Deanna swallowed a mouthful of salad. “To tell you the truth, I would love to run a bed-and-breakfast. I saw a for-sale sign on an abandoned farmhouse not far from Reston that I’ve inquired about. I have an appointment to meet with the broker next week to see the interior.”
“What about Spencer? Is he willing to move?”
“I haven’t said anything to Spencer, because I’m not certain whether I’m going to go through with it, and we’ve just spent a small fortune renovating and redecorating the house in Alexandria.”
“How would you like a business partner?”
Deanna almost choked when she took a sip of water. Touching the napkin to the corners of her mouth, she stared numbly at Bethany. “Are you for real?”
Bethany flashed a toothpaste-ad smile. “I’m as real as they come. Damon has more money than he knows what to do with, so investing in an B and B would be a wonderful business venture.”
“I thought Damon wanted you to stay home with your kids.”
“He does, but that doesn’t mean I can’t get involved with an outside project when Abby and Connor are in school.”
“Overseeing the operation of a B and B is hardly an outside project, Bethany. It’s like running a boutique hotel. There’s housekeeping, laundry and meals. Then you have to have a groundskeeper, electrician and plumber on-call. And don’t forget the all-important ordering, delivery and preparation of food. Last but certainly not least, you must have a bookkeeper to take care of the books.”
Bethany grimaced. “I guess it’s not as simple as I thought.”
“It’s simple once it’s up and running,” Deanna said, smiling. “Remember I have a degree in business with a concentration in hospitality and hotel management.”
“Then running a bed-and-breakfast would be perfect for you, Deanna.”
“I know. I could have my own suite where I could look in on the baby anytime I want.”
Resting her elbow on the table, Bethany cupped her chin on the heel of her hand. “You’d live at the B and B, while Spencer would live in Alexandria?”
“No, Beth-Ann. Of course I’d hire a manager who would live there permanently. There’s no way I’m going to have a child and not have Spencer involved in his or her life. It’s only recently that I’ve managed to get my husband back.”
Bethany’s eyes grew wider. “What are you talking about? You just got him back?”
“I didn’t have a husband who would come home at six o’clock and we’d sit down and have dinner together. There were times when Spencer would leave the house before seven and come home at eleven. Before we were married we planned to wait ten years before starting a family because we wanted to establish our careers. Spencer is now junior partner and my business is doing well.”
“So now you’re having baby-making sex.”
Lowering her eyes, Deanna stared at the half-eaten salad. “I don’t know if you experienced the same thing, but it’s incredible.”
Throwing back her head, Bethany let out a peal of laughter. “Honey, please. There was one time when it got so good that I was close to passing out. Damon thought he was going to have to give me mouth-to-mouth.”
Deanna laughed until her eyes filled with tears. The two women talked about the men they’d dated, those they’d slept with and those they fantasized sleeping with. By the time she’d drunk two cups of lemon tea with delicate shortbread cookies, Deanna had all but forgotten about her conversation with Richard Douglas.
“I hope Marisol manages to get in a little fun,” she said to Bethany.
“I know if I went away with a man as gorgeous as Wesley Sheridan I’d make certain to have some fun.”
Deanna went still. “I know you’re not talking about slipping out on Damon.”
Bethany flushed a becoming pink. “It’s only a fantasy.”
“Just make certain that fantasy doesn’t become a reality.”
Setting down her cup, Bethany gave Deanna a long stare. “I know you had that horrible experience with that strange man, but have you ever had the urge to sleep with a man who wasn’t your husband?”
“Not really. Remember, Spencer wasn’t the first man I’d slept with, so I’d managed to scratch that itch.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Deanna. I do love Damon with all my heart, but there are times when I need him to make love to me more than once a week. And, I always have to initiate it. I’m ashamed to say that I lied to Damon when he asked if the reason we don’t make love as often as we used to was because he was getting older. I told him it was because we have kids and we can’t play the little games that kept our lovemaking fresh.”
