Out with the Old, In with the New

by Nancy Robards Thompson

  “Jon. Whoa. Are you always this talkative in the morning?”

  “That would be a problem, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then I’ll hang up now. See you in thirty.”

  I barely have enough time to shower, dress and put on coffee—no makeup; hair will just have to dry naturally. Coffee outranks beauty this morning. Besides, Jon saw me in all my natural glory the day he changed my flat and came back for more. I’m not worried.

  Well…maybe just a touch of mascara.

  I’m on my way upstairs, when the doorbell rings. Jack goes crazy barking.

  I’m caught off guard by the way my stomach flutters. When I glance out the peek hole and see Jon standing there, I’m sure the way my stomach feels has nothing to do with the afteraffects of the beer.

  “Good morning,” he says. His right arm is braced against the door frame. He carries a brown bag in his left. My newspaper is tucked under his left arm. His hair is still damp and curling around the collar of his white T-shirt. I imagine this is what he looks like after he’s just gotten out of the shower—only with clothes on.

  “Come in. Please. Good morning.” Now I’m rambling. Stammering, actually.

  Jack jumps up and licks Jon.

  I grab the dog by the collar and see Betsy Farmer across the street in her driveway. She’s staring. Blatantly. No doubt, she’s heard about Corbin’s troubles, knows we’ve separated. I’m sure all the neighbors know by now, but no one’s called. I’m glad. Really, I am.

  Pariah is the word that comes to mind. Can you believe what happened to Corbin Hennessey?

  What a bunch of hypocrites.

  I’m not defending Corbin or justifying what he did. But they all do it, go out to dinners and parties, have cocktails, a couple bottles of wine, a little cognac. Then they get in their cars and drive home because they can handle it.

  I’m sure they’re all breathing a sigh of relief—better Hennessey than me. Some of them might even be careful for a couple of weeks—stop after a couple, name a designated driver—but all too soon they’ll revert to their old ways.

  Betsy waves. I’m sure she’s trying to figure out how Jon factors into the equation. Corbin moves out, gets arrested; tall good-looking guy in green Suburban shows up on Kate’s doorstep. I wonder what Betsy would do if I kissed him?

  I glance at Jon’s lips, wave at Betsy and close the door.

  “Mmm, that coffee smells good,” says Jon as he follows me into the kitchen. Jack tries to break away and jump on Jon.

  “Come on, Jack, want to go outside?”

  I shove the dog out the back door. Jon stands in the middle of the kitchen, holding the brown bag of bagels at his side, glancing around the blue-and-yellow room.

  I go to the sink and wash my hands.

  “After I finish redecorating the bedroom and master bath, I’m going to tackle this room.”

  “What would you do? It looks great.”

  I set two plates and silverware on the table, and look at my kitchen trying to see it through his eyes. I shrug. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. I just want something different. It’s good to mix things up every once in a while. I haven’t redecorated in years.”

  He nods, seems a little stiff. An awkward air passes between us, as though neither of us knows quite what to do next. I wonder if all his telephone bravado was to cover up how unsure he feels.

  I know I’m feeling a little strange.

  We crossed that line. Where do we go from here?

  “Sit down.” I pull out a chair—the one I usually sit in, not Corbin’s—put the sugar bowl on the table, walk to the refrigerator to get the half-and-half.

  He holds on to the back of the chair, but doesn’t sit. “Kate, I don’t know how to say this—”

  I glance at him over the open door, and I’m not sure if the chill passing over me is from the icebox or those eight fateful words he uttered.

  I wait, half-and-half in one hand, the other on the top of the door.

  His throat works in a swallow. “I’m just going to say it.” He rakes his hand through his hair. “I had a great time with you yesterday, but I don’t want to blow things by rushing into something you’re not ready for.”

  I let out a breath and do a quick litmus test: is this his way of backing toward the door or is he giving me an out?

  I shut the refrigerator, pour the half-and-half in a creamer and set it on the table next to the sugar.

