Fidelity Files, Page 4

  "No, Miss Hunter," Marta replied cordially in her thick Hispanic accent as she stood and watched me frantically make my way through the house. "I think maybe the phone ring when I vacuum. But I not sure, so I no turn off the vacuum to answer."

  I smiled and walked into my bedroom. "That's fine."

  "Usual clean?" she asked after me, nodding toward my suitcase in her hand.

  I stuck my head out the bedroom door. "Yes, please. Thank you."

  Marta nodded and started toward the laundry room as I shut my door to change.

  I quickly unbuttoned my jeans and slid my T-shirt over my head. Just as my chin was clear of the neckline, I noticed the blinking message light on my answering machine. I was always curious when people called my home line. Mostly because very few people actually had the number. And most of those people knew to call me on my cell phone. My business cell phone was the third number I had. But that was reserved strictly for clients and new referrals.

  I pressed Play on the machine as I hurried into my walk-in closet, throwing my clothes into the hamper and sifting through the hangers in the "business casual" section of my closet.

  "You have one new message," the electronic voice announced.

  "Hi, Jen. It's...Dad..."

  Suddenly, my whole body froze. My hand stopped on a red cashmere sweater, and then dropped numbly to my side, causing the sweater to slip from the hanger and fall to the ground. I stood as still as I could, as if any movement might trigger an emotional minefield, causing the entire room to burst into flames.

  I listened intently as my father's voice came through the small speaker. "Look, I know it's been a long time. But I thought maybe we could try talking again." There was a loud muffled sigh and a long pause.

  I could feel the anger bubbling up inside my stomach, ready to boil over. I turned my head and looked toward the entrance of my closet, waiting for the next word.

  And that's when it came.

  "Honey, I'm getting married." He paused again. "She's really great. I want you to meet her. I would really like for you to come to the wedding. It would mean a lot to me. To both of us..."

  As if released from a witch's evil spell, instantly my body unfroze and I marched into the bedroom. I violently threw myself at the machine. My hand landed with a loud thud on the nightstand, and I managed to locate the delete button. In a zealous rage, I pounded my finger on it at least a dozen times, and then eventually just held it down for what felt like an eternity.

  Feeling confident that the message had been thoroughly erased and all remnants of it had been effectively destroyed by the mere force of my finger, I returned to my closet, determined to pick out the perfect outfit for my meeting with Mrs. Jacobs.

  My closet, according to an envious and label-obsessed Sophie, was a "fashionista's paradise." Every label was properly represented: Gucci, Dior, Dolce & Gabbana, Marc Jacobs, Fendi, and whomever else Vogue or InStyle recommended a girl have in her closet.

  Because to be honest, I knew very little about fashion. I'd never had a knack for it. And in my line of work, that was always an obstacle.

  Most of my outfits required a lot of research and preparation.

  I reemerged from my bedroom five minutes later in a conservative green pantsuit with a cream-colored camisole underneath and a colorful scarf tied around my neck. It was a look that Cosmo had called "suburban chic" in their August issue, and given that I was about to enter the treacherous waters of chic suburbia (aka Orange County), I figured that outfit was the perfect fit. I slung my gym bag over my shoulder and carried my favorite Hermès Birkin in one hand, and with the other hand I pulled a cheap, black carry-on suitcase I had bought at Target this week, containing my "costume" and other "props" for tonight's assignment.

  I stuck my head into the laundry room to see Marta emptying out the contents of the suitcase from last night's trip into the washing machine.

  "Thanks, Marta. Have a great weekend."

  Her head popped up. "You're welcome, Miss Hunter. You will need your suitcase again tomorrow?"

  "Yes, actually I will," I replied. "I'm flying to San Francisco in the morning."

  "Okay, I wash it now," Marta said, reaching to the shelf above the washer and dryer and removing a scrub brush and a bottle of industrial-strength disinfectant wash.

  "Thank you."

