What's Not Said Read online

  “Annie, cool it. Chris is here. In Waltham. It’s Mike. He’s in the hospital.”

  “What the hell? Hospital? What hospital? He had a heart attack when you told him, didn’t he? I knew it.”

  Kassie chuckled, raising her eyebrows. “No, not yet, anyway. I haven’t told him.”

  “Okay, from the beginning. Don’t leave out a single detail.”

  Kassie filled her in starting with taking Mike to Boston Clinic Thursday night, the short doctor, and most of all, Mike’s chronic kidney disease, which he had never told her about.

  “How did you not know? Shame on you, Bad Bad Kassie.”

  “Stop that. What, now I’m to blame? I’ve been a little preoccupied the last few years, you know, with my mom and all.”

  “And all, meaning Chris.”

  “Sure, Chris is part of it, but I have a life besides Chris, besides Mike. My career and stuff. Are you getting all moral on me, too?”

  “Too?”

  “Chris thinks it’s ironic I’m angry at Mike for lying about his kidney thing when I’ve been lying to him about my Chris thing.”

  “He has a point.”

  “I don’t have time for that now. I’ve gotta pick up some things for Mike and get to the hospital.”

  “Are we still on for dinner tomorrow? You still going to let me meet Mr. Wonderful?”

  “Can’t see why not? Mike’s in the hospital until Monday. Let’s make it early. How about Tryst’s in Arlington at five? We’ll need a reservation. It’s Easter.”

  “Tryst’s. How appropriate. I’ll make the reservation.”

  Kassie went into the downstairs bathroom to pee. Bingo! There it was sitting on the back of the toilet bowl. Did Teresa leave the book there accidentally, or did she put it in there for Mr. Mike’s convenience? Maybe Teresa knew more about Mike than Kassie did.

  What else did Mike want? His phone. She found it on the antique desk in his den. It’d been idle since Thursday. She booted it; the battery displayed a sliver of red. Clearly on life-support. It hadn’t been charged in what two, three days? She had to find his charger. Gracious. His desk needed some serious Container Store help, unlike his bureau. Kassie shuffled green and red folders around, lifted a stack of books, a mound of paper, but no sign of the charger.

  There she was again, in uncharted territory. Though he had never told her to stay out of his desk, she’d considered it, like his bureau, Mike’s domain. Until now, she’d never had a reason to go there. She assumed there was an unstated, mutual understanding, and Mike stayed out of her desk and bureau, as well. Nevertheless, to be on the safe side, Kassie refrained from storing photos, notes, itineraries— any incriminating evidence—in her home desk in case Mike became suspicious and nosy.

  There were six drawers in the desk, three on each side. She sat in his overstuffed black leather chair so high off the floor her feet dangled, just like Lilly Tomlin’s Edith Ann.

  She started on the left. Each drawer screeched like fingernails on a chalkboard as Kassie slid it open. The wooden drawers must have warped. Nothing a little WD40 couldn’t silence. Lots of papers, folders, pens, normal office supplies. No sign of the charger.

  She moved to the right. Same deal on the noise and contents. Finally, she found the charger in the bottom drawer which was empty, except for a white envelope underneath the charger.

  Figuring that it was remnants of a utility bill or some such thing, Kassie flipped it over. The return address read, Dr. Richard Peters, Urology Associates, Massachusetts Avenue, Arlington, MA. She looked inside. Empty. That’s odd. So was the doctor’s name. What parents would do that to their child? But of course he’d end up being a urologist. Maybe that was their grand plan all along.

  Kassie returned the envelope where and how she’d found it, having no desire to spend any more time than necessary rifling through Mike’s things. But she had to find his office keys. The Brooks Brothers bag she’d given him two years ago for his birthday at his request leaned against the side of the desk.

  “To be the best, might as well have the best,” he’d said. So she humored him.

  Mike was all about image. Sometimes when a client visited his office, he’d have Jaylene, one of the account executives, bring in her mink coat and hang it in her cubicle in plain sight.

