by Joy Fielding
“Oh, God.”
“And in answer to your first question, I’m here because my son called me at work, hysterical because you weren’t home; his grandmother was sprawled across his bed, he thought she might be dead, and he didn’t know what to do. I rushed right over, found the old drunk asleep in his room, got the kids settled down, made them some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and assured them that your mother was, regrettably, very much alive. Then I told them they could watch TV in our room until you got home.”
“Thank you,” Chloe said quietly, collapsing onto the right wing of the sectional, tears of anger filling her eyes. “I guess I should have known better.”
“Yes, you should have,” Matt agreed. “Where the hell were you anyway?”
She fought the urge to tell him it was none of his business. “What difference does it make?”
He shook his head. “You know, I always thought that, however scattered and irresponsible you can be sometimes…” He paused half a second to let his words sink in. “…that you were a great mother, that you would never put our kids at risk…”
“I didn’t put our kids at risk,” she began, then stopped. He was right. She should have known better than to rely on her mother, no matter what the circumstances.
There was a moment’s silence. “So, what did she say?” Matt asked. “This lawyer you went to see. Pamela Lang, was it? Not a bad-looking woman for a professional ball-buster.”
Chloe’s eyes shot toward her husband. Her mouth opened to speak, but no words emerged.
“Your laptop was open,” he offered by way of explanation.
“No. I closed it before I went out.”
“My mistake. Guess I opened it.”
“You had no right.”
“Just trying to find out where you were,” he said. “To figure out what was so damn important that you left our children alone.”
“I didn’t leave them alone.”
“Sorry. Called your mother. Don’t think the courts will find there’s much of a distinction.”
Chloe felt a sliver of panic snaking its way through her chest to her throat, making speech both difficult and painful. “Are you threatening me?”
Matt leaned toward her, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ll do whatever I think is necessary to protect my children, Chloe. You should know that.”
“Does that include pretending to be single and trolling for women online? I don’t think that exactly qualifies you for father of the year. Do you?”
“I made mistakes, Chloe,” Matt said. “I admit it. But my mistakes never put our children in harm’s way.”
Chloe nodded, trying to make sense of his words, to understand what he was getting at. She couldn’t. “So, what are you saying?”
“What are you doing?” he countered.
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re the one who went to a lawyer, Chloe. Not me. Do you want a divorce? Is that what this is all about?”
Chloe hesitated. After almost two hours with Pamela Lang, she still wasn’t sure what she wanted or what she was going to do. “I just wanted to know my options.”
“You wanted to know what’s in it for you,” he corrected. “How you can suck me dry.”
“No,” she insisted. “But I do have rights.”
“As do I. Especially where my children are concerned.”
“So, are you saying that if we get a divorce, you’re going to fight me for custody?”
“Are we getting divorced, Chloe? Is that what you really want? Because it’s not what I want,” he said before she could answer. “God knows it’s the last thing in the world that I want.”
“What do you want?”
“I want this silly misunderstanding to be over. I’ve been trying to give you some space, give you time to calm down, but I want to come home. I want to be a father to our kids. I want my life back. I want you. I want us.” He pushed his hair away from his forehead in a gesture that Chloe had always found unbearably sexy.
She swallowed the renewed threat of tears. Could she do it? Could she pretend this was all some silly misunderstanding? “You asked me before what I really want…”
“Tell me.”
“I want the truth,” Chloe said. Did she? Or did she just want her husband to be more convincing in his lies?
Matt said nothing for several long seconds. “These women,” he finally conceded. “I swear. They meant nothing to me.”
Chloe no longer fought to keep her tears at bay. “Well, they mean something to me,” she cried, making no attempt to wipe those tears away.
He was on his feet, moving toward her. “I see that now. And I’m so sorry I hurt you. I promise to do better…”
“How many women have there been, Matt?”
He froze. “Oh, God. Do we really have to?”
“How many?”
He sank back down. “What good will talking about this do?”
“How many?” she repeated.
“I don’t know.” He threw his hands up in the air. “Half a dozen, maybe.”
“Half a dozen,” she repeated, silently doubling that number. Matt had always manipulated figures, exaggerating or underplaying them to his advantage, even when there was no need. A four-hour plane ride became five; he’d paid two hundred dollars for a sweater, not three; he’d won fifty dollars on a bet, not five or ten, depending on whom he was talking to.
He’d cheated on her with half a dozen women, not twelve. Or fifteen. Or twenty.
She’d been turning a blind eye to his infidelities—to his casual cruelty—for as long as she’d known him. He wasn’t going to change. This is who he was, who he’d always been. The only question now was, who was she?
“I think you should go now,” she said, surprised by the calmness in her voice when her heart was beating so fast it felt as if it was about to burst from her chest. “Thanks for coming over this afternoon. I appreciate it. I really do.” She stood up, glancing toward the front door.
He looked confused. “What? I’m being dismissed?”
“I’ll call you.”
