The Husband's Secret by Liane Moriarty Page A

Rachel’s laughter turned into a sob.
    “Oh,
Rachel
.” Lauren half rose from her seat and reached out a perfectly manicured hand. (She had a manicure, a pedicure and a massage every third Saturday. She called it “Lauren time.” Rob brought Jacob over to Rachel’s place whenever it was “Lauren time,” and they walked to the park on the corner and ate egg sandwiches.) “I’m so sorry. I know how much you’ll miss Jacob, but—”
    Rachel took a deep, shaky breath and pulled herself together with all the strength that she had, as if she were heaving herself back up from a cliff edge.
    “Don’t be silly,” she said so sharply that Lauren flinched and dropped back into her seat. “I’ll be fine. This is a wonderful opportunity for you all.”
    She began stacking their dessert plates, roughly scraping leftover Sara Lee into a messy, unappealing pile of food.
    “By the way,” she said, just before she left the room. “That child needs a haircut.”

FOUR
    J ohn-Paul? Are you there?”
    Cecilia pressed the phone so hard to her ear that it hurt.
    Finally he spoke. “Have you opened it?” His voice was thin and reedy, like a querulous old man in a nursing home.
    “No,” said Cecilia. “You’re not dead, so I thought I’d better not.” She’d been trying for a flippant tone, but she sounded shrill, as if she were nagging him.
    There was silence again. She heard someone with an American accent call out, “Sir! This way, sir!”
    “Hello?” said Cecilia.
    “Could you please not open it? Would you mind? I wrote it a long time ago, when Isabel was a baby, I think. It’s sort of embarrassing. I thought I’d lost it, actually. Where did you find it?”
    He sounded self-conscious, as if he were talking to her in front of people he didn’t know that well.
    “Are you with someone?” asked Cecilia.
    “No. I’m just having breakfast here in the hotel restaurant.”
    “I found it when I was in the attic, looking for my piece of the Berlin . . . Anyway, I knocked over one of your shoe boxes, and there it was.”
    “I must have been doing my taxes around the same time I wrote it,” said John-Paul. “What an idiot. I remember I looked and looked for it. I thought I was losing my mind. I couldn’t
believe
I would lose . . .” His voice faded. “Well.”
    He sounded so contrite, so full of what seemed like over-the-top remorse.
    “Well, that doesn’t matter.” Now she sounded motherly, like she was talking to one of the girls. “But what made you write it in the first place?”
    “Just an impulse. I guess I was all emotional. Our first baby. It got me thinking about my dad and the things he didn’t get to say after he died. Things left unsaid. All the clichés. It just says sappy stuff, about how much I love you. Nothing earth-shattering. I can’t really remember, to be honest.”
    “So why can’t I open it, then?” She put on a wheedling voice that slightly sickened her. “What’s the big deal?”
    Silence again.
    “It’s not a big deal, but Cecilia, please, I’m asking you not to open it.” He sounded quite desperate. For heaven’s sake! What a fuss. Men were so ridiculous about emotional stuff.
    “Fine. I won’t open it. Let’s hope I don’t get to read it for another fifty years.”
    “Unless I outlast you.”
    “No chance. You eat too much red meat. I bet you’re eating bacon right now.”
    “And I bet you fed those poor girls fish tonight, didn’t you?” He was making a joke, but he still sounded tense.
    “Is that Daddy?” Polly skidded into the room. “I need to talk to him urgently!”
    “Here’s Polly,” said Cecilia as Polly attempted to pull the cordless phone from her grasp. “
Polly
, stop it. Just a
moment
. Talk to you tomorrow. Love you.”
    “Love you too,” she heard him say as Polly grabbed the phone. She ran from the room with it pressed to her ear. “Daddy, listen, I need to tell you something, and it’s quite a big
secret
.”
    Polly loved