  “It shouts success.” Mike rationalized if one of his people could afford a mink, it reflected on him and his firm. He never considered the client might be a PETA activist. Nevertheless, Jaylene did what he asked. As did all of his employees.

  Kassie picked through all four pockets of the four-hundred-dollar bag. Some gum, mints, tissue, and loose change. Ooh money. A fifty. She could use a fifty. She hadn’t had time to go to the ATM. Leave it. She made a mental note to stop at the bank.

  After piling the Wall St. Journal and a few folders on the chair, she found the burnt-orange carabiner with a bunch of keys in the bottom of the case. She took all the things he requested and dropped them on the kitchen counter. She would not be called useless again.

  Nearby the sound of a truck started and stopped and started and stopped. The mail. She headed down the driveway, making another mental note to get the new Charlestown address so she’d be able to give the post office forwarding instructions.

  “Hello, Mrs. Ricci. Double mail today with yesterday a holiday—”

  “Hi, Tom. Thank you. Happy Easter!” Tom had been their mailman ever since they moved there. She never asked him to call her Ms. O’Callaghan, or even Kassie, though she should have. Soon it wouldn’t matter.

  On the way back to the house, she noticed something blue and white hanging on her front doorknob. A FedEx delivery notice addressed to her. It was too late in the day to get them to bring whatever it was back, and tomorrow was Sunday. No sender’s name, just a zip code. She looked it up on her cellphone. Newburyport. Her mother’s attorney? She shoved the slip into her purse to handle Monday.

  What else? She checked the fridge for anything past its prime. Yogurt, cheese, overripe strawberries, and grapes, and then she took out the trash. She’d be back at the house Monday, in time to put the garbage and recycling bins out. Normally Mike’s job. Under the circumstances, she expected she’d be doing it rather than establishing new household routines with Chris, which would’ve been her preference.

  Kassie did a fly-by around the first floor, ensuring lights were off, the sliding doors to the back porch locked. The house looked shipshape. She shook her head in approval of Teresa’s performance. A-plus as usual. She took good care of them. Unlike her daughter, Amelia, who filled in for her mother occasionally. Amelia paid little attention to details, displaying instead a slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am approach to house cleaning.

  Kassie tossed Mike’s phone and charger in her purse and grabbed his keys intending to toss them in as well, but stopped. His key ring seemed heavier than her carabiner. There were five individual large rings with keys and tags hanging off them. Car key. House key. Office keys. A bunch of membership tags from places he frequented, like CVS, Wegman’s, Boston Library, Ace Hardware. And two small keys she couldn’t identify.

  Kassie raced out of the kitchen almost falling over Topher. “Move!” She stumbled up the stairs, her heart rate increasing with each step.

  Without hesitation, Kassie opened the bottom drawer of Mike’s bureau and put the metal strongbox on the bed. No time to have a conscience. She fumbled trying to locate the little keys among all the crap on his key ring. Clunk.

  “Damn.” She picked up the carabiner and flipped through the keys again. She swallowed so hard both ears popped. Her mouth void of saliva. Her hands shook as she inserted one of the keys in the lock. It wouldn’t turn. She held her breath and tried the other. The key fit like the backing on a pierced earring, and it turned.

  16

  Key Note Address

  This time Kassie took the money. She didn’t know why, but she knew she couldn’t leave it. As she put the money on the bed, Topher pounced to see what all the excitement was abou
t. She shooed him onto the chaise lounge.

  “Stay there, big guy.” She coddled him. “Mommy’s busy.”

  Stacked neatly with a thick yellow rubber band, it didn’t seem to be a lot of money. She fanned it, like they do in the movies. All Benjamins. He’d graduated from fifties.

  Kassie counted it once. Twice. And one more time to be sure. Easy math. Why was Mike hiding fifty-two hundred dollars in his bureau?

  She joined Topher on the chaise, at least she tried. Leaning up against the back and fully outstretched, Topher occupied most of the long seat cushion. Kassie claimed an empty spot on the edge still holding the loot in one hand, slapping it onto the palm of the other.

  She closed the box, locked it for who knows why as there was nothing left in it, and returned it to his bureau. She took the money and the keys and headed for the stairs. Wait a minute. Not so fast.

