Chapter 1 - THE CLOTHES ON THE MARBLE FLOORMy marriage did not end when Brenda Ross threw my clothes down her staircase.
It ended when my husband watched her do it.
There were eleven people in the house.
Every one of them saw.
My wrist was wrapped in a thick white bandage from the base of my thumb halfway up my forearm. Two days earlier, I'd burned it pulling a roasting pan from Brenda's oven after a wet mitt slipped against the metal handle.
Urgent care called it a partial-thickness burn.
Keep it clean.
Keep it dry.
No soaking it in dishwater.
That Saturday, Brenda hosted another family dinner at her mansion in Winnetka, Illinois.
I cooked most of it anyway.
Chicken.
Potatoes.
Green beans.
Two casseroles Chloe insisted we needed because “the Rosses don't serve people one starch.”
After dinner, Brenda pointed at the kitchen.
“Those dishes won't wash themselves.”
I lifted my bandaged wrist.
“I can't put this in water.”
Chloe was sitting at the dining table drinking wine.
She laughed.
“Use the other hand.”
“I've been cooking with the other hand for six hours.”
Brenda's expression changed.
Not anger exactly.
Offense.
“You are staying under my roof.”
Luke and I had been there for nineteen days because a pipe burst in the unit above my Gold Coast condo and damaged our ceiling and part of the electrical system.
My condo.
Purchased five years before I married Luke.
Temporarily uninhabitable while contractors repaired it.
Brenda had offered us two guest rooms.
I had thanked her repeatedly.
Apparently gratitude had an expanding definition.
“I'll load the dishwasher tomorrow,” I said. “Or Luke can do it tonight.”
My husband looked up from his phone.
That was apparently treason.
Brenda walked upstairs.
I thought the argument was over.
Then my blue sweater landed in the foyer.
A hanger hit the marble.
My jeans followed.
Then shoes.
A toiletry bag.
A stack of folded shirts came apart in the air.
“What are you doing?”
Brenda stood halfway up the staircase.
“If one burned hand keeps you from serving this family, then get out tonight.”
Nobody moved.
Chloe smiled.
Luke stood near the dining-room doorway with his arms folded.
“Luke?”
He avoided my eyes.
Brenda threw another bundle.
My wedding photograph came with it.
The frame hit the marble.
Glass cracked across our smiling faces.
Something inside me became very quiet.
Brenda pointed down.
“Leave the apartment keys too. Chloe deserves that place more than you do.”
That stopped me.
“What?”
Chloe's smile widened.
She had separated from her boyfriend three weeks earlier and was staying with Brenda.
The Gold Coast condo had two bedrooms and a view of Lake Michigan.
Apparently everyone except me had been discussing where she should live.
“That apartment is mine.”
Brenda laughed.
“You're married to my son.”
“That does not put Chloe on my deed.”
Luke finally spoke.
“Hannah, don't make this worse.”
I stared at him.
“My mother is throwing my clothes down a staircase.”
“Stay with a friend for a few days.”
He swallowed.
“Then apologize.”
I don't remember picking up my handbag.
I remember my burned wrist throbbing.
I remember the broken photograph.
And I remember deciding not to collect every piece of clothing.
They could remain where Brenda had thrown them.
I bent carefully and picked up only the papers that had fallen from my bag.
One was an urgent-care instruction sheet.
Another was a contractor estimate.
The third was an envelope I'd opened twenty minutes before dinner.
I hadn't understood it then.
It was from Lakefront Meridian Bank.
Verification required regarding residential-secured credit application.
I slipped it back into my handbag.
Then I looked at Luke.
“Whose loan?”
His face changed.
Just slightly.
“What?”
I left.
A week later, sitting at my friend Dana's kitchen table, I received the full application.
Requested loan amount:
$2,200,000.
Collateral:
My Gold Coast condo.
Borrower authorization:
My name.
And at the bottom of page seventeen was a signature that looked almost exactly like mine.
Almost.
I stared at it until my burned hand began shaking.
Then my phone rang.
Luke.
First call from him in seven days.
I answered.
His opening words were:
“Can we talk about coming home?”
May you like
I looked at the forged signature.
“Funny you should call.”
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