Rolling in Clover

by Dawn, Penny

  Derby sprawled like a red-gold spill on the beaten peel-and-stick vinyl, while Luke waited for a connection to the Internet. Diane probably thought he surfed for one of those seedy sex sites to relieve the pressure in his pants. In truth, he'd rather she hold onto that belief than know what he was really doing.

  People search. Kimberley Roderick. Brennan Roderick. He tried variations of spellings, but nothing came up in the north suburbs. For ten dollars, he could receive a full report on the unlisted Brennan Roderick, complete with address, phone number, and e-mail, if he had it, which he probably did. Corporate types like Kimberley's husband checked e-mail several times an hour.

  Luke could spare ten dollars, but he couldn't afford Diane's opening the information, and they shared an e-mail account. He'd have to find that beautiful, passionate girl another way.

  Derby lifted his chin, accusingly.

  "I just want to know she's okay, boy.” Well, all right, that wasn't all he wanted, but he'd settle for only a smile.

  And what a pretty smile it was, lighting up her eyes like Christmas on State Street

  .

  * * * *

  "I swear to God,” Lauren said, holding her right hand up in testimonial fashion. “I just told the woman there was no way I was paying full price for a dress already on the sale rack, and she knocked twenty-two dollars off. No questions asked.” She shrugged and sipped her water.

  "You should have a look at that new boutique on Ashton, Kimberley. Not that you'll be showing by the dinner cruise, but you might find something for the holidays."

  Kimberley tried to smile, although she hated shopping in the city. “I'll keep that in mind."

  "Great prices,” Lauren said, “and they haggle."

  The male guests seated at the Rodericks’ recreation room bar raised their glasses, toasting Kimberley's pregnancy for the twentieth time, while the females exchanged bargain stories of maternity clothes shopping. Exhausting, but partly amusing, seeing not one woman present needed to save twenty-two dollars.

  Kimberley glanced around her circle of friends. Amongst her sat former cheerleaders, homecoming queens, and one former Miss Cook County.

  Gina, six months pregnant with child number four, looked better than the day she won her crown.

  Marilyn's figure tempted Kimberley to turn bulimic.

  Jennifer's husband couldn't stop looking at her, no matter how far across the room he was stationed.

  Christine, ready to deliver her fourth baby in five-and-a-half years, never ceased to smile, although her tiny ankles were encircled by the straps of sexy, two-inch-heel pumps.

  And Lauren, the absolute doll Brennan had once loved.

  While these beauty queens had nestled in their over-priced, three-flat apartments, cooking dinner for their just-out-of-college husbands, or at the very least phoning caterers, Kimberley had been studying in the most prestigious law libraries in this country. While these Polly Annas memorized their ovulation cycles, Kimberley had aced the bar exams.

  But the wedding rings and hordes of children didn't fool Kimberley. These were traditional Lincoln Park Trixies, married to Chicago's metrosexuals. The most popular girls in town, most likely snickering at lowly Kimberley, hailing from a broken home in Lake Villa, Illinois.

  "So this prospective hire and I had lunch last week in Atlantic City,” Brennan said to Rick.

  Kimberley's ears perked up. Eavesdropping was the only way she learned of happenings out-of-town.

  "He turned down the job,” Brennan continued. “Wants to be home with his family. Can you imagine that? Passing up this kind of coin for a warm bed seven nights a week? If he's that antsy, you'd think he'd find another ... outlet, shall we say? I tell you, sending him out on the road would do his wife a favor, teach her to appreciate the time they do have. And if she doesn't, family-shmamily. She'd be there to clean up on pay day, I promise you."

  "I'm going to bed,” Kimberley whispered to Lauren.

  The need to escape this charade had suddenly overwhelmed her. Brennan's hand, holding a highball glass of whiskey, worked independently of his mind. Lift the glass to the lips. Swallow. Repeat. Refill. And she wasn't supposed to notice, wasn't supposed to care her husband uttered things like ‘family-schmamily,’ so long as he kept her amply clothed and fed, locked in a nice house, which might as well have been a pumpkin shell.

  "Honey, he's drunk.” Lauren pressed Kimberley's hand against the bar. “He doesn't mean any of that."

  "Alcohol is truth serum. And I'm tired.” Tired physically, tired emotionally. Tired of standing behind his addictions and watching her husband flaunt his money, as if it were a measure of his worth.

  "It isn't even ten o'clock yet."

  "Long day.” She swiveled the barstool, and leapt to the floor.

  "Want some company, honey?"

  "No thanks, Lauren."

  "I've been there, remember?” She eyed her, knowingly. “Give me a call tomorrow, all right?"

  "Sure."

  "Kimmy, wait.” Brennan grasped Kimberley's hand from his position behind the bar and delayed his conversation with Rick long enough to say, “Don't go."