  Two keys. One fit, one didn’t. She searched his bureau again but found nothing that needed a key. No boxes or padlocks, no diaries. What a hoot if Mike kept a diary. She couldn’t imagine it. If he did, it would most likely be in Italian taking for granted Kassie would never be able to translate it.

  Kassie walked into his closet. She was greeted by a sea of khaki, navy, white, black, with a sprinkle of pastels that broke the monotony. Organized to a tee, Mike’s pants and shirts were aligned like soldiers and arranged by color, season, and function. She’d always teased him it was Garanimals for adults. He’d reserved the closet floor for shoes she’d asked him to keep in the downstairs closet. If she weren’t planning on leaving, she’d have Teresa move them there where they belonged. Now it didn’t matter.

  The upper shelf was home to his porn and pot, stored in an opaque plastic box with a tomato red top. She didn’t have to open it. Mike had shown it to her years before, probably in a rare moment trying to seduce her. She’d declined to take part in either activity. Not her scene.

  Back downstairs to Mike’s den, she rummaged through his desk, swiped a new envelope to house the cash, and did a quick look-see in the closet. Nothing, nada. Maybe the garage.

  Kassie stood with her hands on her hips staring in disbelief. What a mess. The state of his workbench mirrored the top of his desk. Probably because Teresa cleaned all the common areas and because Kassie was a neat freak about the house and her own possessions, she’d never noticed what a pig Mike was, or maybe had become, about some things anyway. Not quite obsessive-compulsive, but Kassie embodied one of her mother’s favorite sayings, “A place for everything, and everything in its place.” She picked up a hammer and a screwdriver. She put them inside the large gray toolbox, out of Mike’s easy reach. He would never harm her, not physically anyway. Just the same.

  The afternoon slipped away from her. It was almost four, and she still needed to get to Mike’s office and the hospital. Before leaving the house, she counted to fifty-two while washing her hands. What a cluster.

  For once Kassie applauded Mike for insisting they buy a home just ten minutes from his office.

  “Commuting is a time-waster. And wasted time means wasted profits.” Mike’s words nagged her like a recurring nightmare. She could compile a book of Mike’s favorite sayings as a parting gift and see if she could profit from the time she’d dedicated to their crumbled marriage.

  She’d already decided that she would not let on that she’d found his hidden money. For now, it would be her secret. She had about forty-eight hours to figure how to tell him and find enough courage to demand he come clean.

  What if it wasn’t his? Could he be holding it for someone else? Maybe Bill. She knew Bill had had an affair, maybe more than one. Mike hadn’t told her about Bill. Another secret he’d kept. She’d learned about it from his wife, Nancy, who had confided that she’d suspected Bill for a while. All the overnight trips to New York City. And then she saw a text from someone named Stella with heart emojis.

  “Do you ever send texts with hearts to your male co-workers?” Nancy asked through her tears.

  “Can’t say that I do. The middle digit occasionally.” Kassie tried to lighten the mood, while stifling the urge to reveal her own infidelity. No matter how juicy her story, telling Nancy about Chris wouldn’t help her feel better, even though women loved to gossip, or so they say, whoever they were.

  Instead she and Nancy spent over two weeks together having coffee and lunch plotting how to get Bill back. The internet provided a treasure trove of explicit videos and advice, some of which Nancy adopted and put into quick action. Folks on the internet sure knew what they were talking about. Bill was back. Better than ever. Nancy couldn’t thank Kassie enough. She owed her one.

  Why then, if not to bail Bill out of a dilemma, would Mike squirrel away that much money instead of putting it in their joint accounts, or even a separate bank account? Maybe he was stealing from the company? No reason to. He could draw whatever he needed. Maybe Mike was saving money to take her on a long vacation? Fat chance.

  As she unlocked the door to Mike’s office building, Kassie racked her brain trying to remember the last time she’d been there. Before Chris, before her mother’s death, for sure. It smelled stale with no air being circulated over the long weekend and the trash not yet emptied. She didn’t plan to hang around long enough for it to matter. Her original mission was to get the folders Mike wanted and get to the hospital posthaste. The second key put a crimp in that plan.

