Renata and the Fall from Grace

by Becky Doughty

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “They take me for granted." John could tell Renata was trying not to give in to the tears that were making her eyes glisten. "They have no clue how much I do for them. They have no idea how hard I've worked to keep things together all these years. They think I'm bossy because I like to be, but if just one of them would step up and stop acting like selfish babies, I wouldn't be forced into this role. Then I could be self-centered and ridiculous like them. Georgia, at least, has an excuse. She's still practically a kid."

  Across the table from her, John just nodded as he methodically cut and ate uniform bites off the baked potato in front of him. He knew better than to contribute to her rant. Anything he said could be used against him when she got this way.

  "Have you heard anything I've said?" She glared at him, her eyebrows raised. Clearly, not saying anything could be used against him, too, but at least it was the lesser of two evils.

  "I heard you, Mom. You're bossy, and they don't like it." Simon, nine years old, expressed himself in short, declarative statements that often left those around him deflated. It really bothered Renata who thought he was too young to be so opinionated. But Simon's directness was refreshing to John. It reminded him of Renata—how, at least in the early days, he'd never had to guess what she'd been thinking.

  "Actually, no, you clearly did not hear me, Simon." She turned toward her son. "I said they think I like being bossy, but I'm not. It's because of them that I constantly have to step in. They force me to take charge because if I didn't, nothing would ever get resolved in this family." She turned narrowed eyes on John and he knew what that look meant. Why aren't you defending me?

  The thing was, John did defend her. Everyone knew better than to say a negative word about her to his face. When she was being attacked, in any way, shape, or form, he was there by her side, at the ready, the moment she needed him. But more often than not, he'd step in too early and then get yelled at for treating her like a child, or worse, like an idiot. He never intended to do either, and he didn't like being accused of it. He would lay down his life to defend her, to cover her, to protect her, but she made doing so the biggest challenge in their relationship. Lately, he'd opted to err to the side of caution, so he often kept silent, waiting for just the right moment to step in…and inadvertently leaving her high and dry and on her own. It was a fine line to walk and he constantly listed to one side or the other these days, according to his wife.

  She plucked the napkin from her lap and tucked it neatly under the edge of her plate. Did that mean she was leaving the table? Her food was barely touched. John sat back and studied her, waiting for her next move. It never ceased to amaze him the inner workings of his wife's mind. On the outside, she was beautiful, incredibly sexy with her sleek black hair and a mouth God shaped for kissing, eyes the color of summer rainstorms. But what went on behind those eyes, well, sometimes it was like standing at the edge of the bottomless Loch Ness and wondering if the creature in its depths was a timid gentle Nessie…or a beast that would swallow him whole if he looked too closely.

  When they'd first met and early into their marriage, she'd burst into bloom under his affection, a flower so exquisite he was sometimes afraid to touch her lest he bruise her very soul. But somewhere along the way, something had bruised her anyway, and like a cactus blossom at the end of the day, the delicate petals folded in on themselves, leaving nothing exposed but prickles.

  Oh, he knew her heart was breaking for a baby girl. He understood. He, too, had dreamed of a pink-cheeked daughter, chubby fingers reaching for him, a miniature of Renata. But it was more than that. His wife held on to things like no one else he know. She didn't give second chances. Not even to herself.

  He looked around the table at their boys, studying each one for a moment or two. Reuben, suddenly a tween, was listening to music in his head. He didn't need wires hanging from his ears to hear it; it came from inside of him. When he wasn't doing homework or playing soccer, he was working on a song. Usually it was someone else's music, but more often now, when they asked him what he was humming, he'd answer vaguely, "Just a song I'm writing."

  Levi watched everyone with that half-smile he had yet to outgrow. With his big gray eyes and coal-black lashes, his coloring was the most like hers. Even his hair, straight and thick, grew as quickly as his wife's did. They called him Harry Potter sometimes, which he didn't mind, because as soon as Renata trimmed his hair, it seemed to grow back the very next day.

