhaling the smell of vanilla wafting up from the grill. “Is that for the princess?”
“Yup. Two pieces of French toast with the crusts cut off. Not too yellow, not too white. Not too thick, not too thin.”
“Well, you’d better turn them before they burn. She won’t eat them if they’re too brown, you know.”
Jess flips the French toast over, revealing a deep golden color. “See,” she announces proudly. “They’re perfect.”
“I don’t know. They seem a little burnt on the edges to me. You’d better sprinkle enough sugar on there to cover up those brown parts.”
We’ve read countless books on how to handle a picky eater, but none of those smug authors ever had to confront a child like Emma. It’s not just that she’s outrageously picky about what she eats. It’s not that she makes snap decisions about what she will or won’t try, based on arbitrary reasons such as the food’s color (“It’s too green!”), texture (“It’s too slimy!”), or geometry (“Cut it in triangles, not squares!”). What really drives us nuts is the way Emma wields her finicky food choices like a weapon. The fact that we’re obsessing over the color of her French toast this morning shows how well she has us trained.
“What time did she join you last night?” Jess asks as she pours watered-down apple juice into the baby’s sippy cup. He bangs it on the tray enthusiastically and then takes a few greedy slurps.
“No idea. I didn’t even wake up this time.”
“She’s not getting enough sleep,” she frets. “That’s part of the problem. And she barely eats. I don’t know how that kid manages to function on her diet. Do you have any idea how little she ate last week?”
“Let’s see…” I recap Emma’s diet over the past few days. “There’s five servings of buttered noodles, three partially eaten chicken nuggets, 10 sugar-free ice pops and about 100 gummy bears.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“No… I’ve been saying for months that we should take her to see a nutritionist. It’s just that neither one of us has had the time.”
“Well, then we’ll just have to make the time.”
“Time for what?”
We turn around to see Emma standing in the kitchen foyer in her ‘Dora the Explorer’ pajamas, eyeing us suspiciously.
“There’s my princess,” Jess coos. “Just in time for breakfast. How did you sleep?”
“Good.” Emma wipes her eyes, padding toward us. “What’s a nootrishoniss?”
“That’s someone who helps teach kids how to eat good, balanced meals,” I explain. “So they can grow up to be strong and healthy.”
“But I already eat good meals!” Tears bead in her eyes. “I don’t wanna see a nootrishoniss!”
“No need to get worked up, sweetie,” I say. “Mom and I were just talking about how to get you to eat a little better.”
“I eat just fine,” she huffs, pushing past me and marching to the kitchen table. She parks herself on a chair, then turns to Jess with an imperious expression that says: “You may serve me now.” As Jess cuts the French toast into slivers, Emma wolfs them down, chomping emphatically on every piece. When she’s done, she shoves her plate to the side.
“Are you happy?” she snaps with all the sarcasm of a moody teenager. Lord help us when she really is one.
“Emma,” Jess warns. “Be polite to your father.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Besides, I have some fun activities planned for us today, but the place I want to go has a strict ‘no-brats allowed’ policy. I’m not sure I can take you there.”
That piques her interest. “Hey, yes you can! Where’re we going?”
“Well… the weather’s pretty rough out right now, but it’s supposed to clear up nicely by the afternoon. If it’s okay with Mom, I thought we’d head to P-town.”
Jess gives me a distracted nod while Emma pulls a face.
“P-town? What’s in P-town?”
“Well…” I say, trying to drum up some enthusiasm. “I thought maybe we could stop on the way to pick up sandwiches at The Lunchbox, then do some beach-combing for sea glass. They had a pretty big storm out here yesterday, so there should be some amazing finds out by the point. How about it?”
Emma gives me a shrug and quick eye roll: not the kind of eager response I’d anticipated. What stings is that collecting sea glass has always been our “thing” – a way to bond while hunting for the pebble-smooth, colorful treasures strewn along the shoreline. Last summer, we’d spend hours on the beach, picking through the common green, white and amber hues in search of an elusive blue, red, pink or black. It’s hard to let go of those memories, but clearly, at the mature age of six, my daughter’s already moved on.
“We could also fly a box-kite if you’d like,” I add lamely.
“No thanks. I think I’ll go shopping with Mom and Grandma.”
“We thought maybe we’d try the outlets,” Jess explains. “You know… to pick up a few cute summer outfits.”
“Oh… that sounds like a great idea.” I plant a kiss on top of Emma’s head, making her squirm. “I’m sure whatever you pick out will look super cute.”
“Hey! I’m not cute!”
“Sure,” I say, tousling her hair. “Whatever you say, cutie.”
“Nah!” She stomps. “Stop it!”
“Jake,” Jess warns evenly. “I know you’re just trying to be affectionate, but please… Don’t get her all worked up. It’s not productive.”
I wince at the patronizing edge in her voice, wondering if this is a taste of things to come. “All right,” I say, sounding a little colder than I’d intended. “So since you and Em already have plans for the day, could I at least spend some time with Jamie?” I turn to my son, plucking a stray fleck of fruit from his rat’s nest of blonde hair – the kind of hair I used to have, before it turned sandy brown. “What do you say, buddy?”
Jamie looks up at me and babbles agreeably, showing his few teeth in a gummy smile.
“Thanks, kid” I say, taking his sticky hand and appreciating him that much more for loving me unconditionally.
*
The only thing that’s predictable about May weather in the Cape is that it won’t be predictable. Last year at this time, we wore shorts and t-shirts and basked in the sunny warmth of an early summer. This year, a bitter wind blows through my windbreaker and jeans like they’re made of tissue paper. The normally calm inlet by Chatham Light has white caps, and gusts blow off the water, washing shreds of low-lying clouds and fog across the dunes. It’s the kind of ragged New England weather that makes you think of wooden whaler ships, of grim-faced sailors tossing on the seas in search of a meager living.
Not exactly beach-strolling weather for a fifteen month-old, but then again, Jamie’s a hardy kid. Right now, his Croc-clad feet are firmly planted in the sand, his chubby cheeks puffed out, eyes shut tightly against the wind. Dug in like that in his olive-green windbreaker, he looks like a little cactus, prickling with defiance against the weather.
“Here,” I say, steering him away from the blowing sand. “It’s easier if you walk this way.”
Ignoring my advice, he races into the wind again and again, shrieking with pleasure each time a gust knocks him over. When he’s finally exhausted himself, he looks up at me with a goofy grin, grains of sand sticking to his lips like sprinkles on strawberry ice cream.