“Has he had a physical lately?”
She nodded. “Damon has a comprehensive physical twice a year and everything comes back within the normal range.”
“It could be his libido isn’t what it used to be. There are over-the-counter supplements you can buy in health-food stores to help him.”
Bethany sucked her teeth. “I doubt very much if my husband would appreciate me suggesting that he take something to boost his libido.”
“The only alternative is to get a vibrator to take care of your needs.”
“Believe me, I’ve thought about it.”
“Remember when you told me they were for single women, Beth-Ann?”
“Please don’t remind me. Now I’m going to have to eat my words. But I think there may be a silver lining behind this, because Damon is planning to rent a suite at a residential hotel blocks from Rock Creek Park. He says it’s a place where influential men stash their whores and mistresses.”
Deanna smiled. “So the two of you are going to use the suite only for sex?”
“That’s his plan.”
“Would you mind if I give you some advice?”
Leaning closer, Bethany couldn’t hide her excitement. “Of course not.”
“Go to a lingerie shop and buy a merry widow, thigh-high stockings and bustier. And don’t forget a pair of five-or six-inch red stilettos. I’ve heard that there’s something about red shoes that turn men on. Black leather and crotchless panties are also turn-ons.”
“That’s so hoochie, Deanna.”
“Men love hoochie, Bethany. Every man I’ve known who has cheated on his wife was with a hoochie, ho, shank or whatever it is you want to call her. The other woman usually isn’t a nice, but a very naughty girl.”
“I was once the other woman.”
Reaching across the table, Deanna rested her hand on Bethany’s. “Planning parties for D.C.’s elite allows me to overhear a lot of gossip. Most times I’m looked upon as hired help, so the doyennes talk as if I don’t exist. I’ve heard a few of them snicker about Jean Paxton’s penchant for sleeping with what they consider ‘blue-collar trash.’ And that includes deliverymen, workmen, the pool boy and/or landscaper. They were proved right when she did marry one of her landscapers. If Jean was doing everything that walked through her door, then I don’t blame Damon for finding affection wherever he could. In fact, he was quite the pussy hound until he met you.”
Bethany giggled like a little girl. “I’ve heard him called everything, but not a pussy hound.”
“Well, he did have a reputation for sniffing skirts,” Deanna said, smiling broadly. “He was very lucky that he found you.”
“Did you know that I’d set out to seduce him?”
“No, I didn’t. I thought you met by chance.”
“Yeah, right,” Bethany drawled. “I’d done intensive research about who he did business with and where he liked to eat, then one night I asked the restaurant’s maître d’ to sit me at a table close to his because I wanted to ask him if I could interview him for a news segment. It helped that I gave the greedy bastard a Benjamin, but it was worth it. I flirted my behind off and before he left Damon gave me his business card and asked me to call him. The rest, as they say, is history. But I turned the tables on him when I made him wait before giving him my panties. I wasn’t looking for a lover, but a husband. It paid of
f in the end when he told me he was going to divorce his wife.”
“You did what you had to do to get what you wanted.”
“You’re right,” Bethany agreed. “Have you ever worn black leather?”
“Girl, please. That’s my Halloween trademark. I dress up like a dominatrix and Spencer is my male counterpart whenever we go to private parties that look like everyone’s ready for a bacchanalia. I spend half the night staring at Spencer’s leather codpiece and the other half fantasizing how I’m going to make love to him. Don’t forget when you put on your getup that you have to transform your face. Kohl does amazing things to the eyes.”
Bethany shook her head. “I’m older than you, yet you know so much more than I do.”
“Remember, I grew up here in D.C., while you were growing up in small-town America.”
Bethany’s expression stilled, growing serious. “I don’t know where I’d be now if you and Marisol hadn’t come into the bathroom that night. I owe you both my life.”
“Don’t start with the self-pity, Beth-Ann. You’re a survivor. If you hadn’t been you never would’ve left Parker Corners, Alabama.”
