"Stephen..."
He cut her off. "Not after a year. Not after fifty years. Not even the day I die."
She drew in a breath, drawing his words deep inside her. Her heart tattooed in her chest. They were the words of her fantasies. She wanted them to be true so badly she felt tears rise once more.
"Have you ever been married, Stephen?"
"No. That doesn't change how I feel about you."
"Everything dies, Stephen. Desire and passion can't live forever. Feelings change as you change, as you grow older. I've been married almost two decades, Stephen, and I..."
"Stop saying my fucking name like that." After the outburst, he faced the window, his jaw clenching.
"I'm trying to get you to see."
"You're the one who doesn't see. For some people, desire dies. But not for everyone." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Leave him. Be with me. I'll show you it's true."
What if it wasn't? What if five years from now he was the one turning the volume up on the TV? She couldn't stand that. If she'd thought she was dying now, that would kill her. She'd jump off the Golden Gate Bridge. At least now, she didn't have a dream to watch die. She had security and friendship and ... she closed her eyes. She had something she'd been living with a long time. She'd proven, as much as it hurt sometimes, that she could live without a man's passion.
Stephen was the unknown. He offered, but he couldn't guarantee.
"I can't," she whispered.
He laughed, a harsh sound, rolled his head on his neck, then straightened and looked at her. "So you're going to drive off to the Sex Club when you need to get laid. Or better yet, fuck yourself all alone in your bed while you fantasize."
Her nose tingled, her eyes pricked, and she bit her lip to stop the trembling.
He was at her side in the time it took to blink away the tears, but he didn't touch her. "I'm sorry. That was shitty. You don't deserve that."
"I'm not going back there. It was a mistake to go in the first place." She'd made her bed, she had to lie in it. The club had given her everything; yet it had taken everything, too.
She crossed to her purse. She didn't even remember flinging it against the wall like that, spilling the contents. His footsteps swished across the carpet, air currents parted for him, swirling his aftershave as he knelt beside her to help.
She'd smelled him downstairs when she'd first arrived, but had written off the scent as some weird olfactory memory. She would always carry his aroma with her, late at night when she was about to fall asleep, in a department store near the men's cologne, or on the freeway when her mind drifted.
"Thanks." She rose.
"You're welcome." He put his hands in his pockets once more.
"I'd better go."
"Take care." His eyes roamed her face.
Some invisible tie kept her rooted. For what? "Bye."
She'd made it to the door when he said her name.
One hand on the jamb. "Yes?"
"Don't throw out my email address. You might need it someday."
* * * *
Stephen watched her drive out of his life. She was wrong. He loved her now, he would love her fifty years from now. And he would never stop wanting her.
He'd had it in his mind to show her, to touch her, to love her. Debbie wouldn't have believed him. She'd let her husband's disinterest beat her down. Stephen realized now there was nothing he could do to make her believe.
After his first few dealings with her, he'd only wanted to help her value her talent, find her self-worth. He'd perverted that pure desire the moment he decided to help her solve the rest of her problems. The same moment he'd found himself falling in love with her. In truth, his actions had stopped being about her and became more about what he wanted. He'd doomed himself with that.
He wouldn't tease himself with the fantasy that days, weeks, or even months from now, he'd receive an email from her. He would keep sending her clients. That was good for them both. And if he stood for long moments in the light shining through a window her hands had made, then that was his penance for having screwed up with her so badly.
He would hope that she worked things out with her husband. That she found her true self. That she learned to value her beauty, her talent, and her passion.
And he would go on loving her until he died.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Life returned to normal. Minus her daily emails to Stephen. Though she wasn't sure what normal was anymore. Stephen had changed her. In some indefinable way she couldn't quite get her arms around.
At work, she didn't take the blame so easily. Instead of keeping her mouth shut in meetings, she gave her opinions, threw her ideas on the table. The more she expressed herself, the easier it got. Even her boss started coming to her to see what she thought of things.
When she looked at her stained glass, she didn't need to be told she'd done a good job. She could see results. More importantly, she could feel the beauty in what she'd created. Though she couldn't have explained that to a soul, she could feel adrenaline in her veins and a strange sort of giddiness. She no longer worked endlessly on a piece. She simply knew when it was done, when it didn't need any more tweaking of the solder lines.
Stephen's voice in her head said, "That's perfect."
Late at night, alone in the bedroom, wanting to touch herself but never quite being able to, the TV blared and anger replaced the pain that had torn her apart. Why couldn't her husband love her? She deserved his desire. She'd never stopped wanting him. So how could he do that to her? Why couldn't he try? That's all she wanted.
Her husband had stolen even her ability to masturbate, even that miniscule relief.
Or had she lost that to Stephen, knowing that nothing could replace his touch, especially not her own?
After the anger died, her thoughts always remained on Stephen. How he made her feel that she was his total focus. Of all the things he'd done for her, all the ways he'd touched her, the one she'd kept playing over and over in her mind was the night he'd danced with her. Of course, she'd told him that in a weak moment, never realizing how important he'd make it. He'd catered to her fantasy, given her what she needed. How many other things had she revealed without knowing it? With all those emails she'd written, then deleted, how much of her heart and soul had still slipped through?
