Chapter Twenty-Eight: It’s Only a Matter of Time

Tomorrow is the day I head to the cabin to settle this whole affair thing with Troy Carmicheal. Melanie leaves for Florida tomorrow evening, and my parents are taking the kids for the weekend before they head to summer camp for the summer next Monday. I worked from home last week to stay with the kids and am exhausted. They go in early June and come back the first week of August. They love going and meeting tons of friends, and it gives them things to do instead of being bored all summer. It’s expensive but worth it.

I contacted Grant and gave him the time I expected to be there, and he said he’d be there shortly after. His flight comes in tonight, so he’ll stay in a hotel and then drive to the cabin in Upstate New York in a secluded but gorgeous area at Sargents Ponds Wild Forest. Melanie and I used to go to the cabin for the weekend when the kids were little. It was our getaway place to unwind, drink wine, swim in the lake, and, well, you know. It’s been over four years since we’ve been there. I go every few months to maintain it and ensure no one has broken in and squatted there, but I rarely stay the night. It’s about 45 minutes from where we live, but far enough to feel like we were on vacation.

Grant knew about the affair and said he wasn’t surprised and that Melanie seemed sketchy from the beginning, but I never listened because I was in love and, well, stupid. We lived together for a year before I asked her to marry me. I had taken her to lunch in Central Park, New York City’s famous park. I had hired a small orchestra to come and serenade us with her favorite song: All of Me by John Legend. She sang it to me on our first anniversary of dating, so I figured it would be a hit when I proposed a year later. I was right.

Jayden came a year later and Kirsten three years later, and we were complete. Melanie told me she was getting her tubes tied because pregnancy didn’t “agree with me.” I couldn’t blame her. She was sick with both kids, Jayden was a week late, and Kristen was nearly ten days late. They were both nearly 8 pounds at birth, and although she lost the baby weight fairly quickly, she hated the stretch marks left on her stomach and thighs.

I thought she looked beautiful, and still do.

“When’s dinner?” Jayden flies into the living room after doing his homework. He plops down on the couch and grabs the remote. He’s my mini-me, with the same dark brown hair and eyes and the crooked smile he flashes when getting his photo taken. He has his mom’s lips and nose, but there’s no doubt he’s my son. Kirsten has beautiful, long, naturally curly auburn hair like her mom, with emerald eyes that pop out when she’s angry. At only six, she has the same fire in her as Melanie. But unlike her friends, she likes science and watches YouTube videos about anything and everything in the field. She matter-of-factly told me she wanted to be a scientist when she grew up. I believe her.

“Fried chicken is on the grill, sport.” Jayden punches the air. It’s his favorite meal during the summer. I have a secret recipe handed down from generation to generation. Potato salad, fresh watermelon, and strawberry lemonade complete the meal. Before the kids head to summer camp, we go on vacation together, and since they’re only gone eight weeks, they still have three weeks at home before school starts again, so we have time to grill and hang out at the local park. We sometimes head to the city for summer events.

Kirsten comes in a few minutes later with her iPad and sits on the chair. Between her and Jayden, they are the complete opposite. He loves sports; she loves ballet. She is prim and proper, always with her hair combed nicely and wearing designer clothes Melanie bought her. Jayden wears whatever clean clothes he can find and rakes his fingers through his hair to “comb it.” It didn’t really bother him if he didn’t shower, but in a few years, when puberty hits, he will need to shower daily.

Melanie walks through the door, shuts it, and goes straight upstairs. I give her a few minutes to unwind before asking about her day since she often tells me, “Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it now.” Sometimes, I wait until after dinner when she’s more open to talking. I would rather wait than provoke her wrath.

I head out back to check on the chicken. The smell permeates my senses, and I realize how hungry I am. I open the grill hood, turn the chicken over, and check the juices. Almost done.

I go back in and grab the watermelon, potato salad, and lemonade from the fridge, balancing them in my hands while I bump the fridge door to shut it. After pulling out the paper plates, utensils, and cups, I take out one of our large pans, load the food and utensils on it and go back out. We have a large patio with a glass table and six soft-cushioned chairs. The patio shades the setting, so we don’t worry about the weather.

Our three-story home sits on a two-acre piece of land nestled on the east end of Long Island. It’s only five minutes to the Atlantic Ocean, and in Spring and Fall, we would have days at the beach, enjoying the weather. Melanie decorated everything in the house and then told me after. I didn’t get a say, but I didn’t mind. She has good taste, and everything was professionally designed and decorated by her good friend, Jalice, one of the best interior decorators on the island.

