Sycamore Hill Pt. 01

So, when an invitation to go to a party with Lara came up, I jumped at the chance.

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Lara first told me about the invitation over dinner one night, a week or so before the event itself, interrupting another uncomfortably quiet meal with a reluctant, halting, half-whispered explanation of the party. She described it as the sort of thing I hated, a big shindig with stuffy conversation, fancy cocktails and suits and evening gowns filled with highbrow people from the charity that I didn't know and likely wouldn't be interested in. But, she went on to say that I was expected to attend and that she'd be humiliated if I passed on the invitation. Between her rather frank and discouraging description of the event and her subsequent insistence that I attend, It was hard to tell if she wanted me to go or not. But, as unappealing as the invitation seemed to be on the surface, it represented a faint light of hope in the gloom that had become my marriage and I welcomed it, quickly agreeing to attend with her.

Her reaction was tough to read. Superficially, she seemed to be happy that I'd agreed to go, proclaiming how much better it would be to have me there with her, but the expression on her face was oddly discordant with what she was saying, a tension backing the smile in a way that gave a sense of frustration and maybe a little anger.

I felt like I was getting the classic mixed signal and that I was being set up for failure. If I didn't go there'd be resentment for not supporting her, more anger, more silence. If I did, I risked committing some unintentional embarrassment that would linger on as a point of contention, another thorn in the side of our already shaky relationship.

But, I knew our marriage was on life support and in desperation I thought that I needed to push hard for any kind of positive time together, so as her descriptions of the party became increasingly bleak, I did my best to seem more and more interested. I started bringing up the party myself, throwing out questions that would demonstrate my interest, asking what I should wear and who would be there and what I should know or talk about when I mixed in. I even bought a new sport coat for the occasion and surprised Lara with a new necklace and a bottle of her favorite perfume.

The party was on a Friday night and I made it home early from work to get ready, another surprise for Lara since I had a bad habit of being chronically late for social events. When I got home, I found her in sitting on the edge of our bed, her favorite black dressed hiked up to her hips while she pulled on her pantyhose. She was wearing the necklace and the perfume, her hair had been professionally styled and her makeup was exquisite. She looked absolutely gorgeous and I gave out a low wolf whistle and told her she'd be the centerpiece of the party. She gave me a neutral little smile and pulled her pantyhose the rest of the way up before replying.

"Thanks Kevin." She hesitated and her expression changed to something more thoughtful, her brow wrinkled as she bit her lip for a moment before continuing on. "You know, I've been thinking. Maybe we should take both cars tonight, just in case you want to leave early."

I felt a surge of annoyance that Lara still seemed to be trying to get me to cancel. I'm sure my voice took on a petulant tone. "Look, honey, do you not want me to go to this thing? I mean, you keep harping on what a shitty time you think I'll have and now you're suggesting that maybe I should leave early. Are you embarrassed of me or is there something about this party that..."

She abruptly waved both hands at me dismissively and interrupted. "Oh come on Kevin, you've always hated things like this and I was just trying to give you an easy out. If you want to go then fine. I just don't want to hear a lot of complaining or have to leave early, that's all."

The drive to the party was uncomfortably quiet. We talked a little at first, Lara telling me about the mansion the Williamson's lived in and reminding me of some of the charities they controlled and some of the people that might be there, but there was the usual tension between us that kept any real conversation from starting and after a few minutes we just stopped talking altogether and listened to the radio while I drove and Lara looked out the window absentmindedly.

The Williamson's mansion was on the outskirts of town in an area so exclusive that you couldn't really see your neighbors. The driveway must have been a quarter mile long and when we got to the entry area there was a valet who parked the car while we went inside. Lara had been there once or twice before and started showing me around and introducing me to some of the people from the charity. The mansion was predictably opulent with floors of marble and darkly stained wood, windows framed by elegant silk draperies and furniture of mahogany and soft brown leather. And there was art everywhere. Colorful, impressionistic paintings on nearly every wall, marble and granite statuary of different styles and sizes stood watch in most of the corners and all the table surfaces were covered with elegant glass vases. In some ways it felt more like a museum than a home.