  I'm sure she had all sorts of interesting questions about me. Who is this girl? What kind of job keeps her away from home nearly five days a week? How is she able to afford a place this nice at such a young age? (At twenty-eight years old, I was the youngest home owner in the complex.) And most important, why on earth do I have to disinfect her suitcase every time she comes home from a business trip?

  But she's never asked me any of these questions. And so I've never felt compelled to make up any stories to answer them. For all I know, she probably thinks that I visit toxic waste sites for a living, or spend my free time roaming the halls of the Centers for Disease Control without a biohazard suit. But that's how I treat everything that could have come in contact with the cheaters I meet... like level-4 viruses. Dangerously airborne, extremely deadly, and with no known cure.

  I stopped in front of the mirror hanging next to the front door. My long dark hair was pulled away from my face in a loose ponytail.

  I scrutinized my reflection.

  Something was missing. Did I forget to touch up my mascara?

  I leaned in to examine my eyelashes. They looked as black as ever against my green eyes. Maybe I was just tired from the flight this morning. I also hadn't slept very well last night.

  I took one last look, painted on a bright smile, and was out the door. But not before a longing glance back at my spotless living room.

  As much as I enjoyed the traveling life, it was kind of a shame to have such a nice house when I was so rarely in it.

  I took Wilshire Boulevard back to the 405 and settled in for the long drive down to Newport Beach. The heart of the O.C. (the show and the county). And Anne Jacobs's home easily could have been featured on any one of the O.C. episodes, with its mansion-like appearance and sparkling infinity pool overlooking the ocean in the backyard.

  Anne was my third client from Newport Beach in the past month. Word spreads fast in that town, especially when you're a rich housewife lounging at the local spa all day, sharing gossip and, apparently, fidelity inspector phone numbers with other rich housewives.

  My normal rate is very high. It's amazing how much people are willing to pay for the truth. To me it has always been priceless. And I guess a lot of people feel that way.

  The client also pays for all of my expenses. Flights, hotel rooms, transportation, food, you name it. Anything that will help them get to the information they're seeking. Price is usually not an issue. So it's no surprise that most of my clients have the money to live in houses the size of hotels.

  Peace of mind is a hard thing to find these days. And the reality is: Most people will pay for it. That's why I have a job.

  I turned onto Anne Jacobs's street, followed it to the end of the cul-de-sac, and then pulled into the long, paved driveway that led up to the house.

  There it was, in all its splendor.

  I had been there once before, a week earlier when I took on the assignment. The house was still as magnificent as it was then...but somehow, it seemed to have lost its sparkle.

  Most of the houses I enter are beautiful. But as I've learned, the house is quite often a facade. A mask that would have you believe the inside looks just as beautiful as the outside. And yes, the designer furniture and marble countertops are quite lovely, but the real inside, the inner workings, the relationships are never quite as glamorous. It's a shame, really. We want so much to believe that the insides of these multimillion-dollar homes overlooking the ocean are filled with love, happiness, and trust. But most of the time they just aren't.

  My job tends to take off the mask.

  "Mrs. Jacobs," I began gently once we were seated in her now-familiar living roo
m. "Are we alone in the house?" I asked.

  "Yes," she assured me. "The kids are still at school."

  I have a very strict no-children policy when it comes to my job. They are not allowed to be present during any part of this process. Not because I don't like kids. I do. But if there is one circumstance where I'm an advocate for bliss in the form of ignorance, it's during childhood. No exceptions. Kids should never be burdened with the weight of adult relationships, especially those of their own parents. It's hard enough to be a child in today's world. They already see more than they should. I wasn't about to be responsible for irreparably tarnishing the innocence of anyone's child.

  "Good," I replied.

  She nodded nervously. She was an attractive woman, petite and fairly fit. The lines on her face represented years of PTA meetings, carpooling, and late nights waiting up for her husband to come home from work. I could feel the anxiety radiating off of her like warmth from a space heater. I felt for her. I really did. Being in her shoes was a difficult place to be. But I knew that by hiring me, she had taken the hardest, first step.