That’s the thing about Jamie. You can have fun with him, no matter what. He doesn’t care about miserable weather. If another toddler knocks him over, he just gets up and shrugs it off. Even when Jess and I are fighting, he never seems to notice. Life is just an endless adventure, free from limitations and setbacks. All I can think, looking at him now, is that I don’t ever want him to lose that pure, innocent pleasure.
If only I could keep him from losing what I lost.
My thoughts are cut short by my cell phone, buzzing urgently against my hip. I check the display, noting the 203 area code. Fairfield County. That’s a huge red flag. I debate whether or not to pick up before finally answering.
“Is this Doctor Goodwin?”
It’s a strong, unfamiliar male voice. That can only mean one thing: patient. Shit! Why didn’t I let the call go to voice mail?
“Yes,” I say hesitantly.
“Finally. You’re a hard man to reach,” the stranger continues boldly. “Your answering service wouldn’t put me through.”
“I see… well that’s probably because I’m on vacation. Doctor Markum is covering. I’m sorry, but are you a patient? I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t give it, but since you ask, the name’s Roy.”
After a long pause, the stranger continues in a clipped, aggressive voice: “We’ve never met, but you saw my wife yesterday. Her name is Briana Caulder. I’m sure you remember her, because she’s hard to forget. Blonde hair framing the face of an angel. Body of a runway model. Does that ring any bells?”
I clear my throat, seriously contemplating faking a bad connection. How did this asshole get my number? Shit, that’s right. I returned his wife’s call yesterday, so he must have checked her cell log. Why didn’t I remember to block my number?
“Well,” Roy Caulder continues gravely, “I’m sure you see many patients, so let me refresh your memory. Bree came to you for help with some acne. I believe she explained that we’re holding an important social function this Sunday. Unfortunately… it doesn’t look like your treatment did the job.”
“And you’re Mrs. Caulder’s husband?”
“Correct. Now I’d like to ask you some questions about Bree’s treatment plan. How do you intend to clear her skin?”
Before I can object, the man presses on ominously. “She said you gave her a couple of shots to clear things up. When exactly is that supposed to happen? Our guests will be arriving in less than twenty-four hours.”
“I’d be happy to address your concerns,” I explain, “but due to patient privacy requirements, I can’t discuss Mrs. Caulder’s medical care without her consent. I understand you’re her husband, but –”
“Hey, don’t try and throw that privacy bullshit at me. I’ve got Bree’s full permission to discuss her care. Check the chart.”
“I…” I clear my throat. “I don’t have access to your wife’s chart right now. I don’t usually carry that sort of information with me when I’m on vacation.”
“Well, that’s not my problem now, is it? So I’ll repeat my question. When exactly do you expect those injections to do their job?”
What a total asshole. I hold out my cell and flip it the bird, then bite my lip. Just stay cool, Goodwin. Don’t let this prick fluster you.
“Kenalog shots usually cut down inflammation within twenty-four hours,” I explain, mimicking the voice on a Viagra commercial. “But they’re only a short-term fix.”
“A short-term fix,” Caulder repeats. “So that confuses me. Why didn’t you offer her any long-term solution?”
“We didn’t get to that point. Your wife wanted Accutane on the spot, and when I refused to prescribe it without the necessary preparation, she cut the visit short.”
“She cut the visit short?”
“That’s right. She walked out, to be precise.”
I brace for some abusive tirade, but instead, the line goes silent. Ten long seconds pass. I’m about to hang up when the surprising sound of laughter filters through. “Yes, that sounds like my Bree,” Caulder says, suddenly sounding agreeable, like we’ve just shared a lighthearted joke. “She can be quite… impulsive. Then again, I’m sure you understand how stressful acne can be to a beautiful woman.”
“Absolutely,” I agree, wondering if the man has bipolar disorder. It’s hard to explain his drastic change of tone any other way. “As I explained to Mrs. Caulder, I’d really like to help her, but I’m not prepared to act against my medical judgment.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. All the same, I hope you’ll understand if we choose to follow up with Doctor Greenbeck. He’s just a little more…” He pauses, fishing for a tactful way to insult me. “Experienced. Please don’t be offended.”
“Of course not,” I say, leaping at the chance to end the conversation, and hopefully with it, any further dealings with the Caulder family. “I understand completely. Please give your wife my regards.”
Caulder sniffs before answering, in an oddly monotonous tone: “Yes. I’ll be sure to do that.”
“Hey, Jake!”
I’m still recovering from my dysfunctional phone conversation with Roy Caulder when Jess’s voice pulls me back to the moment. Surprised, I turn to see her waving at me, Emma by her side. They’re standing at the top of a wooden staircase leading to the beach, silhouetted against the backdrop of Chatham Light and the Coast Guard station. With Jamie clinging to my shoulders like a koala bear, I jog in their direction.
“I thought you guys were heading to the outlets,” I puff out when they’re a few yards away. By now, I can make out the expression on Emma’s face, which just about perfectly mirrors the gloomy clouds hanging above us.
Jess raises her voice to be heard above the wind. “Yeah, that was the plan, but something’s come up.”
“Something to do with work?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Although Jess is close enough to touch now, her body language looks anything but inviting. Ignoring the stiff posture and crossed arms, I plant an awkward kiss on her cheek.
“Unfortunately. I need to survey some of the proposed platform sites today,” she says, sounding a little breathless. “I was planning on going tomorrow, but the schedule’s been moved up. Could you keep an eye on the kids while I’m away? My parents are home, if you need any help.”
“You want to go out in that?” I motion toward the churning waters of Chatham Harbor. “You’re joking, right?”
“Actually, it’s supposed to clear up by noon. I just got off the phone with Connor, and he says the south shore’s already pretty calm. I was planning on meeting him at Hyannis Port in an hour.”
“Connor?” I ask, trying to make the question sound innocent. “Who’s that?”
Jess shrugs. “Oh… Connor Jansen’s just a consultant for the ‘Save the Sound’ coalition. He’s helping to guide our strategy. Really nice guy who also just happens to be a brilliant marine biologist.”
“And you’ll be working with him all summer?”
Jess inhales sharply. “Listen, Jake. We’ve been through this. I really don’t have time to deal with your insecurities right now.”
