dart a quick glance at his wife, Peg, and Corbin, who are finishing an air-kiss greeting, oblivious to Dave’s unconscionable antics.
Dave’s moved on into the high-ceilinged living room. I’m left pondering that surely he didn’t mean it the way I’m imagining he did. In all the years I’ve known him, he’s had a certain reputation as a ladies’ man that’s escalated to cheating louse as the practice became more successful, but that’s between him and Peg. Except for a few off-color remarks about my inadequate boobs, he’s never made a pass at me.
Tonight, he’s obviously soused. Short of causing a scene, I can do nothing but stand there with the sick feeling of having been violated, and greet Peg, who offers me the same glassy-eyed air kiss she gave my husband.
“Haaaaaai, huuuuuun,” she slurs, the unmistakable smell of gin on her breath, the dregs of a drink in the glass she holds. The ice cubes clink as she steps back, a little unsteady on her feet, and brushes a wisp of short red hair off her pale forehead.
All this and it’s only six-thirty.
It could be a very long night, except that I’ve got a theory. One of Corbin’s partners, Mac or Dave, sent the letter. They have to be the culprits. The timing is just too coincidental: The envelope arrived yesterday. The dinner party’s tonight. Hello?
These forty-something men who play doctor have never outgrown their hazing, frat-boy mentality. My husband is the worst. He had Mac’s brand-new Cadillac towed out of the parking lot to make him think it was stolen. Last year, when Dave turned forty-five, Corbin hired a stripper to come into the office and pose as a patient—feeding Dave’s obsession with big boobs.
Tonight, I sense my otherwise upright, straitlaced husband, with his Jaguar and season subscription to the opera, is about to get the mother of all paybacks.
They’re going to laugh about it at dinner. Make a big joke out of it.
Gotcha, Corb!
Well, I can take a joke as well as the next person. I don’t know if Corbin’s going to be so forgiving because this really pushes the bounds of bad taste. Will it be enough to curtail these monthly dinner parties?
Oh, wouldn’t that be a shame.
I’d much rather it be a joke than to go on worrying and wondering….
We follow Peg into the living room where Dave holds out a Scotch on the rocks for Corbin and a glass of Chardonnay for me. I can’t meet Dave’s gaze. So I’m glad when the doorbell rings again.
Dave and Peg answer the door together. A moment later they usher in Joan and Mac McCracken. I wonder if Dave gave Joan the same heinie-fondling, boob-assessing welcome he gave me?
If he did, it would make it less personal, but I’m certainly not going to say, “Hi, Joan. Did Dave grab your ass, too?”
What I’m going to do later is tell Corbin. Let him take care of it. I’m not getting breast implants. So Corbin can tell Dave not to mention it again. Not funny the first fifteen times he said it. Now, he’s just running it into the ground.
Let’s see if Corbin thinks this is as funny as his buddy’s other misdeeds.
Actually, I need to give Corbin some credit. Funny is not the appropriate word. When he’s regaled me with tales of his partners’ libidinous exploits it’s been more out of a sense of horror than amusement. It started after we bumped into Mac out with a woman-child who looked barely legal. Obviously a date. Joan was in Tuscany for the month. Alone. Well, presumably alone—who knows?
Peg, Joan and I aren’t close enough to share intimate details like that. Even if I don’t like them very much, I have to admit they’re not stupid women. They have to know their husbands. How could they not? I don’t understand how they can stay with men they know are unfaithful—turn the other cheek and jet off to Europe until the latest bimbette has lost her sheen.
I’ve always appreciated Corbin’s honesty. After seeing Mac—God, it was before Caitlin was born—Corbin opened up to me. I hated hearing the dirty details, but it made me feel closer to my husband that he would share how much Dave’s and Mac’s dalliances bothered him. As close as they are, he said it was the one area in which he couldn’t relate to them, said it disappointed him that they could look their wives in the eyes and lie.
I cling to that thought and believe in my husband.
Bring on the joke.
I can take it.
CHAPTER 3
There was no joke.
Nor a punch line.
Only the slow-dawning realization that Mac and Dave weren’t the culprits. Someone else sent the letter.
Some unknown person, who, for some unknown reason, decided she—or he—and it could very well be a he, let’s not jump to conclusions—wanted to mess with the solidarity of the Hennessey marriage.
So here I stand the morning after, in the kitchen, squeezing orange juice for Corbin’s and Caitlin’s breakfast, pondering who and why and trying to act as if I haven’t a care in the world.
I’ve never been a good actress. I’m tired and cranky because I lay awake most of last night listening to Corbin snore.
The orange slips off the juicer, and my hand lands in the sticky, pulpy mess. Oh for God’s sake. It’s mornings like this I wish I could pull a carton of OJ from the refrigerator. But I won’t. I’ve always taken pride in giving my family the best. I rinse and dry my hand, return to the half-dozen orange halves on the cutting board.
I’m just tired. Everything always seems worse when I’m tired.
“Corbin?”
He’s sitting at the table, a bowl of oatmeal in front of him, engrossed in the newspaper. He doesn’t look up from the business section. A prickle of irritation spirals through my veins, and I’m tempted to throw a spent orange hull at his paper fortress. Instead, I toss the peel into the sink.
“Do you want to hear something funny?” I ask.
“Mmm…” He folds the paper in half then over again. Still reading, he reaches for a piece of toast on a plate next to his cereal. Absently, he takes a bite.
I pick up another orange half. “I thought Dave and Mac were the ones who wrote the letter.”
He lowers the paper and looks at me as if I’m an idiot.
I shrug. “I thought they were playing a joke.”
He frowns. “A damn lousy joke. They wouldn’t do something like that. “He sounds irritated, defensive, as if he’d never considered them suspect. The crease between his brows deepens, and he retreats behind his newspaper. I hate the way he shuts down in the middle of a conversation. Because I always have plenty left to say.
“Yes, Corbin, it is a lousy thing to do. Do you have any idea who did it?”
“Kate.” It’s more of a sigh than a word. He lays the business section on the table, checks his watch, stands.
