Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [68]
Three months ago, Daniel Ashley had attended a conference for the American Bakery Association in Houston, Texas, leaving his wife at home for almost a week. During that time, Justine Ashley, a petite, no-nonsense spitfire of a woman, had transformed their home into Surprise Party Central (actually sticking a Post-it to the dining room doors with this very title). Taking advantage of his absence, Justine Ashley began planning for her husband’s fortieth birthday party in late October. During the week a guest list was created, invitations ordered, favors purchased and assembled, and bands interviewed.
Evidence of her plans littered the dining room, kitchen, and office. Copious notes on the various bands that she had interviewed were kept on a clipboard that migrated throughout the house during the week, with a large red circle eventually drawn around a band named “The Degenerates.” Clay pots containing miniature putting greens, complete with turf grass and tiny flags and cups (presumably the party favors) were scattered about a makeshift assembly line on the dining room table, eventually disappearing at the end of the week, presumably to the home of a friend or relative for safekeeping. The guest list, tacked to a corkboard above the kitchen sink, expanded and shrank until it finally numbered 156 invitees. Most important, Martin had seen the invitation proofs indicating the date, time, and location of the party, five days from today, on Saturday, October 27, at the Water’s Edge Resort in Westbrook, Connecticut. Martin had marked the day on his calendar as well, knowing that Justine Ashley had also planned a surprise golfing and fishing trip to Marco Island in Florida immediately following the party, allowing him unrestricted access to his clients’ home for just under a week.
But somehow a woman named Laura, presumably a friend of the couple, had marked the date incorrectly in her calendar and thought that the party had already taken place. If Daniel Ashley were to come home and find the gift on his front porch or listen to the message on the answering machine, all of his wife’s work would be ruined.
Martin found himself with an unexpected choice: attempt to help Justine Ashley while risking his anonymity, or ignore the situation and allow the surprise to potentially be ruined.
Had Martin not seen the single red rose standing in a thin crystal vase (one that he had inventoried long ago) on the Claytons’ dining room table earlier that morning, during his scheduled visit to their home, he might not have felt compelled to act on Justine Ashley’s behalf. But the flower had been there, along with a card that read:
I sometimes forget to tell you how much I love you.
Forgive me.
No large-scale acquisition had ever brought Martin more joy than the image of that flower and the words on the card, scrawled in the hand of a man who loved his wife but had too often forgotten to tell her. His apparent success with the Claytons had brought Martin a remarkable feeling of attachment and goodwill for the couple, and he now felt compelled to come to the aid of Justine Ashley and her cause for the same reason.
In fact, as Martin considered helping his client, he also began to wonder if he hadn’t been placed in the Ashley home at that particular moment by fate, in order to hear the answering machine message and take action. Even before Laura’s message, Martin had begun to speculate as to whether his career choice had actually been meant to be a vehicle to a higher calling. During visits to the Archambauts and Owens earlier that morning, he had begun envisioning himself as an agent for good, entering his clients’ homes in order to make a living, but perhaps to improve