  His blue eyes blazed, reminding her that she'd married an intelligent, good-looking, and charming man. But he'd surrendered to many addictions long before they'd met.

  "I'm exhausted,” she said, attempting a smile.

  "We're hosting.” Brennan chucked her under the chin, as if she were a little girl. “How do you think it looks when my wife leaves my party early?"

  "Like she's tired."

  "I want a partner in this."

  Bullshit ... He wanted an ornament. “We aren't partners in anything anymore."

  "Watch your tone."

  She refrained from screaming and instead took a deep breath. “Good night."

  On her way up to bed, she stopped in the kitchen for The Fabulous Gourmet, ready to delve into the reverence long ago showered upon her. But once cradled in expensive linens in her marital bed, her fingers following Jason's script, she imagined Luke's voice reciting the age-old words scripted on the paper. She closed her eyes, hearing him, smelling him, feeling his hands in her hair.

  "Why do you care about me?” she whispered, concentrating on the memory of his touch. “And, my God, why do I want you to?"

  CHAPTER 3

  Yes, she'd lost her mind.

  A hung-over husband and a child at the in-laws’ gave Kimberley some free time. She spent it in the parking lot at Gallant's Gym, waiting for Luke, praying for his “usual” Sunday run.

  Should she happen to see him, she probably wouldn't utter a word, but oh, to look at him. Just for a moment or two. Like a schoolgirl with a crush on a popular boy, she knew she couldn't have him, but who could resist the urge to dream?

  What would he do, if he saw her there? Would he be pleased, flash that brilliant smile? Or would he sprint in the other direction to avoid the crazy, pregnant lady who'd gotten the wrong idea?

  Oh, leave before you embarrass yourself.

  But she wanted to stare at his beautiful body, into those gorgeous, caring eyes.

  Go, go, go. Now.

  She turned the key in the ignition and exhaled. Done. Doing well, making progress. She glanced in the rearview mirror and looked to the left side mirror. “Oh, my God!"

  "Hey, beautiful girl.” Luke stood a few inches from the open window, rubbing a callus on his palm, just below his wedding band.

  "You scared me."

  "Mind if I get in?"

  Her jaw began to descend, and she shook her head. “No."

  "I'm harmless.” He twisted his ring.

  "I meant no, as in I don't mind."

  "Good.” With a smile wide enough to crinkle that mysterious scar at his eye, he walked around the vehicle, opened the door, and sank into the passenger seat. “So..."

  "So, what?"

  "Rough night?"

  "You could say that."

  "Did you work out this morning? Diane's doctor suggests exerc
ising only every other day during pregnancy. Be careful, all right?"

  "Do I look like I just spent an hour on a yoga mat?"

  "No, actually, you don't. Great lipstick."

  Lipstick? Oh, yes, Ruby Tuesday. “Thanks."

  "Let's get out of here."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I said, let's go."

  "Go where?"

  "I don't know. Anywhere.” He shrugged. “Are you hungry? There's a little sandwich shop off the beaten path between here and Des Plaines."

  "I don't know..."

  "What? Did you have something else in mind?"

  She palmed the steering wheel, as if the leather were Luke's irresistible chest. It had been too long since she'd trailed her hands over a muscled frame. Counting the ridges in Jason's abs had been one of her favorite pastimes, and Luke's probably surpassed Jason's by a hundred. “Do you think we should be seen together?"

  He raised a brow. “Do you think we shouldn't?"

  Heat filtered into her cheeks.

  "Well, thank you,” he said. “That's flattering."

  Too nervous to say anything in return, she swallowed hard and waited for him to speak again. A lawyer's trick: witnesses with loose tongues filled unbearable silences.

  "Take a left,” he said. “No one will see us in this hole in the wall, I assure you."

  She began to drive.

  "So,” he said. “Seedy motel? Or are you hungry?"

  "I'm pretty hungry.” Although she pretended not to hear his prior suggestion, a mad sensation darted between her legs. To lock herself in some flea-bag with this fine specimen of testosterone ... there was no telling what she might do.

  "I had a rough night myself.” He grasped her hand. “But why don't you tell me about yours?"

  "Same thing that happens every Saturday night."

  His thumb traveled over her knuckles. “He was drunk."

  "Yes."

  "And he lost money."

  "A little bit, yeah."

  "Did he...” Luke shook his head. “Never mind."

  "Did he what?"

  "I was going to ask if he hurt you, but how crazy is that?"

  Perhaps if Brennan had physically hurt her last night, she'd have an excuse to leave, and no one would blame her for wanting to.

  "I wouldn't mind rescuing you, but you shouldn't stay with a guy who hit you."

  Would she? Abuse was abuse, and Brennan's intoxicated activities certainly fit into the same category. Would a weekly pounding be any different? Too much a parallel to consider at the moment. “What about you? What happened to you last night?"

