The Mistaken (15 page)

I was so excited about relocating to Seattle’s
Eastside from the San Francisco Bay Area. We had made several
profitable real estate investments while living in California,
which now afforded us prime housing in an affluent area, but with
the prosperity came a level of pretentiousness I had not foreseen.
While I had made a few friends since moving here five years ago,
mostly the parents of Conner’s friends, I discovered I had little
in common with most of the people who lived around me, and didn’t
care for them. I found them condescending and arrogant, and their
overly-entitled children were spoiled, ungrateful, and often
downright mean.

Before long, I grew isolated and lonely. Even Conner
was unhappy and had requested a transfer to another high school in
the district, but off The Plateau, where he felt the kids were more
down to earth and less obsessed with material wealth. Beckham, in
his quest to achieve everything that would brand him a success,
focused so much on his job that he didn’t notice what was happening
between us. He was clueless about my depression, and that in itself
made me even more detached and remote.

Beck had changed, too, and rarely ever confided in
me. Our sex life was non-existent, though I know my aloofness was
partly to blame. And now, I worried that he carried an additional
cell phone, one he tried to hide. At first, he attempted to pass
the clone off as his regular cell, but I confronted him with my
suspicions.

“
What’s with the new phone?” I
asked when I first made the discovery.

“What new phone would that be, babe?” he said as he
texted a message, without even bothering to look up at me

“Um, the one in your hand…
dear
.”

He snapped me a look like I was mentally unbalanced.
“It’s the same phone I’ve always had…
babe
.”

“No,” I said as I held up his old phone.
“
This
would be the same phone you’ve always had. It’s not
broken, and it still has service. See?” I said, speed dialing my
own phone.

Flustered when my cell rang out, playing his
assigned ringtone, he stammered for an answer. “Oh yeah, that.
Well, uh, it’s nothing really. I just forgot to tell you about it.
It’s from one of my new clients. He wants unlimited access to me at
all times,” he explained, like I was stupid enough to accept his
excuse as even remotely plausible.

“And he doesn’t have that with your regular
cell?”

“Hannah, I’m not going to argue with a new client
and turn down his request. If this is how he wants to do things,
then I’m fine with that. And since it’s clients like him who keep a
roof over your head, food in your belly, and expensive clothes on
your pretty little back,” Beck indicated with a wave of his hand,
“well, I would think you would be fine with it, too.”

Angry, he turned away and concentrated on his
computer screen. In an effort to avoid yet another fight, something
we’d been doing more often of late, I let it go, but I found it
suspicious that Beck’s new phone only vibrated in the evenings and
then he wouldn’t even answer it. He merely checked the screen to
see who was calling. But I could set my watch by the amount of time
it took him to find a task that needed his attention within ten
minutes of each call. Apparently, he didn’t think I noticed, and I
seriously wondered what kind of idiot he took me for.

One evening, Beck carelessly left it on the kitchen
counter and walked out of the room. Curious, I scrolled through
both the call log and phone book, but there was not one single
listing or entry. My nagging worries flamed obsessively at each red
flag. Since he dismissed most of my accusations with the notion
that I was delusional, I felt the only way to know for sure what
was going on with my husband was to hire a private investigator.
Avoiding an easily followed trail on my computer, I found Sam
Tunney in the Yellow Pages and, after a lengthy phone interview, I
hired him.

Sam, a retired Seattle police detective, was a
grizzled, older man with heavily calloused hands and white hair,
neatly combed back from a coarsely wrinkled forehead. His gray eyes
appeared gentle yet keen, missing nothing as they darted around,
evaluating every person nearby. His smile was easy though, and I
liked him at once. Taking his lengthy list of referrals into
consideration, I trusted he would do a good job.

Sam had an easy time digging up dirt on Beck. He
followed my husband around for several weeks, documenting where
Beck went and with whom he met. He snapped a lot of photographs,
telling me they would be the proof I needed should I ever choose to
dissolve the marriage. He even dug back into the last year of
Beck’s travels and interviewed people at the resorts where he had
stayed while away on his many business trips.

