And not Juliette's call to make on her own.
"What were you thinking, big sister?" she muttered to her reflection in the mirror over her dresser as she put away the pile of socks and underwear she'd brought in from the garage.
"Are you talking to yourself?" John came up behind her and put his arms around her, watching her face in the mirror. "Hey, Beautiful," he said to her reflection.
"Hey, Handsome," her reflection replied, but she didn't expound. There was a time when she might have talked to John about Angela, but lately when she shared difficult stuff with him, he seemed to get distracted. His eyes would get that glazed-over look, as though he was listening out of obligation rather than because he was actually interested in what she was saying.
And sometimes, she had to admit, the things she had to talk about were unimportant, boring, and even tedious. But then, so was her life. Besides the tragedy of the miscarriages, the most exciting thing that had happened to her in the last year was organizing the Monday ManDates to help Juliette find a new boyfriend. How pitiful was that? And the only reason she considered it exciting was because of the way Victor Jarrett got her blood boiling in all the wrong ways. He seemed to see right through her and wasn't intimidated by her at all. They'd gone head-to-head over Juliette after a terrible episode with her ex-boyfriend, and Renata had come out feeling silly, and childish, and ridiculous, and she didn't like to feel any of those things.
Why couldn't Juliette have gone for Tim? Or even Trevor? Trevor had led her to Christ, so why would she pass up a guy like him to settle for Officer Jarrett? What made it worse was how much John and the boys liked him. No, worshiped him. At least the boys did.
"Let's do something, John. Just you and me." Once spoken, she realized she meant them. "Let's do something crazy. Like go sky-diving or hot-air ballooning. Or let's go to Japan. Or Scotland!" She turned in his arms and toyed with the seams at his shoulders, but didn't meet his eyes. She didn't want to see his reaction.
"Wow. Where did this all come from? Sky-diving? In January?" He leaned back and dipped his head to look at her face. "You okay?"
"We don't have to go sky-diving. Just something. Anything. Something different. Crazy."
"You said that. Crazy. So what brought this on?" She heard the wariness in his voice and shook her head to assure him.
"I'm not crazy, John. And I'm not depressed. I just need…I need to…I don't know. I just feel squeezed right now." She looked up at him then and read the concern in his eyes. "I feel a little like I have cabin fever or something."
He chuckled and shook his head. "I'm not surprised. After being shut up with those boys for two whole days? I'd be going crazy, too. You don't need sky-diving. You just need some peace and quiet around here. Take Judah to preschool tomorrow. Curl up in here with a good book."
She darted a glance at her chair with disinterest.
"Or get out of the house. Get your hair done or something." He swayed a little, side-to-side, making her move with him.
Her heart sank at his words. He thought she was joking, being silly.
"Did you call Phoebe back? What were you two talking about that had you so worked up?" Worked up. He thought she was being ridiculous, like he'd said the night before.
"No. I'll call her in the morning after the house is quiet. Then I won't disturb you when I get all worked up." She pushed out of his embrace and turned to leave the room.
"Hey." John grabbed her arm and tried to stop her. "Where you heading in such a rush?"
"Let me go, John. I need to check on the boys." She tugged her arm free and left him standing there, a bewildered look on his face.
Why wouldn't he listen to her? Why did he not care about what she said? She didn't want peace and quiet! She wanted excitement. She needed something juicier than a romance novel to get her going again. She wanted to feel lit up, the way Juliette looked right now, as she basked in the glow of her police officer's adoration. She wanted to look like Phoebe did all the time, like she had an incredible secret that was just a sigh away from being released. She wanted to see life like Gia did, eyes wide with anticipation.
She trudged into the living room where Reuben was sprawled on the couch, reading the newest book in the YA amateur detective series he loved so much. He read as voraciously as she did, and it always made her smile to see him so engrossed in his books. Judah and Levi were playing with model cars on the racetrack rug in the corner of the living room, all the engine noise coming from Judah's sputtering lips, while Levi quietly built bridges and ramps with blocks and assorted books from a shelf behind them.
