Rolling in Clover

by Dawn, Penny

  "Because I can't live without my children, and that means I have to live with Diane. I'm just looking for a strategy to make that possible."

  Schaeffer shuffled through some papers on the coffee table. “All right, a few weeks ago, you mentioned you're closer with your son—Colin, is it?—than with your daughter."

  "Caleb. And that's right."

  "Caleb?"

  "It's Biblical. Caleb led his generation into the promised land once his elders were banished for lost faith."

  Catching the parallel, Dr. Schaeffer coughed. “Oh."

  * * * *

  "Oh, hello, 3-4-3-7."

  Kimberley's drycleaner, Asian and petite, smiled. A year ago, she couldn't speak a word of English, but she now referred to Kimberley by the last four digits of her phone number. Mr. Drycleaner ironed with the full-shirt press twenty feet away, and she barked a string of Korean words, too harsh to come out of such a minute body, to alert him. He scrambled to retrieve the clothes. She turned back to Kimberley with a smile. “How you today, 3-4-3-7?"

  "I'm well, thanks.” Kimberley handed over her claim ticket. “How do you remember all those phone numbers?"

  "Oh, you beautiful lady. I not remember all customer, just pretty one."

  "Thank you.” Kimberley drummed her fingers against her abdomen, searching for the warmth of Luke's caress, left behind at the gym.

  "I not a lesbian, but you beautiful. Easy remember.” The drycleaner's smile vanished, and she screamed a few hundred syllables at Mr. Drycleaner, who, with a broad smile, clipped the bagged order onto a rod, ignoring his wife's rant. All peaches and cream again, she turned back to Kimberley. “Ten shirt and seven pant. Your husband go work naked? I have all clothes."

  "No, he's a shopper. He has more to wear than I do."

  "Oh, that good. Husband shop, buy present. Happy wife, no?"

  If only it were that simple. “Absolutely. He's taking me to dinner tonight."

  "Oh, lucky lady."

  She fished through her purse for her credit card, stumbling across the head of UIC's History Department's business card. Might as well toss it in the trash. Lucky, right. So lucky her life no longer belonged to her.

  But an hour ago, she'd felt as if she were rolling in clover. Luke. The imprint of his hand refused to leave her body.

  "Celebrate new baby?” The drycleaner pointed to Kimberley's middle. “You still skinny, but nothing get past me."

  She smiled, nodding. “Yes, I'm pregnant."

  "You give away with rub. All pregnant lady rub tummy."

  * * * *

  Nearly thirty minutes past reservation time, waiting at the restaurant's bar, Kimberley stared at this evening's competition. Ladies and gentlemen, Kimberley Roderick is no match for this fine amber liquid aged to perfection over eighteen years, served neat, with a water back.

  "It's just one, Kimmy."

  "I know.” But he'd wagered four hundred on Tiger Woods in the Masters, and after the first eighteen holes, Tiger led by four strokes. A good day on the gambling circuit meant in the hands of her husband, one whiskey would multiply. Like Gremlins. Like hamsters. Like the number of shivers up her spine whenever Luke stood within a thirty-foot radius.

  "When do you think we should tell Allie?"

  "About what?” She blinked away ponderings of Luke's naked, sinewy body slowly screwing into his faceless wife—God, what a lucky woman—and focused on her husband.

  "About the baby."

  "Not for a while."

  His determined frown wrinkled his brow, and the glass again met his lips. “I was hoping to tell my parents tomorrow, and they won't be able to keep it a secret."

  "Well, maybe they'll have to."

  He fondled the glass as if it were the first breast he'd ever seen, in calming strokes, reassuring himself he was, in fact, touching it. “Nothing pleases you. Mom and Dad are going to love this news, and you want to keep it to yourself. Forget that you told Rick and Lauren. Forget that they told everyone else. Let my parents hear about it through the grapevine. Word travels fast in this circle of friends."

  "I've been up since daybreak, and I haven't eaten in eight hours. Do you honestly think I have the energy to field this tirade?” She pressed her fingers against her forehead. “I have a pounding headache."

  "What a surprise.” Brennan gulped his demonic liquid. “I wish I knew what to do to make you smile. You have a new car, a custom home, a great little girl, time to spend with her, and you're healthily pregnant for the second—make that the third—time. Will you ever be happy?"

  "I'm just tired, Brennan."

  "You're tired all the time."

  "Well, I'm pregnant. Why don't you try it sometime?” Tears welled in her eyes. Hormones. “Why don't you try single-handedly incubating another human being? Of course I'm tired, Brennan. I wake up tired."

  "My grandmother heard that, and she's been dead for a decade.” He gulped again, finishing the whiskey, and placed the glass on the lower rim of the bar's surface across from him. Great. He wanted another.

  Suddenly one drink turned into two. And Kimberley had the distinct pleasure of watching him annihilate himself. “I don't necessarily think we should keep it a secret. But if we tell Allie, she'll ask every day for the next eight months if the baby's coming home yet.” She dropped a hand onto Brennan's in a gentle caress, attempting to win at least one round in this fight. “Eight months is a long time for her to wait, Bren. That's all I meant."