  Levi was like him in his temperament; tolerant, patient, and quiet. The kid said only good things about people. His favorite new saying was "You slay me!" and even though John didn't think he knew what it meant, it was pretty funny coming out of the gap-toothed mouth of a grinning seven-year-old.

  Judah. Well, all that could be seen of him at the moment was his hand gripping the edge of the table. There was more food spread in an eight-inch swath around his plate than could be credited to what had originally been on the dish, and his cup lay on its side, thankfully all but empty. How could one child create so much chaos? The rest of him was rooting around underneath the table where he was either retrieving runaway food or trying to sneak away so he wouldn't have to eat the orange Jello melting on his plate. He didn't like the stuff, but for some reason John couldn't fathom, Renata felt compelled to keep trying to convince Judah otherwise, and served it to him every time she made it.

  Simon, still stoic and often scowling, always seemed to be listening. Always alert, aware of what was going on around him, even when they were certain the conversation topics were over his head. They'd learned the hard way that they couldn't talk freely around him; he had the embarrassing tendency to ask questions at the worst possible time, especially when Renata's sisters were around. John was pretty sure he did it intentionally, just to be cantankerous. And because his calculating little mind knew exactly what went on in his mother's head when he did.

  Sometimes Renata admitted to John that she wondered if Simon did stuff like that just to be mean to her.

  His eyes fell on his wife, having made a full circle around the table, and he smiled at her, hoping she'd soften and stay. He wanted to tease her, but he didn't dare. She didn't use to mind when he did. She use to blush and bury her face in his neck. But lately, she often accused him of ridiculing her, of thinking she was just a silly girl. He'd pull her close and kiss her until her knees gave out, reminding her that the best gift she ever gave him was laughter. She couldn't argue with that, but she did anyway.

  "John?"

  "Hm?" His eyebrows went up in question. Dang it. He'd forgotten the question.

  When she pursed her lips and raised her own eyebrows, waiting for a response of any kind, he swallowed and took a sip of his iced tea. "You'll figure it out, Sweetie. You girls always do."

  ~ ~ ~

  Renata lay in bed, her back propped up against her pillows, reading the latest Ella Robbins novel. She was a fan through and through. Ella could craft a story like no one else, maybe not even her beloved Agatha Christie. Of course, she'd never admit that to anyone. Ms. Christie's books were classics. They were Literature, with a capital L. Ella Robbins' novels, on the other hand, were purely Pleasure. With a capital P. They were predictable stories that started with a bang, roared through the pages at a heart-thumping, break-neck speed, included plenty of passionate entanglements between the heroes and heroines, and ended with earth-shattering revelations Renata could see coming from the very first page. She loved them anyway. In fact, she loved them because of that. Ella wasn't going to pull the rug out from under her feet. Ella wasn't going to surprise her with anything but a happy and blood-pounding, climactic ending. Yes, Ella's love scenes included rather explicit details, but Renata tolerated them for the sake of the story.

  Granted, she wouldn't want John opening one of the books to any of those scenes—or anyone else, for that matter—which is why she kept her collection tucked neatly into shoe boxes in her closet, amidst the myriad of other shoe bo
xes…containing shoes. Besides, she really didn't have to worry about John. He knew she read them, but he never bothered to open one. He didn't read anything except hunting, fishing, and various other outdoorsman magazines.

  He also read the Bible, she admitted, and more often than she did, eyeing the worn leather-covered book sitting on his bedside table. Although he rarely read in bed, he kept it there for the morning when he'd slip out from the cocoon of their 1200 count Egyptian cotton sheets, scoop it up, and pad off to the kitchen. While waiting for the coffee to brew, he met with the Lord. Then he'd return to their bedroom with two steaming mugs and warm wake-up snuggles.

  She loved those languid morning moments with him, before the world around them stirred, before the boys awoke and realized they wanted something immediately. Lying in the circle of his arms, curled against his solid man-strength, the faint bergamot of his aftershave still lingering on his skin from his shower the night before. Sometimes they talked about the day ahead, or of some other pressing matter, other times, rather than words, they communicated with the whisper of flesh and bone.