“My insecurities? Well, based on recent events, I’d say I’ve got a pretty damn good reason to feel that way! Wouldn’t you?”
Jess averts her eyes and I can tell from the bright flush on her cheeks that I’ve pushed too far. “That’s not what I meant,” I say, backtracking. “I’m just trying to point out –”
“Yeah, whatever.” She bends down to scoop up Jamie. “Not in front of the kids, right? If you want to continue this conversation later, that’s fine, but now’s not the time.”
I give her an awkward nod, realizing it’s hard to argue the point with Emma stomping off toward the parking lot.
“Nice,” Jess mutters before rushing after her, and for the first time, as I watch my wife’s profile shrinking into the distance, I allow myself to think maybe she’s right.
Some time apart might not be such a bad idea after all.
***
WHEN COSMETIC DERMATOLOGIST Jake Goodwin meets Briana Caulder, she leaves a lingering impression, and it’s not a good one. Beautiful. Entitled. Obnoxious. In short, his new patient is the caricature of a Fairfield County, Connecticut trophy wife. But when Briana returns days later, she’s a transformed woman: soft-spoken, polite, shy. And terrified.
GOODWIN IMMEDIATELY SUSPECTS she's a victim of spousal abuse. Trapped in his own faltering marriage, he can’t help but reach out to her. What harm could come from a conversation over coffee? But when friendship turns into something more, Briana’s powerful husband retaliates, with deadly consequences.
NOW A PATIENT IS DEAD – either the victim of an experimental beauty drug with a lethal side effect, malpractice, or murder. Goodwin stands to lose everything: his career, his family, even his life. But can he trust Briana to help him, or does she have her own dark, hidden agenda?
PROLOGUE
I’m not supposed to die like this: face down on a tile floor with the knee of some psycho rammed into my back. But there’s no escape plan. No way out of the nightmare I created.
The killer leans in close, his breath a hot splatter of blood on my cheek. “Don’t squirm so much, doc. This’ll go a lot easier if you just try to relax.”
Ignoring the advice, I try to arch my back. Nothing. Arms crush down against me – pistons of rigid muscle, sweat and homicidal loathing. The more I strain, the tighter his grip becomes.
“I told you not to fight it,” he warns, bouncing my head off the floor for added emphasis. My hands are taped behind my back, leaving me defenseless. I struggle to open my eyes, vision blurring with pain, blood, or both.
“Please!”
“That’s right. Go ahead and beg.”
I’m not talking to you, asshole. I strain to lift my head, eyes jerking past my frantic wife to the one person who might still be able to save us. She meets my gaze a second before I’m slammed back into the floor.
Does she understand what I want her to do? There’s no way of knowing now.
“I’m not a doctor,” the psycho taunts as he taps the syringe, “but something tells me this is gonna hurt a lot.”
Now he throws his full weight into the attack. One arm jerks my neck upward while the other raises the syringe into position.
“I won’t fight you! Just let my wife go.” My eyes shoot back to Jess. There must be some way to save her. “Please! She knows nothing. Our bank account… there’s…” I swallow the rock in my throat, trying to come up with a fake number that might appeal to someone like him. “There’s a half a million dollars. You can have it all, once I know she’s safe!”
He pouts like he’s actually considering the offer for a moment before shaking his head. “Sorry, Doc.” He plunges the needle into my neck. “No deal.”
The toxin burns like a blowtorch going in. Fire chokes off my screams, surging down my throat and into my bloodstream. The agony dissipates in seconds, only to be replaced by terror as the symptoms begin. My frantic mind ticks them off one by one – the tingling lips and tongue, followed by a gut-punch of nausea. The floating sensation. Difficulty swallowing. Breathing.
My killer is saying something now, but I can’t make out the words. Sensations from the outside world barely filter through. Locked into my body, I feel the numbness washing over me. The burn of oxygen-starved muscles. Then a new, stabbing pain in my throat.
How the hell could it come to this?
I take one last breath, feeling the weight of my eyelids as they close on the world for the last time.
***
CHAPTER 1
Three Weeks Earlier
Friday, May 28, Greenbeck Dermatology, Greenwich, CT
Jake Goodwin
“Um, Jake?” Erin asks in her perky, fresh-out-of-nursing school voice. “I hate to break it to you, but we still have one more patient.”
“You’re joking, right?” I follow her gaze to my schedule, which still displays one name. “I’m supposed to be done by four today.”
“Yeah, but here’s the problem.” She flops into a chair and taps the computer screen. “Last minute emergency add-on. Briana Caulder. 23 year-old VIP of Doctor Greenbeck’s. Demanded to be seen for – get this – an acne flare.”
“Shit.” I massage my temples, imagining how Jess is going to react to me being late again. It would be one thing if I were a trauma surgeon, but I’m a dermatologist, for fuck’s sake. “Who put her in my schedule?”
Erin runs a hand through ringlets of copper hair, nose crinkling. That’s her Nina expression. Probably what she looks like when she smells vomit too.
“Sorry,” she says, hazel eyes filled with sympathy. “I know you wanted to beat the Memorial Day traffic. It’s not fair. Why’d Nina dump this on you?”
“Because she and Al are hosting a party in their Southhampton estate tonight. Wait…” I arch an eyebrow in mock surprise. “Didn’t you get your invitation?”
When she giggles, the old hens that roost at the reception desk whip their heads around, lips pursed with disapproval. They’d be scowling too if their foreheads weren’t stretched and Botoxed into submission. The rumor mill’s been in high gear ever since Erin joined Greenbeck Derm. Whenever she calls me “Jake” instead of “Doctor Goodwin” or casually touches my arm, I hear the old biddies clucking their disapproval. Only here one month and poor Erin’s already been pegged as a home-wrecker.
“Seriously,” she whispers, touching my arm again. “They’re taking advantage of you. Tell Nina she needs to check with you before changing your schedule.”
I shrug, which is pretty much how I respond whenever Jess gives me the same advice. Sure, I’m supposed to be in charge of my own schedule, but only two people at Greenbeck Dermatology really run the show: Albert Greenbeck and his wife Nina, the practice manager from hell. Until I pay off some of my student loans, I’ll just have to suck it up until a better opportunity comes along.
“Right,” I say, rolling my eyes to the exam room. “Enough bitching. Let’s see if we can save another life.”
