Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [108]
“About what? Tessa?” Jason asks.
She freezes in her chair. “I was talking about Charlie. Not Nick’s wife . . . And would you care to tell me how you know her name?”
“Didn’t you . . . tell me . . . her name?” he stammers.
“No,” she says with absolute certainty. “I did not.”
“You must have.”
“Jason. I know I didn’t. I’ve never said her name aloud. How do you know her name?” she demands.
“Okay. Okay . . . So get ready for this one . . . It turns out Hank’s her tennis instructor.”
“You’re kidding me,” she says, dropping her head to her free hand.
“Nope.”
“So Hank knows? About Nick and me?”
“No. I swear I didn’t tell him.”
She isn’t sure she believes him, given the fact that Jason is an open book even when he’s not in love, but at this point, she practically doesn’t care, and numbly listens to her brother’s ensuing explanation.
“She’s been taking lessons with him for a while . . . Hank knew her husband was some hotshot surgeon, but he didn’t put it all together until last week when she mentioned one of her husband’s patients—a kid who burned his face at a birthday party.”
Valerie’s heart races. “What did she say about Charlie?”
“Nothing. She just said that Nick works a lot . . . Hank asked what kind of surgeon he was—and she told him. Used Charlie as an example . . . Small freaking world, huh?”
“Yeah. But I wouldn’t want to carpet it,” she says, one of their father’s favorite sayings.
“Exactly,” Jason says, the smile back in his voice.
She sighs, processing this new profile of Tessa, picturing a country-club lady of leisure. A Botoxed, lithe-limbed blonde indulging in midday tennis matches, shopping sprees at Neiman Marcus, champagne lunches at white-linen-tablecloth restaurants. “So she plays tennis? How nice for her,” Valerie says.
“You should pick up tennis,” Jason says, clearly trying to change the subject. “Hank said he’d give you free lessons.”
“No, thanks.”
“Why not?”
“I have to work, remember? I’m not married to a plastic surgeon. I only sleep with one when his wife’s out of town.”
Jason clears his throat and says her name as a “buck up, sis” reprimand.
“What?” she replies.
“Don’t let this thing sour you.”
“Too late.”
“Happiness is the best revenge, you know? Just be happy. It’s a choice.”
“Be happy, huh? Like Nick’s wife?” Valerie snaps. “Did Hank tell you how happy she is?”
Jason hesitates and then says, “Actually, he said she’s very pleasant. Down-to-earth.”
“Great. Fantastic,” she says, the guilt and remorse from Saturday morning replaced by a thick, strangling jealousy. “Is she gorgeous, too?”
She braces herself, realizing that there is no answer Jason can give her that would satisfy her. If Nick’s wife is unattractive, she will feel used. If Tessa is gorgeous, she’ll feel inferior.
“No. She’s not gorgeous. He said she’s attractive. But not gorgeous by any stretch.”
Valerie groans, feeling queasy and light-headed.
“Just remember, Val, she’s married to a cheater. You should feel sorry for her. Not jealous of her,” Jason says.
“Yeah,” she says, trying to convince herself that her brother is right, that she is better off without him, without any man. That he is Tessa’s problem, not hers. But in her heart, she knows that the only thing that has changed since Saturday morning is that he stopped calling her. She knew all along that he was married. She knew all along that he had a wife. She knew all along that she wanted something—someone—that didn’t belong to her and probably never would. This is what she gets. This is exactly what she deserves.
Jason blows his nose and then asks her if she’s going to be okay. She tells him yes, and hangs up, willing herself not to cry as she swivels her chair and stares up at a watermark on the ceiling.
Seconds later, the phone rings, the screen lighting up “private caller.” She answers it, assuming it is Jason with some follow-up Nick bashing, some nugget of relationship wisdom.
“Yeah?” she says.
“Hi, Val. It’s me,” she hears. She catches her breath, realizing that it is still her favorite voice in the world.
Rage and relief