Independence Day

by Amy Frazier

  Chessie looked up from Nick’s shirt to the photos framed and lining the dresser. As the girls grew and their flying-the-nest time neared, she worried what would become of her and Nick. After the childrearing was over, if he didn’t see her as a woman attractive and worthy in her own right, would he, too, move on? If she were honest with herself, did she really want to be independent, or did she crave a closer relationship with Nick?

  She put aside the soiled shirt, closed the bedroom door, then headed for the bathroom, shedding her clothes along the way.

  Some striker she turned out to be.

  Nick was already in the shower.

  “Want company?” she asked, sliding the door open.

  The hard look of longing in his eyes gave her the answer.

  Stepping into the warm spray, she reached for the soap in his hand. How long had it been since they’d showered together? Forever.

  He turned to face the wall, and she soaped his broad back, his strong shoulders, his well-muscled arms. She loved how his back veed down to his narrow waist and tight buttocks. Avoiding the waterproof patch over the dog bite, she soaped his thighs and calves, then slid her hands back up his legs to encircle his waist. She leaned the side of her face against his back and let the water wash over her. Warm and healing.

  As he turned in her arms, she stepped back. He faced her, solemn and watchful and fully erect. When she moved to soap his chest, he caught her wrists. It was obvious cleanliness wasn’t foremost on his mind.

  Roughly, he pulled her to him. The soap dropped. He kissed her hungrily and she felt need rise from deep within her. She had missed him so much. Arching against him, she let out a soft cry. With a low growl, he cupped her bottom, lifted her and pressed her back against the cold tiles.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist as he entered her. His movements were primitive and forceful and over far too soon. Not lovemaking, but urgent and possessive sex. Although she’d felt passion, she’d felt no release.

  Breathing heavily, he held her tightly for a few seconds. There were no sweet after-words although, when he let her down, he did it gently. And when he washed her, he did so intently as if he were marking her as his.

  He turned the water off, then reached for towels. He wrapped her, and then dried himself. Silently. Watching her.

  She wanted words—assurances—but he offered none.

  After he’d dressed and gone downstairs, she felt cold. And alone.

  GABRIELLA DUMPED the supplies she’d taken from the pantry onto her bed, then searched her room for her backpack.

  She wouldn’t run away tonight, but she was going to run away. She had to.

  Earlier, while Isabel was taking out the trash and Gabriella was wiping down the kitchen counters, she’d kicked her dad’s briefcase by mistake. It had opened and spilled his papers. When she’d started to stuff them back in, she’d seen the stupid contract.

  She and Izzy were trying to do something nice for their parents, and they were planning to take away even more privileges. And here Mom had been going on all week about personal freedom and choices. Parents could be such hypocrites.

  Gabriella hadn’t shown Isabel the contract. Instead, she’d stuffed it in her pocket, betting it wasn’t even designed for her sister. Miss Perfect. Miss Brown-Nose Suck-Up Perfect. She was sure Mom and Dad were going to lay down the law for her alone. Because she’d screwed up once. Apparently, the humiliation of being grounded wasn’t enough.

  That guy Owen had gotten one thing right. If she didn’t like it here, she needed to strike out on her own. She could do it. Lots of other kids did. She just needed a plan so she wouldn’t get caught. Getting caught only got you in more trouble.

  Finding her backpack, she stuffed it with the granola bars and sports drinks she’d brought up from the kitchen. She added some clean underwear, a change of clothes and a few toiletries. The bag wouldn’t hold anything more. That was okay. She was going to be traveling light.

  Maybe she’d try hopping freight trains. She’d seen a special on the travel channel. It seemed exciting.

  But she knew enough to wait for the perfect time. That would be hard, considering she was grounded. The only time their parents weren’t breathing down her neck was when she was sleeping. So nighttime would be good. Not tonight, though. She had supplies, but no money. Tomorrow she’d find a way to lift a little bit each from Mom, Dad, Isabel and the emergency Mason jar. After that she’d be free.