“You’ll call me? Like this is all up to you?” He rose slowly, even menacingly, to his feet.
“I think we’ve said everything…”
“So, I tell you the truth and you punish me for it? That’s how this works?”
“I need time to think.”
“No. You don’t need time. This is what you need.” And suddenly his arms were around her, his hands everywhere on her body, on her breasts, on her buttocks, between her legs; his mouth in her hair, on her neck, on her lips.
She tried pushing his hands aside, twisting out of his reach.
“This is what you need. You know it is.”
“No!” she said, louder this time, pushing him away with all the force she could muster. “Stop! Please…”
“Please, please, please,” he mimicked, stumbling back against the ottoman. “That’s the whole problem in a nutshell. Isn’t it, Chloe? You don’t know how to please a man. If you did, do you think these other women would be necessary?”
“Oh. God.”
“You’re pathetic, Chloe.”
“Get out of here.”
“I remind you that this is my house, too.”
“Get out before I call the police.”
“You bitch…” He raised his right arm into the air, his hand a fist.
“Daddy!” Sasha called from upstairs. “Josh is being mean to me.”
“Josh,” Matt called back, his arm returning slowly, even reluctantly, to his side, his eyes never leaving Chloe’s. “Stop being mean to your sister.”
“Mommy!” Sasha said seconds later, appearing in the entrance to the living room. “Josh!” she yelled toward the stairs. “Mommy’s home.” She ran to her mother,
throwing her arms around Chloe’s hips. “Grandma’s sleeping,” she announced.
“I know, sweetheart,” Chloe told her. “I’m so sorry about that.”
“I thought she was dead,” Josh said, entering the room. “I didn’t know where you were, so I called Daddy.”
“You did great, sweetie.”
“Daddy said we could watch TV till you got home.”
“And now I’m afraid that Daddy has to leave,” Matt told him.
“Where are you going?” Josh asked.
“I have work to finish up, slugger,” Matt said, tousling his son’s hair. “But don’t you worry.” He smiled at Chloe. The smile sent shivers down her spine. “I’ll be back.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Maybe you should call the police,” Paige suggested.
They were sitting at the kitchen table, Chloe across from Paige and Joan Hamilton, their dinner plates barely touched in front of them, the smell of leftover KFC lingering in the air like a malodorous gas.
“And say what?” Chloe asked, her fingers playing with the skin of an uneaten drumstick.
“That your husband threatened you…”
“Except he didn’t,” Chloe said, letting go of the drumstick and wiping her hand on her jeans. “Not really. I mean, all he said was that he’d be back.”
“He assaulted you,” Joan reminded her.
“He’ll say that I’m exaggerating,” Chloe argued, “that he was just trying to kiss and make up. He’ll make it sound like this whole thing is my fault, that I’m the one who entrusted our kids to an irresponsible drunk, and he’s the put-upon husband who had to leave work in the middle of his busy afternoon to rush home and protect them. I know Matt,” she continued before either woman could object. “I know how convincing he can be.”
“So, what are you going to do?” Paige pushed her plate to the center of the table.
Chloe stared at Paige and her mother. She’d called Paige in a panic after Matt left, and Paige and her mother had arrived at her door, complete with a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, within the hour. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You need to keep a record,” Joan said, taking charge. “That’s the first thing. You need to keep track…of Matt’s visits…the things he says…how they make you feel…everything. Write it all down…dates, times, everything that happens. Don’t leave anything out, no matter how trivial it seems. Be as specific as you can.”
Chloe nodded. Paige’s mother could always be relied on for sound, practical advice. She was everything a mother was supposed to be—loving, thoughtful, wise. Unlike her own mother, who was none of those things. Chloe pictured Jennifer, still sprawled across Josh’s bed, so drunk that Chloe hadn’t been able to rouse her. Still, she’d have to figure out a way to wake her up soon so the kids could get to sleep. They’d already watched more television in one day than she normally allowed in a week. Chloe glanced at her watch. It was almost seven thirty, their usual bedtime. She pushed herself away from the table and left the room. “Kids,” she called from the foot of the stairs. “Time to get ready for bed.”
“Awww,” came the expected response.
She returned to the kitchen to find Joan Hamilton clearing the dishes from the table and Paige putting the bucket of leftover chicken in the fridge. “No—you don’t have to do that. Please…”
“Please, please, please,” she heard Matt mimic.
“You’ve already done so much,” Chloe told them. “I can’t thank you enough for dinner, for being here…” She burst into tears before she could complete either the sentence or the thought.
“Any time,” Paige said, immediately at Chloe’s side.
“No thanks required,” Joan said, joining them.
“I feel terrible,” Chloe told Paige, “making you break your date…”
“You didn’t make me do anything,” Paige said. “It was just some guy I met online. I texted him that something unexpected came up and hopefully we could reschedule.”
“And what did he say?”
“Nothing,” Paige acknowledged.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. If he’s interested, he’ll try again.”
The three women formed a tight circle, their arms gripping each other’s waists, their foreheads touching.