  On nights like this, especially, when the sink of dinner dishes seemed bottomless, and the boys' bedtime rituals lasted far longer than they should, Renata wanted nothing more than to escape into someone else's story, preferably one with an idealistically happy ending.

  John, too, seemed quieter, deeper, like still water, and Renata tiptoed around him, not because she didn't want to disturb him, but because she wasn't so sure she wanted him to disturb her.

  She heard the bathroom door open and peered at him over the top of her book, watching him as he crossed the room to their bed. His short hair was still damp and rumpled from drying it with a towel after his shower. He wore only his boxers and socks, his chest and limbs pale with the winter months. Come summer, he would absorb the California sun into his skin, turning every exposed part of him a golden brown.

  He noticed her eyes on him and winked, then did a slow soft-shoe shuffle toward her. She smiled appreciatively, but waved her book at him, held open in her right hand.

  "You already know how it's going to end, Renata." When John was especially tired, his voice took on a husky quality that made her skin tingle. She let her long hair fall forward a little to hide the blush.

  "No, I don't. This one is brand new." She turned the page purposefully, even though she couldn't remember a thing she'd just read.

  "I wasn't referring to the book. I meant the competition." He eased himself under the blankets and slid over beside her, snaking an arm around her middle, jostling the book in her hands. "Who will make your heart race tonight? Will it be Ella Robbins and her paperback pirates? Or John Dixon, in the flesh?"

  "In the cold flesh!" Although she knew he was like a furnace and would be hot to the touch in moments, his skin, even through her nightgown, was chilled after his shower. She tried unsuccessfully to nudge him away. He reached up, took the book out of her hand, then tossed it over his shoulder. It landed on the floor and slid beneath the tapestried slipper chair in the corner of the room.

  "Hey! You shouldn't treat books that way." She stuck out her bottom lip and crossed her arms, feigning petulance.

  "I love that glint in your eyes when you don't get what you want." He leaned over and braced his hands on the bed on either side of her, his face mere inches from hers. She could see the goose-bumps on his skin, feel the fine reddish hairs on his forearms stiffening beneath her fingertips as she ran her hands up to the smooth curve of his shoulders. She laced her fingers through the damp hair at the back of his head and pulled him toward her, the book forgotten for the moment.

  "Who says I'm not getting what I want?" She whispered the words against his mouth.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Mommy, my tummy hurts." The little voice rasped in her ear, and Renata turned away from it, not wanting to awaken from the dream she was having. "Mommy!"

  "What? Hm?"

  "Renata. Wake up, honey. It's Levi." From her other side, John's hand on her shoulder tightened, shaking her gently. "Levi needs you."

  "Mommeeeee!" Levi's voice rose sharply just before he threw up all over her side of the bed, splattering her neck and cheek with warm chunks.

  "Wha—? Oh, Levi! Yuck! How could you?" She sat bolt upright, screeching in her shock and disgust, resisting the impulse to throw off the sheet. Without intending to, she'd fallen asleep in John's arms after making love, and she wasn't dressed. "John, help! I'm covered in vomit! Argh!" She clenched her teeth and wailed, trying not to breathe in through her nose. "Do something! Get him out of here!"

  John was already out of bed, slipping into his pajama bottoms. He flipped on his lamp and hurried over to pull a weeping Levi away from his mother. "Come on, son. Let's get you into the bathroom."

  "Not in ours! I need it. Take him to theirs," she demanded, her voice shrill. John, his hair sticking up in funny spikes on one side of his head, scowled at her over his shoulder.

  "Cool it, Renata. He's the one who's sick."

  "Yes, and I'm the one who's covered in his sickness!" She waited until John pulled the door closed behind him, then climbed out of bed and stripped the sheets from it. Everything would have to be washed, including her down comforter she'd paid a fortune for, even with the huge discount, during last year's Black Friday sales. In the meantime, what was she supposed to do with it? Disgusted, she rolled everything up in a huge ball, shoved it into the hall outside the bedroom door, and stormed into the bathroom. She'd deal with it in the morning; at least nothing had soaked into the mattress. She got straight in the tub and stood at the far end while the water got warm, shivering and angry, trying to hold back her own dry heaves and tears.