I did my best to make a good impression and talked as amiably as possible with everyone I was introduced to. For the most part, the folks from the charity seemed like solid, honest people who were as out of their element in a setting like this as I was. The executives from Williamson's industries were a different story, though. They were dressed more formally, the men mostly in tuxedo's and the women wrapped in incredibly expensive looking dresses and they talked and conducted themselves with an ease and confidence that made it clear that their position as the people who called the shots was unassailable.

After a while, Lara drifted away to hob nob with some of the Williamson people and I found myself discussing the finer points of beer appreciation with a couple of the lower level pencil pushers. One of the guys mentioned that he'd seen a basketball game playing on an enormous TV in some sort of entertainment room and we all slipped away to watch the fourth quarter.

When the game was over, an hour or so later, I made my way back to the main party. I spotted Lara in a group with three or four couples- Williamson people-holding their drinks, nodding and talking, no doubt, about their latest European vacation. The women seemed to be the drivers of the conversation and the men all seemed to be preoccupied with Lara. Not that I could blame them. The black dress perfectly showed off her slim figure and long, graceful legs and, in this lighting, her Olive skin and dark hair gave her an exotic, Mediterranean look that, for me at least, was irresistibly attractive.

I started to make my way toward them through the crowd when I noticed a distinguished looking man, maybe forty-five years old or so, in a brilliant white tuxedo with oiled hair and a deep tan, move confidently into the group. All conversation stopped in deference to his presence and as he began to talk, everyone looked to him attentively. I felt I'd seen or met him before and after a few moments I came to recognize that this was John Williamson himself.

Deciding that I'd rather not get tied down in a conversation with the captains of industry, I simply took a seat at a bar on the edge of the room and watched the group, waiting for it to split up a little before I approached my wife again. Lara, like everyone else in the group, had her eyes glued, admiringly, on Mr. Williamson and I could see that he, like the rest of the men in the group, was more than a little interested in Lara. It wasn't long before he was talking mostly to her, occasionally reaching out to touch her on the shoulder or the arm, constantly flashing her wolfish grin and leaning in close to her replies. After a while, a band started to play music and when some of the couples started to dance, he paired off with her for a few numbers.

Well, I didn't really like Lara dancing with other guys, at least not without my permission, but I didn't want to make a scene, especially with her boss, so I sat at the bar stool, waiting for an opportunity to jump in, quietly fuming while I nursed a drink I'd absentmindedly ordered. I guess I was staring at them pretty hard, undoubtedly with a somewhat menacing look, when one of the most attractive women I've ever met settled into the seat next to me. She was in her early 30s with thick, strawberry blond hair, pale, nearly translucent, marble smooth skin and a soft, voluptuous body that seemed to wiggle in all the right places when she moved. She gave me a tentative smile and nodded to the dance floor and my wife.

"Your wife is beautiful."

I wasn't, at first, certain she was talking to me or that she was referring to Lara, and I couldn't quite clear my head to reply quickly.

"Huh?" I eventually answered dumbly.

"Your wife." She said, nodding again to the dance floor, "she's beautiful. I can hardly blame my husband wanting to dance with her. I hope it doesn't bother you too much." She gave me a warm, knowing smile that was somehow a little sad also.

Coming to the belated realization that the gorgeous women talking to me was John Williamson's wife, I felt my face flush and began to stammer out an embarrassed reply.

"Oh...it's...uh...ok, I just don't mind, really. I'm just...uh...watching them dance her for a while. I'm not really a great dancer so I...uh..."

She tittered at my discomfort, a beautiful, clear little laugh that completely disarmed me.

"It's ok...Kevin isn't it?"

"Yes...how did you know..."

"Oh, Lara and I work together at the charity quite a bit. Naturally she's mentioned you and I saw you both come in together earlier this evening." She smiled at me again and cocked her head expectantly, but, still a little tongue tied, I didn't answer, my mouth opening and closing without making a sound.

