My Husband Kissed His Pregnant Mistress While 200 Women Waited for My Marriage Advice novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: No Slides

In the hotel bar Joanna tells the women the truth. A woman says she paid four thousand dollars for private coaching Joanna never offered.

Miles insisted on coming with me.

"I'm not staying home alone," he said. "Also, I'm hungry."

We got to the Bellhaven Harbor Hotel a little before ten.

The lobby was full of women in coats, and nobody was going home.

Marcy met us at the doors with her headset hanging off one ear.

"Refund emails are out," she said. "Every single one. Nobody has left anyway."

"Why not?"

"Go and see."

The hotel bar was a long room with low amber lamps and a view of the harbor.

Two hundred women had fitted themselves into it, on stools and sofas and the arms of chairs.

When I walked in, the talking stopped.

I stood by the piano with my hands empty. I had no microphone, no slides and no notes.

"I'm sorry," I said. "You paid to hear a professional, and you got a mess."

A woman in a green coat shook her head.

"We came because we didn't know what else to do about our own," she said. "Then we watched you do the one thing none of us can."

"Walk off a stage?"

"Say it out loud."

Somebody laughed, and then half the room did.

It was tired laughter, but it was real.

Miles slid into a chair near the door. A waiter set a hot chocolate in front of him without being asked.

I looked at the faces in front of me.

"I'm going to tell you the truth, because it's the only thing I have left that's worth anything," I said. "I've been a therapist for sixteen years. I told couples that a marriage is saved by showing up, every day, on purpose."

I swallowed.

"My husband has been showing up at this hotel for four months, to a suite on my credit card. And I knew something was wrong for a year."

Nobody spoke.

"I told myself it was stress. I told myself I'd fix it with a date night and a better listening exercise. I did what I teach, and I did it to the wrong person."

A woman near the front wiped her eyes.

"My husband took our savings to a boat," she said. "I stayed three more years."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not asking you to be."

"Then what are you asking?"

She smiled, thin and fierce. "Are you going to be okay?"

That was nearly my undoing.

I pressed my fingers against my mouth, and the room waited.

"I don't know yet," I said. "Ask me in a week."

Someone cheered, a lone voice at the back, and then a few more.

A tray of coffee appeared at my elbow.

The man carrying it wore a charcoal suit and a hotel badge that said MANAGEMENT.

He was in his mid-forties, with dark hair going grey at the temples.

He set the tray down with no fuss.

"Mrs. Wexford. Abram Frayne. I run the hotel."

"Mr. Frayne. I'm sorry about the noise."

"The bar's making more money tonight than it has all month." He said it flatly, but he glanced at the women and not at me. "Take the coffee. It's on the house, and so is the room until you're finished."

I noticed his left hand when he poured.

There was a pale band of skin on his ring finger where a ring had been for years.

"I can't accept that," I said.

"Then pay for the coffee," he said. "Two dollars a cup, and I'll bill your office."

I laughed, for the first time that night, and he nodded and stepped back to the wall.

The women crowded closer.

They asked me real things, not for advice but for company. How did you decide? Did you cry first or after? What do you tell your kids?

I answered every one of them.

At midnight a woman with silver hair and a tote bag full of binders raised her hand.

"I'm sorry to bring up money, Dr. Wexford. But I want to ask before I lose my nerve."

"Go ahead."

"Your husband called me last month. He said you were taking on a few private clients in a coaching package, four thousand dollars for eight sessions, and I'd been chosen." She hugged her tote bag. "I paid by wire. Twelve of us did."

My stomach dropped.

"What did you say?"

"I said I'd paid. He said the first session would be after the launch. Tonight." She looked at me. "That's why I'm here. Did you really never offer it?"

"I don't do private coaching," I said. "I never have."

The room went still, and Miles stood up in the doorway.

"Mom," he said quietly. "I saw a list on Dad's laptop. Twelve names and a column of dollar amounts."

"Did you read it?"

"I thought it was your payroll," he said. "It isn't, is it?"

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