It Happened on Maple Street
Page 16
I honestly didn’t care if I lived or died.
Neil Diamond came out with a new song, “Turn On Your Heart Light,” about the movie ET. I figured Chum was telling me something, but I was too lost to listen to his message.
I quit my teaching job and started selling furniture. And ice cream cones.
And then, eighteen months after my big brother’s death, while on vacation in Albuquerque, I met a man. He was calm. Stable. He had dark hair and a mustache, just like Tim’s, but was much taller. He was a banker. And he asked me to the movies.
Three months later, after weekend trips back and forth to Ohio, he asked me to live with him. There was no fire in his kisses, no tingle in his touch, but I didn’t expect there to be. James had killed any chance I’d ever feel those things again. I knew that now.
Chris didn’t mind. He was happy with our love life. He said I was everything he wanted and needed. I wanted to make a home for him. Raise his kids. And I knew how to dress, how to act, when he had clients to entertain. My keep-up-appearances upbringing fit him perfectly.
He was what I thought I needed, too. He was steady. Reliable. And loyal. He liked to work. And he was happy to support me while I wrote my Harlequin romance and tried to sell it.
He thought I was a lady. Not a slut. He treated me like a lady.
And in 1985 I married him.
Sixteen
“THANK YOU FOR ATTENDING THE 1998 SEMINAR ON hydraulic press specifications.”
No, thank you for letting me attend, Tim thought sarcastically. How many of these things did a guy have to sit through in a lifetime?
And why did they always seem to hold the damned things in September? Thinking of the school busses and their new routes, the parents lining up to pick up kids, all the traffic he had to fight to get out of the city at 3:00 PM before he could start the long drive home wasn’t improving his mood any.
He’d better call Denise and let her know that he’d be later than he’d expected. Chicago at rush hour wasn’t going to be easy. And he had another six hours after that before he was back in Eaton.
As soon as he was on the open road, Tim started to relax. He’d forgotten about the best part of the damned seminars he was required to attend. They gave him time alone on the road, listening to the radio and thinking about life. Time out to reacquaint himself with who he was and what he wanted. To put things into perspective. They also gave him a chance to have the radio blaring—something Denise complained about.
Just then a familiar song came on, and Tim cranked the volume up full blast.
“Hot August Night.” A Neil Diamond tune.
And he was back in Tara’s kitchen, holding her hand. Listening to Chum playing his guitar. Tim pictured Tara’s brother, sitting with the guitar perched on his knee, head back, eyes closed, and singing like he was in concert.
He wondered how Tara was doing. It had been eighteen years since he’d seen her. Was she still in the area? Had she become a journalist?
Did she have kids?
He thought about one of the letters she’d sent from Armstong. She’d gone on and on about two orphan girls she’d visited. She’d loved kids. His guess was that she had at least two of her own. And a houseful of poodles, too.
Tara was still on his mind when Tim rolled into the Dayton area later that night. He’d spent the whole trip with her. On a lark, he made a slight detour.
Once again, he made that familiar drive: Brandt Pike left to Brandt Vista and then right on Drywood. It was probably a good thing it was dark outside. He was nuts, some kind of crazy stalker, a thirty-eight-year-old man driving by an old girlfriend’s house so many years after the fact.
What was the matter with him? Why couldn’t he let go of the memory of his little blonde girl from Wright State?
The house looked the same: same brick, same driveway; the pine trees out front that Tara’s father had planted were much taller.
He sat for a bit. Remembering. And then put the Buick in gear.
Well, Gumser, he thought, Never say that I didn’t stop and say hi.
“Dammit woman, can’t you get anything right? Look at this counter. I work all day. I expect things put away when I get home.”
I’d set the notebook on the kitchen counter while I made a stop in the bathroom. He’d arrived while I was incapacitated. I grabbed up the binder—my 2004 Policy and Procedure Manual. I was president of a multimillion-dollar international writers organization that had more than 9,600 members.
“You’d think, after nineteen years of marriage, you’d at least be able to get a simple thing, like picking up after yourself, right.”
Had his nose always been that thin? His eyes that beady? Where had the pretty blue gone? I didn’t see any color in them now at all.
“Dammit,” he said again, slamming his hand against the counter. “I take care of you. Why can’t you take care of me? I don’t ask for much.”
I didn’t say anything. It would only anger him further.
You parked with the wheels turned again. Do I have to do everything for you?
You’re a writer, not a business person. You aren’t good with numbers. I’ll take care of the finances. You worry about getting that book written.
Just wait for me to take you to the grocery. Lifting the bags isn’t good for your back.
Let me make the phone calls. You’re good at writing, not so with real conversation. I understand, though, it’s because you spend all day alone with the people in your head, how could you be expected to carry on normal conversation?
Other conversations replayed themselves in my mind while Chris got himself a drink—the Cognac he had every single night as soon as he got home. It was expensive. But he didn’t have many extravagances.