  ISABEL STOOD in front of her bathroom mirror and smiled before slathering cold cream across her eye-liner mustache.

  Aunt Emily had been right. Despite the flame-broiled entrée, the meal had gone well. Mom and Dad seemed to get a kick out of it. She and Gabriella had even had a few yucks as they’d cleaned up, although, when Isabel had come back from taking the garbage out, Gabby was back to her totally grouchy self. How could anyone run a marriage with kids?

  And, over all, was the nice feeling that, if she couldn’t talk to Mom or Dad, she could talk to Aunt Emily.

  She wiped the cold cream off her face, closed the jar and opened the medicine cabinet door. When she slid the jar on a shelf, she noticed the familiar packet of straight-edge razors.

  She hesitated.

  No, the pain wasn’t there. Not at the moment. And a poet should always try to stay in the moment.

  She closed the cabinet door. She wouldn’t need her little friends tonight.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  TUESDAY MORNING Chessie came downstairs to a clean kitchen. Dishes washed and put away. Garbage emptied. Surfaces cleared and wiped. Wonder of wonders. The laundry still needed to be done, but it could wait. She decided to let the girls sleep in. Call it positive reinforcement for their creative dinner last night.

  As she was making coffee, Nick appeared, showered, shaved, dressed and ready for work. “Have you seen my briefcase?”

  “By the door.” After last night’s encounter in the shower, she felt unsettled in his presence. As she imagined one might feel after a one-night stand. A little awkward in the light of day. Not that she’d ever had a one-night stand. Nick was her first and only lover.

  Too, she was wondering if he considered last night a capitulation in her no-sex ultimatum. Did she? How could she not? This was a little more tricky than falling off a diet and starting back on the celery sticks the next day.

  “I was sure I brought home the girls’ contract,” he said, rummaging through the mess of paperwork.

  Oh, that. Chessie didn’t care if that bit of heavy-handedness ever saw the light of day.

  “I’ll print out another copy and give it to them tonight.”

  Chessie chose to ignore the issue altogether. It was his idea. He could handle the fallout. “Coffee?” She really wanted to ask about last night, but he seemed securely locked in business mode.

  “No. I’m having a breakfast meeting to finalize plans for the staff field day. I’m late.” He started toward the door, but stopped. “About last night…”

  “Yes?”

  “It was…different. Sexy.”

  It had been, but it hadn’t been intimate. She still craved intimacy. Watching him leave, she wondered if different meant progress.

  And watching him leave, she realized his mention of the staff field day had surprised her. This year he hadn’t invited her.

  Perplexed, she grabbed a mug and the full pot of coffee and headed through the utility room toward her studio, only to notice a Lexus pull into the spot in the driveway Nick had just vacated. Not looking forward to an interruption—she hadn’t worked on her own pottery in over a week—but not wanting to discourage a potential customer, she put down the coffee to open the barn door. Ursula Delacorte, the woman who’d shown an interest in her free-form idea, emerged from the luxury car.

  Oh, great. Chessie had no more than a title, a sketch and a very rough working model, barely more than she’d had when she and Ursula had spoken two weeks ago.

  “Good morning,” she called, h
oping her potential patron understood the sometimes halting artistic process.

  “Hello, hello!” Ursula trilled. “I was up bright and early and thought I’d take a ride down the coast to see how my piece is coming along.”

  “It’s coming,” Chessie replied, forcing the optimism.

  “May I see?”

  “Hmm… I usually like to wait to unveil the finished piece.” That wasn’t quite true. She’d only ever sold finished pieces. This was her first ever attempt at a commission. “A work in progress can be ambiguous. Confusing to—”

  “Nonsense.” Ursula breezed by in a cloud of rich scent. “I’m a sophisticated art lover. And a hands-on patron. I’ve been told I can be quite the muse.”

