The Wife He Called No One

I pushed open the heavy mahogany door of the master bedroom. It was past two in the morning. The house was quiet, too quiet.

Eloise stood in the center of her walk-in closet. A single, battered black suitcase lay open on the carpet. She folded a gray sweater and placed it inside.

"What are you doing?" I asked, stepping into the room.

She did not turn around. "Packing."

I walked closer, my eyes scanning the open luggage. Three faded sweaters. Two pairs of jeans. The thin beige cashmere scarf she wore to the gala. A small stack of paperback books.

"Where is the rest of it?" I asked.

"This is it," she replied, picking up a small, worn photo album from the shelf.

I looked at the racks of designer dresses, the rows of unworn shoes, the velvet jewelry boxes sitting untouched on the vanity. "You are leaving all of this?"

"I am only taking what belongs to me."

Sophia had asked for the heirloom ring this morning. She wanted it resized. I told her I would get it from Eloise tonight. But looking at the meager pile of belongings in that suitcase, the words caught in my throat.

Eloise placed the album into the suitcase. The leather cover was cracked, the edges fraying.

I reached out and grabbed it before she could zip the bag shut.

"Give that back," she said, her voice entirely flat.

I flipped the cover open.

The first page held a single, faded photograph. A snowy night. Vermont. The outskirts of a dark forest. A teenage girl stood in the freezing wind, wrapping her own cashmere coat around a boy lying unconscious in the snow.

The boy was me. Ten years ago.

The girl's face was half-hidden by a beige scarf. The exact same scarf sitting in the suitcase right now.

My chest tightened. The air in the closet suddenly felt too thin.

"Where did you get this photo?" I demanded, my voice rough.

Eloise reached out and calmly pulled the album from my grip. "I am here to take what is mine. The house is yours and Sophia's."

I grabbed her wrist. The bone felt fragile under my fingers.

"This photo," I said, pointing at the closed album in her hand. "The girl in this photo. Is this you?"

She twisted her arm, breaking my hold. She did not look angry. She looked empty.

"Does it matter?" she asked, dropping the album back into the suitcase. "Your heart only has room for one Sophia."

She zipped the bag. The metal teeth locked together with a sharp, final sound.

"Eloise, answer the question," I said, stepping into her path.

She grabbed the handle, ignoring me completely. She walked out of the closet, pulling the suitcase behind her. The wheels rattled against the hardwood floor of the bedroom.

I followed her down the grand staircase. The house echoed with the sound of her leaving.

She reached the foyer. She stopped near the front door.

I thought she was going to turn around. I thought she would explain.

Instead, she looked at the small console table near the entrance.

"One more thing, Adrian," she said, her back still facing me. "The pearls from your cufflink. I found all seven that night. They are in the porcelain dish."

She opened the heavy oak door and walked out into the cold night.

I stared at the closed door. My heart pounded against my ribs.

I rushed to the console table. I looked down at the small, decorative porcelain dish.

Seven white pearls rested perfectly in the center.

Three months ago. The rain. The argument in the study. I threw the cufflinks against the wall. They shattered, scattering across the floor and out the door.

She had knelt on the wet concrete steps for forty minutes. Searching for them.

My hand hovered over the dish. My fingers began to shake.