Her expression brightened. “You know, you’re right.” She sobered again. “I’m going to ask a favor from you.”
“What is it?”
“I’d like to be godmother for your baby.”
Deanna saw the violet eyes filling with tears. Suddenly, she knew Bethany Paxton. She was an insecure woman who still wasn’t certain of her rightful place in the D.C. social arena.
“What if you share godmother duties with Marisol?”
Pushing back her chair, Bethany came over and hugged Deanna until she claimed she was choking her. “Thank you.”
Chapter Thirty
Marisol lay in bed, tossing and turning restlessly. It was her second night in Puerto Rico, and Bryce hadn’t called or returned her calls. She’d called his office phone, leaving a voice mail for him to call her back. Twelve hours later she called his cell, believing he could’ve left D.C. to visit a candidate, but again he hadn’t called. Now she’d taken to placing the cell on the pillow beside her so she would hear it when it rang.
Rolling over on her back, she threw an arm over her forehead. Her imagination was beginning to go into overdrive when she wondered if he’d fallen and couldn’t get to the phone, or he’d been involved in an auto accident…
“¡Párelo, Mari!” she whispered in the darkened, silent space. Agonizing over something over which she had no control was certain to trigger a headache. She turned again, this time to peer at the travel clock on the floor beside the bed. It was after one in the morning.
Marisol knew sleep had become her enemy, so she left the bed, walked to the casement window, opened it and stepped out onto the balcony. Minute lights under the roof tiles illuminated the balcony. The distinctive croaking whistle of a coquí, the small tree frog found only on the island, shattered the stillness of the night.
She stood with her arms resting on the wrought-iron enclosure enjoying the solitude and the smell of salt water. Within minutes her anxiety lessened as she closed her eyes and breathed in the essence of the island that had been home to her ancestors.
Marisol had understood why some of her relatives had opted to leave a place that resembled an emerald paradise for the mainland because they’d felt there were better economic opportunities, but each time she came for a visit and left Marisol felt as if she’d left a little piece of herself behind. Perhaps, she mused, she should buy a two-bedroom condo in San Juan she could share with her mother.
Every year Pilar complained that it was going to be her last winter in New York, but then come spring she would change her mind. Maybe having a place of her own—a place where she wouldn’t have to pay rent or a mortgage—would motivate Pilar to consider early retirement.
Marisol had argued with her mother because she hadn’t left the old neighborhood. Pilar had moved out of public housing and into a one-bedroom apartment in a five-story walk-up two blocks from their old housing project, and although West Harlem was undergoing rapid gentrification it had been slower in El Barrio.
Stepping away from the railing, she lay on the chaise outside the bedroom. Millions of stars littered the nighttime sky, and a near-full moon, silvering the landscape, appeared close enough to reach out and touch.
“What’s the matter? Can’t sleep?”
Marisol sat up as if she’d been stuck with a sharp instrument. Wesley stood outside the adjoining bedroom, arms crossed over his bare chest. He wore a pair of white pajama pants and nothing else. The first night he’d slept in one of the bedrooms on the first floor.
“Why are you up?”
Closing the distance between them, Wesley sat at the foot of the chaise, almost tipping it over until he shifted his weight. “I could ask you the same thing. Cute nightgown,” he crooned, running a finger along the ruffled hem of her white cotton gown with a revealing neckline.
Marisol swiped at his hand. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t call me that. You’re just full of don’ts, aren’t you?”
She stared at the man who’d added to her anxiety. Spending time with Wesley Sheridan hadn’t made it easier for her to see how to right the wrongs when it came to her marriage. It was as if Wesley had had a bird’s-eye view of everything that had gone on in her home from the time she woke until she went to bed. Had he been that perceptive, or were she and Bryce that transparent? Except for the fact that she hadn’t gotten pregnant after trying for two years, Marisol had always thought her marriage was on good footing. However, a man who was interested in her for more than business had made it apparent all wasn’t as well as she’d believed.
“If your intent is to harass me, then I’m going back inside.”