I waited until he’d had a couple of sips and then said, “Remember, I have a writer’s meeting tonight.”
It was more than that. We were having a three-day board meeting in Albuquerque. I’d been in meetings all day and had rushed home on dinner break to put the casserole in the oven for Chris and to make certain that I was there to greet him as he expected.
We’d never had children—my fault, I’d never been able to conceive— and Chris was right. He really did ask for very little. A clean house. Dinner at night. His wife home when he got there.
And available when he needed her. But he didn’t complain about all of my traveling as long as I had meals planned and ready for him to reheat while I was gone. And he hadn’t complained about the seven years it had taken me to get published, either. The years he’d supported me while I sought to make my dreams come true.
He’d been my rock six years before when my father died.
“How late are you going to be?”
“I’m not sure. The advent of e-books might change the publishing world in the very near future, and we’re already being challenged to look at our definitions of publishing. Tonight’s a special brainstorming session on . . .”
I’d have said more but Chris was reading the paper he’d picked up from the bin by his chair. I placed it there every evening before he got home.
I walked over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Dinner’s ready. It’s in the oven on warm. There’s salad in the fridge. Leave the dishes. I’ll take care of them when I get home.”
He nodded. Glanced my way and smiled. “Be very, very careful. You’re a small woman. And gorgeous. Which makes you prey to all the creeps out there.”
Hating the reminder that because I was a woman I was vulnerable, I nodded. “I will. See you tonight.” I probably wouldn’t. He’d be asleep before I returned, and we’d had separate bedrooms for more than ten years—ever since he’d found out I couldn’t conceive.
I don’t think he heard me, anyway.
I don’t think he’d heard a word I’d said in years. I’d published more than thirty books in twelve years and Chris hadn’t read a word of them. He didn’t really know what I was capable of. Or didn’t want to know.
My writing frien
ds had pointed it all out to me. After one of them overheard a particularly bad phone conversation between Chris and me. I’d been in New York, meeting with my new agent. I’d been wined and dined. And he’d let me know that I’d made a bad decision taking on the agent I had. He’d said I had no business sense. I knew words, not numbers.
What made my friends mad was that I agreed with him. I will never forget hanging up from that call to face the woman I respected more than anyone else in the world. Her lips were pursed, her cheeks red, and she said to me, “You’re responsible for a multimillion-dollar organization that is growing in amazing numbers and you think you have no business sense?”
I understood. Chris felt threatened by my success. Like my ability to sell books would somehow make him less valuable. So he had to make certain that I saw less value in myself than I saw in him.
He was afraid I was going to leave him.
He needn’t have worried. I’d given him my word to be with him until death parted us, and I was going to remain loyal to him. Just because I had a successful career didn’t mean that I was a better person. Nor did I let my success go to my head. My business, as any business, was fickle. As a writer I was only as good as my latest book.
Besides, I knew full well, had always known, that life wasn’t about money and career. It was about family. Chris was my husband. And he’d been good to me.
The summer of 2006 was mild in Ohio. Warm, but not too hot. Humid, but not wet. The last day in June Tim drove home from the auto parts engineering job he’d had for twenty-five years, looking forward to the July 4th holiday ahead.
Four days of no work, no paperwork, no shop to worry about, no technicians and line workers to oversee. Four whole days of campfires, beer, and Denise.
Her little red sports car was parked in the drive when he rounded the corner and the house they’d been sharing for the past twenty years—one he’d purchased and almost had paid off—came into view.
The RV was not there. She was supposed to have picked it up from the storage lot after work. They’d been planning to leave for southeastern Ohio within minutes of his arrival.
She was sitting at the dining room table when he walked in, her blonde hair hanging down, rather than up in the pony tail she always wore camping. She still had on the black slacks and white blouse she’d worn to work that morning. “Hey, Dee Dee, what’s wrong?”
Was she sick? Had someone died? Her hands were clenched on the top of the table.
“We need to talk.”
His heart sank. Not those words again. It had been almost thirty years, but he still remembered them with dread. Tara’s words.
Right before she’d asked for her ring back.
“What?” Pulling out the chair opposite her, he sank down, noticing a black grease stain on his jeans. Denise would get it out. She always did. She’d probably bitch a bit about the way he, an engineering manager, had to crawl around on the factory floor fixing machines that the technicians who’d been hired to fix them couldn’t fix.
He’d been in such a hurry to get out of work, he’d forgotten to change out his steel-toed shoes.
Glancing back up, he caught Denise staring at him, a look in her eyes he’d never seen before. Like she was in pain, only not the physical kind.
“What’s wrong?” Had she had a miscarriage or something equally tragic? She hadn’t said she was pregnant, but stranger things had happened.
That brief thought—of a child, a real family—gave him a twinge. And he moved on. He liked their life together. It was pretty much perfect.