I read in some Cosmetic Surgery journal that it takes a tenth of a second to know if someone is hot or not, and that’s definitely all it takes with Briana Caulder. She’s a knockout. Slender build, graceful curves, long legs crossed at the ankles. Waves of blonde, shoulder-length hair frame what must be a pretty face, even though I can’t see it yet because she won’t look up from her cell phone. As she continues her conversation, my eyes drop to the huge emerald-cut rock on her ring finger, then take in the grape-sized pearls dangling above her cleavage. Each new detail supports the same conclusion. This is a trophy wife – some wealthy lawyer’s or banker’s gift to himself, wrapped in pretty silk and satin packaging.
Which means I’m totally screwed. Trophy wives are the worst.
“Hello?” Erin clears her throat. “Are you ready for us now, or should we come back later?”
Briana Caulder glances up and gives us this squinty look, like we’re so rude for interrupting her. “Yes, the doctor’s here now,” she purrs into her pink iPhone. “I know, finally. I’ll call you back later, ‘kay?”
She drops the cell into her purse, then turns to face me with frosty blue eyes.
“I’m Doctor Goodwin,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Caulder. So you’re having a problem with –”
My mind freezes as I take in the details of her supermodel face. High cheek bones. Delicately chiseled nose and chin. Full, pouty lips. And those smoky eyes… When middle-aged women bring in magazine clippings of what they want to look like, this is pretty much it.
“Acne,” she says, smiling like she’s used to finishing men’s sentences.
“Right.” I jam my hands into my white coat. “When did it start flaring?”
As she describes her pimple drama, I move in for a closer look. Except for a solitary red spot on her chin, her skin’s as rosy and blemish-free as a newborn’s butt cheeks.
“You said this kind of break-out is new for you,” I recap. “How about when you were a teenager? Did you have acne then?”
“No. My skin used to be perfect.”
Standing behind us, Erin holds an imaginary gun to her temple and pulls the trigger. Then she rummages through the medicine cabinet to get a bottle of Kenalog – the steroid shot I’ll inject to make Trophy Wife’s mountain-out-of-a-mole hill pimple disappear.
“Well,” I promise, “it will be back to perfect again in no time. Let’s start with a steroid shot, injected into that small acne cyst to make it clear.”
After the ten-second procedure, Erin drops a few gauze pads into our patient’s lap.
“How long does that stuff take to work?” Caulder asks, dabbing a pinpoint of blood from her chin. “I’m hosting a big event this weekend.”
“That pimple should dry up within twenty-four hours, but what you really need is a good routine to keep your skin clear.”
“You mean this isn’t just a onetime thing?”
“It might not be. Hormonal acne is really common for women in their twenties and thirties. It’s not just a problem for teenagers.”
This news seems to stun her. “But I never used to have acne.” She sniffs. “Why am I getting it now?”
“Your flare was probably triggered by normal hormones, but there could be other causes.” I glance at her chart, searching for clues. “Did you recently start any new medications?”
She shakes her head.
“How about oral contraceptives?”
When she gives me a blank look, I clarify. “You know, birth control pills, patches, shots, IUDs. All of these contraceptives contain hormones that can trigger acne flares, either when they’re started or stopped.”
“No,” she snaps. “I don’t use any of those things.”
Woah. That hit a nerve. “Okay. How about your menstrual periods? Are they regular?”
She nods uncomfortably.
“I’m just looking for any hormonal changes that might be triggering your acne. For instance, could you be pregnant?”
As soon as the P word leaves my lips, Trophy Wife’s eyes flicker with panic. It takes her ten long seconds to come up with an answer. “No,” she murmurs, slowly shaking her head. “That can’t be it.”
Well, shit, I think. Greenwich, we might have a problem.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes! That’s just not possible.”
“I’m only asking because –”
“Listen!” She crosses her arms like a kid who just got denied a lollypop. “Just give me something to clear up my skin, okay? Do your job. That’s all I want!”
Still standing behind us, Erin mouths an incredulous “OMG” as Caulder continues to rip into me.
“I mean, seriously! I’m not here to answer a bunch of pointless questions! One of my girlfriends saw Doctor Greenbeck last month and got a few shots and a prescription for Accutane. Can’t you just do the same thing for me?”
“Sure,” I say, blood rushing to my cheeks. “We’ve already done the shot. That should help, but Accutane’s another story. That’s a type of medication called isotretinoin. We can start the process today, but it’s not as simple as your friend made it sound.” I explain that before starting Accutane, she would need to register in a government-run tracking program called I-Pledge.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“No, I’m not. Accutane’s powerful stuff. It can cause serious birth defects, so you’d need to start taking birth control pills before I can even prescribe the drug. We’ll also need baseline blood work. We can start –”
Caulder springs up from her seat to cut me off. “So what you’re saying is you can’t help me,” she announces breezily. “I’ll just come back when Doctor Greenbeck is available.”
“Sure.” I smile, knowing that will piss her off even more. “We’ll be happy to set that up for you.”
“And how long will that take?”
“I have no idea. I’m not Doctor Greenbeck’s secretary.”
She huffs out a melodramatic sigh. “Well, that doesn’t help me much, does it?”
“Listen!” Take a slow breath, Goodwin. Stay cool. You’re a professional. “I mean, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Caulder. I get that you’re frustrated right now, but I’m only trying to keep you safe here. I’m happy to discuss other options, but Accutane’s off the table. If that’s what you want, you’ll need to see someone else.”
Judging from Trophy Wife’s stunned expression, that’s not the response she expected.
“So,” she pronounces with ice in her voice, “it looks like this has been a total waste of time.”
“No kidding,” Erin agrees. “For all of us.”
“Ex – cuse me?”
“You heard me.” My nurse crosses her arms. “You’re the one who came in to see Doctor Goodwin, right? On a Friday evening. Before Memorial Day weekend.”
Caulder’s response – delivered with the kind of over-the-top contempt I thought only existed on reality TV shows – is directed squarely at me. “Yes, well I can see that was a big mistake.”
With that, she storms out of the room, putting a snarling punctuation mark on what has already been one of the roughest weeks of my life.
What’s sad is that work has little to do with that fact.
I leave Greenbeck Derm a few minutes before five, slowly navigating through the rush hour traffic. Greenwich Ave is jammed, with high-end Lexus SUVs, BMWs and Audis jostling for the rare parking space. Traffic cops stand at every intersection, struggling to manage the chaotic jumble of cars and pedestrians. On the sidewalks, shopping bags bob up and down in a sea of brightly colored sundresses and Bermuda shorts. That must explain the extra traffic. Guess it’s time for the pre-Memorial Day summer wardrobe update.