"Where's your brother?" she asked no one in particular.
Judah pointed at Levi, Levi looked around the room, and Reuben didn't even acknowledge her, so focused he was on his book. Finally, Levi suggested she look in his room.
Sure enough, Simon had put himself to bed and was sound asleep, his back to the door, the blankets pulled up over his head, just his mouth and nose sticking out to breathe. She smiled down at him, wishing for his sake he wasn't so obstinate, but loving him for it anyway. Bending over, she kissed his forehead, glad to find it cool and dry.
Back in the living room, she read to the two younger boys while Reuben brushed his teeth and changed into his pajamas. Then John took Judah and Levi to the bathroom to brush their teeth with him as they did almost every night. The ritual usually included a couple dollops of shaving cream on noses and cheeks, and more laughter than Renata thought conducive to proper dental hygiene, but John always assured her that everyone was scrubbed and fresh-breathed by the time they exited the bathroom.
When the boys were tucked in, prayed with, and kissed goodnight, even Reuben who still let her kiss his forehead, Renata headed to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. She would sit in the living room for a while and watch television, a rare treat for her in the evenings.
"May I join you?" John dropped onto the sofa beside her and reached for the hand she wasn't using to flip through the channels. He laced his fingers with hers and waited in silence for a response from her.
"Of course." Her eyes never left the television screen.
"What are you going to watch?" He didn't sound very curious. More like he just needed to talk to be heard.
"I don't know. Probably something on PBS. If there's anything good this time of night."
"Or you could come to bed with me. We could pick up where we left off before dinner." He stroked the back of her hand with his fingers, but she pulled away.
"I just want to relax for a little while before going to bed, John. I need some peace and quiet, remember? The house is quiet…."
"And now you want me to leave you in peace." He finished the statement for her. She didn't argue. "Look, Renata. I'm sorry if I said something to upset you. We were talking about how stressed you are and I suggested you do a little pampering for yourself. I don't know where I went wrong with that, but I'm sorry. I certainly meant it to be a good thing, so please trust my motives and not my words."
"But it was your words that made your motives clear, John. You were just trying to pacify me." She stopped flipping channels when she found the station she wanted, but still didn't look at him.
"I was not," he said, his voice sharp and indignant.
"Um, I beg to differ." Her eyes were bright, eyebrows up. "You didn't really hear me at all. I didn't say I needed a day off alone to do nothing. I told you I wanted to take some time off with you—not by myself—and actually do something. I don't want my hair done. I need a manicure and a pedicure but I don't want either one because if I have to sit still for one more activity, I'll probably scream."
As she spoke, John's expression changed. His eyes grew dark, his brow furrowed, and he began to chew on the inside of his cheek. Great. Now he thinks I'm psycho.
"Okay." He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together in front of him. "Have you given any more thought to doing something with your si
sters? Did you mention that to Phoe—"
"Good grief, John," she cut him off. "If you don't want to do anything with me, just say so. Stop trying to foist me off on my sisters. For the last time, I don't want to go somewhere by myself. I don't want to do something with my sisters." She crossed her arms tightly around her middle. "I wanted to do something with you, but now, no thank you. Tomorrow, I'll go out, spend some money to get pretty again, and I'll come home feeling like a new me. I'm sure that's all that's wrong with me." Her voice dripped with sarcasm and she unmuted the television, turning up the volume in an obvious dismissal.
"Renata, come on. This is no way to finish this conversation."
"What conversation? This wasn't a conversation. This was just you trying to butter me up so I'd crawl under the covers with you. Well, forget it. I'll come to bed when I'm tired. But don't let me keep you up."
"Aren't you overreacting just a little?" John didn't raise his voice, his tone didn't change, nor did his posture, but she saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped his hands together tightly.
"No. I don't think so," she retorted, turning the sound back down a little so she wouldn't wake the boys. "I think you, my dear husband, are under-reacting. I think you would like it if I just shut up and came to bed like a good little wifey. But I don't want to come to bed. I don't want to be quiet. I don't want—" She broke off, remembering her rant from the morning and her list of things she didn't want. She shook her head and snorted drily. "Actually, I'm done."