  "I guess so."

  "Mr. Roderick.” The young, pretty hostess mispronounced their last name and tapped Brennan on the shoulder with two fingers. “I apologize for the delay. Your table is ready."

  Brennan helped Kimberley off the barstool, and they followed the sex kitten to a remote table.

  "The manager would like to offer a round of complimentary drinks to make up for your wait."

  "Well, that certainly isn't necessary.” Brennan smiled.

  And Round One goes to Kimb—

  Brennan palmed a bill, handing it to the hostess. “But I appreciate the sentiment. Two Jacks. Neat."

  Round One goes to the enemy. Nice try, Kimberley.

  * * * *

  "I'll drive,” she said, stepping off the curb at the valet station.

  "I'm fine."

  "Far from it."

  With a guttural groan, he curled his lip. “Very well, James. The Depot for a little healthy competition at the dart board and a round of drinks. On me, of course."

  She took a deep breath and slid behind the wheel.

  "How ‘bout it, Kimmy Coco Bop? We can catch the end of the Cubs game."

  "I don't think so, Bren. I'm too tired."

  "Well, how ‘bout you take me, drop me off, and I'll take a cab home?"

  "I'd like you to come home with me.” Not really, but she'd take the lesser of two evil drunks.

  "Okay.” He sighed like a little boy dragging his toe in the sand. “I'll go home with you."

  Jason entered her mind, answering her prayer for comfort. She imagined her arms around him, their naked bodies entwined in blissful slumber. The idyllic dream carried her along the way home, muffling her husband's half-asleep babblings about not having any fun now that he was married.

  "The Depot.” Brennan snapped his eyes open and straightened in his seat. “Kimmy, you missed the turn."

  "I thought you were coming home."

  "I'll be home in an hour. We've seen each other a lot today. I'll have one fast drink, and then, I promise, I'll be home to do naughty things to you."

  Gee, she couldn't wait. But she'd become good at faking it. “That'll be nice."

  * * * *

  At four in the morning, half asleep and with an achingly full bladder, Kimberley reached instinctively with her right arm and stroked Brennan's empty pillow. Oh, God, what's he up to now?

  She peeled herself out of bed and pattered to the spacious master bath, relieved the pressure, and commenced searching the house for her passed-out husband.
/>   No signs of him. No dirt trekked across the floor, no snacks spilled in the kitchen, no television on. He wasn't home.

  With an overflowing French custard dish—blue crystal, a wedding gift from Lauren—of raspberry sherbet, she headed back to their bedroom. Eating in the middle of the night during pregnancy was a great way to monumentally expand her waistline. She shrugged. It was good to be good—really good—at something, and since she'd abandoned her career to raise children, weight gain would have to be her forte.

  Was Jason a father yet? The youngest of five, he'd wanted a large family. Did he ever think about the one they'd opted against? Probably not. That sort of history haunted and followed women, but men tended to forget about it quickly. Men didn't end pregnancies—women did.

  * * * *

  Over the years, Luke's leaving the bedroom, if not the house, at random hours of the night had become a usual practice. Caleb and Rachael slept soundly through the noises he made in departure—face-washing, teeth-brushing, even the opening of the garage door hadn't stirred them. As far as he knew, his kids were oblivious to the fact that, while he returned before sunrise, he left his wife four or five times a week.

  Derby grumbled, not quite asleep on the back doormat, as if protesting Luke's early morning trek.

  "Are you coming or not?” he whispered and buttoned a flannel jacket.

  A slow blink answered him.

  "Let's just see where she lives. Innocent, harmless, and I promise, we won't even get out of the car."

  His ears perked with the sound of a favorite word.

  "That's right, Derby. Car. Let's go."

  With some difficulty, the canine slumped to his feet and sauntered toward the garage.

  "Just for a look.” Because he couldn't possibly have the piece of Kimberley he really wanted, a peek at her home would have to suffice.

  Outside a gated community about twenty minutes from home, he held his breath in prayer, punching in an old passcode. It had been weeks since he'd done trim work in the neighborhood, but the service entrance gate creaked open.

  Hallelujah!

  Although the lantern-lit Hidden Creek Lane

  was deserted in the dead of night, the humungous houses looked serene, as if the well-kept landscape protected them from outside forces. Like him.

  He stopped in front of number thirty-two, the only house with a front porch light on. A replica of an English country cottage, complete with oozing mortar and round turret, a light shone through a window on the second story of the tower. And through the sheers, he saw Kimberley's silhouette. All that wild, curly hair, thin arms, more-than-a-handful breasts ... Elation rushed through him. “She's beautiful, isn't she, boy?"

  She sat, hugging a knee and licking a spoon. Atta girl. Eat.