Maybe he did know her better than she'd ever thought.
Not that it mattered. She was a wife. She couldn't walk away from everything she had ... for a fantasy. She just could not do that. Despite the ache around her heart when she thought of him, or when her eye automatically looked for his email in her inbox, she knew she couldn't have him.
But she could still dream.
* * * *
Stacy didn't ask her about Stephen. Debbie didn't tell her anything. Not until her third nail visit. Stephen had neither called nor emailed. But he'd given her several referrals. Each time she met with a client, she felt closer to him, as if he were some angel sitting on her shoulder. Her knight in shining armor. That sense made her feel strong enough to finally ask Stacy the questions that burned in her.
"Tell me about Stephen. About the club."
Stacy didn't look at her, but her hands stilled, the file held aloft for several heartbeats. "What do you mean?"
"You introduced me to him. Then you had him come to the club for Virginia's bachelorette party. He said you knew he'd be there, but I think you asked him to come." She didn't ask if Stacy had slept with him. Stephen told her they hadn't. She believed him. In fact, she believed everything he'd said, even that he thought he'd never tire of her. Still, she had to understand Stacy's role in the whole debacle. "I want to know why."
Stacy set her file down carefully. The hand holding Debbie's trembled. "We've been friends for almost fifteen years, and I care about you. I knew something was wrong."
Somehow, despite their years of friendship, Debbie felt betrayed. "Did you two talk it over and decide what I needed?"
"No. He wouldn't talk about you. I kept aski
ng, but he would never tell me anything. His refusal made me think he cared. I told him we were going to the club. I'm not even sure any more if he said he'd be there or I asked him. But I wanted him to meet you that way. In that place."
"I don't understand. It was so..." She searched for the right word. "Extreme. You already had him helping me find clients. Why'd you have to do the rest?"
Stacy's grip tightened on her fingers, and her gaze locked with Debbie's. "Because you needed someone to want you. I knew he did, even if he never said so outright. The club was the only place you would let anything happen between the two of you."
"I've never told you anything about ... my marriage. Why did you think...?" She trailed off, remembering that Stephen had read between the lines of her emails. Maybe Stacy had read between her words.
"Everything. You stopped having your hair highlighted. I think you would have stopped doing your nails, too, if you'd been going to someone other than me. You didn't seem to care about anything anymore. Not even the stained glass, until I put you in touch with Stephen. You used to wear pretty things, you used to like dressing sexy. You used to talk about your husband all the time. But you stopped. I thought he was having an affair." She picked up the file again, buffing the same nails she'd already finished. "And I thought you should have one of your own."
It was nice to be cared about. But... "I don't like being manipulated, Stacy. I don't like you deciding what was wrong, then picking out the solution for me."
"But I've always been that way."
"Yeah, I guess you have." Debbie gazed at the rows of brightly colored polish on the shelf over Stacy's shoulder. "I didn't have an affair with Stephen." What they'd done was so much more and so much less. "And we don't talk anymore. It's better that way."
For the first time she admitted to herself how much she truly missed him, his banter, his praise, his touch. How much he occupied her thoughts. Not just her nighttime fantasies, but her waking hours, every day, at lunch, during her commute, or soaking in the bathtub with a glass of wine. Any time her mind had free time to wander, it wandered straight to Stephen.
But she was still married, and she still had her priorities.
Stacy pulled on her fingers. "I'm not sorry I did it. I know you think I should be, but you wouldn't talk to me about what was going on, and I had to do something." She tipped her head, moisture suddenly collecting along the lower rim of her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me? We're friends. I could have helped, even if all I did was listen."
Stacy would never have just listened.
"I know what you're thinking, Debbie." She sniffed and smiled slightly. "You're right, I would have bullied you and told you what to do."
Debbie took her friend's hand in both of hers and squeezed. "He isn't having an affair. He just doesn't want to make love with me anymore. It was all too embarrassing and humiliating and painful to talk about. Even with you."
"Has it gotten any better? Because you seem different now."
Yeah. She'd even had her hair highlighted again. "No. It hasn't changed. But I have to decide what to do about it. On my own."
"Get him Viagra."
You had to want to take Viagra. Her husband wasn't even interested. Funnily enough, the thought didn't hurt as much as it used to.
Stacy covered her mouth and gasped. "Oops, sorry, I wasn't supposed to tell you what to do."
"It's all right. You know, if you don't start filing, you're going to be late for your next client."
"You're my last. I thought maybe we could go out for dinner. We don't have to talk about ... stuff. We don't even have to talk about Stephen. Even though I'm dying to know all. I haven't talked to him in weeks." She gasped again. "Not that he'd tell me anything. He never told me anything, I swear."
The sniffling Stacy was gone, replaced once more by the lively, optimistic and out-there woman.
Debbie was glad. "You know, I love you. You might stick your nose where it doesn't belong and be manipulative as hell when you want something, but your heart's always in the right place." She met her friend's penetrating gaze. "But I don't want to talk about this again. So don't ask, okay?"