  He’s standing not three feet from me, and I’m suddenly aware of his height and hulking breadth. I have to tilt my head to look him in the eye.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing right now, Jon, and it’s going to take a while to sort it all out. I just know that I like spending time with you.”

  I don’t know who moves first, but we’re in each other’s arms. The worry that woke me early this morning slides away as I kiss him and he kisses me back. His lips are on mine. His hands are on my face, in my hair, on my body, pulling me into him. This time as I drink from his lips I taste pure want and dangerous, thrilling lust.

  It cracks open the hard outer shell that’s formed around me over all these years. The genuine me, the me I used to be, steps out and drinks in the first real taste of life she’s had in years. As I slide my hands down the hard planes of his back, I remember how it feels to be impulsive and wanton, totally and completely selfish.

  Taking something just for me.

  I may not know what I’m doing, but I do know I want this man. I want him naked and in my bed upstairs.

  Or maybe I’ll take him on the kitchen table—have him for breakfast rather than the bagels.

  Or maybe…

  His kisses wash over me like the smell of brownies baking, like the sound of the rain falling outside my window. Being in his arms is like lying on the cool grass and staring up at a starry sky, feeling a million miles away from everything, as if nothing in the universe can harm me.

  Maybe I’ll just stay right here for a while—

  In the recesses of my mind I hear a door shut, feet shuffling on wood, the growl of a voice—

  “What the fuck’s going on in here?”

  We jerk apart.

  Corbin’s glaring at us from the doorway.

  CHAPTER 16

  Corbin’s a smart man. I’ll give him that much. But you’d never know it when he swings his balled fist at Jon, who outweighs him by a good fifty pounds.

  Jon blocks the punch as if he’s swatting a gnat and says, “You don’t want to add assault and battery to your rap sheet.” Corbin turns and punches the wall, then lets fly a string of words that makes his frequent use of the F word sound like poetry.

  Jon steps between Corbin and me. Jack is barking and throwing himself against the door as though he’d take someone’s head off if he could get in.

  I shake my head, “Let me handle this.” I contemplate asking him to leave so Corbin and I can hash this out.

  “That’s right, Beck. Get the hell out of here. Keep your fucking hands off my wife.”

  “Excuse me?” I step to the side so I can see Corbin. “Jon’s staying, and I am not your wife anymore.”

  “I haven’t seen any divorce papers.” Corbin’s hand is already starting to swell and turn purple.

  “You initiated divorce when you slept with Melody.”

  “So is that what this is about?” Corbin points to Jon. “Tit for tat? I screw a cheerleader, you fuck a mechanic?”

  Jon lunges toward Corbin.

  “No!” I wedge myself in between them. “Jon, you go in the living room. Corbin, you leave. You have no right walking into this house without knocking. You can talk to me through my attorney.”

  “It’s my fucking house. I’m not leaving, and I’ll walk in any time I damn well please.”

  “It’s not your house. You gave it up when you left your family for a woman the age of your son. Now get out before I call the police.”

  I pick up the phone.

  “How did you get
here, Hennessey?” Jon says. “Did you drive?”

  Corbin’s eyes flash, and for a minute I think he’s going to swing at Jon again.

  “Corbin, I’m serious. If you’re not out of here in ten seconds, I’m calling the police—if the neighbors haven’t heard us and called them already.”

  I press the talk button on the phone. Corbin hesitates; the ramifications seem to settle around him.

  Corbin mutters something unintelligible, grabs the edge of the table and upends it, then storms out, leaving the front door open.

  I hear the squeal of tires peeling out, Jack barking and my heart pounding as I stand amidst the broken dishes and scattered bagels.

  Why do I feel like the one who was caught cheating?

  I’ve done nothing wrong.

  You’re damned right you haven’t, says Hera.

  Oh, shut up. You’re the one who tried to convince me to give Corbin a second chance.

