Rogue Acts

by Ainsley Booth

  “You’re not wearing polish on your toes now.”

  Startled, she glanced down at the end of the tub and saw that her feet were visible through the thinning layer of bubbles. But her important bits were still covered by a thick foam, so she relaxed back into the water.

  “I used to get pedicures before Mom got really sick.” At a local spa, where they soaked your feet in water strewn with flower petals. “When I couldn’t afford that anymore, I’d take a couple hours and set up a sort of home spa and paint my own toenails.” Her smile faded. “Then I ran out of time and energy.”

  When she immersed her hand in the water, her arm brushed against the side of her breast, and she remembered everything. Her parents, both gone now. Her bakery, sold. Her house, in which she had almost zero equity because of the burst housing bubble years ago. Her mammogram, concerning enough that the radiologist had contacted her within hours. Her marriage, proposed in the name of convenience and kindness instead of love.

  The bath water had cooled while she’d been talking to James.

  She was cold again.

  With an effort, she tried to smile at him. “Why don’t you grab your toiletries, and I’ll see you in a few minutes? We can fill out the last bits of paperwork and call the insurance company. I want to make certain I’ll be covered the first of next month, in time for my biopsy.”

  His brows had drawn together. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Just getting pruney,” she said, and shooed him out of the bathroom.

  Later, they hung her painting. They finished the paperwork. They called the insurance company. They argued about whether he should just pay for the damn biopsy—his words—and get it done tomorrow, instead of next month. It was one of the rare arguments he lost.

  And after an awkward farewell and brief hug, they retreated to separate bedrooms for their first night as a married couple.

  All the while, she attempted to make sure any lingering bubbles of foolishness were well and truly popped. But try as she might, they seemed to keep appearing faster than she could vanquish them.

  By the night before her biopsy, she and James had fallen into a comfortable—if occasionally worrisome—routine.

  At dawn, he headed out on jobs while she worked at home for Artify Yourself! After lunch, she reported to Bradshaw’s Art Supply for her afternoon shift. Since he left work earlier than she did, he picked up any groceries she’d listed on the notepad by the refrigerator. They usually arrived home around the same time, and then he poured her a glass of wine, grabbed a can of soda for himself, and kept her company while she cooked.

  He did the dishes while she took care of bills or watched the Food Network.

  Then he joined her on the couch, and her favorite part of the evening began. The scariest part. The part where he sat next to her, put an arm around her shoulder, and cuddled her close.

  At first, she’d resisted leaning on him. But gradually, she’d started giving him more of her weight. She’d started resting her head against his chest, where she could hear the steady thump-thump of his huge, generous heart. She’d started slinging one leg over his, and in turn, he’d started resting his cheek against the top of her head and encircling her with both arms.

  And oh, it was glorious.

  She’d never enjoyed cuddling with other men, not as much as they had. But with James, she wanted to crawl inside him and never emerge.

  Especially tonight.

  Especially given what would happen in the morning. What she’d find out soon thereafter.

  But she needed to stay strong, so she didn’t lean on him. She sat on the armchair instead of the couch after dinner and held her hands very tightly in her lap. So tightly they were vibrating. She was vibrating.

  Maybe Bobby Flay was beating someone in a competition involving a secret ingredient or a signature dish. Maybe not. She had no idea, even though her eyes never left the television screen. Between her fears and the proximity of James, her brain didn’t have room for anything else.

  When he finished with the dishes, he strode toward the couch, then came to an abrupt halt. She turned her head to look at him, and he studied her for a moment, his face gentle.

  “I picked up something special on the way home today.” He nodded toward a canvas bag he’d deposited near the front door. “Want to see?”

  She didn’t, but she nodded anyway. “Sure.”

  He brought the bag to her, laid it in her lap, and perched on the arm of her chair.

  With trembling fingers, she opened the ridiculously heavy sack and found a rainbow.

  Dozens of bottles of nail polish, from electric blue and black to pearly white. Reds and oranges and too many shades of pink to count. And beneath them—

  “The lady at the counter said you needed those weird wooden sticks and emery boards. And some polish remover and things to spread apart your toes, although they look like they’d be incredibly uncomfortable to use.” He leaned over to eye them suspiciously. “I assume you already have toenail clippers, but if you want new ones, I got those too.”

  This was beyond sweet. Beyond caring. But she just didn’t have the energy tonight, and oh, God, he was going to be so disappointed.

  “You…” She looked up at him. “You want me to paint my toenails? Because I’m not sure I—”

  “No.” Plucking the bag from her lap, he poured its contents over the coffee table with a clatter. “I don’t want you to paint your toenails. I’ll paint your toenails. Badly.” He paused. “Sorry about that. I’ll try not to injure you in any permanent way, although I make no promises when it comes to those pointy sticks.”

  She started laughing helplessly, and then at some point the laughter turned into sobs, and she was in his arms again. Finally.

  6

  After she finished crying and James finished painting her toenails—a kind term for the toddler’s finger-painting project he’d inflicted on her cute, chubby feet—they cuddled on the couch again and talked. For hours.

