Spy Mom by Beth McMullen

been available for Will II’s investigator, but he was missing a crucial piece of information: my name. Lucy Parks never lived in upstate New York. She lived in Connecticut somewhere and probably had pink wallpaper and a fluffy rug covered in hand-embroidered butterflies. She was the kind of girl who would have ended up married to an entrepreneur with his own investment fund, living in San Francisco, obsessing over the amount of omega-3 her child is getting in his diet. She makes total sense. The girl from the farm, the one who used to run down the gravel driveway with no shoes, chasing the dogs, she is gone.
    But no story, at least in real life, is ever quite so tidy. One night in an empty bar on the Lower East Side of New York, Simon, well into his fourth scotch, leaned in close to me.
    â€œDon’t you ever wonder,” he slurred, “how it is you came to be here?” A drink or two behind him but not altogether sober, I asked him what the hell he was talking about.
    â€œHere in this bar or here on this planet? You’ll have to be more specific.”
    Simon tried to focus his swimming eyes on me.
    â€œYou’re so good at deflecting, aren’t you? Must run in the family.” He paused long enough to toss back the last of his drink, slam down the glass, and position his hat just so on his head. When he tried to stand up, I had to steady him to keep him from falling on the floor. He grabbed onto my arm and pulled me in so our faces were inches apart. His breath was heavy and sour and I tried to pull back.
    â€œDo you think you were plucked from obscurity by John Smith, NSA, because you were so smart? Nothing is ever that simple. I’ve known canned tuna with more curiosity than you.”
    With that he pushed me away and stumbled out into the cold New York night.
    Most people, anyone sane or curious or even human for instance, would have gone after him and demanded an explanation. But not me. No. I stayed right there on my rickety bar stool and sucked on the sticky sweet cherry from my drink. Then I ordered another.
    Simon had a way of finding the most tragic thing in your life and exploiting it. Although I would rather have been set on fire than tell him about how I always felt a little bit disconnected from everyone around me, he knew. My past was gray, existing only in my memory, and Simon found that irresistible.
    Our wedding, Will’s and mine, was beautiful. It was held on the patio of a faux Italian villa in Napa Valley, surrounded by stunning English gardens and hills covered with grape vines. The English gardens upset Will. “All that water!” But he got over it and by midafternoon everyone was drunk on the house wine and dancing up a storm. Even my new in-laws seemed to have thawed a bit, welcoming me into their family with a hint of tension behind their eyes. When the party finally ended, my father-in-law was propped up against the bar. He grabbed me as I walked past.
    â€œWho are you?” he slurred. “Everyone leaves a paper trail.”
    I smiled, making my eyes as cold as possible. “It would be better for you if you let this go,” I said. With that, his fingers slid from my arm and his face lost some of its rosy glow. He would not remember this incident later, which was good for me. Sometimes I overreact.
    I was happy to survive the wedding more or less intact, but that was not enough for my darling new husband. Will wanted some sort of great adventure for our honeymoon.
    â€œHow about Thailand?” he suggested, standing in the travel section of our local bookstore, months before our wedding.
    â€œNo, bad weather that time of year,” I said. Have you ever lived through a monsoon in the jungle? It’s horrible.
    â€œCambodia?”
    I looked at him over the top of the book I was holding. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
    â€œIt’s supposed to be amazing, off the beaten path. Time to go is now,” he quoted from the