“I’m not going camping.”
He was disappointed, of course, but . . .
“Okay.” If that’s all this was about, no problem. If he hadn’t been so worried, he might have gotten angry. But hey, beers and fireworks could happen anywhere, right?
“Aren’t you going to ask why?”
“I figured you were going to tell me.” Mentally shifting, he thought about the steak they’d bought the night before during their grocery shopping expedition. He could grill that tonight. Sit out by the pool. Listen to tunes. And have Denise close . . .
“I’m leaving you, Tim.”
Sit out by the pool. Grill steak. Yeah, that was it. Listen to tunes. And . . .
“Did you hear me?”
“What?” He glanced at her. Sort of. He glanced her way. “Yeah.”
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
What? Hell no, he wasn’t going to say anything. If she walked out that door she better not ever think about coming back and . . .
“Tim?” She had tears in her eyes. He’d seen them before. Many, many times. Every time she got it in her head that he didn’t love her because they weren’t getting married.
“What?” Steak. Grill. Pool. Tunes.
“I said I’m leaving you.”
The words stabbed him. “I heard you.” He needed a beer. There was no reason to fear what she was saying. He owned the home. And everything in it. He could more than afford to pay the bills.
He had the RV. He could go camping anytime he wanted. Anywhere he wanted.
He felt kind of panicky just the same.
“That’s it, then? You have nothing to say?”
He tried to meet her gaze. Those blue eyes pissed him off. They said she cared. And clearly she didn’t.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Ask me to stay. Ask me why. Something.”
Possibility walked back in the door. “If I asked you to stay, would you?” They were in foreign territory. He wasn’t going to just put it right out there.
“No.”
That pissed him off all over again. What kind of game was she playing with him now?
“I’ve met someone else.”
She should have just slapped him or something.
“Then why are you still here?” A guy could only take so much.
“Because we’ve been together for more than twenty years. I didn’t think it was right to just walk out without a word.”
“But it’s okay to see someone else behind my back?” She’d slept in his bed the night before, and how many nights before that while she was seeing another man?
“It wasn’t like that.”
He didn’t want to hear any more.
“I didn’t mean to, Tim. I . . . he’s a sales guy from work and for a long time we just talked when he came in.”
She was still in human relations, with a medical supply firm.
“How long’s a long time?” He stared at her then. Pinning her like a bug to a wall. He hoped.
She glanced away, and he really just wanted to go get the RV and get on the road. Except then he’d have to come back home. To an empty house. “I don’t know. A year maybe.”
A year. They’d gone to Florida just a few months ago. Had a honeymoon-like vacation. She’d said so herself.
“How often does he ‘come in’?”
“About once a week. He lives in Indiana but has several clients in the Dayton area.”
And how many other women did the bastard screw on his route?
“Is he married?”
“No.”
“You sure about that?”
Her softly spoken “Yes” convinced him of far more than he was asking, and he knew.
“You’ve been to his house.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve slept with him.”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Twice.”
Tim stood. “Get your things and get out.”
“I’ve already packed.”
His gaze immediately sought the top of his mother’s hutch—a piece he’d inherited when she’d passed away about five years after he and Denise had moved in together. Denise’s thimble collection wasn’t there.
He’d teased her about the damned thing enough times. Complained about it the time or two she’d coaxed him into using a dust cloth. He should be glad to see it gone.
She’d left the chair. But then, he’d purchased it.
He hadn’t noticed anything missing until now.
“Like I said, why are you still here?” The coldness in his voice was in direct contrast to the anger raging through him. Anger because he was scared to death.
She’d played him for a fool. He’d given her everything he had and . . .
“I’m here because I want you to know why I’m leaving,” she said, still sitting at his table. Like it was her table, too.
It wasn’t. Not anymore.
And that chair? The one she’d occupied every day—sitting at the table with his brothers and their wives and kids, taking her place as a member of his family—for twenty years, wasn’t hers anymore either.
“Because you’re an unfaithful hag.”
“Tim, please sit down.”
He recognized the obstinate tone in her voice. She wasn’t budging. And he wanted her gone. He sat. But he wouldn’t listen to a word she said. She was a lying witch.
“I love you.”
Try again.
“I’ve always loved you. But I need to be loved, too.”
“I loved you.” The words were defensive. Nothing more.
“I know you did.” The soft tone got to him. And he ordered it not to. She was after something. And what more was there to take? If she thought she was getting money out of him . . .
He wasn’t listening.
“Just not enough,” she said. “I don’t know what it is with you. You’re such a great guy. Kind and funny and smart and . . .”
Shut the hell up. That’s what he wanted to say to her.
“But you can’t seem to give your whole heart. All these years, I kept hoping that you’d get over your aversion to marriage, but . . .”
For a second there, he relaxed. That’s what this was about. Marriage. Again. They’d been through it a dozen times or more. And they got through it each time.