  “Are your kids okay with us marrying?”

  She sounded worried, and he could understand why. He should have reassured her days ago, but they’d been settling into their new routine, and he’d wanted to make her life in this home, as his wife, as easy and relaxing as possible. So he hadn’t mentioned biopsies or families or money or anything stressful.

  But maybe she needed to talk about all those things. Maybe they both did.

  If so, he was more than willing.

  “My boys are fine with it.” The simple truth. “They’ve always liked you, and they want me to be happy, whatever form that might take.”

  For all Mel’s struggles, she’d managed to shield their sons from the worst of her alcoholism. She’d sometimes gone years sober, especially when the kids were young. And even during relapses, her heaviest drinking had been reserved for late nights or so-called business trips, at least until the boys had both left for college. So they were as well-adjusted as could be expected, especially after years of family and individual therapy.

  They were good kids, and they loved him. They’d supported the marriage.

  Elizabeth raised her head from his chest. “But they know the truth, right? They know why you asked me to marry you?”

  He smoothed her silky, pale hair back from her forehead. “They know exactly why I married you.”

  Another simple truth, although maybe not as simple as Elizabeth believed.

  She collapsed back down onto his chest, her soft warmth a welcome weight. “Good.”

  “They’re happy for us. But let me be clear about something.” He ducked his head until their noses almost touched. “I neither asked for nor needed their permission. My marriage to you is the business of only two people, and we’re both here on this couch.”

  “Okay.” She blinked up at him, and he wanted to kiss her. The need ached in his joints and throbbed with every beat of his heart.

  But he held off, because he also wanted to prolong this moment. All of it—the embrace, the conv
ersation—was intimate. As intimate as lovemaking, maybe, for a woman as intensely private and self-contained as Elizabeth.

  Her seeming openness was a façade. He knew that now.

  “I was wondering…” He sent up a silent prayer that the question wouldn’t offend her. “Why didn’t you ever marry? Before me, I mean?”

  The instant rush of pride every time he thought about their marriage was probably foolish, given why she’d agreed to his proposal. But he couldn’t help it. She was beautiful, smart, talented, kind, and married to him. James Magnusson. A man of average height and average income, with an unused degree in American literature and an ever-growing belly.

  A man who was pretty sure he loved the woman he’d married.

  No, that didn’t quite capture it. He’d loved her for almost thirty years, without question. As a roommate, a friend, and a person he admired. But now he was falling in love with her.

  So he needed to make sure they stayed married. But he was working on that, day by day. Taking down her walls and learning her, piece by piece.

  Her voice was quiet when she answered his question. “My parents got divorced when I was ten, and it was…” She sighed. “It was hard on all of us, especially when Dad moved away. I kind of had to take care of my sisters and brother for a while. And at some point, I promised myself I wouldn’t get married unless I was sure, totally sure, I’d never get divorced, because I didn’t want to experience that sort of rupture ever again.”

  “And you were never sure?”

  Because she’d had serious boyfriends over the years, some of them clearly in love with her. Guys with sharp clothes and office jobs and vacation homes. Ones who’d sat pressed up against her in restaurant booths and played with her fingers over dessert. And though he’d been married for most of those boyfriends, he couldn’t say he’d enjoyed watching them with her.

  “No. I was never sure. So I stayed single.” She gave a laugh that didn’t sound amused. “And now I’m in a marriage with an expiration date. Kind of ironic, huh?”

  No. He wasn’t letting that stand. “It doesn’t have an expiration date. Not if you don’t want it to.”

  She bit her lip for a moment. “Before we got married, you never asked me about my finances. About why I didn’t have any money. Weren’t you concerned I was a spendthrift or a compulsive shopper or an online gambler?”

  “Once I took the time to think about it, I was pretty sure I understood the situation.” He pressed a kiss on her furrowed forehead, because he was only human. “In-home nursing for an elderly woman with advanced dementia couldn’t have been cheap.”

  “Mom…” She took a shuddering breath. “Her grandmother spent years in a nursing home. The conditions there were apparently terrible. Horrifying, actually. And as Mom got older and more confused, she would get hysterical at the thought of going to one. She’d sob and scream and promise to—” When Elizabeth’s breath hitched again, he ran a soothing hand down her back. “She’d promise to kill herself if we tried to take her to a group home.”

  Another stroke of her back, and her breathing evened.

  “But once the dementia got worse, it wasn’t safe for her to be in her house anymore. Too many steps. Too much risk of falling or fire. And all my siblings are across the country.”

  “So you took her in and paid for nursing care during working hours.”

  She nodded, her hair bunching against his chest. “I made a good living at the bakery. But not good enough for that. Not after a year or so. So…” A long, painful pause. “I sold the bakery and used the money to keep Mom home.”

  The agony of the decision carved deep lines beside her mouth, and everything about this fucking situation, especially how he’d left her swinging alone in the cold breeze for so long, gutted him.

  “What about your siblings? Couldn’t they contribute too?”

  “They didn’t have the resources I did, but they gave what they could.”

  He tried to remember the date of the funeral. “She passed away…two months ago?”

