Chapter 3
Monday morning, 9:00 AM. The coffee shop on Main Street buzzed with the post-school-drop-off crowd—an army of athleisure-clad mothers clutching their coffees.
I spotted Lisa at our usual corner table.
"You look like hell," she said without preamble as I slid into the chair across from her.
I replied, "Thanks. That's exactly what every woman wants to hear."
Lisa's expression softened. "Jen, honey, I've been debating whether to say anything for weeks. But after yesterday's game..."
I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup, needing the warmth. "Tell me."
"It's probably nothing. Just... the way Tom and Coach Amy were looking at each other. The way she lit up when he approached the sideline." Lisa paused, studying my face. "And then Margaret mentioned seeing them at Greenwich Café last Tuesday. Together. Alone."
Tuesday. Tom had told me he was meeting investors in Stamford.
"How long?" My voice came out barely above a whisper.
Lisa responded, "I don't know. But Jen, the other moms are starting to talk. And if we're noticing..."
If the soccer mom surveillance network had picked up on it, the secret was already blown wide open.
Susan Morrison's living room was a shrine to good taste and better wine.
The monthly book club gathered around her restored farmhouse coffee table, discussing this month's selection—ironically, a novel about marital deception.
But nobody was really talking about the book.
"Speaking of new beginnings," Susan said, refilling her wine glass, "has anyone seen Amy Richardson's new place? Waterfront view!"
Margaret nearly choked on her Chardonnay. "On a teacher's salary? She must have gotten a raise... or a generous benefactor."
The room went quiet.
"Maybe she's just good with money management," I offered innocently, playing the loyal wife defending another woman's success.
"Money management," Carol snorted. "Honey, I've seen the rent listings for Harbor Point. Four grand minimum. Unless she's tutoring kids for a thousand an hour..."
Four thousand dollars a month. My mind immediately went to Tom's recent "business expansion" expenses. The mysterious line items I'd noticed on our credit card statements.
The Greenwich Coffee House smelled like expensive espresso and old money. My friend Rachel sat across from me, her laptop displaying property listings that could fund my grocery budget for a year.
"So how's Tom's latest philanthropic phase going?" I asked, stirring my cappuccino with studied casualness.
Rachel laughed. "Tom's been quite the sports philanthropist lately. Very generous with youth programs."
I said, "That's my husband, always supporting the community."
"Though between us," Rachel lowered her voice, "spending that much on soccer coaching seems... excessive for business purposes. I mean, forty thousand just this quarter?"
Forty thousand dollars. My hand trembled around my coffee cup.
"And he's been very interested in the Harbor Point listings lately. Keeps asking about rental properties for 'out-of-town clients.'" Rachel's expression grew knowing. "Funny thing about out-of-town clients—they usually prefer hotels."
Main Street Starbucks again, but this time I wasn't meeting anyone. I was hunting.
Tom had left the house at 10:30, claiming he needed to meet a client about a "quick commercial property walk-through." But his Tesla was parked outside the coffee shop, and through the window, I could see him at a corner table.
With Amy.
I slipped into my car across the street, adjusting the rearview mirror for a perfect view. They weren't just talking business. Amy was wearing a new Tiffany & Co. bracelet that caught the light as she gestured, and Tom was holding her hand across the table like they were teenagers on a first date.
Amy pulled out her phone, showing him pictures. Even from this distance, I could see Tom nodding approvingly. She was showing him the apartment. His investment.
"The new place looks perfect. You deserve the best." Tom's voice carried through the open window as they exited together.
Amy beamed up at him. "You're so good to me. I never thought I could live somewhere so beautiful."
Tom glanced around nervously before leaning closer. "Just promise me you'll be careful about... you know, keeping things quiet."
Keeping things quiet. Like this was some minor indiscretion instead of the systematic destruction of our marriage.
Saturday evening, 8:30 PM. Harbor Point Apartments rose from the Saugatuck River like a monument to Connecticut luxury. I'd followed Amy's car through the tree-lined streets, my headlights off, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Her parking spot was clearly assigned, clearly permanent. And right next to it, gleaming under the security lights, sat Tom's Tesla.
Not a quick visit. Not a business meeting. He belonged here.
I parked across the street, hidden in the shadows of an old maple. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of a third-floor apartment, I could see them moving around a kitchen that looked like it belonged in Architectural Digest.
Amy was wearing one of my husband's Princeton sweatshirts, the one I'd been looking for all week. Tom stood behind her at the stove, his arms wrapped around her waist, pressing kisses to her neck.
They looked like lovers. They looked like a couple. They looked like what Tom and I used to be, before sixteen years of marriage and parenthood had worn us down to polite strangers.
My phone buzzed. A text from Tom: [Working late on Henderson project. Don't wait up. Love you.]
I stared at the message, then at the warm glow of their perfect little love nest. Forty thousand dollars of my money. My husband's arms around another woman. My daughter calling her "Coach Amy" with stars in her eyes.
I typed back: [Love you too. See you tomorrow.]
I sat there in my dark car, watching my husband with a woman.
I started my car and drove home through the empty streets, past the perfectly manicured lawns and the houses full of sleeping families. Past the life I'd thought I had.
By the time I pulled into my driveway, I'd made my decision.