Stacy widened her eyes and nodded solemnly. "I swear I won't."
"Then I'd love to have dinner."
But one of these days, sooner rather than later, she was going to have to figure out how to fix her marriage.
If it could be fixed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Stephen had given her number to the Blaylocks. They were expecting their first child in two months and were remodeling to accommodate the new addition. He'd mentioned her carousel horse for the Thomases, and they loved the idea.
She made an appointment with the wife for Tuesday night.
Stephen had sent her four new clients in the six weeks since she'd last seen him. She'd thought about sending a thank you email. Or maybe a card. Even flowers. She understood them for the excuses they were. She wanted contact. She couldn't have it. Maybe she should have told Stacy to thank him for her, but that was another form of contact.
Somehow she knew Stephen would understand. She'd been so angry, so hurt; almost feeling violated in some weird way. Those emotions had died away. She was left now with the knowledge that he was a kind, caring, and passionate man. She hoped someday he would find what he was looking for.
She ignored the tightness in her chest the thought gave her.
Helen Blaylock was a bubbly, mid-fortyish woman, and very pregnant. Debbie tried not to glance from the lines on her face to the girth of her belly. Her first child at forty-five, or thereabouts. Amazing that it could happen in the first place, amazing that someone would want to make that big a difference in their life at this stage. Children changed everything.
Mrs. Blaylock clasped Debbie's hand in both of hers as she pulled her into the front entry. "I'm so glad to meet you. Stephen said you'd come up with the perfect thing for the baby's room." Debbie's heart lurched at the mention of his name, with the knowledge that he still touted her talent. Mrs. Blaylock went on, oblivious to the effect of her words. "He gave me the address, and I drove by that house with the carousel horse. It looked fantastic up there in the window. Do you want a cup of coffee? Or maybe you want to see the baby's room first, then we can talk."
Debbie shifted the pattern books from one arm to the other. "I'd love a cup, Mrs. Blaylock, but let's see the room, then we can go through the patterns over coffee. I can modify anything in here to meet your needs. Or, if you've got a picture you really like, I can make a pattern out of that."
Leading her into the kitchen, the woman patted the table. "Call me Helen, and you can leave those here then. I already started the coffee."
The machine perked in the corner, filling the room with a rich, tantalizing scent. Debbie's stomach rumbled--she hadn't had dinner yet--but luckily Helen didn't hear. Instead, she fluttered, with her hands, her entire body, as odd as that seemed when one was seven or eight months pregnant, almost prancing as she took Debbie upstairs. Where did she get all the energy?
"Stephen told me you were very talented, and I've got a picture in mind, but let me show you the room."
As they reached the second floor landing, Debbie could now see the evidence of the remodel. Plastic sheeting covered the doorways and the hall carpeting. Pulling the plastic aside at the second door, she beckoned Debbie inside. Saw horses and tools ringed the room, and more plastic protected the hardwood.
"This was a guest room. We're redoing the bathroom, which only had a shower, since the baby will need a tub eventually. In the bedroom, we've added a changing area, and we're pushing the front wall out because I want a bay window with a window seat. That's where I thought two of your pieces would look perfect, on either side of the bay. Can you picture it? Stephen promised he'd have everything done before the baby comes. I should have had him start sooner, but we weren't sure, you know, because anything can go wrong. I didn't want to have the room all done, and then well, you know, something happened. Wouldn't that be an
awful reminder? But the baby's perfect, and Stephen said he and his guys could work night and day. Actually, he lets them go, but he often stays late, but he never does any of the pounding work or the dusty stuff when I'm here. He's so considerate. He would have been here, but he said he had another appointment."
Helen finally took a breath and looked at Debbie. "My husband says I talk a lot when I'm nervous. I'm sorry."
Debbie's head rang with "Stephen this" and "Stephen that." She smiled despite the butterflies swooping in her stomach. "There's no reason to be nervous, Helen. We'll work fine together, I'm sure."
"It's not that. I get nervous around creative people. I mean, I'm so..." she drooped her body and arms for emphasis, "uncreative." Then she patted her stomach. "Except for this little guy."
Debbie watched the light, loving caress. She'd long since stopped feeling flip-flops when she saw pregnant women or newborn babies. She was secure with her decision. But there was something about Helen Blaylock's hand on her belly that tugged at Debbie's heart.
"You're probably wondering why I'm doing this. I mean, gosh, when he's in high school, I'll look like his grandmother."
"You must have wanted children very much."
"Yeah, actually, I did. But you know, you're so busy with the career and everything. Then all of a sudden I was forty." She raised her eyebrows in mock alarm. "I kept thinking about how big a change it would be, you know, we were so settled and everything. But then I kept thinking about what it would be like to be old and have no one to pass anything on to and never to have had children running around your house and messing everything up. I went back and forth." She waved her hands in imitation, then rolled her eyes. "And all that fertility stuff. But I decided that if you really, really want something, then you have to do whatever it takes."
A big fist squeezed Debbie's heart until she thought the organ might burst.
Helen laughed. "Luckily my husband agreed."
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