In Sickness and in Lies novel · Chapter 1 of 32
Chapter 1: The Bet
Gwyneth overhears Desmond bet Cilla a beach house that she will never divorce him, then he skips her exhibition for the house. Her mother calls, falls, and goes silent.
On Halloween night I stood outside my husband's study and listened to him bet our marriage on a beach house.
I had his shirt over my arm.
It was the white one I had ironed twice, for my exhibition the next afternoon.
Downstairs, sixty of his guests were eating my caramel apples.
Cilla Dorn had spent the whole party at my elbow, refilling cider and telling people my wall hangings were the best thing in the house.
I'd thought that was kind.
Now her laugh came through the study door.
"Tomorrow is her big day, Des. Two years she's been working on it."
"She asks me before she buys a coat," Desmond said. He said it the way he said everything to me, easily and fondly. "Where would she go?"
My hand stopped on the knob.
"Then bet me," Cilla said. "Skip her opening and come look at the beach house with me. If she finally asks for a divorce, I win."
"She won't."
"And if you're wrong?"
"Then the house is yours."
Cilla squealed.
My husband was worth a great deal of money, and he made me photograph my worn-out work shoes before he would approve a new pair.
Every January he also put a folder in front of me, and I signed where the yellow tabs were.
I had never once read it.
Now he was giving away a house on the lake over a laugh.
A chair scraped inside.
I got around the corner before the door opened.
Cilla came out on his arm in a black lace mask, and he was smiling down at her.
I could not remember the last time he had smiled at me.
I didn't say a word that night.
Seventeen years I had believed he took my forgiveness for granted.
I had not known he thought it was a game he'd already won.
In the morning I was up before him.
On my phone was his message from the week before.
Sunday, two o'clock. I'll be there. Save me a good seat.
I read it twice and went downstairs.
Desmond stood at the counter with his coffee.
"Two o'clock today," I said. "You remember."
"Of course."
His phone buzzed. He listened for a few seconds and picked up his jacket.
"Gwyneth, something's come up. Cilla needs me this afternoon."
I held the printed invitation against my chest.
"You know what today is."
"Don't start," he said. "You're not a child. You can walk into a gallery by yourself."
"You promised me."
"It's not a big deal!"
His voice went up.
"Why do you have to make everything so hard?"
He had missed birthdays and anniversaries and every work dinner of mine that mattered.
Each time I had told myself the next one would be different.
Now I knew he'd been laughing the whole time.
I lowered the invitation.
"Go."
His face eased.
"I knew you'd be reasonable."
He took his keys and left without kissing me.
I got to the gallery at one thirty with my own bag over my shoulder.
Two years of nights and weekends were hanging on those walls, paid for with extra design jobs and every dollar I could save.
The assistant handed me the printed program card for the opening.
With thanks to my husband, Desmond, who stood behind every piece.
I read that line three times.
"Is something wrong, Gwyneth?"
I took a pen from her desk and crossed out his name.
"Could you print these again without that sentence?"
I folded the marked card into my bag.
At two the doors opened.
People came and stood in front of my work.
They asked how I had dyed the indigo panels, and they asked for my number.
Every time footsteps sounded at the entrance, I looked up.
Two thirty came.
Desmond did not.
When the last visitor left I checked my phone.
No missed calls, only one text.
Don't wait up for dinner.
Then I opened Cilla's newest post.
She stood on the terrace of a white house on the lake with her arm around Desmond's waist, and he was holding up a set of keys.
Some men never disappoint.
I saved the picture.
He had left my opening to win a bet he thought was funny.
I decided right there I would never ask him for anything again.
Then my phone rang.
It was my mother.
"Mom? What's wrong?"
All I heard was breathing.
"Gwyn," she said, and the word came out thick and slow.
"I can't... my legs won't..."
"Mom, where are you? Stay where you are!"
"My hand, Gwyn. My hand."
Something heavy hit a floor.
"Mom!"
The line stayed open.
I shouted her name until my throat tore, and nobody answered.
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