  Uh-oh. That sounded a lot like interference.

  Chessie followed her up the barn stairs and into the studio.

  “Now, where is it?”

  “Over here.” Chessie lifted the moist cloth covering the worked and reworked form on her revolving table. The rough sketch of the envisioned piece was tacked to a timber. Under Ursula’s scrutiny the project looked pretty pathetic.

  “When do you think you’ll finish?”

  “That’s hard to say…”

  Ursula now gave her a frank appraisal. “This is your first commission.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve never worked under deadline.”

  “No.” Except for the classes she taught, she’d always worked when her family schedule allowed.

  “A deadline helps.” Ursula smiled, Cheshire-cat-like. “And I have the deadline for you.”

  “You do?” Chessie so wanted this commission, but her plate was full with family issues.

  “I’m having my house redecorated. Lovely creams and sea green. I’ve told my decorator everything must be absolutely finished in a week and a half when I’ll be having an open house. The invitations have already been sent. I’d like to highlight your piece in the foyer.”

  “A week and a half?” Chessie squeaked.

  “Yes. But I’ve just given you an important jumpstart. An idea, if you’re blocked.”

  Chessie cocked her head in question.

  “For your glazes. Now you know my colors. You certainly wouldn’t choose anything that clashed. So your palette is a given.”

  Wishing she were wearing her “Real art does not match the sofa” T-shirt, Chessie stared at Ursula in disbelief.

  “You do want the commission?”

  “Y-yes.” She did. Heck, even Michelangelo had his patron problems. “I do.”

  “Good.” Ursula headed for the stairs. “Of course, I’ll want to pick up the piece well before the party. Say, one week from today?”

  Pardon? She had to get a major work ready in a week. With the girls on her mind. And Nick. Moreover, she had to make certain “Her Head Was in the Goddess Movement, but Her Feet Were Firmly Planted in the PTA” blended nicely with a fresh cream and sea green décor.

  Right. And this was all going to happen in what universe?

  At least she didn’t have to lie to Ursula. While Chessie was locked in shock, her patron had descended the stairs with a self-assured wave and a swirl of perfume. It probably never entered Ursula Delacorte’s head that anyone might disagree with her.

  Chessie wondered how it would feel to be a woman like that.

  She glanced out the window and saw Martha and Keri getting into Martha’s SUV. Although she sure could use a sticky bun session, she’d wait a couple days to approach Martha. She hoped their friendship hadn’t been irreparably damaged. But in any event, they needed to talk as two parents.

  Sighing heavily, Chessie turned to her work-in-progress. How could she show what she so passionately felt about relationships. Friendships. Family. Spouses. Business associations. They were all so tenuous, and maintaining them usually fell to women. But what about the relationship of a woman to herself? That concept, which too often got lost in the shuffle, was really what she was trying to portray in this piece. The title had come easily from her own experience, but the execution of the work itself was still frozen inside her.

  Now, under a very tight deadline, she sat and smashed the project to a shapeless lump.

  THAT EVENING Nick faced his unhappy family across the dining room table. He’d just finished explaining the new behavioral contract to Isabel and Gabriella.

  “Why are you treating us like infants?” Gabriella complained, shoving her copy away.

  “I’m not,” he replied. “I’m treating you like mature individuals. Mature individuals enter into contracts. That’s the real world.”

  “In the real world both parties have a say in what goes into the contract. I didn’t have a say in this. Did you, Izzy?”

  Isabel sat staring at him with big hurt eyes and said nothing. He did feel a little guilty including her in this. She was a year away from college, and lately it was almost as if she were trying to make up for Gabriella’s behavior. But it was a tough world out there and getting tougher, and he was determined to keep them both safe. At least on his watch.

  “What…did you all know about this?” Gabriella turned to Chessie. “Mom?”