After compiling a detailed report, Sam called me in
for a meeting to discuss what he had found. We met at a small
restaurant on Seattle’s Queen Anne Hill where he primed my nerves
with an ample amount of white wine. With more than half a bottle
beneath my belt, Sam spread dozens of photographs out on the table
before me. As my eyes briefly scanned the images, I felt a lump
settle in the pit of my stomach.

“Mrs. Maguire, it looks like your husband’s had
quite a few flings with women he’s met at the resorts where he
stays. This one here,” Sam said as he slid several black and white
photographs over the smooth table, “is a young bartender in Hawaii.
Her name is Leila. She’s kinda quiet. Keeps to herself mostly. But
this one,” another set of pictures slipped before me, “well she’s a
blackjack dealer in Vegas, and a mighty wild one, too, if I do say
so myself. Her name is Julie. There’s also Carla and Adrienne, both
in Palm Springs.” Two more photos were laid out for my perusal.

Except for the bartender in Hawaii, all the women
shared a similar appearance: in their late twenties or early
thirties and trim with fair skin and various shades of red hair.
The lump in my stomach degraded into bile and moved up into my
throat. I placed my hand over my mouth, worried I might be sick
right there.

“But those relationships have cooled down quite a
bit,” Sam informed me. With a deft hand, he stacked up the pictures
and moved them aside. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out
a separate file folder. It was filled with more pictures. “Now this
one here, she’s the gal your husband is seeing right now and has
been for quite a spell.”

He fanned the photographs along the table. Some were
black and white, but most were color. I reached out and lightly
touched my fingers along the images.

“Who is she?” I asked, my voice quivering as the
tears threatened to spill down my hot cheeks. Duly humiliated, my
face flamed with embarrassment.

“That one there’s named Erin, Erin Anderson. She
works at a golf resort down in the Napa Valley. A real high-end,
swanky spa kinda deal, you know. Mostly rich folk.”

“Napa? But a lot of these pictures weren’t even
taken in Napa. I recognize this place,” I said as I pulled out one
snapshot. “That’s Pier 39 in San Francisco. And this one here,” I
singled out another. “Look at the sign. They’re at Heavenly Valley.
Were they skiing?”

Sam bobbed his head. “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid they
were.”

My mouth sagged open. We lived twenty minutes from
the slopes at Snoqualmie Pass, but Beck had never once taken us up
skiing, though Conner and I had asked numerous times. I threw the
picture back down and poked through the others. Some were taken on
the golf course, others at the beach. Every shot showed them living
it up playfully, their arms often locked around each other. They
were all taken from a distance which made it difficult to see the
woman’s features clearly. My fingers trembled at my lips as I
scanned all the images.

Sam pulled out a few more color photographs. They
were close-up shots of Beck and Erin Anderson. I gasped at the new
pictures lying on the table. Staring back at me was my husband with
a look of love and adoration for the girl next to him, a girl who,
strangely enough, looked remarkably like me. I singled out one of
the photos and brought it closer to inspect. I rubbed away the
tears that blurred my vision and studied the face on the paper.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, slowly running my finger
along her profile.

Erin and I both had long, dark auburn hair,
similarly textured with a natural glossy wave. Our eyes were both
green, though different shades, but they were shaped roughly the
same, as were our faces, both triangular with a sharp jaw and
delicately pointed chin. Her mouth was different though. Her upper
lip was considerably thinner while her bottom lip pouted
unnaturally. Collagen injections would be my guess. And though she
was slightly slimmer and somewhat more athletic in form, we were of
comparable height and weight. Only one thing made us different:
this girl was considerably younger, by at least ten years. This, in
itself, was what upset me most, for I believed Beck had found a
replacement for me, a new and improved model. Beck looked sincerely
happy and in love.