When I phone Jess to apologize for being late, her cell cuts straight to voicemail. Our home number just gives me the answering machine, which means she’s pissed enough to screen my calls. The plan was to get an early start, trying to beat the holiday traffic en route to her parents’ house on the Cape. I close my eyes, massaging my temples as I picture Jess’s likely reaction to my late arrival. The averted eyes. The slow head shake. The smoldering resentment.
I just asked you to do this one small thing for us, and you couldn’t come through.
Disappointment, yet again.
My iPhone vibrates as I turn onto North Street, passing a stone church that would fit well into an English countryside scene, minus the nearby Macmansions. The answering service. Fuck. I’m supposed to be signed out this weekend, but that’s obviously not going to stop the calls. I fumble with my Bluetooth connection, exhaling deeply as I connect with the service.
“Yes, doctor,” a polite male voice announces. “I have an urgent message for you.”
“Sure. Patient name and number, please.”
I hear rapid keyboard tapping as the answering service guy pulls up the information. “It’s from a Miss Caulder.”
Double fuck. Trophy Wife. Why the hell would she be calling me now? What could she possibly want? Nothing good.
“Would you like me to connect you?” Answering Service dude asks.
“Okay… go ahead.” And kick me in the balls with a steel-tipped boot, while you’re at it.
Biting down on my lower lip, I brace myself for Briana Caulder. Instead, I get her chirpy voicemail (“This is Bree. Leave a message. Bye-ee!”) I tell her I’m sorry to miss her call, that I’ll be out of town for the weekend, and that Doctor Markum is on call for any emergencies. Then I disconnect without saying good-bye.
There! Take that, Bree.
I feel better already. Almost good enough to try Jess again. This time, she picks up on the third ring.
“We’re all packed and ready,” she informs me, her voice calm but distant. “I’ve been trying to reach you for the past hour. Don’t you check your cell anymore?”
I glance at my iPhone, wincing when I notice the “3” next to the message icon. Oh, fuck me to infinity. A quick check of the device settings reveals the reason why I missed the calls.
“I’m sorry, Jess. Jamie must’ve switched my cell to silent mode when he played with it this morning.” I picture the drooling little menace, gumming the touch screen and pushing random buttons.
Instead of the sort of teasing come-back I used to expect from my wife – something like “Nice. Blame it on the baby!” – all I get is a listless “Fine… just remember to check your messages in the future.” Then the line goes dead. No “Drive carefully” or “See you soon.” No “Love you.” Judging from her clipped and professional tone, I may as well be one of her law firm clients.
As I merge onto the Merritt Parkway, an obnoxious cliché bubbles to mind, something about indifference being the polar opposite of love. Not hatred. Just cold, dead-eyed indifference.
*
Thirty minutes later, I turn into the driveway of our North Stamford home, where I find a fully loaded Ford Explorer and restless family waiting. As I pull into the garage, Jess wheels a suitcase past me, shaking her head. I mentally rehearse my apology, fine-tuning the story about the malfunctioning cell phone and hectic work day.
“Finally,” Emma huffs, welcoming me with a full dose of six-year old attitude. A few months ago, she would have rushed into my arms, but today, she greets me with cultivated indifference.
“Honey,” Jess coaxes. “Give your dad a hug. He’s had a long day.”
“Well, I’ve had a long day too.” My daughter pouts, refusing to look at me. She’s standing at the mouth of the garage, her head turned away, her peevish expression partially obscured behind locks of auburn hair and a stylish pair of pink wire-frame glasses. In the background, I hear our nanny Rosa’s calm, melodic voice, followed by a high-pitched shriek and laughter, then the unmistakable thumping of my son’s unsteady footsteps as he runs in our direction.
“Dadadadada!” Jamie babbles, grinning with excitement. “Up! Up! Up!” He wraps his arms around my leg, cooing as he strokes the fabric of my trousers.
“Hey there, Big J! At least someone’s happy to see me.” I kiss Jess’s averted cheek, then say hi to Rosa and hoist Jamie onto my shoulders, prompting more happy shrieks. Emma flashes me a hurt look before marching toward the Explorer.
“Em!” I call after her. “How was school today?”
She returns, but only to tug on Jess’s sleeve. “Come on, Mom! Grandma and Grandpa are waiting. Let’s go!”
Jess flashes me one of her inscrutable looks – Pity? Annoyance? Exhaustion? – before placing a calm hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Okay, honey. Just let me finish saying goodbye to Rosa. We’ll be ready to go in a few minutes. You need to learn to be patient.” She jerks her head in my direction. “Now give your dad a hug.”
“But he’s late. And he’s irresponsible. You said so.”
Jess looks away before I can read her expression. “I would never say that. And you know it’s not nice to be rude to your father. You owe him an apology.”
“That’s okay,” I say, putting Jamie down to offer Emma a hug. Instead of accepting the olive branch, she pirouettes to show me her back.
“Emma,” Jess warns. “You need to apologize. Right. Now.”
“I won’t! He should say he’s sorry! He’s irresponsible!”
“You’re right, Em.” I kneel down so we’re at eye level, hoping there’s still time to defuse the situation before things escalate into a full-blown temper tantrum. “I should’ve come home sooner. Sorry I’m so late. It was irresponsible, but that shouldn’t ruin our weekend. Let’s move on, okay?”
“But…” Her lower lip quivers. “Rosa had to stay late, and then Mommy was so upset over the phone, and the baby was crying. Where were you?”
“At work, Em. Sometimes, I have to work late.”
“But Mommy has to work late too!” Her eyes well up.
“I know she does, but hey… we’ve got the whole weekend together.”
She stares into my eyes, like she’s trying to figure out whether or not I’m telling the truth. When did she start doing this?
“Come here.” I hold out my arms, and this time, sniffling, she lets me pull her into a hug. “Don’t be so sad. We’ll have a great time.”
“We will?”
“Sure. I’ve got some terrific plans for us.”
She lifts her head, wiping at her eyes beneath tear-smudged glasses. “Like what?”
“It’ll be a surprise, okay? Now I just have to go inside and change, then pack a few things and we’ll be ready to go.” I make solid eye contact, like our child psychologist Bonnie Eaton advised me to do during one of our weekly sessions. “Okay?”