"What does that mean?" He splayed his fingers out and she watched the color seep back into his knuckles.
"I'm done complaining. I do just want some peace and quiet after all. I'm going to watch this show and then, if I'm tired, I'll come to bed." The man had no clue what was going on in her heart. He had no idea how desperate she felt right now. He had no desire to understand any of it either, she knew that just by watching his hands.
Without another word, he rose and left the room.
CHAPTER TEN
The next morning, Renata pressed back into John's warmth, forgetting briefly that she was angry with her husband. When he pulled her close and whispered into her hair, "I'm sorry I didn't listen to you last night," it all came rushing back and she had to force herself not to stiffen. He sounded sincere. He sounded like he wanted to make things right.
But he didn't offer to take her anywhere.
He slid out of bed, returning several minutes later with their coffee and the devotional they read each morning, and climbed back in bed beside her. He went through the motions of their morning routine as though his apology had set everything right, and she didn't correct him.
As soon as she dropped the boys off at their respective schools, she hurried home to make a few phone calls.
"Hi Phoebe. I'm sorry I didn't get back to you last night."
"You don't have to apologize, Rennie. I love that John lets you know who's the boss. Who am I to stand in the way of a demanding—and hot, I might add—husband just home from work? You're a lucky woman, Renata Dixon." Her throaty chuckle raked across Renata's nerves.
"Yes, I am. I know. Listen. Juliette hasn't called you, has she?"
"No. What for?"
Renata rolled her eyes. This was why she had to take control of things. "We need to schedule a G-FOURce and figure out this whole Angela thing. I don't want to talk in circles on the phone with everyone. We need to get together soon and make some decisions now that Juliette has started this ball rolling. I can meet tomorrow after dinner, or Friday before six. Will either of those times work for you?"
"My, my. Aren't we business as usual today. Either one is fine. I have a dinner to go to on Friday night but it isn't until 8 p.m. I don't know why it's so late. I'll be starving by then. Maybe I'll eat before I go, then I can impress people with how little I eat in front of them."
"Phoebe," Renata said sternly. "This conversation isn't about your dinner on Friday."
"Of course. Either one works fine for me. Tomorrow evening is better."
"Fine. I'll call Juliette and Georgia, then let you know what time we decide on." She checked Phoebe's name off her list. "I'll talk to you soon."
She spoke to Juliette, then Gia, and both agreed to meet Thursday night after dinner. Gia offered to make coffee wherever they met. "Practice, Renata. I'm becoming one of Rico's favorite baristas. I have to keep working my skills, though, if I want to stay on top."
"That's fine, Georgia, but coffee skills or not, come prepared to talk about how you feel about Angela Clinton. Got it?"
"Got it." She sounded deflated, but Renata didn't have time to coddle her.
"Don't be late. We'll probably meet at Juliette's again unless Phoebe begs to hold it at her place."
"Yeah, right," Gia giggled.
"Yeah, right," Renata echoed, smiling herself. Phoebe's place was always a disaster. Costumes and fabric strewn about over every surface, paint samples, sketches, and colored pencils were scattered across her small dining table, and canvases propped against furniture, the walls already on the verge of collapsing under the burden of all her mounted art. It wasn't just her own work; her place was a haven for her artist friends. They brought food, she provided the workspace. It worked well for the artists, but left little room for anything else, including family gatherings.
"Yeah, right," was Phoebe's response when Renata called her back and asked if she'd like to host.
The last two phone calls she made were appointments, one at the nail salon, the other with her hairdresser. Then she checked her purse for her stash of credit cards, poured herself a cup of coffee to go, and headed out the door after saying good-bye to the dogs. They stood in the side yard and watched her through the wrought iron gate as she pulled out and drove away. She knew they'd run around a bit, then head back in through their doggy door to find their doggy pillows, and wait patiently for their family to return.
