Don't wait up when you get to Chicago. The Henderson Project, right at 6 p.m., I parked three blocks away from my house and walked back through the woods behind our property. I had a perfect view of our bedroom window from the old oak tree in our backyard, the same tree where Maya's tire swing hung, where we'd carved our initials 20 years ago when we were young and stupid and in love. At 7:15, Chris's silver BMW pulled into my driveway. I watched him walk to my front door carrying a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers.
My flowers for my wife in my house. I pulled out my phone and called the house. Lydia answered on the second ring. Hello. Hey, babe.
Just wanted to let you know I made it to Chicago safely. Oh, that's good. I was just just finishing up some work with Chris. Chris is there at our house. Yes, we're going over the Henderson files.
You know how complicated that account is, right? Well, don't work too hard. I love you. Love you, too. Bye.
She hung up quickly. I could see them through the living room window. Chris's hand already on her back, leading her toward the stairs. I waited 30 minutes, then made my move. I still had my house key, obviously.
I crept through the front door as quietly as possible, hearing sounds from upstairs that made my stomach turn. I tiptoed to the hall closet and grabbed my old baseball bat, the Louisville slugger I'd used in high school, the one Lydia always complained about me keeping. Then I called Lydia's parents. Alan, it's Dave. I need you and Judith to come to the house right now.
What's wrong? She's here with him right now. We'll be right there. I waited on the front porch. The Heartwells arrived 10 minutes later, Alan's face grim.
Judith clutching her purse like a tool. Are you sure about this, Dave? Judith whispered. Listen, I said. We stood there in the cool evening air, and the sounds from our bedroom window were unmistakable.
Dear God, Judith breathed. I unlocked the front door. After you. We climbed the stairs together. Three people united in righteous anger.
The bedroom door was closed but not locked. I turned the handle slowly and pushed it open. They were so absorbed in each other that they didn't notice us at first. Chris was wearing my bathrobe, my favorite robe, the one Lydia gave me for Christmas 3 years ago. Lydia was wearing nothing but the pearl necklace her grandmother had left her.
Well, well, I said loudly. The Henderson project is certainly more hands-on than I expected. Lydia screamed and grabbed for the sheet. Chris jumped up so fast he tripped over his own feet and crashed into my dresser, sending my watch collection scattering across the floor. Dave, Lydia gasped.
"What are you? You're supposed to be in Chicago." "Surprise," I said. I brought some guests. That's when she saw her parents standing behind me. Judith was staring at her daughter with a mixture of horror and disgust.
Alan was staring at Chris with pure rage. "Mom, Dad, what are you doing here?" "We came to see what kind of woman we raised," Alan said, his voice shaking with fury. "Apparently, we failed." "Chris was frantically trying to put on his pants, hopping around on one foot like an idiot." "Mr. Hartwell, Mrs. Hartwell, this isn't what it looks like." "It looks like you're screwing my daughter in her husband's bed while wearing his bathrobe," Alan said. What exactly should it look like? I can explain, Lydia said, clutching the sheet to her chest.