My Husband Covered Up My Mother's Death

I found Ensley in the sunroom on Thursday afternoon. She was bent over her worktable, twisting gold wire with the small pliers I'd bought her last Christmas. Four months she'd been working on this piece. Four months of careful, patient hours.

The necklace was almost finished. Tiny birds in flight, each one hand-soldered, their wings spread wide. Raw aquamarine chips caught the light like water. She'd chosen every stone herself at the gem show in Brooklyn, spending two hours examining each piece until she found the ones that felt right.

"It's for the gala," she said without looking up. "The birds are migrating. Going somewhere safe."

I touched her shoulder gently. "It's beautiful, Ens."

She smiled. "Mrs. Whitmore will like it. For the auction."

"She will," I said quietly.

I didn't tell her I'd already decided we wouldn't be here for the next gala. That in two weeks, we'd be somewhere else entirely.

Two days later, I stood in the ballroom of the Plaza and watched Aitana Perez walk through the entrance in a black silk gown that probably cost more than most people's cars.

The necklace was around her throat.

Ensley's birds. The aquamarine catching the chandelier light exactly the way Ensley said it would.

I felt Ensley go still beside me. She was staring across the room, her hands pressed flat against her sides.

"Bella," she whispered. "She took my birds."

I put my hand over hers and squeezed once. Firm. Steady. "I know."

Aitana was holding court near the bar. A small crowd had gathered around her, the way crowds always did. Someone—a woman in emerald green—gestured at the necklace. Aitana touched it lightly and laughed.

"A little atelier in Saint-Germain," I heard her say. "You'd never find it unless you knew where to look."

I didn't move. I just stood there with my hand over Ensley's and watched.

Nathaniel appeared at Aitana's elbow with two glasses of champagne. He handed her one. She leaned into him slightly, the way women do when they're comfortable. When they belong.

Ensley's hand trembled under mine.

"Let's get some air," I said quietly.

I guided her toward the terrace. We stood outside in the cold for a long time. She didn't cry. She just stared at the city lights stretching toward the river.

"I made those," she said finally. "For the auction. For the kids."

The Whitmore Foundation funded art therapy programs for children with traumatic brain injuries. Kids like Ensley.

"I know," I said.

"She said she found it in Paris."

"I know."

Ensley looked at me then. Her eyes were wet but her voice was steady. "You believe me, right? That I made it?"

I pulled her close and pressed my cheek against her hair. "I believe you."

We stayed outside until her hands stopped shaking. Then we went back in and I smiled at all the right people and pretended I didn't see Nathaniel's hand resting on the small of Aitana's back.

Saturday afternoon, Aitana came to the estate.

She brought her dog. A Cane Corso named Duchess—all muscle and teeth and barely contained violence. The kind of dog that made people cross the street.

"She's a sweetheart," Aitana said brightly, leading her through the front door. "Just needs space to run."

Nathaniel was in his study on a call with Singapore. Something about a delayed container shipment. Aitana wandered through the house like she owned it, Duchess's lead loose in her hand.

I was in the kitchen going through the week's meal plan when Aitana appeared in the doorway.

"Come outside," she said. "I want to show you something."

I looked at her. At the dog. At the smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"What is it?"

"A landscaping idea. For the south garden. Come on."

I followed her outside. The air was cold and sharp. My breath made small clouds.

We walked to the rear garden, past the rose beds Nathaniel's mother had planted twenty years ago. Aitana stopped near the stone path that led to the fountain.

"Here," she said, gesturing vaguely at the hedges. "Don't you think—"

She unclipped the lead.

One word. Just one.

Duchess lunged.

I threw my arms up. Instinct. Stupid, useless instinct. The dog's teeth sank into my left forearm first. Hot and deep and tearing. Then my right calf. Then the back of my right hand when I tried to push her away.

I didn't scream. I couldn't. All the air left my lungs at once.

I hit the ground hard. Stone against my spine. Duchess's weight on my chest. Her breath hot and wet against my face.

Then she was pulled back. Aitana's voice, high and panicked: "Duchess! No! Bad girl!"

I lay there bleeding. The sky above was very blue.

Footsteps. Nathaniel's voice. "What the hell happened?"

"She lunged—" Aitana was crying now. Real tears. "I've never seen her do that—Arabella must have frightened her—"

I sat up slowly. Blood was running down my arm, soaking into my sweater. My calf throbbed. The back of my hand looked wrong.

Nathaniel crouched beside me. Not to help. Just to look.

"You must have startled her," he said.

I pressed a folded handkerchief—I always carried one now—against my forearm. The fabric turned red immediately.

"Apologize," Nathaniel said.

I looked at him.

"Apologize to Duchess. You frightened her."

Behind him, Aitana was stroking the dog's head. Her tears had stopped. She was watching me.

Staff had gathered near the garden entrance. Marie, the housekeeper. James, the groundskeeper. All of them staring.

Nathaniel's voice was flat. "Arabella. Apologize."

I got to my knees. The stone was cold and hard. Blood dripped onto it in small dark spots.

I looked at the dog. At Aitana's hand in her fur. At Nathaniel standing over me.

"I'm sorry," I said.

My voice gave away nothing.

Aitana made a soft sound. Forgiveness, I guess. She kissed the top of Duchess's head.

I stood up. My legs shook but they held.

I walked inside. I locked the bathroom door. I ran cold water over the wounds for a long time and watched my face in the mirror until it stopped shaking.

Then I dressed the wounds myself with gauze and medical tape from the cabinet under the sink.

I made dinner that night. Herb-roasted chicken. Roasted vegetables. The meal plan I'd written out that morning.

Nathaniel ate without speaking.

I pressed my fingertips together under the table and counted the days until we left.

Fourteen.

Just fourteen more days.