  Okay, so maybe I was wrong. Even a goddess makes mistakes. You could cut me some slack and focus that aggression where it belongs.

  I know she’s right.

  It’s time I put an end to this.

  After Corbin’s chest-banging territorial outburst, Jon offers to change the locks for me. I say I’ll call a locksmith to rekey, but he won’t hear of it.

  “That’ll cost a fortune,” he says. “Why waste the money when I can do it for you?”

  He has a point. We leave it that I’ll cook dinner tomorrow night. The girls will have a chance to play while Jon changes the locks. Maybe I’ll have him show me how. I should do one. It can’t be that hard.

  Saturday, after Jon takes me to my car and leaves, I go to Home Depot before I pick up Caitlin from Mom and Dad’s house. I will buy four new dead bolts—one for each of the doors, so they’ll all be keyed the same—and a new garage door opener.

  It’s another world inside that hardware supermarket, with its wide aisles and aroma of fresh-cut lumber.

  Let’s see. Locks…that would be aisle number six. Thanks to my redecorating projects I’m learning my way around the hardware store as well as I know the mall. Which reminds me, I need to look at tile for my new studio. I’ve decided to rip out the carpet and tile the floor in what used to be the guest room. That way I can work with paint and glue if I want to do mosaics, and I won’t have to worry about getting it on the carpet.

  I’ve turned the room that used to be Corbin’s old office into a guest room-playroom for Caitlin. She loves it.

  While I’m here, I believe I’ll ask the manager what they do with their chipped and cracked tile. Take something broken and turn it into something beautiful.

  I steer my cart to the tile section and pull from my purse a drawing of Hera I created. I love the vivid cobalt, bright turquoise and true, clear reds, yellows and greens.

  This is it. This is my mosaic.

  I load a case each of tan and cobalt tile into the cart. It’s not cheap. I’ll have to buy the tile a couple of cases at a time until I have all the colors I need, but this should get me started.

  Yes, this will do nicely.

  I make my way over to aisle six and look at the daunting display of shiny brass locks. But with a little help from my orange-aproned friends, I get what I need and am on my way to get my daughter.

  There’s something very unsettling about needing to lock out a man to whom I’ve given twenty years of my life. But there’s something very fulfilling about picking out and purchasing my own hardware.

  When I get to my parents’ house, Dad’s still in bed. He’s been there all day.

  “Is he okay?”

  “We didn’t make it to the zoo. He’s just too weak, and I was not about to go off and leave him.”

  “Mom, why didn’t you call this morning? I would have been here earlier.”

  Mom shrugs, brushes a piece of gray hair off her forehead. She looks weary.

  “I hate to tell you this,” she says. “The doctor has asked Hospice to come tomorrow.”

  Fear balloons inside me. “Do you need me to stay with you tonight?”

  “No, baby. You take that little girl home and spend some time with her. She is such a joy. But before you go, why don’t you go in and say hello to your father? I’ll get Caitlin’s things together.”

  I knock before entering the dim room, but he doesn’t stir. Pausing in the doorway, I can barely make out his form on the Shifman bed, but I hear his labored breathing.

  It sounds like death.

  I feel my insides fold in on themselves.

  Daddy, please be strong. What is Mom going to do without you? What will we all do without you, because you’re one of the last honorable men left in this world?

  Two weeks later, I’m putting the finishing touches on my museum design boards when Alex calls.

  “Do you want the good news first or the bad news?” she says.

  I push down on the tile sample I’m gluing to the art museum presentation board. “There’s bad news? God, Alex, I don’t think I have any room left in my life for bad news.”

  She sighs, and I feel my calm start to crumble like dry clay.

  “Well, it’s not devastating news,” she says. “It’s just that—shit, Kate, I screwed up. I can’t believe I’ve let you down like this.”