When she picked up Levi and Simon from elementary school, the boys both hesitated before climbing in the car, staring at her with wide eyes. Levi started to tear up, and Simon scowled. Once they were buckled in behind her, Simon said, "I don't like it."
"I didn't ask you, did I?" Her retort sounded much more unaffected than she felt, but it was Levi's tearful silence that really got to her. When Reuben climbed into the front seat beside her, he actually lurched away, startled at her appearance. He hadn't even spared her a glance until he was inside with the door closed.
"Oh my gosh! Mom! Dad is going to kill you!"
"Well, hello to you, too, son. And how was your day?" She would not let herself cry.
"Fine," he muttered, but he kept his face averted, staring out the passenger side window instead. When they reached the privately owned and operated preschool that Judah attended, all three opted to wait in the car in the little parking lot.
She returned shortly, Judah in tow, his mouth going a mile a minute. He hadn't even noticed. The moment he was buckled in, however, Simon poked him, hard. Before he could start crying, Simon asked, "What do you think of Mom's boy hair?"
Judah stared at her, stunned into silence. Then he suddenly burst into tears. "I don't want you to be a boy, Mommy. Who will be our mommy then? Who?" He was inconsolable the whole way home, weeping and shaking his head in despair.
Even Harry barked at her when she first came in the front door. "Et tu, Brute?" she muttered, heading for the kitchen as the boys disappeared down the hall, all four slipping into Reuben's and Simon's room. At least Judah was no longer sobbing hysterically.
She laid out yogurt cups and mandarin orange pieces at each place at the table, along with spoons and glasses of water. No one answered when she knocked on the closed door, and after a few moments, she pushed it open just a crack. "Your snack is ready. I left it on the table. I'll be in my room if you need me." Then she pulled the door closed again and headed down the hall, closing her own bedroom door behind her.
Sagging against it, she finally let the tears spill.
Her long, beautiful hair. Chopped off in a fit of…what? She'd assured Cynthia that she wanted it off, that she wanted to donate it to LoveLocks, an organization her hairdresser supported, and she'd found a perfect spiky new hairdo that would complement her features well. Cynthia had eyed her hesitantly, then after being reassured three times, had gone at her hair with gleeful abandon. The result looked exactly like the magazine photo because Cynthia was that good, but Renata had teared up anyway.
"Oh, sweetie. This is just like in that Steel Magnolia movie. Please don't cry, Renata. Don't cry. You'll make me cry, too, and I'm not wearing my waterproof mascara today."
She pulled it together, just like in the movie, too, then went shopping. Her bed was covered in bags of clothes, shoe boxes, and a new leather jacket she'd found on the discount rack. Even at half-price, it had cost her more than any other jacket she'd ever purchased, but something about the way it looked with her new hairstyle convinced her to take it home with her.
Now she stared at it mournfully, wondering what had gotten into her. She heard Reuben's voice echoing in her mind. "Dad is going to kill you!"
When John walked in the front door, his eyes lit up, but not in surprise. Reuben must have called to warn him. She had made every effort to look her very best in spite of her dramatic new style. She'd applied her makeup with extra care, then slipped into a new ankle-length, slim, black knit skirt topped with a silky wide-necked top. It was a casual style, but the pieces accented her trim shape and feminine curves quite nicely. John noticed, she could tell by the way his eyes drifted over her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It helped that she had dinner in the oven and the house smelled almost as incredible as she looked. John approached her slowly, taking in everything about this new version of his wife, from her painted toenails on her bare feet, up her legs to her round backside clearly defined by the skirt she wore, to the shirt that kept trying to slide off her left shoulder. Her neck, so much longer than he'd realized, drew his eyes again and again… or was he afraid to let his gaze linger too long on her cropped hair? He didn't hate it. He didn't love it, either. In the 14 years he'd known her, she'd never had hair shorter than her shoulders. Even when she wore it up, it seemed long. This choppy, tousled look suited her spitfire personality, he admitted, but he wasn't so sure it suited him.
Renata and the Fall from Grace Page 6