  Chessie had been as silent as Isabel. She hadn’t gone against his plan tonight, but she hadn’t endorsed it either. “If I may make one suggestion,” she now said, ignoring Gabriella’s question. “I think the contract should have a renewal date—in the near future—when all four of us sit down and evaluate it.”

  She had a point. He always tried to get his teachers to set realistic goals for their students. Realistic deterrents. And always with a very specific timeline. How come good management was easier with a staff of a hundred and a student body of a thousand than with one wife and two daughters?

  “Okay,” he conceded. “Girls, what would be a fair trial period?”

  “Trial is right,” Gabriella groused. “You’re asking the convicted to pick their sentence.”

  He turned to Chessie for support—they’d always presented a united parental front—but, for the first time in their marriage, she didn’t offer any encouragement.

  She seemed disengaged.

  “Isabel?”

  “I don’t know what to say, Dad. I liked the open forum we used to use.”

  “We’ll use it at the evaluation. In two weeks.”

  “Two weeks!” Gabriella smacked her hands on the table. “That’s forever!”

  “We’ll see if time flies when you’re busy. I called your grandfather. He needs a cashier at the lobster pound.”

  “Like I want to work with stinking fish all day.”

  “Then come back in two weeks with another part-time job or a good idea for volunteer work in the community.”

  “How can I look for a job when I’m grounded?”

  “I told you the contract, when you sign it, stands in place of being grounded.”

  “The contract’s worse than being grounded.”

  “No it’s not,” he insisted. “Except for the job or volunteering part, this contract is no different from the expectations your mother and I’ve had for you all along.”

  “Except now they’re written in stone.”

  “No. Now they’re spelled out so no one can misinterpret them.” He signed his name on the first line at the bottom of the page, then passed the sheet to Chessie.

  With a sharp intake of breath, she eyed the document as if it might bite. After a long pause, she reached for the pen, slowly signed her name next to his, then passed the paper along to Isabel. He was relieved she hadn’t voiced objections in front of the girls.

  Without looking up, Isabel signed.

  “Traitor!” Gabriella shrieked, bolting from her chair with such force it tipped over. “Well, I’m not signing!”

  “Gabriella,” Chessie said evenly. “Go to your room.”

  “Gladly!” Without picking up the chair, she stormed out of the dining room and up the stairs. Overhead, her door slammed.

  Chessie stood. “Isabel, honey, I need some input on a color s
cheme I’ve been developing. In my studio. Could you?”

  “Sure, Mom.” With little enthusiasm she rose to follow her mother out of the room.

  “I think that went well,” Nick muttered sarcastically to the four walls. He rose to pace the room.

  No matter what Gabriella thought, the contract wasn’t meant to be a punishment. He wanted his daughters to understand that society had rules, and their family was a microcosm of society. He hadn’t intended to take any power from Chessie as a parent. Tonight he’d listened to her suggestion, and together they’d decided on a trial period. And he never intended to take the spirit out of his daughters. But when Isabel left the room just now, she’d looked pale and fragile.

  Very simply, he’d wanted to do the right thing to ensure his family’s well-being.

  This afternoon Quentin, his band director, had come into Nick’s office asking for personal advice. It seems Quentin and his wife had hit a rough patch in their marriage after the birth of their first child. Nick had urged him to remember that a couple existed long after kids grew up and went away. Quentin had thanked him for “his expertise.” Expertise, hah! The man couldn’t know that Nick felt like a charlatan as a family counselor.

  LATER THAT NIGHT Chessie slipped into bed beside Nick who was, as usual, buried in paperwork. The logistics of moving a hundred staff members around the field on spirit day. An event she hadn’t wanted to attend, but now felt somehow excluded from. She hated herself for being petty.

  “The girls?” he asked, looking up.

  “Gabriella’s locked herself in her room. Morning will be soon enough to talk to her. I talked to Isabel. She actually liked the idea of a part-time job. Thought she might talk to your dad about the cashier position. She just wished you’d presented the whole contract idea as up for discussion.”