  "Same thing that happens every Saturday night.” He chuckled and squeezed her hand. “Next road, turn right. After two stop signs, there's a tiny, blink-and-you'll-miss-it lane on the right. Take it and follow it to Neverland."

  She turned onto a practically hidden road, dotted with potholes. “Luke, can I have my hand back?"

  "No."

  "No?"

  "I haven't held hands with someone in ... well, years. And it's a noncommittal gesture. Ever hear of Hands Across America? Those people were strangers. We're practically old friends compared to them."

  His hand comforted hers like a vague memory. Such simple contact, but warm, consoling, and a rare validation that she was worthy of tender attention.

  His hand in her hair had seemed much more suggestive than this, but holding hands could only be considered innocent at age fourteen. Being married with children and charged like an electron, holding Luke's hand was a prelude to sex, either mental, or heaven help her, physical.

  I shouldn't. I just shouldn't. She gently resisted his hold, but when he tightened his grip, she surrendered far too quickly.

  Only when she needed to parallel park the car in front of an ancient storefront, nearly fifteen minutes later, did he release her hand.

  The rickety stairs creaked when they climbed, and the wooden siding was shedding flakes of pink Victorian paint. The faded sign on the door, “Sandwich Shop,” warmed her heart with memories of another neglected inn of her past. Dot's Diner. Lake Villa. Jason.

  Luke took her hand and opened the door.

  "We're in public,” she said, attempting to pull away. “Not a good idea."

  "Please. Let me be the envy of the two grandpas at the corner table."

  "I'm married."

  His eyes pleaded. “It's all make-believe off the beaten path, beautiful girl,” he whispered. “Let's pretend."

  Could it hurt? Who would see her in this crumbling structure, in a town Brennan and his friends wouldn't tiptoe through? With tentative fingers, she touched his hand, and they entered the sandwich shop.

  The occupants’ eyes lingered upon them. An old man nodded. “Cute couple of kids."

  They sat at a cozy table for two, and within moments, a woman approached, late forties, clad in a pink apron and a silver nametag—Rosa—with a notepad. “What would you like?” Her gum popped.

  Kimberley scanned the tabletop for a menu and found none. “What do you have?"

  Rosa scratched her head with the eraser end of a short pencil. “Sandwiches. You name the combo."

  Across the table, Luke stroked her hand with his thumb and looked to the waitress. “Roast beef, turkey, and Swiss on a roll. And for my wife, chicken and cheddar on wheat. She's pregnant and needs the extra grains."

  "Will do.” Rosa popped her gum again. “Hot or cold?"

  "Hot,” they said together.

  With a nod, the waitress turned her back.

  "Hope that's all right,” he whispered.

  "I'm not choosy. I'll eat just about anything."

  "No, that I called you my wife."

  Heat crept to her cheeks. “It's all make-believe."

  They ate in comfortable silence, occasionally breaking contact, but returning to their adjoined position whenever possible.

  When the check arrived, Kimberley picked it up.

  "Let me get it,” he said.

  "If my husband's going to bet two hundred dollars against the Cubs, I can spare ten for lunch."

  He shrugged and helped himself to one of the red-and-white striped mints, which had accompanied the tab. “Then you'll have to go out with me again sometime. So I can return the favor."

  She felt a smile coming on. “We'll see."

  Once they settled into the car, he again took her hand, and they rode in comfortable silence back toward Gallant's.

  "So,” he finally said. “Quite a coincidence, our seeing each other today."

  "Yes, it was."

  He smiled, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, same thing as every Saturday night."

  He didn't elaborate, and Kimberley didn't probe. Neither said another word until he stepped out of her car in the parking lot.

  "Thanks for lunch,” he said, leaning on her door, resting his elbows on the open window.

  "You're welcome."

  "So maybe I'll see you around, Kimber."

  What an exotic, dreamy twist to her name. So much more sophisticated than Kimmy. “Maybe."

  He winked and turned away.

  * * * *

  A few days later, therapist Ben Schaeffer stared at Luke over wire-rimmed glasses. “What would you say is the biggest problem in your marriage?"

  Just out of college, Luke figured Benny probably worked for beans for Cook County. What did he know about life, let alone marriage?

  This would have been Luke's tenth session, had he not blown off his ninth for Ms. Kimberley Quinn Roderick last Saturday. That's right, he knew her middle name now. Amazing what a Gallant's Gym towel boy had been willing to look up for twenty bucks.

  Luke glanced at the empty chair to his right, where Diane would have been sitting, if she gave a damn. “The biggest problem in my marriage,” he said. “The whole damn thing's a problem, if you ask me."

  "Break it down for me."

  Systematically, he ground his teeth together. Keep your eye on the prize: Caleb and Rachael. “You want the bi
ggest issue."