Betrayed on April Fool’s Day, I abandoned my husband Chapter 05

Betrayed on April Fool’s Day, I abandoned my husband Chapter 05

“Grab the other end of that root,” Mom instructed, pointing a dirt-stained trowel at the garden bed.

I wrapped my hands around the thick, stubborn weed. I yanked hard. The root snapped, sending a shower of dry soil over my sneakers.

“Got it,” I said, tossing the dead plant into our green wheelbarrow.

“You’re getting your strength back,” Mom noted. She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a streak of brown mud near her hairline.

Before I could answer, the wooden gate creaked open. Mrs. Gable, our next-door neighbor, marched into the yard. She carried a massive woven basket overflowing with bright red tomatoes and green squash.

“Morning, Martha,” Mrs. Gable called out. “I brought the surplus. My garden is entirely out of control this year.”

“You always bring too much, Helen,” Mom laughed, stepping over a pile of mulch.

Mrs. Gable shoved the heavy basket directly into my arms. “Nonsense. Clara looks entirely too skinny. Feed the girl.”

“I’m eating fine, Mrs. Gable,” I told her.

The older woman adjusted her thick wire-rimmed glasses, squinting at my face. “You look better than last week. Less gray around the eyes. City life drains the blood right out of a person.”

“It really does,” I agreed.

“Did you hear about the Miller boy?” Mrs. Gable asked, turning her attention back to my mother. “Eloped with the waitress from the diner. His mother is absolutely furious.”

“You don’t say,” Mom murmured, leaning against the fence.

I carried the heavy basket up the porch steps, leaving the two women to their gossip. The screen door slammed shut behind me. The kitchen smelled like roasted coffee and lemon cleaner.

I set the vegetables on the counter. The small-town chatter outside the window washed over me. It felt incredibly real. Grounded. I wasn’t walking on eggshells anymore. I wasn’t waiting for a harsh critique about my posture or my tone of voice.

I wiped the dirt from my hands and headed upstairs to my childhood bedroom.

A stack of cardboard boxes sat in the corner. Mom had pulled them out of the attic yesterday, claiming I needed to sort through my old junk. I sat cross-legged on the faded rug and pulled open the top flap of the nearest box.

A black spiral-bound book rested on top of old college textbooks.

I pulled it out. The cover was thick with dust. I brushed it off and flipped open the heavy pages.

Charcoal sketches filled the paper. A sleeping tabby cat curled on a windowsill. A street vendor selling apples at the Sunday market. The sharp, jagged profile of a stranger reading on a park bench.

I turned to the middle of the book. A wide, sweeping drawing of the ocean. Maui.

I stared at the rough lines of the waves. I used to spend hours sketching. I loved the feeling of the charcoal dragging across the textured paper.

But Jason hated the mess.

“Charcoal gets on the rugs, Clara,” he used to complain, snatching the pencils from my hands. “Why do you waste your time on scribbles? You’re a corporate wife now. Act like one.”

I closed the book. I had completely forgotten the feeling of a pencil in my hand. He had erased that part of me, too.

I reached deeper into the box. My fingers brushed against soft fabric. I pulled out a bright red floral sundress.

I stood up and held the dress against my chest. It was vibrant. Loud. Everything Jason despised.

I stripped off my baggy gray sweatpants and the oversized sweater. I slipped the red dress over my head and zipped up the side.

I walked over to the full-length mirror attached to the closet door.

I looked at my reflection for a long time. My collarbones showed through the open neckline. The bright red fabric brought a sudden flush of color to my pale skin. I didn’t have any makeup on, and my hair was just tied back in a simple knot, but I looked alive.

I looked like Clara.

My cell phone buzzed on the nightstand, vibrating violently against the wood.

I walked over and checked the screen.

Jason.

He had called thirty times over the past two weeks. I ignored every single one. But today, staring at my reflection in the red dress, a strange sense of calm washed over me. I wasn’t afraid of his voice anymore.

I swiped the green icon and pressed the phone to my ear.

“What do you want, Jason?” I asked.

“Clara.” His voice sounded tight. Strained. “What the hell is going on?”

“I’m busy. Make it quick.”

“My lawyer just left my office,” Jason snapped. “He said your attorney filed the official paperwork this morning.”

“That is how a divorce works.”

“I thought you were throwing a fit!” His breathing grew heavy through the speaker. “Zoe said you’d be back by Monday. She said you were just blowing off steam.”

“Zoe is wrong.”

“You can’t do this, Clara. The papers are sitting right on my desk. You’re actually serious.”

“I signed them in front of you,” I reminded him. “You provided the pen.”

“That was a joke! A stupid prank!” Jason shouted. “You can’t just walk away from three years of marriage over a prank.”

“It wasn’t a prank, Jason. You were sleeping with her.”

He went silent for a fraction of a second. The background noise on his end sounded like pacing footsteps.

“We need to meet,” Jason demanded. “Face to face. I’ll book a flight to Seattle tonight.”

“Don’t bother.”

“I am your husband,” he growled, trying to summon that old, controlling authority. “You will talk to me in person.”

“I will cooperate with the legal procedures,” I said, my tone as flat as if I were negotiating a grocery bill. “My lawyer will handle the assets. There is absolutely no need for us to meet.”

“Clara, wait❖❖❖”

“Do not call this number again.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and tapped the red button. The line went dead.

I blocked his contact entirely.

I tossed the phone onto the bed. A massive weight lifted off my shoulders. I actually smiled. For the first time in years, the corners of my mouth tipped upward without forcing it.

“Clara!” Mom yelled from the bottom of the staircase.

I opened my bedroom door. “Yeah?”

“There’s a courier here for you,” she called up. “He needs a signature.”

I frowned. My lawyer already had all my signed documents.

I walked down the stairs, the hem of my red dress brushing against my calves. Mom stood in the entryway, holding the front door open for a man in a brown delivery uniform.

“Clara Mercer?” the courier asked, holding out an electronic tablet.

“Just Clara,” I corrected. I scribbled my name on the screen.

He handed me a thick, unmarked black envelope. “Have a good day.”

He turned and walked back down the driveway.

“What is that?” Mom asked, wiping her dirt-covered hands on a towel. “More legal forms?”

“I don’t know.”

I slid my finger under the flap and tore it open. A stack of glossy photographs slid out, landing heavy in my palm.

I stared at the top photo.

It was Jason. He was standing in his office, his face pale and twisted in absolute terror.

But he wasn’t alone.

The man in the tailored dark suit❖❖❖the same man from the Oakridge Country Club parking lot❖❖❖sat behind Jason’s mahogany desk. The stranger had his feet propped up on the polished wood, holding Jason’s prized crystal whiskey glass.

I flipped the photo over.

A single sentence was written on the back in sharp, black ink.

“I told you I hated him. Are you ready to talk now?”