Nausea rolled up from my stomach and made my head
spin. In my hand was evidence of another life that Beck was
leading, an affirmation that my life, as I had always known it, was
about to change forever. I gathered up all the pictures and threw
them into the folder. I grabbed my bag and pushed the straps over
my shoulder with trembling ice-cold fingers then held out my
hand.

“Thank you, Sam.”

He shook it, looking at me with pity. “Mrs. Maguire,
I’m real sorry—”

“No, no, Sam. It’s okay. Really. I had a feeling
this was going on. That’s why I hired you.” I gave him a brittle
smile and pulled my hand away. “I have to go. You know…Conner, my
son…he’s…you know…I’m sorry. I really must go. Send me your bill
when you’re ready.”

I escaped to my car where I cried for forty minutes.
I kept glancing over at the folder lying on the seat next to me. My
God, I was such a fool. I realized too late the mistakes I’d made
with Beck, and that I had let him slip through my fingers out of
negligence. Before all this, I never once suspected that he looked
elsewhere for what he lacked at home, mostly because I had never
thought of doing so myself. I felt as though the earth beneath me
had evaporated, leaving me nothing on which to steady myself. My
identity was obliterated into a million pieces and blown away.
After all, who was I if not Mrs. Beckham Maguire?

My head was swimming. I could no longer just sit
there with the evidence of Beck’s infidelity beside me. I needed to
figure out my next move. I wanted to have everything in place and
planned out before he left me. I would need my own bank accounts
and credit cards in my name only.

Of course, I thought about just divorcing him and
sucking him dry, but I also wondered how this would all play out. I
pulled out one of the close-up shots of Beck and Erin and stared at
it. Would Beck really consider leaving his family for a younger
version of me? Perhaps he would tire of this girl. Was there any
hope of salvaging my old life, and did I even want that life, such
as it was? How much did I really love him if I had allowed this to
happen in the first place?

It was too much for me to just give up without
really knowing where I stood. I figured Beck’s loyalty to me
correlated directly with how much he felt for this girl, or at
least, how much she felt for him. I needed to see them together. I
wanted to talk to this girl myself, to see if she knew about me and
Conner, and find out what her intentions were. Maybe this was just
a fling for the both of them, or perhaps I was being set up for a
big fall.

Determined to protect myself, I drove home and
scoured the Internet. I found and hired an attorney to help get my
affairs in order, in case I did decide to file for divorce in the
future. I also made arrangements for Conner to stay with a friend
so I could take a short swing down to Napa, California. Beck was
planning another business trip there over the weekend. I wanted to
see for myself just how in love Beck and this girl really were.

And if given the opportunity, I would have a few
words with her myself.

Chapter
Sixteen

Hannah

Nervous tension coursed through me during the short
flight from SeaTac down to Oakland, California. I couldn’t help but
think that I was somehow pulling at the very thread that would
unravel my life. But no matter the qualms that plagued me, my
resolve to see it through remained intact, so I rented a car and
located the resort in Napa where my husband usually stayed and Erin
Anderson was currently employed. Beck was supposed to return home
in two days which gave me enough time to either find them together
or question the girl alone. Either way, the next time Beck and I
saw each other, all the cards would be laid on the table, and I
would have to make a decision.

Armed with one of Sam’s photographs, I walked around
the lobby searching for Erin. Quite a few people turned and stared
at me, which was unnerving, but I surmised they were employees who
saw the strong resemblance between us. I checked the bar and
restaurant but found no sign of her. Since I had made no headway on
my own, I decided to check with one of the bartenders, a
good-looking young man who barely looked old enough for the
job.

I held up the photo for him to see. “Excuse me.
Where might I find this woman?”

He glanced briefly at the photo then assessed me
from head to toe, his attention freezing on my face. “You her
sister?” he asked.

“No, I’m not.”

“Are you family then? You look so much alike.”

“Yes, I do realize that, but no, we aren’t
related.”

“Oh, well then I’m sorry, but I can’t give out any
information.”

“Why is that?”