  The first step down the road to a happier and more honest existence.

  I reached out and rested my hand delicately on top of hers. "It's okay. Everything will be fine," I soothed.

  She took a deep breath and tried hard to believe me.

  I didn't let go of her hand. I kept holding on to it as I inhaled deeply and began speaking. "As we discussed last week when we met ..."

  Mrs. Jacobs turned her hand around and clasped it in mine.

  I swallowed hard and flashed another warm smile. This was always the most difficult part. Being the bearer of bad news is never easy. "Per your request, I conducted a fidelity inspection on your husband based on an 'intention to cheat.' Meaning that in order to fail he had to show obvious intention to engage in sexual infidelity." I paused and took a deep breath. "Unfortunately, your husband did not pass the inspection."

  "No," she whimpered, shaking her head slowly.

  "I'm sorry."

  "No, no," she repeated softly, begging for me to change my answer. To somehow reverse the past.

  It's during these challenging moments, when your heart wants to sink away into the darkness, that I have to stay focused. I always keep my mind on the end result. The goal. Why I'm doing this. You can't live in the moment when your purpose is this big. You can't focus on the painful steps that bring you there. Otherwise you'll lose yourself along the way.

  I remove the blindfolds that keep people in the dark. And almost everyone has the same initial reaction to the unfamiliar, blinding light. They scorn it. They want to cut the power and go back to their comfortable darkness. But that's the thing about this unique situation. Once you've seen the light, you can't go back. You'll always know it's there. And the most comforting thought for me is knowing that eventually they'll come to appreciate it. That one day, they'll wake up and realize that life's just too short to live in the dark.

  "We used to be happy," she whispered.

  "I'm sure you were," I said sincerely, as I reached over to the end table next to me, plucked a Kleenex from the box, and handed it to her. She nodded her appreciation as she took it and wiped her nose.

  "I always thought we were different. That we weren't that couple. I mean, I watched all our friends go through divorces, affairs, therapy...you know how it can be in this town....But I just never imagined it would be us. Ever."

  "You did the right thing by hiring me, Mrs. Jacobs."

  She nodded, clearly unconvinced, and stood up to show me to the front door.

  "I know it doesn't feel like it now," I continued. "But it will. Trust me."

  She dabbed at her eyes with the wrinkled Kleenex and smiled politely, partly believing it, partly questioning it, partly... just numb.

  I reached into my bag and removed a cashier's check that I had calculated on the plane and picked up from the bank on my way to Anne's house. I placed it on the coffee table in front of her.

  "I'm going to leave this check here for you. It's the balance of your retainer. The fees and expenses we discussed have been deducted."

  She thanked me, and we walked back toward the entry hall. She reached out and sniffled as she opened the large mahogany door for me. I began to walk through it, but then paused and turned around. Anne stood there, studying me, assuming I would speak.

  But I didn't speak. I simply reached out my arms and pulled her into an embrace. At first her body stiffened at my unexpected affection, but it only took a brief moment before I felt her melt into me, and she broke into silent sobs on my shoulder. I stroked her hair as I would that of a little girl who had fallen off her bike and scraped her knee. And in that moment, I'm sure she felt like one.

  But like any wise mother, with the experience of a lifetime behind her, I knew something she didn't know. That with time, the scrape would heal, the scab would disappear, and the Band-Aid would eventually come off. And sooner or later... she might actually want to go for another ride.

  Anne finally pulled away and wiped her eyes again, looking embarrassed and grateful at the same time.

  "I'm sorry," she said timidly, laughing at herself.

  "Don't be."

  As easy as it would be, I never blame myself. There's no reason to. I'm just a messenger. And we all know it doesn't do any good to shoot the messenger.

  "You know . . ." I began gently.