“Okay.” Apparently satisfied, she darts into the back of the Explorer and buckles herself into the child seat, all smiles and sunshine. “Hurry up! We’re late!”
“See?” Jess pushes a stray lock of chestnut hair out of her eyes. “She’s moved on already. But you’re too easy on her. I know it’s hard, but you have to set limits. She’ll appreciate it later.”
I let out a sigh, agreeing to have a talk with Em later. Her mood swings have gotten worse over the past few months, putting an even greater strain on our marriage. Of course, our fighting only causes her to act out that much more.
It’s a vicious cycle that only promises to get worse in the coming months.
Fifteen minutes later, as we pull out of our driveway, the excitement etched on my daughter’s face pierces my heart. I wonder how she’d feel if she knew the true purpose behind this trip.
It’s a test run. If she and Jamie adjust well, they’ll spend the summer with their grandparents. So will Jess, while I’m stuck in limbo in Connecticut, left to wonder what the hell happened to my perfect family.
***
CHAPTER 2
Saturday, May 29, Chatham, MA
Jake
I wake up the next morning feeling totally disoriented, until I notice the crisp floral bed sheets. Laura Ashley, with bright purple and pink petals to match the hydrangeas outside. I’m in Jess’s old bedroom in her parents’ summer beach house. The window is open a crack, letting the salty Cape breeze tickle my face. The sensation brings back all the happy memories associated with waking up in this bright, sun-soaked room. Damn, life’s sweet.
But then I remember that it isn’t. I remember the six brutal hours of holiday traffic. The pungent smell of Chicken McNuggets, fries and spilled soda wafting up from the back seat of the Explorer. The jarring sound of the kids’ DVD player, playing Pixar’s “Finding Nemo” in an endless loop. Jess’s zoned out expression and virtual silence during the entire hellish car ride.
Then I remember her brutal words. We need a break. From each other.
I toss under the sheets, brushing against Emma’s over-sized teddy bear. She’s lying next to him, sprawled out and taking up most of the bed. The kid may hate me during daylight hours, but this is the third time this week she’s joined me in the middle of the night. As usual, I find myself relegated to a narrow strip of mattress and a few inches of bedcover. It’s amazing how a six year-old can take up so much space, but then again, that’s Em in a nutshell. She’s a skinny little thing with a huge personality.
I sneak out of bed and go downstairs, where I find Jess grilling French toast on a skillet. She looks up at me with the hint of a smile. Not much, but it’s enough to brighten my mood. Maybe this is all that we needed: a simple change of scenery.
Jamie sits in his highchair, babbling and glomming large chunks of fruit from a tray. He welcomes my arrival with an enthusiastic squeal.
“Good morning, J. I see you’re on a diet.”
He grins up at me, chunks of strawberry stuck to his chin.
“Welcome to the party,” Jess says, looking over her shoulder to give me a fuller smile. It’s the kind of warm, casual gesture that reminds me of happier times together. “Where’s Em?”
“Asleep upstairs,” I tell her, emboldened enough to rub her shoulders and kiss the top of her head. “You’re still working on that huge environmental case, right? I’d love to hear more about it.”
Jess eyes me suspiciously, probably because the last time this subject came up, it lead to a massive argument that left us not speaking to each other for days. “You’re really interested? No kidding?”
“Sure, as long as it’s not a malpractice case against me. Tell me all the thrilling details.”
She rolls her eyes and I sidle up next to her, listening as she gives me an update on the case, which recently made the front page of the Boston Globe.
Some multi-billion dollar energy consortium is trying to build a liquefied natural gas terminal on a platform in Nantucket Sound, a few miles offshore from the resort community of Bourne.
I study her features as she speaks, enjoying all the little details I love so much about her appearance. The way her green eyes draw you in, communicating her emotions like mood stones. The way her full lips part when she talks, conveying the perfect blend of sensuality and sweetness. How her delicate nose turns up slightly, giving her a playful look even when she’s trying to be serious. I notice the fine freckles on her face and lips, spotted there by too much time spent in the sun as a kid. I could fade them with one laser or chemical peel, but I’m glad she’s never asked. I’d miss them too much.
“Hey.” Jess interrupts my daydreaming with a light shoulder jab. “Are you tuning me out again?”
“No way. You were just saying the Cape Energy Consortium’s environmental impact statement is total BS, right?”
“Yeah, but…” She gives me a skeptical look. “Your eyes are starting to glaze over. Don’t worry. I get it. It’s really technical stuff. The details can be sooo boring.”
I reach out to grab her hand. God, how much easier life could be if I could just channel all my emotion through that touch. I’m no good with words. Never have been.
“You’re never boring,” I say. “And I love to hear about your work. If I seem a bit distracted, well, that’s just because…” I sweep a stray lock of hair away from her eyes and tuck it behind an ear. “It’s been a while. I miss you.”
“Yeah,” she says, exhaling the word like a sigh. “I know. I miss you too.”
Before I can reply, she kisses me lightly on the cheek, but I can already feel the tension building in her body; it’s as if her muscles are trying to speak for her, struggling to convey what we both already know to be the painful truth.
It’s simply too late to go back to the way things were.
“So,” I ask, suddenly eager to change the subject. “Where are Meg and Walter?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, you know the usual morning routine. Dad’s off playing golf at the club. Mom’s out by Nauset Light, doing her morning walk with some girlfriends.”
“Sounds like a pretty good life. Maybe we should think about retiring early?”
She smirks and says “yeah right” before returning her attention to the stove top. The future may be uncertain right now, but one thing Jess and I will always have in common is that we’re both incurable workaholics. For us, early retirement is about as likely as a moonwalk.
I rest a hand on her shoulder, inhaling the smell of vanilla wafting up from the grill. “Is that for the princess?”
“Yup. Two pieces of French toast with the crusts cut off. Not too yellow, not too white. Not too thick, not too thin.”
“Well, you’d better turn them before they burn. She won’t eat them if they’re too brown, you know.”
Jess flips the French toast over, revealing a deep golden color. “See,” she announces proudly. “They’re perfect.”
“I don’t know. They seem a little burnt on the edges to me. You’d better sprinkle enough sugar on there to cover up those brown parts.”