  At that, her back began heaving with her renewed sobs, and he wanted to sew his own mouth shut. Why had he pushed her this way the night before her fucking biopsy, for Christ’s sake?

  “I’m sorry.” He hugged her tighter, waiting for the gusts of grief to pass. “I shouldn’t have asked. It was such a short time ago, and it must still hurt so—”

  She lifted her head, her lips puffy with tears. “No, James. That’s the worst part. It didn’t hurt. Not really.” She hiccupped. Then, fisting her hands in his sweatshirt, she met his eyes. “When she died, I was…relieved. So relieved. I know that sounds monstrous, but I had no more money. I was out of options. And I loved her no matter what, but she deserved some peace, and I felt like I’d already lost my mom years ago.”

  “No, honey, it doesn’t sound monstrous.” He rubbed her back. “It sounds human.”

  More sobs, and no wonder. Between her guilt and worry and grief, he could hardly believe she’d still been functioning at all.

  He held her for a long time after that. But just when he thought she’d fallen asleep, exhausted from her tears, her quiet voice drifted from his chest.

  “Let’s talk about you.” She sounded hoarse but calm. “Do you like your work? Is it something you want to keep doing until retirement?”

  “Yeah.” Reaching behind himself, he grabbed the fleece blanket draped over the back of the couch. Carefully, he covered them both, making sure to tuck the edges around her feet on the ottoman. “At some point in the next few years, though, I’ll probably want to go out on my own. Get my own crew and work for myself.”

  She stiffened against him. “I’m delaying you. If you didn’t need to keep your current insurance—”

  “I’m in no hurry. Like I just said, I enjoy my job. And I’d be a fool to open my own business without doing plenty of research and planning first.”

  Maybe he’d thought about pulling the trigger next spring, but that could wait. Elizabeth was his priority, now and—if he had his way—forever.

  Her frame hadn’t relaxed. “If you want to do it this year, I’ll figure out something.”

  For a woman who’d sacrificed her savings, her business, and years of her life for her mom, she certainly had trouble accepting minor sacrifices made on her behalf.

  And they were through with this topic. He wanted her lax and warm against him once more.

  “I’m not changing anything until I’m sure you’re taken care of.” When she started to say something, he shushed her. “That’s not negotiable, so don’t waste your breath arguing.”

  “Stubborn son of a gun,” she muttered, her words muffled by his sweatshirt.

  “Which I guess would make you a stubborn daughter of a gun.” He snorted. “Weird how that particular idiom never took hold.”

  Her smile warmed her voice. “It never took hold because, compared to men, most women are fonts of sweet reason. Also, it doesn’t rhyme.”

  “Good points.” He considered the matter. “Glad we’re putting our lit degrees to good use at long last.”

  She made a sort of sleepy hum.

  He should let her rest. But he had one more question, and he wanted to ask it while her defenses were still down.

  Lowering his head, he whispered softly into her ear. “Speaking of stubborn, why were you feeding me all this time when you barely had enough time or money to feed yourself?”

  Her words were barely audible. “Because someone needed to care for you.”

  He swallowed. Hard.

  In mere days, she’d burrowed so deep in his heart, she’d destroy it if she left him. Either voluntarily or…not.

  For the millionth time since that town hall, he sent up a prayer that her biopsy would be fine. She’d be fine. They’d navigate their new marriage without the specter of cancer haunting their every breath.

  “I appreciate that, honey.” Gently, he removed the elastic from her hair. There, that should be more comfortable for her. “But
who cares for you?”

  She didn’t answer. So he closed his own eyes, disregarded what a night on the couch would do to his poor back, and followed her into sleep.

  The Marysburg Hospital Breast Health Center let James accompany Elizabeth into the inner waiting room. Which was convenient, since he wasn’t sure he could have let go of her hand if a hospital employee had tried to separate them.

  Together, they trudged through all the usual hoops. Registration for Elizabeth’s core needle biopsy. Reading and signing the informed consent document, which was—like all its brethren, in his experience—pretty horrifying.

  That document confirmed the basics of what the radiologist would do to his wife. Guided by an ultrasound, the doctor would use a hollow needle to remove several tissue samples from the lump, and a pathologist would analyze those samples. Elizabeth should get the results within two to five business days.

  Such dry language for such a fraught, terrifying process.

  With each form, each explanation, Elizabeth’s fingers turned more icy. He chafed them, wishing to God he could do all this for her. Take the worry, take the needle, take the agonizing wait for answers, and leave her calm and content.

  But he couldn’t. She had to go through this process, but she didn’t have to do it alone.

  As far as he was concerned, she didn’t have to do anything alone. Not anymore. Not if she didn’t want to.

  And he made sure she knew it. “Do you want me in the room with you during the biopsy? The form said it’s okay if I come. But if you’d prefer that I wait out here instead, that’s fine too.”

  He’d honor her wishes. Even if the thought of her going to the procedure alone made him want to howl.

  “I want you with me.” No hesitation, and those deep-set blue eyes were beseeching. “Please, James.”

  God, she wrung his heart to pieces sometimes.