  She looked into my eyes with anticipation and waited for my next words as if they might be gospel. Something she could take to bed with her at night and wake up with the next morning.

  "The human spirit wasn't meant to live in denial. It will always seek the truth."

  And just before I turned back to leave, I saw something in her eyes. Something I could take to bed with me at night and wake up with the next morning.

  It was a tiny speck of hope, struggling to break free and perform its one mission in life. To heal.

  For Anne Jacobs it was the hope that maybe I was right. Maybe she did do the right thing.

  And there was nothing more in the world I could ask to leave with.

  3

  Father of the Bride

  TWO DAYS earlier my business line had rung while I was in the middle of watching an episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition on TiVo. It's my favorite show on the air because it always manages to put me in a good mood. Zoë says that's why they call it "feel-good programming." But for me, the reasons are much more deeply rooted than just wanting to feel good.

  Because I secretly believed that every client I visited, every house I stepped into and stepped out of, every family I changed was like my own little extreme makeover project. Just with a much less orthodox approach.

  "Hello?" I said into the phone.

  When answering my business line, I always opted for a standard, informal greeting rather than a typical, "This is Ashlyn," or anything personalized. This approach kept the whole thing more discreet. The caller knows who they're calling. And if it's a call I want to take, I can proceed from there. Otherwise, I can simply tell the caller that they have the wrong number and hang up.

  Every so often an angry now-ex-husband or ex-boyfriend will stumble upon this number and dial it, hoping to get more information about the test they've just failed miserably. And, of course, looking for a scapegoat upon which to release their pent-up anger. Anything to distract themselves from turning inward and facing the real issue.

  "May I please speak to Ashlyn?" It was a male voice. Although I have had a few male clients in the past for various reasons, I'm still always wary when a man calls this number.

  "What is this regarding?"

  "My name is Roger Ireland. I received your number from a close friend, Audrey Robbins. She said you might be able to help me."

  I considered, sizing up his voice in an effort to decide whether this would simply be a "wrong number" or a longer conversation. The man on the phone sounded genuine and almost endearingly uncomfortable. This type of phone call was clearly not
part of his normal daily routine.

  "What kind of help are you looking for?" I asked.

  He cleared his throat. "Well, my daughter is getting married in a few months, and I'm not sure I really trust the guy." He paused and then quickly added, "I could be completely wrong, but I just have a bad feeling about the whole thing. I'm worried about her."

  "I see."

  "I'd rather know now if he's going to break her heart so we don't have to go through with the wedding."

  "Well, that's understandable," I said. "Have you mentioned your concern to your daughter?"

  "I tried. It didn't seem to work. She got really upset and didn't speak to me for a week."

  "Right," I responded. It made sense. Young brides-to-be rarely want to hear anything except, "White is a good color on you."

  "I love my daughter. I only want her to be happy. But if this guy is no good, I want to prove it to her. To save her from heartache further down the road." He struggled momentarily with his next line. And then finally, "Can you help me?"

  I agreed to meet with him so that I could gather some more information. I rarely accept assignments over the phone. I insist on meeting face-to-face first so I can get a better feel for the person who's hiring me and what the assignment would entail.

  THAT PHONE call was two days ago. So today, after leaving Anne Jacobs's house, I drove back to Los Angeles to meet with Roger Ireland at his office in Century City. I arrived at the twenty-story building on Avenue of the Stars and rode the elevator up to the eleventh floor where a sign read LAW OFFICES OF IRELAND, HAMMERL AND WELCH.

  The receptionist smiled cordially upon hearing the name Ashlyn and led me right into his office.

  Roger Ireland was a pleasant-looking man, with gray hair and tired eyes, probably in his late fifties or early sixties. His large corner office was filled with a combination of dark wood furniture and brown cardboard boxes. "I'm retiring in a few weeks," he said, after shaking my hand and motioning toward the boxes and random piles of clutter.