The One That Got Away by Leigh Himes Page B

gently dropped Sam to the ground, then held out a pair of panties to Gloria. I watched her pull up her nightgown, rip apart the taped sides of her diaper, let it hit the carpet with a thud, and walk away. Two seconds later, the little Asian woman swooped the diaper up and headed toward the door. “Thank you, Miss Gloria,” she said. As I watched my daughter ignore her, my face flushed with shame.
    “Breakfast, you two,” I said sternly, then corralled them toward the door. I would talk to Gloria about her attitude later. But for now, I was anxious to get them busy with cereal so I could look for a computer or iPad or anything with an Internet connection. I wasn’t sure if there would be any chat rooms for women who wake up married to men they met briefly fourteen years earlier, but it was worth a search.
    In the bright kitchen a massive rectangular island gleamed, its marble face like a giant block of streaky blue cheese, marred only where the stainless steel sink had taken a bite. Against the far wall was an eight-burner Viking cooktop, a swath of white subway tile, a chrome pot filler, and four—
yes, four!
—built-in ovens. Elsewhere, the walls held floor-to-ceiling white cabinets that were almost indistinguishable from one another. Large streak-free windows flooded the room in light, so there was no need to flip on any switches. Which was good considering I couldn’t find them, the walls offering nothing but immaculate white paint, so clean it looked like freshly poured milk.
    As Gloria scaled a white-leather-and-chrome barstool, I plopped Sam into a pedestaled high chair and snapped him in. I turned to search for the promised breakfast, but even after strolling around the island a few times, I couldn’t find anything. I would have missed the food entirely if I hadn’t felt warmth coming from one of the ovens. Actually, not an oven, more like a drawer. I pulled it open to find twoperfectly plated breakfasts, including scrambled eggs, oatmeal, both bacon and sausage, and sliced strawberry garnish. I took out the plates, warm but not hot, and set one in front of each child. I then picked up napkins, forks, and two sippy cups I found beside the sink and pushed them over. I tied a monogrammed bib around Sam’s neck.
    Now I just needed something for me. Perhaps just some juice. And coffee. Surely Abigail van Holt hadn’t given up coffee along with all the junk food?
    I turned back and looked for the fridge. Nothing. The other side? Nada. I peeked in a closet, but it housed only crackers, pineapples, fitness bars, and champagne. I tried to open one of the cabinets but couldn’t find a handle. I ran my hands over the edges, looking for an opening. I used my foot underneath, looked on the wall for a button or switch. I even wrestled a fork into the seam, but the damn cabinets wouldn’t budge. Sweat was starting to bead on my forehead when I heard Gloria plop down and pad over. She reached up and pressed her tiny fingers against a spot about two-thirds up on a cabinet door. It popped open with a soft
pffft
.
    “I said I wanted Froot Loops,” she said, rolling her eyes at me and reaching for the large red box.
    Well, of course. Why should anyone be bothered with something as pedestrian as a handle? I quickly popped open the rest of the cabinets, locating a hidden fridge, a separate freezer, dishes, serving platters, stacks of linens, and shelves alternating with boxed, canned, and foil-packaged food. But still no coffeemaker.
    I was still looking for it when I heard a quick buzzing noise, like an intercom. Sam and Gloria both looked to a panel on the wall, so my eyes followed theirs. I found a control panel, touched a button, and heard someone talking.
    “Mrs. van Holt?”
    “Yes?” My too-loud voice reverberated around the room.
    “There is someone here for you. A Mr. Cowan-Smith from Nordstrom. Shall I send him up?”
    Nordstrom? Perhaps this person might know something. “Yes! Absolutely! Send him