We’ve read countless books on how to handle a picky eater, but none of those smug authors ever had to confront a child like Emma. It’s not just that she’s outrageously picky about what she eats. It’s not that she makes snap decisions about what she will or won’t try, based on arbitrary reasons such as the food’s color (“It’s too green!”), texture (“It’s too slimy!”), or geometry (“Cut it in triangles, not squares!”). What really drives us nuts is the way Emma wields her finicky food choices like a weapon. The fact that we’re obsessing over the color of her French toast this morning shows how well she has us trained.
“What time did she join you last night?” Jess asks as she pours watered-down apple juice into the baby’s sippy cup. He bangs it on the tray enthusiastically and then takes a few greedy slurps.
“No idea. I didn’t even wake up this time.”
“She’s not getting enough sleep,” she frets. “That’s part of the problem. And she barely eats. I don’t know how that kid manages to function on her diet. Do you have any idea how little she ate last week?”
“Let’s see…” I recap Emma’s diet over the past few days. “There’s five servings of buttered noodles, three partially eaten chicken nuggets, 10 sugar-free ice pops and about 100 gummy bears.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“No… I’ve been saying for months that we should take her to see a nutritionist. It’s just that neither one of us has had the time.”
“Well, then we’ll just have to make the time.”
“Time for what?”
We turn around to see Emma standing in the kitchen foyer in her ‘Dora the Explorer’ pajamas, eyeing us suspiciously.
“There’s my princess,” Jess coos. “Just in time for breakfast. How did you sleep?”
“Good.” Emma wipes her eyes, padding toward us. “What’s a nootrishoniss?”
“That’s someone who helps teach kids how to eat good, balanced meals,” I explain. “So they can grow up to be strong and healthy.”
“But I already eat good meals!” Tears bead in her eyes. “I don’t wanna see a nootrishoniss!”
“No need to get worked up, sweetie,” I say. “Mom and I were just talking about how to get you to eat a little better.”
“I eat just fine,” she huffs, pushing past me and marching to the kitchen table. She parks herself on a chair, then turns to Jess with an imperious expression that says: “You may serve me now.” As Jess cuts the French toast into slivers, Emma wolfs them down, chomping emphatically on every piece. When she’s done, she shoves her plate to the side.
“Are you happy?” she snaps with all the sarcasm of a moody teenager. Lord help us when she really is one.
“Emma,” Jess warns. “Be polite to your father.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Besides, I have some fun activities planned for us today, but the place I want to go has a strict ‘no-brats allowed’ policy. I’m not sure I can take you there.”
That piques her interest. “Hey, yes you can! Where’re we going?”
“Well… the weather’s pretty rough out right now, but it’s supposed to clear up nicely by the afternoon. If it’s okay with Mom, I thought we’d head to P-town.”
Jess gives me a distracted nod while Emma pulls a face.
“P-town? What’s in P-town?”
“Well…” I say, trying to drum up some enthusiasm. “I thought maybe we could stop on the way to pick up sandwiches at The Lunchbox, then do some beach-combing for sea glass. They had a pretty big storm out here yesterday, so there should be some amazing finds out by the point. How about it?”
Emma gives me a shrug and quick eye roll: not the kind of eager response I’d anticipated. What stings is that collecting sea glass has always been our “thing” – a way to bond while hunting for the pebble-smooth, colorful treasures strewn along the shoreline. Last summer, we’d spend hours on the beach, picking through the common green, white and amber hues in search of an elusive blue, red, pink or black. It’s hard to let go of those memories, but clearly, at the mature age of six, my daughter’s already moved on.
“We could also fly a box-kite if you’d like,” I add lamely.
“No thanks. I think I’ll go shopping with Mom and Grandma.”
“We thought maybe we’d try the outlets,” Jess explains. “You know… to pick up a few cute summer outfits.”
“Oh… that sounds like a great idea.” I plant a kiss on top of Emma’s head, making her squirm. “I’m sure whatever you pick out will look super cute.”
“Hey! I’m not cute!”
“Sure,” I say, tousling her hair. “Whatever you say, cutie.”
“Nah!” She stomps. “Stop it!”
“Jake,” Jess warns evenly. “I know you’re just trying to be affectionate, but please… Don’t get her all worked up. It’s not productive.”
I wince at the patronizing edge in her voice, wondering if this is a taste of things to come. “All right,” I say, sounding a little colder than I’d intended. “So since you and Em already have plans for the day, could I at least spend some time with Jamie?” I turn to my son, plucking a stray fleck of fruit from his rat’s nest of blonde hair – the kind of hair I used to have, before it turned sandy brown. “What do you say, buddy?”
Jamie looks up at me and babbles agreeably, showing his few teeth in a gummy smile.
“Thanks, kid” I say, taking his sticky hand and appreciating him that much more for loving me unconditionally.
*
The only thing that’s predictable about May weather in the Cape is that it won’t be predictable. Last year at this time, we wore shorts and t-shirts and basked in the sunny warmth of an early summer. This year, a bitter wind blows through my windbreaker and jeans like they’re made of tissue paper. The normally calm inlet by Chatham Light has white caps, and gusts blow off the water, washing shreds of low-lying clouds and fog across the dunes. It’s the kind of ragged New England weather that makes you think of wooden whaler ships, of grim-faced sailors tossing on the seas in search of a meager living.
Not exactly beach-strolling weather for a fifteen month-old, but then again, Jamie’s a hardy kid. Right now, his Croc-clad feet are firmly planted in the sand, his chubby cheeks puffed out, eyes shut tightly against the wind. Dug in like that in his olive-green windbreaker, he looks like a little cactus, prickling with defiance against the weather.
“Here,” I say, steering him away from the blowing sand. “It’s easier if you walk this way.”
Ignoring my advice, he races into the wind again and again, shrieking with pleasure each time a gust knocks him over. When he’s finally exhausted himself, he looks up at me with a goofy grin, grains of sand sticking to his lips like sprinkles on strawberry ice cream.
That’s the thing about Jamie. You can have fun with him, no matter what. He doesn’t care about miserable weather. If another toddler knocks him over, he just gets up and shrugs it off. Even when Jess and I are fighting, he never seems to notice. Life is just an endless adventure, free from limitations and setbacks. All I can think, looking at him now, is that I don’t ever want him to lose that pure, innocent pleasure.
If only I could keep him from losing what I lost.
My thoughts are cut short by my cell phone, buzzing urgently against my hip. I check the display, noting the 203 area code. Fairfield County. That’s a huge red flag. I debate whether or not to pick up before finally answering.
