Liv Constantine - The Last Mrs. Parrish

He raised his eyebrows and studied me for a long moment. “Really? When was that?”

“That’s not the point. What I’m getting at is that you don’t have to go through my things as though I’m a child. What I’ve packed is fine.”

He threw his hands up in surrender. “Fine. Have it your way. But don’t come crying to me when you realize you’re wildly underdressed compared to the other women.”

I strode past him, zipped my case, and flung it to the floor. “See you downstairs.” I went to pick it up when he stopped me.

“Daphne.”

I turned around. “What?”

“Leave it. We have help for that.” Then he shook his head and muttered something under his breath.

I picked it up. I still hadn’t gotten used to all these people underfoot, waiting to do for me what I could easily do for myself. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own suitcase.” I stormed into the study and poured myself a glass of whiskey. Throwing it back in one swig, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. It burned going down, but then I felt a calmness pervade me and thought, So this is how people become alcoholics . Walking to the window, I drank in the water view, and it settled what was left of my jangling nerves.

I was learning that emotional intimidation could be just as unsettling as physical. Little things had begun to grate on his nerves, and despite my best efforts to please him, nothing was ever good enough. I’d chosen the wrong wineglass or left a damp towel on the wood table. Maybe it would be that I’d forgotten my hair dryer on the counter. What made it even more difficult to live with was the uncertainty. Which Jackson was I talking to now? The one with the easy laugh and charming smile that put everyone at ease? Or the one with the scowl and critical tone who let me know with just one look that I had done something else to disappoint him? He was a chameleon, his transitions so quick and seamless they left me breathless at times. And now he didn’t even think I had the ability to pack my own suitcase.

A hand on my shoulder startled me.

“I’m sorry.”

I didn’t turn around or answer him.

He began to massage my shoulders, moving closer until his mouth was on my neck, and his lips sent quivers down my spine. I didn’t want to respond, but my body had other ideas.

“You can’t talk to me like that. I’m not one of your minions.” I pulled away.

“I know. You’re right. I’m sorry. This is all a little new for me.”

“Me as well. Still…” I shook my head.

He stroked my cheek. “You know that I adore you. I’m used to being in charge. Give me some time to adjust. Let’s not have this fight spoil our trip.” He kissed me again, and I felt myself respond. “I’m really more interested in what you’re not wearing this weekend.”

So I let it go, and off we went.

We were both in good moods by the time we arrived, and when we entered the sumptuous suite, with deep-red carpets and walls, thick gray draperies, and ornate mirrors and paintings, I felt like I’d stepped back in time. It was enormous and formal and a bit intimidating. There was a dining room table that could seat ten, a formal living room, and three bedrooms. Suddenly I wondered if I had packed the right clothes.

“It’s beautiful, but why do we need such a large suite? It’s just us.”

“Only the best for you. I wasn’t going to have us cramped in a little room. Is that what you did when you came here?”

I tried to picture the rooms I’d seen on the website and waved my hand dismissively. “I stayed in a regular room.”

“Really? And when was that again?”

He was looking at me with an amused expression, but his eyes — his eyes were angry.

“What difference does it make?”

“You know, I had a best friend. We used to do everything together from the time we were kids. When we were in college, we were supposed to go on a camping trip with his family. He called me the night before and canceled — said he was sick. I found out on Monday that he’d been at a local bar with his girlfriend.” He was pacing now. “Do you know what I did?”

“What?”

“I seduced his girlfriend, had her break up with him for me, then I dumped them both.”

My blood ran cold. “That’s horrible. What did the poor girl ever do to you?”

He smiled. “I’m joking about the girl. But I did end the friendship.”

I didn’t know what to believe. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think you’re lying. And if there’s one thing I cannot abide, it’s a liar. Don’t take me for a fool. You’ve never been here before. Admit it now, before it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?” I asked in a voice braver than I felt.

“Too late for me to trust you.”

I burst into tears, and he walked over and put his arms around me.

“I didn’t want you to think I’d never been anywhere nice or been exposed to things you take for granted.”

He lifted my chin and kissed my tears away. “My darling, you don’t ever have to pretend with me. I love being the one to show you new things. You don’t have to try and impress me. I love that everything is new to you.”

“I’m sorry for lying.”

“Promise me it will be the last time.”

“I promise.”

“All right, then. It’s all good. Let’s unpack, and then I’ll show you around.”

As I hung my meager ensembles next to his custom suits and ties, I turned to him with a sinking feeling. “How would you like to do a little shopping after that tour?” I asked.

“Already in the plans,” he answered.

The next two days were wonderful. We went horseback riding, spent hours in the spa, and couldn’t get enough of each other in bed. It was our last day, and just as we were on our way to breakfast, my phone rang. It was my mother.

“Mom?” I could hear in her voice that something was wrong.

“Daphne. I have some bad news. Your fa—” The sound of her crying came over the line.

“Mom! What is it? You’re scaring me.”

“He died, Daphne. Your dad. He’s gone.”

I started to cry. “No, no, no.”

Jackson rushed over and took the phone from me, pulling me to him with the other arm. I couldn’t believe it. How could he be dead? I’d just talked to him last week. I remembered his cardiologist’s warning that his full recovery was far from complete. Jackson held me as I sobbed, and gently led me to the sofa while he packed us up.

We flew straight to the inn and stayed there for the next week. As I watched my father’s casket being lowered into the ground, all I could think about was the day we’d done the same thing for Julie. Despite Jackson’s strong arm around my shoulder and my mother standing next to me, I felt utterly and completely alone.

Jackson wanted kids right away. We’d only been married for six months when he talked me into putting away my diaphragm. I was twenty-seven, he reminded me; it could take a while. I got pregnant the first month. He was delighted, but it took me longer to warm up to the idea. Of course, we had already been tested to make sure he didn’t carry the CF gene. I had the recessive gene, and if he had it as well, we wouldn’t have been able to have a child without the risk of passing on the disease. Even after the doctor’s assurances that we had the all-clear, I still found it hard to get rid of my anxiety. There were plenty of other diseases or birth defects that might await our child, and if I’d learned anything growing up, it was that the worst can and often does happen. I shared my concerns with Jackson over dinner one night.

“What if something’s wrong?”

“We’ll know. They’ll do the testing, and if it isn’t healthy, we’ll terminate.”