"Well, anyway," she said, extending a delicate hand, "My name is Danielle Williamson. It's good to meet you Kevin." I took her hand and shook it and, finally found my voice.

"It's good to meet you too. You have a fabulous home."

She smiled with pleasure at the compliment and we talked for a while about the house and the art and her responsibilities at the charity. She recognized I felt a little uncomfortable at a party like this and suggested I could play some pool in the billiard room later on to kill time. Finally the dance floor emptied as the band stopped playing and Danielle nodded toward my wife.

"Looks like she's free now and I guess you'll want to get back with her and I've got to mingle with the other guests. It's been great talking with you." I nodded, told her I'd enjoyed our conversation and started to make my way to Lara, picking my way carefully through the guests, the waiters and the statues.

When I got to Lara I put my arm around her and gave her a little squeeze. She asked where I'd been and I told her I'd met a few people, including Danielle, and that I'd watched part of a basketball game. I could tell she'd been drinking some and she slurred out a sarcastic remark about the party being the ideal place to take in a sporting event. It was clear that she was a little annoyed with me, but I ignored that and made a valiant attempt to make conversation with her and her Williamson pals. After a while, though, it was pretty clear I was a fifth wheel and I whispered to Lara that I was going to look around some more. She nodded her head to me and I wandered off.

I ended up in the billiard room with some of the guys I'd met earlier in the evening. We pretty much turned the room into the kind of party we liked, rolling up our sleeves, munching on pretzels and drinking beer all while watching ESPN and shooting pool. I'd been there for a little over an hour when Danielle Williamson entered the room tentatively and motioned to me, calling my name quietly. I made my way to her and she bent close to whisper into my ear.

"Uh, Kevin, maybe you should go get Lara. She's...she's had a lot to drink and maybe you should consider taking her home now." We were both embarrassed at her having to tell me this and I nodded in reply and simply said 'ok', letting her lead the way back to the main party were Danielle pointed to a raucous group of people sitting on a pair of couches. I spotted Lara, sitting on John Williamson's lap as though she belonged there, her arm around his neck, laughing loudly and drunkenly at a joke someone had just told. Her hair was a mess and her dress appeared a little disheveled.

I swore quietly to myself and turned toward Danielle, trying my best to choke out an apology, but she waved it off, attributing all the bad behavior to too much drink.

"Honestly, if you just get her home and to bed, it will all be good." She said smiling as I started to make my way to the couches.

I touched Lara on the shoulder to get her attention and quietly told her it was time to go, but she made it clear, in a loud, slurred retort, that she wasn't particularly interested in leaving. I stayed firm and insisted and started to think there'd be a scene until John Williamson himself, who seemed a little embarrassed by the situation, encouraged her to get going. Reluctantly, she stood up, wavering considerably and awkwardly smoothed her dress and gathered her purse before I led her out to the car in silence, supporting her as we walked to minimize her drunken stagger.

Once in the car, she started in on me, loudly accusing me of ruining things for her by leaving early, aggressively reminding me that this was why she wanted to take two cars. I told her there was no way she'd be able to drive home safely regardless of how many cars we took and went on a rant criticizing her drunken antics and overly familiar behavior with John Williamson.

The argument continued back and forth until we got home, when Lara got out of the car before I even pulled into the garage, slammed the car door and stomped her way to the front entryway. After parking the car and getting a quick drink of water in the kitchen, I went to our room and found her already in bed, fully clothed, her arms crossed over her chest while she fumed, conspicuously looking away from me when I entered the room. I tried to start a conversation to get some sort of detente going, but she turned away from me and refused to speak, leaving a cold, silent gap between us.

I slept on the couch that night.

The cold, silent gap between us ended abruptly the next morning when Lara woke me up with a pitcher of ice water to the face followed by a profanity laced diatribe delivered at breakneck speed detailing how thoroughly disgusted she was with my behavior. After wiping my face dry, I matched her volume with suggestions that the ice water was the warmest thing she'd done for me in weeks and that if she liked her friends at the charity so much better, she ought to just hang out with them.