  ~ ~ ~

  By the time she was out of the shower, her wet hair wrapped in a towel, John was standing helplessly in front of the linen closet, eying the carefully organized stacks. He clearly had no clue what he was looking at, or for, and she impatiently nudged him out of the way.

  "We use queen sheets, remember? Grab that blanket up there." She pointed to the comforter they'd used two winters ago, shoved into a plastic case on the top shelf.

  When John followed her back into the bedroom, she asked, "Where's Levi?"

  "He's in bed."

  "Is he asleep?"

  "I don't think so. He feels awful about puking on you. He wants to apologize before he falls asleep." John grabbed one side of the fitted mattress pad and slipped it over the two corners on his side of the bed. Renata eyed his work, sighed with frustration, and came around to do it herself.

  "If you don't do it right, it'll all come off while we're sleeping, and you'll end up lying directly on the mattress."

  John stepped back with both hands in the air. Renata rolled her eyes. "Did you give him anything for his tummy?"

  "No. I thought you might want to check on him first." He now stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes squinting a little in her direction. "Do you think you might be checking on him anytime soon?"

  "Of course I will." She unfolded the top sheet and with a flick of her wrists, sent the fabric billowing out across the bed. John didn't even bother trying to catch his side of it, but just stood watching as she smoothed out the creases, then tucked in the bottom, making perfect hospital corners on each side. "As soon as I'm done getting your bed ready."

  "I didn't ask you to make the bed for me, Renata. In fact, I was just getting ready to make it myself, if you recall."

  "Oh please. You didn't even know which sheets to grab. For all we know, you might have tried half a dozen sets before you found the right one, then wadded the wrong ones up and shoved them back in the closet, or even worse, in the dirty clothes for me to wash. And let's be honest. You wouldn't have remembered a mattress pad, would you?"

  "Good grief, woman. I'm sorry you find me so incompetent." John turned and left the room. "I'll go let Levi know you're coming to see him soon."

  Renata took a deep breath and blew it o
ut in a huff, dropping her head into her hand. Why was she being so awful to John? Why was she angry at poor Levi?

  "I'm a terrible mom," she muttered, but stubbornly refused to leave the bed half-made. She quickly finished stuffing their pillows into new cases, all except the one she'd been resting on. She was relieved to see no sign of vomit on it, but she wasn't going to take any chances. She'd send it to the cleaners along with the down comforter.

  Out in the hall, she scooped up the ball of linens and headed toward the boys' rooms. Levi and Judah's twin beds were against opposite walls in their sky-blue room, headboards centered beneath windows draped in Civil War flag curtains. A navy peg-board chair rail circled the room, from which hung an assortment of boy paraphernalia. An old-fashioned braided rug in red, white, and blue, covered the floor between the two beds; a war zone of maple building blocks transformed into decimated towns, complete with Hot Wheels military vehicles, and plastic green soldiers holding position in mid-battle.

  Renata glanced over at Judah first. If he awoke, he would not go back to sleep, and that meant Renata wouldn't be able to either. But Judah was nowhere to be seen. In a panic, she turned to John, who grinned, and pointed at the heap of blankets mounded at the foot of the bed. She noticed then the top of his straw-covered head poking out from the pile, and realized he was there, sleeping soundly, butt up in the air. Sometimes, he still slept that way, and it always softened her mommy heart to find him so.

  John sat on the edge of Levi's bed and she shoved the bundle of their bed linens into his arms. "Here. Can you take these out to the garage for me? I'll take care of them in the morning."

  John wrinkled his nose at the aroma wafting up from the bundle, stood, and turned to wink down at Levi. "I'll be right back. You tell your mom all about your tummy, but don't forget about that problem you have with the slimy, green fuzz, okay? She'll want to know all about that."