  “What? What’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”

  “I called Sarah Martin over at Long, Drake, and Martin. She’s the best in the business. If I were getting divorced, she’d represent me. I told her I was referring you since I can’t represent you, and told her to go for Corbin’s balls because you’re my best friend.”

  She pauses, and I wonder if I’m missing something.

  “Okay…”

  “Kate, Corbin’s playing dirty pool. There’s an ethics policy that says if one party in a divorce consults with an attorney, even if they don’t hire said attorney, that lawyer is disqualified from even talking to the other party in the case. Corbin consulted with Sarah.”

  “So? Who would be your second choice? That’s fine, I’m not really out for blood here. I’m mad at him, but I don’t want to crucify him.”

  “Well, you might want to after you hear this. There’s an old trick in this business—to keep the spouse from securing a good attorney, the other will consult with every decent lawyer so the spouse who’s not so fast out of the gate is left with the bottom of the barrel. It’s dirty pool, but that’s what Corbin’s done. I’m kicking myself for not seeing it coming.”

  “Why would he do this?”

  “He doesn’t want you to have a fair shake. He wants you to get some hack who’ll be an easy mark for his ballbusters. In short, he’s hoping that you’ll end up paying him.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  I stand up, walk to the door and look out at the backyard. It’s a lot brighter out there since the Carters killed the tree. The stark midday light glares down on the grass like a flood lamp. Is there no human decency left in this world?

  “Alex, I’m not good at this. I don’t want to fight, but I certainly don’t want to get taken advantage of. Come on, all I want is a decent life for my daughter. I am the mother of his children. For God’s sake, I’m getting a job.”

  “Honey, after twenty years you deserve a lot more than that. When this happens, most people will settle for someone they can get locally, but Corbin underestimates us. That really pisses me off. I’m going to set you up with Dennis Lauder out of Miami. He’s a good guy. He’ll do right by you.”

  The presentation of my design to the museum board goes marginally better than my one-on-one with Marilyn Griggs.

  There’s safety in numbers.

  When one board member refuses to make eye contact because she is picking at her cuticles the entire time or the most senior member flat-out falls asleep, I can scan the room for an interested face.

  Finding sanctuary, however, is harder than I hoped, especially when the sleeper interrupts my explanation of why I recommend tile over carpet by snorting himself away.


  I keep telling myself the exercise is good practice.

  It’s an honor to be included in the final round of presenters.

  Right.

  Who am I kidding?

  This is not the Oscars.

  CHAPTER 17

  Hera may be the goddess of all goddesses, but I have something she doesn’t: the treasure of Alex and Rainey.

  It’s Caitlin’s night for dinner with Corbin, and the girls have come over for a renovate-the-guest room-into-a-studio party. I’ve made spinach dip and sangria. We have Ottmar Liebert on the stereo, a gallon of azure paint for the walls, and this crazy game Alex brought over for after we finish our work.

  “Jon sounds like a dream,” says Rainey.

  We each painted one wall. Now she’s helping me lay out mosaic tiles in the design of Hera I drew on the reverse side of some gummed paper, while Alex finishes the last wall. The goal of putting the mosaics on paper is that when we finish, we will lift the completed design to glue we spread on the wall, peel off the paper and voilà—instant Hera mural.

  “A guy who cooks, changes locks, and is down-to-earth enough to care for a six-year-old sounds like a god,” says Rainey.

  “Yeah, but let’s cut to the chase,” says Alex. “Is he good in bed?”

  I run my hand over the pile of black tile pieces, select a skinny rectangular section and stick it down on the area that will be Hera’s hair. “I haven’t slept with him.”

  Rainey drops a tile. “And why not?”

  “It’s not because of Corbin, is it? I always say what’s good for the goose,” says Alex.

  I sigh. Shake my head.

  “Good,” says Rainey. “When can we meet Jon?”

  A sickening wave of claustrophobia passes over me and threatens to strangle me with its sticky fingers.

  “I don’t know if I’m ready for all this, you guys. Maybe I should wait until the divorce is final.”