Holding on to her ankles, Wesley held them fast. “I’m sorry. Is there something wrong with your bed?”
Marisol tried making out his features, but from where he sat his face was in the shadows. She couldn’t help but notice his muscled pectorals and incredibly flat stomach. Wesley Sheridan was an extraordinarily handsome male specimen.
“No. It’s very comfortable.”
“More comfortable than this chaise?”
“I came out because I couldn’t sleep.”
“Do you want me to make you a hot tea?” Wesley asked, his thumbs making soothing motions over the arch of her foot.
“No, thank you.” Smiling, Marisol closed her eyes when Wesley massaged her instep and ankles. “That feels wonderful. Didn’t I promise to give you a massage?”
“You did, but right now it’s my turn. Talk to me, Marisol.”
“What about?”
“About what’s bothering you.”
She wanted to lie and say nothing, but realized there were few things she could slip past Wesley. It was as if he was so attuned to her Marisol felt as if he could read her mind. She told him about Bryce not returning her calls, the words tumbling over each other as she tried not breaking down.
Wesley’s hands stilled. “Do you think something happened to him?”
“I don’t know. I can’t call his parents because they’re out of the country and I don’t get along that well with my sisters-in-law.”
“What if I have someone from my office call him tomorrow under the pretext that I need some statistics from him? If he answers his phone, then you’ll know he’s all right.”
“Thank you, Wes. When I do get to talk to Bryce I’m going to give him a piece of my mind for making me worry about him.”
“Maybe he’s busy.”
“Too busy to call his wife?”
“Sometimes we dudes aren’t too smart.”
“Don’t make excuses for him, Wesley.”
“Just try not to be too hard on him until you find out why he hasn’t returned your calls.”
If Bryce wasn’t in bed with a fever or lying in a ditch unconscious, then Marisol would know for certain why he hadn’t called. He was jealous, jealous
that she’d left the country with a man he saw as his rival and/or competition. Lately, Bryce had shown her a side of his personality she’d found more and more repugnant. He’d become a spoiled child, acting out when he couldn’t get his way. She knew he was against her going to Puerto Rico with Wesley because he hadn’t bothered to walk her to the car and wait until it pulled away from the curb. He resented her not using his accountant, resented her insistence they not file a joint tax return and he resented her struggle to maintain her independence.
Marisol may have unconsciously permitted him to select the clothes she would wear whenever they were out together, but now that she’d been made aware of it, that, too, would change.
“Why do guys always stick together?”
“And you gals don’t?”
“Not like men.”
“Did you ever see The First Wives Club?”
Marisol chuckled softly. “Talk about revenge is a dish best served cold. I loved it!”
“That’s what I’m talking about. Guys stick together and women get together to plot revenge.”
The topic segued from the inequality between the sexes to her preliminary decorating ideas. She’d spent most of yesterday photographing each room, then uploading the images into her laptop. Each room would have a design floor plan where Marisol would map out the room as a whole.
“You’re going to have to determine which season you want for this house.”
Releasing her feet, Wesley moved up the chaise and lay on his side next to Marisol. “I don’t understand.”
“Homes, like people, have personalities. It can be decorated to imbue all the seasons or one or two. Spring signals the melting of snow, warmer days, longer daylight and the emergence of green shoots and the glossy petals of tulips. The mood is light, the air fresh and rooms uncluttered. It also means flowers—inside and out, on walls and fabrics. Because this house is in a tropical climate I’m going to recommend you decorate it in two seasons: spring and summer. It can be romantic, whimsical and uninhibited.
“And because there are going to be children underfoot, you should have furniture that can be easily moved. Tables shouldn’t have sharp edges, and if you’re going to do a lot of entertaining, then multiple seating arrangements in separate areas offer plenty of room for your guests to mix and mingle. I’ll show you what I’m talking about when I design your master bedroom. After I set up the floor plans, then you’re going to have to select the furniture styles.”
Capital Wives Page 23