The house was new when we moved into the gated community, and I had a clean slate to work with in the yard. We planted some crabapple and cherry blossom trees, Oakleaf hydrangeas that I got to turn blue by adding lots of acid, and some strawberry, raspberry, and blackberry bushes alongside our back fence. On the east side, some boxwoods make for a nice hedge, and on the west, there’s a large gondola for shade, with ivy growing up the sides and over the top. A large water fountain sits adjacent to the pool I installed a few years later.

It took me time to earn the high six figures I make now, but I’m glad the kids go to a private school and can do things I never could growing up in Grantsville. We lived in a modest home, but we rarely went on vacation. And my dad was a farmer, so there wasn’t much money to feed a family of six, but somehow, he did. My mom did Avon and Tupperware for years and made some good money, but that went into our college fund. All four kids, two sons, and two daughters, left the state and graduated. I went to NYU to be where I wanted to work, Wall Street. It’s not easy breaking into that company, and I worked my butt off, but I made it. I’m a good stockbroker, so I make the big bucks.

The chicken was done, and we all went out back to eat. Melanie was distant, as she surfed on her phone most of the time and would only say, “Uh huh, okay,” to the kids, talking to them about their day. They gave up, and I tried to fill in the gaps so they knew they were being listened to and that I cared.

Later that night, I lit into Melanie. “You’ve said like two words to the kids today,” I said, pulling off my shoes and laying them by the bed. I pull my head up and look at her, still on her phone.

Silence.

“Melanie, did you even hear me?” She tore herself away and gave me a pouty look, her eyebrows pulled down and her lips pursed.

“Yes, I heard you.”

“Well …”

“Well, what? She turns her arm outward like she’s confused as to why I said that. “They were just telling me about what you did with them – the perfect father.” Her eyes bore into me; she huffed and then returned to her phone.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. They think you’re wonderful and could do no wrong, but if they knew what I know, they might not love their father so much.” Melanie will never let me live this down: the day she accidentally killed a man because she thought he was breaking into the house, even though I told him the code so he could come in and install our cables for our network. I thought she wouldn’t be home for another hour and the technician would have been gone by then.

Melanie punched in the code when she left work early to meet Troy. She saw the stranger kneeling in the office, but before asking any questions, she pulled out her 9-millimeter Glock 19 pistol and pulled the trigger. She hit his back, and the man yelled in agony, but instead of calling the police, she fired one more bullet into his head. That did the trick – he was dead.

She just left him there and then called me and told me what happened. I rushed home and immediately called the police. Melanie told them she thought he was a burglar and shot him in self-defense. I didn't even know she owned a gun, but I remember she was paranoid about everything, so I shouldn't have been surprised. When they found the body, a knife (one Melanie pulled from our knife block and used to wipe his fingerprints on) was laid next to him. I was shocked but went along with it. If the police knew she had murdered him, I would have lost her.  

The police matched the fingerprints to the knife and that was that, but I never forgot what my wife did, and I helped cover it up. This was before our marriage and kids.

“What I did? Melanie, you killed someone,” I say, whispering.

“I thought he had broken in and was defending myself. You never told me he would be there.”

“You weren’t supposed to be home for another hour,” I shoot back. We have had this conversation numerous times, and she uses it as a weapon against me when she needs to be the victim.

“Wow, I come home early for the first time in a year, and I’m supposed to know YOU allowed someone to come into my home and install wires. I guess I should have asked questions and then shot.”

“Yeah, you should have. Didn’t you notice his uniform before you murdered him?” She snaps her head back.

“I didn’t see the logo since it was on the front of his shirt, and he had his back to me. Don’t you dare blame this on me! What would you have done? Oh, never mind,” she flips her hand back, “you would have only pointed the gun and asked him what he was doing there. Well, I’m not you. I feared for my life. Women get murdered far more than men, and he could have tried to assault me sexually.” I want to tell her it’s her paranoia sickness but think better of it. The last thing I need to do is trigger more anger. She has the last word – always.

I wave her off and walk into the bathroom. It’s no good arguing with her. As my dad used to say, “Sometimes it’s easier to shut your mouth and keep the peace than to argue and ruin your day.” My parents have been married for 40 years, but I don’t know if Melanie and I will last 15, let alone 40 years.

I return, Melanie’s light is off, and the covers are pulled over her. I think about tomorrow. I will leave shortly after Melanie leaves for the airport, around 1:00 p.m. Her flight doesn’t leave until nearly 5:00, but she worries that traffic will keep her from getting there on time, and she will miss her flight. I know Troy went there tonight and would be there until Sunday. I just need five minutes to tell him what I know and for him to call off the affair, or I may have to buy him off. It doesn’t matter; I'm prepared to do whatever it takes to get Melanie back.

Hopefully, I don’t have a problem with Troy.