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"I'm fine. And I'm going to bed."
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I watched him go, my heart aching a little, but I had no idea how to make him
feel better.
Allie pulled out a chair and sat at the table, Timmy balanced on her lap. "So
your bed's gonna be kinda crowded, huh?"
"Cozy," I said.
"Stuart's the one who snores," she said.
"That's true," I agreed.
"And we haven't seen much of him tonight."
"No," I agreed. "We haven't." I glanced again at the phone that still hadn't
rung, despite me having left two messages for Stuart already. I'd say I was
irritated, but that would qualify as the world's biggest understatement.
"So, um, is he sharing the bed, too?"
I met my daughter's eyes. My very perceptive, growing-up-too-quickly daughter.
"No," I said. "He's not."
With perfect timing, the sharp creak of the garage door echoed through the
kitchen.
"Speak of the devil," Allie said.
"Not the devil," I corrected. "But he will have hell to pay."
I
stood up. "Why don't you forget about the fuzzies and take Timmy upstairs now?
Get into bed.
Watch a Timmy-approved movie if you want. I'll be up in a little bit."
"Okay," she said, gathering up her brother. "Stuart's in for it, isn't he?"
"Oh yeah," I said. "It's going to be ugly."
When Stuart finally walked into the kitchen, I was standing there waiting for
him, my arms crossed over my chest, and my fury rising like mercury. He looked
at me, then held out a single red carnation.
"All the florists were closed," he said. "They had a bucket at Seven-Eleven."
"You brought me a flower," I said, my voice sharp enough to slice bread.
"If I got you chocolate, you'd just complain about your waist."
The man does know me.
"And isn't it the thought that counts?"
I leaned against the counter and shook my head. "Not today."
His brow furrowed as he looked from me to the rest of the room. The kitchen
was still a. mess
, but not that much worse than my usual post-dinner-disaster area. When he
reached the table, though, he had a clear view of the smashed cups and most of
the living room.
That was a mess that couldn't be hidden.
Nor could it be blamed on my housekeeping skills, however inadequate they
might be.
"Holy crap," he said. "What happened?"
"If you'd check your cell phone once every few hours," I said icily, "maybe
you'd have a clue."
"The batteries died," he said. "And I can't find the damn car charger. The
last time I took Timmy to the "
I held up a hand. "Oh, no. You are not blaming your lack of communication on
your son. So don't even go there."
"Kate& "
"We were robbed
, Stuart! And you're telling me some bullshit story about your phone charger!"
All the color had drained from his face. "Where are the kids?"
I clenched my fists, wanting to hold on to my anger. And, yes, wanting to
punish him. Petty, small, and mean, but, dammit, that's the way I felt. And as
soon as I realized it, the bubble burst. My breath hitched and despite all my
training, all my anger, and all that stupid self-control I'd drawn so deeply
on over the last few months I started to cry.
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"Jesus, Kate," Stuart said, grabbing my shoulders. "The kids?
Where are the kids
?"
"They're fine," I managed between snuffles. I buried my face in his chest and
let him hold me tight, raw emotion flooding my body as the adrenaline drained
out of me. "They're upstairs. They're fine."
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I was trying to get a handle on that subdivision
mess I've been dealing with at the office. I knew you were at the beach with
Allie, so I wasn't worried about getting home early, and it didn't even occur
to me to call from the office. And then when I was in the car, I realized I
couldn't call at all." He stroked my hair. "If only I'd known."
"It's okay," I said. "It's okay." It wasn't, though, not really. Both of our
jobs were seeping over into our home life, into our marriage. And, honestly, I
wasn't sure our marriage could take it.
"Kate?" He tilted my chin up and brushed a kiss across my lips. "What is it?"
"Nothing," I said, automatically. Then, "No, wait. That's not true. I feel
like you've got a mistress or something. Only I'm the one who has to sneak in
time with you."
He stroked my hair. "It's hard now," he said. "I know that, and I love you for
putting up with it."
"I know," I murmured. "And I love you, too." I took a deep breath, and then
another. Then I pulled myself up on my tiptoes and brushed a kiss across his
cheek as the cat emerged from hiding to rub figure eights around my legs. "But
tonight, my darling, you get to sleep on the couch."
I traipsed upstairs to join the kids, wondering vaguely if I was being
hypocritical. I mean, at least I knew what Stuart was up to on those long
nights away from home. Stuart, however, had no idea what I was up to.
And the truth was, I never intended to tell him.
Chapter Eleven
I am not unfamiliar with the concept of guilt. Last summer, for example, I
erroneously thought that Stuart had thrown in with a particularly nasty demon
bent on taking over San Diablo and, eventually, the world.
An honest mistake that any wife could have made, but I
still feel guilty about . And Stuart had been it reaping the benefits for
months not that he ever knew the reason for my sudden shift into über-wife
mode.
The point of which is to say that I recognize guilt-motivated behavior when I
see it. I'd seen it just yesterday, as a matter of fact, and now it was déjà
vu all over again
, this time with chocolate chip pancakes, orange juice and coffee delivered on
a tray to the master bedroom's sitting area.
"Rise and shine, family," Stuart said, opening the curtains.
"Wow," I said, blinking against the sun. "Pancakes, huh?"
"Practice makes perfect. Besides, the skillet was still on the counter." He
tugged on the blanket. Allie groaned and yanked it back over her head. "Come
on, you guys. We have just enough time before mass to eat and get dressed."
I propped myself up on an elbow, watching him. I go to mass at least weekly,
and I take the kids every
Sunday. But Stuart's another matter. He goes, but reluctantly. And I think the
number of times that
Stuart's actually initiated a church outing adds up to exactly zero.
Oh yeah. I was definitely witnessing guilt on overdrive.
I, however, am not picky, and so I rolled out of bed, rousted the kids and
started getting ready.
My pleasure at Stuart's sudden shift to both the spiritual and the familiar
took a southerly turn as we were finishing breakfast.
"I thought we could swing by a couple of furniture stores on the way home," I
said. "The mattresses are trash. And now's as good a time as any to get a new
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sofa." We'd been holding off until Timmy passed the age of leaky diapers and
spilled sippy cups. But our sofa had a decidedly sour smell that even the
Pottery
Barn slipcover I'd splurged on couldn't hide.
Stuart, however, didn't look nearly as enthusiastic.
"What?" I demanded, as I wiped maple syrup off Timmy's hands (and his face,
and his legs, and the tops of his ears).
"Nothing," Stuart said. But he was now clearing the dishes and I smelled
additional guilt.
"Uh-huh," I said.
"I just thought we could take two cars."
"Two," I repeated. "And we'd want to do that why?"
"Kate& "
I lifted my hands in surrender. "Fine. You have to work. I get it."
He came up behind me and slid his arms around my waist. "The museum benefit's
tonight. I just need to make a few calls about that, and catch up on some
other things, I'll be home by seven. I promise." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]