“Is this Doctor Goodwin?”
It’s a strong, unfamiliar male voice. That can only mean one thing: patient. Shit! Why didn’t I let the call go to voice mail?
“Yes,” I say hesitantly.
“Finally. You’re a hard man to reach,” the stranger continues boldly. “Your answering service wouldn’t put me through.”
“I see… well that’s probably because I’m on vacation. Doctor Markum is covering. I’m sorry, but are you a patient? I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t give it, but since you ask, the name’s Roy.”
After a long pause, the stranger continues in a clipped, aggressive voice: “We’ve never met, but you saw my wife yesterday. Her name is Briana Caulder. I’m sure you remember her, because she’s hard to forget. Blonde hair framing the face of an angel. Body of a runway model. Does that ring any bells?”
I clear my throat, seriously contemplating faking a bad connection. How did this asshole get my number? Shit, that’s right. I returned his wife’s call yesterday, so he must have checked her cell log. Why didn’t I remember to block my number?
“Well,” Roy Caulder continues gravely, “I’m sure you see many patients, so let me refresh your memory. Bree came to you for help with some acne. I believe she explained that we’re holding an important social function this Sunday. Unfortunately… it doesn’t look like your treatment did the job.”
“And you’re Mrs. Caulder’s husband?”
“Correct. Now I’d like to ask you some questions about Bree’s treatment plan. How do you intend to clear her skin?”
Before I can object, the man presses on ominously. “She said you gave her a couple of shots to clear things up. When exactly is that supposed to happen? Our guests will be arriving in less than twenty-four hours.”
“I’d be happy to address your concerns,” I explain, “but due to patient privacy requirements, I can’t discuss Mrs. Caulder’s medical care without her consent. I understand you’re her husband, but –”
“Hey, don’t try and throw that privacy bullshit at me. I’ve got Bree’s full permission to discuss her care. Check the chart.”
“I…” I clear my throat. “I don’t have access to your wife’s chart right now. I don’t usually carry that sort of information with me when I’m on vacation.”
“Well, that’s not my problem now, is it? So I’ll repeat my question. When exactly do you expect those injections to do their job?”
What a total asshole. I hold out my cell and flip it the bird, then bite my lip. Just stay cool, Goodwin. Don’t let this prick fluster you.
“Kenalog shots usually cut down inflammation within twenty-four hours,” I explain, mimicking the voice on a Viagra commercial. “But they’re only a short-term fix.”
“A short-term fix,” Caulder repeats. “So that confuses me. Why didn’t you offer her any long-term solution?”
“We didn’t get to that point. Your wife wanted Accutane on the spot, and when I refused to prescribe it without the necessary preparation, she cut the visit short.”
“She cut the visit short?”
“That’s right. She walked out, to be precise.”
I brace for some abusive tirade, but instead, the line goes silent. Ten long seconds pass. I’m about to hang up when the surprising sound of laughter filters through. “Yes, that sounds like my Bree,” Caulder says, suddenly sounding agreeable, like we’ve just shared a lighthearted joke. “She can be quite… impulsive. Then again, I’m sure you understand how stressful acne can be to a beautiful woman.”
“Absolutely,” I agree, wondering if the man has bipolar disorder. It’s hard to explain his drastic change of tone any other way. “As I explained to Mrs. Caulder, I’d really like to help her, but I’m not prepared to act against my medical judgment.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. All the same, I hope you’ll understand if we choose to follow up with Doctor Greenbeck. He’s just a little more…” He pauses, fishing for a tactful way to insult me. “Experienced. Please don’t be offended.”
“Of course not,” I say, leaping at the chance to end the conversation, and hopefully with it, any further dealings with the Caulder family. “I understand completely. Please give your wife my regards.”
Caulder sniffs before answering, in an oddly monotonous tone: “Yes. I’ll be sure to do that.”
“Hey, Jake!”
I’m still recovering from my dysfunctional phone conversation with Roy Caulder when Jess’s voice pulls me back to the moment. Surprised, I turn to see her waving at me, Emma by her side. They’re standing at the top of a wooden staircase leading to the beach, silhouetted against the backdrop of Chatham Light and the Coast Guard station. With Jamie clinging to my shoulders like a koala bear, I jog in their direction.
“I thought you guys were heading to the outlets,” I puff out when they’re a few yards away. By now, I can make out the expression on Emma’s face, which just about perfectly mirrors the gloomy clouds hanging above us.
Jess raises her voice to be heard above the wind. “Yeah, that was the plan, but something’s come up.”
“Something to do with work?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Although Jess is close enough to touch now, her body language looks anything but inviting. Ignoring the stiff posture and crossed arms, I plant an awkward kiss on her cheek.
“Unfortunately. I need to survey some of the proposed platform sites today,” she says, sounding a little breathless. “I was planning on going tomorrow, but the schedule’s been moved up. Could you keep an eye on the kids while I’m away? My parents are home, if you need any help.”
“You want to go out in that?” I motion toward the churning waters of Chatham Harbor. “You’re joking, right?”
“Actually, it’s supposed to clear up by noon. I just got off the phone with Connor, and he says the south shore’s already pretty calm. I was planning on meeting him at Hyannis Port in an hour.”
“Connor?” I ask, trying to make the question sound innocent. “Who’s that?”
Jess shrugs. “Oh… Connor Jansen’s just a consultant for the ‘Save the Sound’ coalition. He’s helping to guide our strategy. Really nice guy who also just happens to be a brilliant marine biologist.”
“And you’ll be working with him all summer?”
Jess inhales sharply. “Listen, Jake. We’ve been through this. I really don’t have time to deal with your insecurities right now.”
“My insecurities? Well, based on recent events, I’d say I’ve got a pretty damn good reason to feel that way! Wouldn’t you?”
Jess averts her eyes and I can tell from the bright flush on her cheeks that I’ve pushed too far. “That’s not what I meant,” I say, backtracking. “I’m just trying to point out –”
“Yeah, whatever.” She bends down to scoop up Jamie. “Not in front of the kids, right? If you want to continue this conversation later, that’s fine, but now’s not the time.”
I give her an awkward nod, realizing it’s hard to argue the point with Emma stomping off toward the parking lot.
“Nice,” Jess mutters before rushing after her, and for the first time, as I watch my wife’s profile shrinking into the distance, I allow myself to think maybe she’s right.
Some time apart might not be such a bad idea after all.
***