The One That Got Away Read Online Free PDF Page A

can’t help but think about what my life would have been like if I had just said
yes
,” I said.
    “Oh my God, Bee,” said Jules, using my college nickname and a softer tone. “It wasn’t a mistake. You have a great life.”
    “I know, I know. I love my kids. They are more than wonderful,” I replied as tears welled. “But life’s just so much harder than I thought it would be. There’s no money and no prospect of money, and Jimmy’s gone all the time, and the kids are always fighting and work is overwhelming and I’m just so tired. So, so tired.”
    Inexplicably, I began to cry, tears dripping down my face and splashing onto the orange Formica tabletop. I pushed over the bagel and magazines and laid my forehead down among the sesame seeds. I started sobbing uncontrollably, right in the middle of Bagel Towne’s lunch rush. Jules, always the supportive friend and never one to be embarrassed, reached out and stroked my hair, shushing me quietly while using her other hand to stab my bagel with her chopstick. After a few minutes, I began to calm down, letting the cool of the plastic tabletop and the hum of the restaurant lull me to silence.
    When I had quieted down, Jules spoke. “Well, Abigail Owen Lahey, I, for one, am glad you never went out with that rich guy. I can’t imagine you all Botoxed and blown out and lunching with the ladies.”
    “Me neither,” I said, head still resting on the table. “But I bet Mrs. Alexander Collier van Holt never has to worry about the mortgage. And by the way, don’t think I can’t hear you eating my bagel.”
    “Shut up, you dirty whore,” she deadpanned.
    Leave it to Jules to make me laugh through tears.
    Jimmy was picking up Sam on his way home from work, and Gloria’s carpool didn’t drop her off until later, so I knew I had a few minutes to change into sweats and slippers, start dinner, and maybe even use the bathroom without an audience. I was able to sneak out of work a half hour early, thanks to Charlotte needing a polish change before tonight’s Young Friends meet-and-greet at the Rodin Museum. As soon as she was safely out the door, computers were powered down and bags packed so fast you’d have thought there was a bomb threat.
    I turned up our street of seventies-era brick boxes and stone bungalows and arrived at the Lahey residence. It was typical of the area, its front door facing the neighbors’ in the Pennsylvania Dutch style, its white wood siding accented by a blue-gray stone chimney. Nothing spectacular, but solid and well built. It was one of the few houses on our street without an ugly addition tacked to its rear. In other neighborhoods, our family of four was average; in Catholic Grange Hill, we were just getting started.
    Ours was a commuter town, a lower-middle-class Bermuda Triangle wedged between West Philadelphia, the prestigious Main Line, and the rolling horse farms of Chester County. It was the kind of place where parents still yelled at their kids in public; lawn ornaments and birdbaths were considered chic without any sense of irony; and stores were named after what they sold: Fruits & Veggies, Beer/Soda, and Lamps! (the exclamation point the Grange Hill version of branding). The town seemed to suffer from decades of bothoveruse and neglect, the entire zip code in need of a good power washing.
    Turning into the driveway on autopilot, I slammed on my brakes, narrowly avoiding the side of a shiny red sports car parked sloppily across the asphalt. Its vanity license plate—“GRRRR”—did nothing to help identify the owner.
    “Who the hell…?” I said, shutting off the ignition and grabbing my stuff. Running up the back porch steps, I noticed every light in the house was on and the door was not only unlocked but slightly ajar, swinging inward easily as I rushed inside. I also noticed that the dog, usually pawing at the door, was already out in the yard.
    Panicking, I threw my bags down on the kitchen table and ran from room to room,