  Seconds later, she swept aside the curtains and peered out the window, as if sensing his presence. He eased his foot off the brake and rolled on. God, it felt good to see her, to know she was safe.

  Halfway home, a realization stirred like spoiled meat in the pit of his stomach. She was alone. And waiting. More than likely for her absent husband. And Luke's being there had probably given her false hope.

  An urge swelled in his heart to turn around, bundle her in his arms, and rescue her and her daughter from that posh hotel of loneliness. But no matter how strong the pull, her situation wasn't his business. Not yet anyway.

  And he had problems of his own to face, torn between his growing feelings for a woman he barely knew and the shadow of love for his wife.

  When he climbed back into bed, he touched Diane's cheek, careful not to wake her, wondering if he ever left her feeling as alone as Kimberley looked in that turret.

  Probably. But military duty in Saudi Arabia was hardly a vacation.

  CHAPTER 5

  Creeeeeeak!

  Awakened by the disturbing sound, he focused on the clock. Six-oh-six in the morning.

  The television clicked on, and he rolled over to see his wife stationed before a full-sized ironing board in their bedroom, a basket of linens on the floor next to her, and her favorite soap opera, taped from yesterday afternoon, displayed on the screen.

  He sighed. “Good morning."

  "Did I wake you? Sorry about that, but I've been asking you for months to oil the hinge on my ironing board."

  He crawled out of bed and headed toward the one luxury their home boasted: an attached master bathroom. “Do you have to iron right now? And right here?"

  "Well, your damn dog woke me before five to go out, but I suppose you didn't hear that."

  "Sorry."

  "And he didn't make it in time. Dribbled all the way down the stairs."

  "I'll clean it up.” He shoved his toothbrush into his mouth.

  "You think I'd let it sit there? I already took care of it. That's the second time this past week."

  "He's getting old,” he said through a mouthful of toothpaste. “He's losing control. It's not his fault."

  "Put him down, Luke. This is no way to live."

  "Are you talking about Derby's quality of life, or your own?"

  "I don't have time to worry about quality when the quantity of laundry in this house surpasses that of a third-world orphanage. You wear more clothes than—"

  "Kick me next time.” He spat into the sink. “And I'll get up."

  "Just like you'll oil the hinge on the ironing board,” she muttered. “Useless."

  I hate her. He didn't recognize the angry man in the mirror staring back at him, but before he even cleaned the toothpaste from his chin, he bounded toward the stairs, raced through the kitchen, and headed into the basement, to his small workshop. He wiped the toothpaste off with his bare forearm, opened a homemade cabinet, and pulled a small can of WD40 from a shelf.

  All right, she did ask him to oil the hinge, but on the same day his sister had miscarried, the same day of Caleb's winter concert at school, and the same day Rachael lost her first tooth. He did all he could that day.

  He'd invoiced twelve hundred dollars, encouraged Julie to try again, went to three banks to find three crisp two-dollar bills for the Tooth Fairy, and sat in the front row to see his son's rendition of Frosty the Snowman. And he'd oil the damn hinge right now.

  When he returned to the bedroom, Diane, engrossed in Haley's love affair with Stone, was ironing a king-sized sheet.

  "Excuse me.” He tossed the sheet to the floor.

  She backed away, and, judging by the hatred in her eyes, she wanted to press the hot iron to his crotch. “You can't do this at a convenient time?"

  "Can't you?” He ducked under the board and aimed at the hinge. “Why are you ironing sheets anyway? We're just going to sleep in them."

  "They're one hundred percent cotton, Luke."

  "So?” He popped up and tested the hinge. Creak-free and smooth.

  "So, they come out of the dryer wrinkled."

  "They've got to wrinkle somehow.” He yanked the sheet up from the floor and threw it back onto the board. “It's not like we're rolling around in them or anything."

  "Are you going to counseling this week?"

  "Yeah."

  "Why don't you ask Dr. Schaeffer why you're obsessed with sticking your dick into holes?"

  "Why don't you come with me and ask him why the bolt at your knees needs more oiling than that hinge?"

  She shot him with an icy stare. Whoever said eyes were the windows to someone's soul had never looked into Diane's. Iced-over blue, they hadn't warmed in nearly eight years. “Don't you have work to do? Somewhere to be, other than here?"

  "What?” Every muscle in his body unclenched.

  "Just ... go. Somewhere. Anywhere."

  "You want me to go.” If he couldn't win her with kindness, anger sure as hell wouldn't do the trick. He exhaled a calm, controlled breath. “Do you ever miss me, Diane?"

  "How can I miss you? You're here, underfoot, all the time. Christ, even when you leave me, you're on my phone every two hours."

  "Do you miss us, I mean? Wh
at we used to be?"

  "No.” Her lips formed a hard line. “Not anymore."

  "I'm not asking for much."

  "Neither am I. I just want you to leave me alone."

  * * * *

  "Where's Daddy?” Allison asked.

  Kimberley, dreading the question all morning, tucked a curl behind her daughter's ear. “Where do you think he is?"