At a Charity Auction, My Husband Sold My Best Friend the Seven Days He Promised Me novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Raincoat on the Hook

Bethany goes to Larch Street and finds Shelby warm and Neil painting, and Shelby tells her at the door to keep the baby from him.

I drove to Larch Street at seven that night, alone, with the wipers on.

Shelby had bought the house two years ago, after her divorce.

I had painted its guest room with her, and I had been there for every Christmas since.

Tonight there was a Holbrook Homeworks truck in the driveway and every window lit.

I rang the bell.

Shelby opened the door in a gray sweater of Neil's that came down to her knees.

"Beth!" she said, and her whole face opened up. "You came. Come in, you look frozen. Did June drive you? Is the shop moved?"

"Mostly."

"I knew you'd manage. You always do."

She hugged me, and I let her, because my hands were cold.

The hallway smelled like fresh paint and garlic bread.

My walnut wall stood against the far side of the living room, already hung, with the studio lights clamped along the top.

It was beautiful.

I had designed it for a room with north windows.

Neil came out of the kitchen with a paint roller in one hand.

"Beth," he said. "You're being great about this."

"Where's my deposit, Neil?"

"Not here." He glanced at Shelby and then back at me. "Not in front of a guest."

"She's your wife's best friend," Shelby said gently. "I think I can hear a money problem."

"It's a bridge," Neil said. "The charity wanted the winning payment fast, and Shelby's funds were tied up. I moved ours over for a few days. It all goes back Sunday, after the reveal."

"You took my studio deposit to pay for her bid."

"Our deposit. I'm covering it, Beth. Why do you always go to the worst version?"

"Because the worst version is the one with the bank record."

"Beth," Shelby said, and put a hand on my sleeve. "He's trying. Neil has wanted to do something for me ever since the divorce. Let him have the week."

I looked at her hand on my sleeve.

I had known that hand since we were eighteen.

Behind him, a man's raincoat and a stethoscope hung on the hooks by the door.

A pair of men's boots, size twelve, stood under them, with the mud dried on the soles.

Neil had never owned a stethoscope.

I thought: the ex.

I thought: two years, and she still hasn't boxed his things.

I did not say it, because Shelby had already put a plate in my hand.

"Eat," she said. "Lasagna. I made two, so you can take one for the freezer. You can't run a move on nothing."

I looked at the plate.

On the counter beside it sat the label maker Shelby had given me on Thursday.

The label on its lid said Studio, in my handwriting.

"Why is that here?" I asked.

"Neil borrowed it," Shelby said. "He's labeling the paint cans."

"It's mine."

"Of course it is. Take it."

I did not take it.

I looked at my husband's paint-spotted forearms.

"Where are you sleeping?" I said.

Neil said, "The guest room. It's in the contract. Beth, it's seven days, for a house."

"It's your contract."

"It's a charity contract."

"And the wall?"

"It's staging," he said. "The photographers love a feature. It's going to your studio the second the reveal's over."

The roller dripped a white drop onto the floorboard.

Nobody wiped it up.

"I'm leaving," I said.

"Good night, Beth," Neil said, with the voice he used on clients who were about to sign.

Shelby walked me to the door.

She held it open against the wind and stood close, her arm brushing mine, her face kind.

I stepped out onto the porch.

"Thank you for the lasagna," I said.

"Anytime." She smiled. "Beth."

"Yes?"

Her voice dropped so the hallway couldn't hear.

"You haven't told him about the baby, have you?"

The rain ran off the porch roof in a clear line behind her head.

"Good," she said, before I could answer. "Keep it that way. For your sake."

She closed the door.

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