  First things first. Nice digs, Mike. Even though no one worked that day, Kassie ambled her way past the work areas of the firm’s creatives and administrative staff as if her presence there might be disruptive. She could’ve mistaken the modernity of the office space for where she worked, except it seemed out of place in this cozy Victorian home in Cambridge, while her office was in a glass tower on Boylston Street in Boston proper.

  She found the back stairway and made her way to Mike’s office. When the business started, it occupied only three out of eight offices on the first floor. Within ten years, he’d bought the whole damn building, booted out the other tenants, and renovated it in his image. He claimed the entire second floor as his office suite and built out his digs—a small kitchen, a full bathroom with a shower, and two conference rooms.

  Whoa. Mike’s office was impeccable. From the doorway, Kassie surveyed the room, a stark contrast to the antique decor she remembered. The once charming and cozy office now resembled a Herman Miller showroom. With its smooth elegance, the furniture conveyed the success he’d tried to achieve with Jaylene’s mink.

  He’d traded his antique desk for a streamlined walnut one, with a matching black leather desk chair. A complementary leather lounge chair and ottoman had replaced the green Queen Anne chair Kassie had given him as a gift. Where had that gone? Opposite the desk, a glass coffee table separated two leather couches. The green striped drapes they’d picked out together were missing in favor of off-white vertical blinds. All that remained from the prior era were the original hardwood floors and two oriental rugs with rich red and camel-colored tones her mother gifted him when he started the business.

  The folders he requested sat on the desk exactly where Mike said they’d be. Aligned on the right side and labeled New Business, Outstanding Invoices, Résumés. The three most important things to Mike—new clients, money, talent.

  “Fresh blood is a good thing. Keeps the dream alive,” Mike said when she’d encourage him to think about what would happen if something happened to him.

  “What of the dream then?”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  Kassie turned her attention to the matching walnut credenza behind Mike’s desk. She recognized the deep-lilac and sea-green Murano glass paperweight they’d bought on their honeymoon in Venice. A matching one sat on her office desk. She fondled it. Its meaning had shattered over the years.

  Five photos of varying sizes stared back at her. One of his parents and sister. Another of their wedding. God, how young we were. No recent photos of the two of them or of Kassie alone. But then again, she had n
one of him on her desk either.

  A snapshot of Topher he’d asked her for. “Clients love to talk about pets. ‘Oh, is that your cat?’” he said they’d say. Hard time imagining Mike accepting any ownership of Topher except for the sake of the business.

  A five-by-seven of her mother. A professional headshot she’d taken celebrating the divorce of Kassie’s stepfather and her decision to retake the O’Callaghan name. She displayed a similar one in her office. At least they had that much in common.

  On the far end of the credenza, an eight-by-ten color picture she didn’t recognize. She leaned in to look closer. A college photo, faded. Five preppy guys and gals. The guys all dressed the same. Tan pants, navy sweaters. The girls all had the same long, flipped hair and wore plaid skirts, knee socks, dark sweaters with white collars. The photo could pass for a private school advertisement.

  She picked up the frame and traced Mike’s image with that captivating smile. Who was the girl in a dark red, maybe maroon, sweater sitting on his lap? I’ll be damned. She could’ve been Kassie’s twin, or at least a relative. She’d read a study a while back that men tended to be attracted to similar women. If this gal defined Mike’s type, did that make Kassie a copy? Had Kassie replaced his first love?

  No time to psychoanalyze Mike. Time to look for something locked. The credenza wasn’t. She flung open the two center cabinet doors. The one on the left was overstuffed with folders. The one on the right had black Nike running shoes that looked brand new sitting on top of a metal box, like the one in his bureau. Booyah!

  She placed the box on his desk. Her phone rang.

  “Have you been to the hospital yet?”

  “No, soon. How’s it going?”

  “Good news on Topher. I’ll fill you in later.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Just driving around, getting lost in Boston.”

  She checked the clock on Mike’s desk. Five-thirty already. “Don’t make me send a search party out for you.”