Page 81 of Married With Lies

As for pictures, the walls of Cale’s loft in lower Manhattan’s SoHo neighborhood don’t have any pictures hanging at all. There’s lots of exposed brick, wooden beams and high windows that get covered with remote control blinds at night.

This is not the habitat I would have imagined for Cale.

Strangely, he has houseplants. Real ones. The clay pot sitting in a black metal plant stand beside the kitchen window is filled with trailing ivy. A small tree with waxy leaves lives in a ceramic pot parked beside the sofa.

Because it’s a loft, the design is wide open, however there are sliding glass pocket doors separating the bedroom from the living room and the living room from the kitchen. The only completely enclosed space is the bathroom and thank goodness for that because I’ve been spending a lot of time in there.

The drive from the beach house to Manhattan took forever. Cale needed to pull over at least a dozen times to let me puke. Even after my stomach was empty I felt too dreadful to do anything except stay slumped in the passenger seat, occasionally dry heaving in between moans of misery.

After a torturous drive across Long Island and over bridges and through tunnels, Cale decided I was too weak and dizzy to risk walking. He left his car idling outside the building and carried me up to his place. What a lovely moment that would have been if only I hadn’t been flecked with my own vomit.

The next twenty four hours were spent in a nauseous daze. When I wasn’t getting intimately acquainted with Cale’s toilet I was sleeping on the cloud sheets. At one point I woke up to the surprise that my suitcase had magically appeared. Cale had sent someone to go fetch it from the beach house and bring it here. How thoughtful of him.

Cale checked on me every couple of hours and kept trying to coax a few sips of liquid down my throat. When that didn’t work very well he brought in a mobile medical team to give me IV therapy. When I asked him to please burn the peach dress, he bagged it up and assured me I’d never have to see it again.

It’s now the morning after the IV treatment and I feel better. Not well enough to sit down to a loaded omelet breakfast but human enough to get up and take a shower. Cale isn’t here but I suppose he has better things to do than watch me sleep in between running to the bathroom.

Since I don’t feel like making any public appearances today and my pride is already smashed beyond repair, I take my time in the shower, get dressed in blue loungewear pajamas and rub my wet hair with a towel.

My phone has been turned off for the most part. It’s no fun to be reminded of recent current events. The only reason I’m turning it on now is to see if there are any new texts from Gus.

She sent a picture of Tinkerbell. The puppies are growing and will be larger than their mother. Tinkerbell has filled out a lot since we took her in. Her ribs are no longer visible and her skin doesn’t sag. Her coat is much healthier and the constant fear in her eyes has disappeared. She’s still wary of strangers, especially men, but she has made so much progress since she arrived at Bright Hearts. If not for Cale, she’d probably still be in the clutches of James Foster.

Gus only sent the picture of Tinkerbell fifteen minutes ago so I take a chance she’s free and stretch out on Cale’s bed while placing the call.

She picks up immediately. “Hey cupcake, how are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve just crawled out of the grave but in a good way.”

“That’s an improvement.”

“Thanks to Cale. He hired a medical team to make a house call with an IV infusion.”

“Did he?” she says slowly. “I hope for his sake he really is taking care of you. Unless he wants to confront the fury of a small town veterinarian with free-spirited fashion sense.”

“I doubt he does. And he’s taking excellent care of me.”

“Then I’ll set aside my fury,” she says, then sighs. “Well, I guess you must have seen the news.”

“I’ve been actively avoiding the news. Cale summarized the details and then I made him swear to never mention them again.”

Footage from the Hamptons Horror Wedding quickly went viral. Seventy-two guests, including the bride, most of the wedding party and Asher Wingate, the owner of the New York Dukes hockey team, all ate food contaminated with salmonella. The culprit was found to be the lettuce greens and there’s now a multi-state recall in effect.

Naturally, there are plenty of videos of the chaos in circulation and they’ve been viewed millions of times. For the rest of my life I’m likely to run into people who recognize me as the Barfing Maid of Honor.

Maybe I should don a disguise. On the other hand, I might be doing this all wrong. I could embrace the infamy. Sell t-shirts. Or offer to do paid promos for Pepto Bismol.

I’ll think about it when the sting has worn off a little. Gus is tactful enough to leave the topic alone. Instead she talks about what I’ve missed at Bright Hearts. The longing to be back home where I belong hits hard. This trip has been a nightmare. The only good part has been the time I’ve spent with Cale. And even that becomes a bit tainted when I’m reminded that Cale bore witness to my salmonella-induced vomit fest.

Before long, Gus needs to end the call in order to go neuter a cat. Cale hasn’t returned and I’m trying to stay off the internet in order to avoid running across video clips of my starring role in the Hamptons Horror Wedding.

I should have packed a book for the trip. Cale probably wouldn’t mind if I raid his bookcase for some reading material. The three-shelf bookcase on the wall opposite the couch contains an eclectic collection. There are personal finance books, volumes on the history of New York and a row of worn paperbacks. The paperbacks all have creased spines and look old. There are a lot of Tom Clancy titles, as well as John Grisham. I pick up a Dean Koontz book and note the faded cover. These old paperbacks are clearly important to Cale for some reason. I slide the book back into place with care.

My eyes move to a framed photo on top of the bookcase. The couple in the photo are Cale’s parents. I’m certain of this even though I’ve never seen them before. Cale’s father is tall and striking, with vivid green eyes and a face full of laughter. His mother is lovely, with black hair and a sweet smile. They’re young in the photo, perhaps my age. The boardwalk they’re standing on looks like the one at Jones Beach. And the way he has his arm protectively curled over her shoulders reminds me of the way Cale draws me close to his side at the first hint of any threat.

There’s a second framed picture on top of the bookcase. This one is a studio five-by-seven portrait of Cale and his brother. Luca is only a baby here, probably not even walking yet. He’s being held in the lap of his big brother, who beams with pride. This would have been taken before their parents died, before their world was turned upside down and they were placed in the care of their ruthless uncle.

I wonder where his Elton John record album is. I’ve seen no sign of it. I hope Cale didn’t throw it away. That would be blasphemous. I don’t believe he’d throw it away.

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