the envelope?”
The plain white rectangle lay kitty-corner, half on the hardwood floor, half on the Persian rug next to the bed. The white stood out like a surrender flag against a blood-orange sunset.
Corbin picked up the envelope. Flipped it from one side to the other. Snorted. “Nothing.”
A quick flick of his wrist, sent the envelope skimming across the polished wood until it dead-ended into the baseboard.
Then we sat side-by-side in silence. Him—crumpling the letter as if the words would disappear into the black hole of his fist. Me—needing him to say, “I love you. I haven’t been unfaithful.”
He never said it. When I finally summoned the strength to ask, big, fat, hot tears—bottled up all day—slipped from my eyes, slid down my face and washed away the words.
He held me until I stopped crying, until I murmured, “Who would do this to us?”
“I don’t know, Kate, but I’ll sure as hell get to the bottom of it.”
The Ford Excursion behind me beep-beep-beeps, and I realize the line has moved ahead at least five car lengths. I’m still sitting in the same spot. I give a little wave and pull up. I have to get a hold of myself.
To keep my mind from falling backward into the sinkhole of doubt and fear, I focus on my breathing, the way they teach us in yoga class.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Believe him. Or leave him. Believe him. Or leave him.
No! Stay present.
I drum my nails on the steering wheel. Outside my window the sun is shining through barren trees; the Volvo is still in front of me, the Ford Excursion still behind. Bundled-up children cling to their parents’ hands as they dash between cars toward the sidewalk ready for a brisk walk home; the faint warble of the three-fifteen school bell sounds, dismissing the bus riders—car riders leave at first bell.
The bell sounds remarkably similar to “Ode to Joy.” Oh. No, wait—that’s my cell phone. Caitlin probably changed the ring again. It’s one of her favorite pranks.
I grab my purse from the passenger seat. Fumble for the phone. Press Talk just before it switches to voice mail.
“Hello?”
“Are your bags packed?”
It’s Alex.
“Noooooo—”
“Well get ready, I’ve booked us a room at The Breakers for the weekend of February seventh.”
“That’s only two weeks from now.”
“Right. One of the weekends we all agreed on.”
Breath in. Breath out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
“Kate? Are you there?”
“Yes. I—I just thought you’d choose one of the other options we agreed on.”
“The Breakers is offering a fabulous spa package that weekend—you know, so close to Valentine’s Day. We’d be crazy not to take advantage of it.”
A knot the size of Texas moves into my stomach.
“You’re still going, right?” she asks.
If I believe in my husband—if I trust him—I should have no reservations whatsoever. Just as I never had any doubt about going away with Rainey and Alex the nine previous years we’ve carried on this tradition.
“Of course I’m going. I have to let Corbin know.” I hear myself saying the words, but they sound foreign. My heart’s instinct is to protest, but I won’t let it.
“This is going to be so much fun,” says Alex.
More awkward silence crackles over the phone waves. I sense Alex searching for the words to ask what my problem is. But there is no problem. No siree. Not with my marriage. So I say, “I’m looking forward to it.”
“Good. Me, too. I’m going to call Rainey now.”
I hang up. Slide up two more spaces in the queue. Perform another rapid-fire cadence of steering wheel nail drumming, but it threatens to set my nerves on edge. So I turn on the radio to drown out the silence and pull from my purse the paint chips I selected today for the living room.
Five shades of beige for Corbin. One perfect blood-red sample called Scarlett O’Hara for me. He’ll never go for it, but I like it. I fan them out as if I’m ready for a hand of six-card draw, study the subtle differences of the beiges, and absently sing along with the radio until it registers that Toni Braxton is wailing about the sadness of the word goodbye and having no joy in her life after her man walked out the door.
“Unbreak My Heart.”
Ugggggggh. I used to love that song.
I swat at the radio as if it’s a hornet about to sting me. The paint chips fly, but the scan button lands on a classic rock station playing a gritty guitar riff. A song I don’t recognize.
Perfect.
I ease the car forward. Now, I can see the children waiting on the covered walkway. I bend down and retrieve the color chips.
Beige.
Beige.
Beige.
Scarlett O’Hara. Nope. He’ll never go for it, despite how he always says, “You’re the designer. Work your magic.”
He always comes back to beige. And I say, “If you want it to remain the same, then why are we bothering?”
He says, “No, go ahead. We need a change.”
I end up giving him the same old same old we’ve had since I began decorating our house twenty years ago.
Twenty years of beige.
Oh, dear God, I thought it was what he wanted.
Armed with a cocktail, Corbin’s partner, Dave Sanders, answers his front door and greets us with a hearty, “Heeeeeeey. It’s the Hennesseys. Come in.”
He takes our coats, slaps Corbin on the back, then pulls me into a tight bear hug, pressing his short, chubby body to mine in a way that makes me squirm. “Kate, you’re gorgeous, as always.”
His breath reeks of Scotch. Before I can break away, his free hand slithers down my back until he cups my bottom and gives it a little squeeze.
I draw in a sharp breath. What the—? I try to pull away, but he holds on to me, staring down at my breasts.
“What are you—about a B cup? My brother can give you a nice set of Ds and then you’d be just about the perfect woman.”
I can’t believe he just said that.
“Stop it.”