“What’s going on?” a small male voice asked from the doorway.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Chloe said, whisking away her tears.
“What are you doing?”
“Having a group hug,” Joan said.
“Can I have one?” Sasha asked, her round little face peeking out from behind her brother’s wiry frame.
“You certainly can,” Paige said. She held out her right arm, beckoning the children forward.
Sasha was instantly at the women’s sides, but Josh hung back, waiting to be coaxed.
“Come on, you,” Joan said, obliging. “Group hug’s not complete without you.”
“Josh doesn’t like Paw Patrol anymore,” Sasha said as her brother pushed his way into the group.
“What’s Paw Patrol?” asked Paige.
“It’s a kids’ TV show,” Chloe explained.
“It’s stupid,” Josh said.
“I thought you liked Paw Patrol.”
“It’s for babies.”
“I’m not a baby,” Sasha protested. “I’m a big girl.”
“Yes, you are,” Chloe said.
“I know how babies are made,” Josh announced as the circle split apart.
“You do?”
“Jennifer told me.”
Chloe felt the color drain from her cheeks. “My mother told you how babies are made?”
“Right before she fell asleep.”
“We thought she died,” Sasha said solemnly. “But Daddy said she was just very tired.”
Not nearly tired enough, Chloe thought.
“Do you want me to tell you?” Josh asked them.
Chloe nodded, holding her breath.
“The man puts his penis into the woman’s regina,” her son began.
“Ew!” said Sasha, looking horrified.
“And the penis has these millions of sperm. But the regina has only one egg. So, all the sperm have to go racing to the egg to see who can get there first.” He paused dramatically before finishing with a flourish. “And Sasha and I won the race!”
“Hooray!” said Sasha, jumping up and down, clapping her hands above her head.
Chloe bit down on her lip to keep from laughing. Beside her, she saw Joan beaming from ear to ear and Paige turning to face the wall, her shoulders shaking.
I’m the real winner, she thought, grabbing her children and hugging them close. “You certainly did,” she told them. “God, I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Sasha responded immediately.
“Yeah,” said Josh, wriggling out of her embrace.
“Now go get into your pajamas,” Chloe said.
“Where am I going to sleep?” Josh asked. “Jennifer’s still in my bed.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. She’ll be gone by the time you’re ready.”
“She’s funny,” said Sasha.
“Yeah, a real laugh riot.” Chloe listened as her children bounded up the stairs. “Oh, well. I suppose it could have been worse. She could have showed them illustrations from the Kama Sutra.”
“Her story about the sperm and the egg was actually kind of sweet,” Joan said.
“ ‘Sweet’ is the last word I would use to describe my mother.”
“Well, she is creative. You have to give her that,” Paige said.
“I don’t have to give her anything.”
“Are you talking about me?” a voice asked. “God, what’s that horrible smell?”
Chloe turned to see her mo
ther standing in the doorway. She was wearing bright pink skinny jeans and a turquoise T-shirt with the words DANCING QUEEN written in rhinestone capital letters across its front. Her blond hair was cut very short, and her hazel eyes were having trouble focusing, giving her the look of a deranged pixie.
“Paige and I picked up some Kentucky Fried Chicken on our way over,” Joan told her, explaining the source of the odor. “I can heat you up a piece, if you’d like.”
“God, no. That stuff’ll kill you.”
“Unlike booze,” Chloe said.
“Oh, dear. Are you going to get all pissy on me because I took a little nap?” She turned toward Paige. “I’m sorry…you are…?”
“Paige Hamilton. We met a few years back. This is my mother, Joan.”
“You called in the troops, did you?” Jennifer asked her daughter.
“The kids thought you were dead,” Chloe said, choosing not to mention Matt.
Jennifer whooped with laughter. “Nonsense. I was just showing them this new dance step I’ve been working on—I’m a dancer,” she explained to Paige and Joan, her grandchildren momentarily forgotten. “I’ve won many competitions across the country. I don’t suppose Chloe has told you anything about that. No, she wouldn’t,” she said without pause. “Anyway, I was showing them this little twirl and I got a bit dizzy, so I thought I’d better lie down. I guess I must have dozed off for a few minutes.”
“A few hours,” Chloe corrected.
“Yes, well. It’s not easy looking after two rambunctious children at my age.” She straightened her shoulders. “My daughter called me this afternoon and I dropped everything to come over, and this is the appreciation I get. Is that the way you treat your mother?” she asked Paige.
“You told them how babies are made,” Chloe reminded her.
“Did I?” Jennifer shrugged. “Well, it’s time they knew.”
“And it’s time you said goodbye,” Chloe said.
Jennifer glanced at her watch. “Oh, my, yes. That it is. Dance practice in an hour. Can’t keep Tyrone waiting. He’s so handsome. All the girls wanted him for a partner. But, well…” She patted her hair, offering the three women her most coquettish smile. “Say good night to the kids for me. Nice meeting you, Janet.”