She smirked, bent over and picked up a suitcase, showing it off like it was the answer to my last challenge, turned around sharply and left the living room, the middle finger of her left hand extended upward over her shoulder. She slammed the door and a few seconds later I heard the sound of her car leave the driveway.

So, there I was, left alone at home by my wife, the woman I had loved and the woman who I had come to hate, wondering just how far a man should go before he calls it quits on a marriage. I wasn't sure of the answer, exactly, but I was confident that I was pretty far past the line of reasonable effort.

If this had happened in years past I would have been on pins and needles, waiting for a text or a phone call from her, aching for a chance to exchange apologies and make things right. I would have been frantic trying to figure out where she'd gone, worrying if she was safe, hoping she'd return as soon as possible. But honestly, I just didn't have the energy or the inclination to care anymore. I simply went on living, going to work, watching TV, reading books; but now with the added activity of making phone calls to lawyers.

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5 days later I was taking a break from work, sitting in a family law office, waiting impatiently for an appointment with a para legal, when I received two e-mails from Lara.

The first was a cold, terse command, without any kind of a salutation. It read simply: "I'm back. We need to talk. Meet me tonight at home after work." I snorted when I read it, thinking of the hubris of insisting that we meet to work out our problems after she had so thoroughly rejected any opening I'd quite literally begged for in the weeks preceding our epic falling out.

The second e-mail, though, was clearly sent to me as a mistake on her part, probably accidently copying my address after sending the first email. It was a far warmer, more affectionate message that was intended for someone else, someone by the name of 'Chicagoman'. The note alluded to a recent outing they'd had, an evening at a high end restaurant and the theatre followed by a relatively torrid sexual encounter. She signed it "Love, Lara."

I felt two emotions reading the second email.

The first was embarrassment. Embarrassment at my own dedication to a woman and a marriage that wasn't, evidently, worth the effort. Embarrassment at my own naiveté and, really, my own stupidity at having failed to accurately see the true picture of my relationship with Lara. A picture that, somehow, I'd been unable-or perhaps simply unwilling-to face at any time during the gut wrenching unraveling of out relationship. A picture of an unfaithful wife who'd given up on her commitment in order to be with someone else.

The other emotion I felt was pure, white hot, unmitigated anger. I was very nearly choking with it, my teeth clenched so hard that I could barely breathe, my head pounding with thoughts of mayhem.

When I'd read the first note demanding a meeting, I thought that I would simply blow her off and proceed with a divorce, serving her first and then talking through a post-mortem of our marriage later. But now, now that I understood the true nature of our problems, the true nature of her betrayal, I wanted a talk, wanted confrontation, wanted her to own up to her infidelity and explain why, exactly, she thought it was ok to stab me in the back.

I doubt that I made much sense to the para legal as I robotically filled out paperwork and answered questions. My mind was so preoccupied with the realization of Lara's infidelity and my anxiousness to confront her about it that I didn't pay any real attention to what she was saying and just signed my name where she pointed and answered questions in the most superficial way possible.

I called back to work, told them I had a family emergency and went directly home after my time with the para legal, itching for a fight. But instead of Lara, I found a note pinned to the door explaining that she'd been called back to the charity and our talk would have to be postponed.

I was so keyed up that I screamed in frustration, threw open the door and stomped into the kitchen, rubbing my head with both hands, mumbling to myself as I paced back and forth from the kitchen to the living room.

But I stopped in my tracks when I saw that Lara had left her laptop, open and running, on the dining room table.

I knew that laptop had the information that would confirm my suspicious and satisfy unanswered questions. I wanted those answers and I wanted that information, not just to satisfy my curiosity, but to provide tools that I might use to exact some sort of revenge, not just on my wife but on the high and mighty philanthropic captain of industry I was sure she was cheating with.

Without any hesitation, I scooped the computer up, jumped in my car and headed to the one guy I thought could help, an old frat buddy by the name of Virgil Spector..