Hitts & Mrs.

by Lori Bryant-Woolridge

  “Is it Kevin’s?”

  “Yes,” Amanda replied softly. “We only did it once, but…”

  “If you don’t use protection, once is all it takes to get pregnant and a lot worse. Does he know?”

  “Yes. I told him yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “And he doesn’t want it.”

  “So he’s willing to hang around long enough to make a baby, but not to father it?” Sharon asked, angrily anticipating the answer.

  Woefully, Amanda proceeded to relay Kevin’s thoughts on the subject. He had big plans for his future and none of them included her or a baby at this moment. His solution was for her to terminate the pregnancy, and when she told him that it was too late for that, he got angry and accused Amanda of trying to trick him into staying with her by getting pregnant.

  “Did you get pregnant on purpose?” Sharon probed gently.

  “No! I wouldn’t do that. That’s stupid.”

  “But you did have sex to try and keep him interested in you?”

  “Yes.” Amanda’s soft admission brought on a fresh onslaught of tears. “But that was stupid too. Catherine is going to kill me. What am I going to do?” Amanda stared down at her stomach and she wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her shirtsleeve. She lifted up her head and looked directly into Sharon’s eyes, searching for the love and advice she’d come to expect.

  “Sharon, tell me what I should do,” Amanda pleaded.

  Immediately a solution came to mind, and just as immediately, Sharon dismissed it. Tears—both of compassion and frustration—began to fall. Could she adopt Amanda’s baby? Her heart wanted to suggest the option, but how could she? What about the girl’s parents? They had to be told, and the decision over the fate of their grandbaby was ultimately up to them. But even if the Sarbains could be persuaded, Sharon was sure that John could not. His unyielding dislike of youngsters had kept them childless for all of these years. How could she ever convince him to adopt the offspring of a child he despised? He’d never go for the idea. He’d find a way to make her choose between him and the baby, just as he did before.

  You win again, John, she conceded.

  The wail that emanated from Sharon’s slight frame began in the deepest, most personal depths of her soul. Her mournful cry bounced off the study walls and echoed throughout each room of her expansive home. She felt both fiery hot and frosty cold as her stomach began to churn like a Cuisinart gone mad.

  How could I not have known that John was cheating on me? she lamented as the realization of her husband’s infidelity sucked the air from her chest. She stood staring at the papers in her hand until the tears welling up in her eyes spilled over, turning the treasonous words into a handwritten blur of feminine swirls. Her body began to shake as the sobs flowed uncontrollably. Gasping to catch her breath, Sharon released the handful of pear-scented stationery and watched the pages flutter to the floor in slow motion. Angrily she kicked aside John’s long-retired leather attaché and added her crumpled body to the pile of old clothes and personal belongings she’d been packing up to give away.

  Sharon wrapped herself in her arms in an attempt to ward off the cold, ugly truth: The man she had loved and adored for the over twenty-five years was in love with another woman. Like a metronome keeping time with her heartbeat, she began to rock back and forth, giving in to the agonizing anguish that consumed her.

  How could my husband be in love with another woman and I not notice? Didn’t we just celebrate our anniversary?

  The memories rang in her head like the bells that had sounded years ago outside the quaint church in Carmel, California, where she and John were married. The memory of that day pulled her to her feet and toward the display of five-by-seven portraits sitting on top of the credenza across the room. She picked through the chronological display of her life’s most treasured moments and selected the antique sterling silver frame, which represented, without a doubt, the happiest and most important day of her life.

  Sharon studied the photo through a fresh onslaught of tears. The two of them looked so undeniably right together standing in front of the chapel doors. John so tall and handsome in his navy-blue suit, striped tie, and white shirt, accessorized with only a single white rose in his lapel and a huge smile that threatened to outshine the sun. She too radiated happiness as she stood by his side, glowing angelically in a simple white A-line dress, holding a bouquet of pink and white roses. Never had she felt so complete, so beautiful, and so very much in love than on the day she’d become Mrs. John Carlson.

  How could she not have known that he was so unhappy being married to her?

  Sharon involuntarily jumped, shocked from her thoughts by the shrill ring of the phone. She walked over to the desk and glanced down to see the house line lit up. After the third ring the machine answered, announcing in John’s voice that they were unavailable. When Sharon heard her friend’s perpetually cheerful and soothing voice over the speaker, she decided to pick up.

  “Hi, Gwen,” she said, trying to put a bit of life back in her voice, but failing miserably.

  “I was about to hang up. You okay? You sound like you’ve been crying,” Gwen remarked, concern coloring her voice.

  For an instant Sharon considered divulging her heartbreaking discovery, but she was too embarrassed to share her devastation with anyone, particularly a woman who had the perfect marriage. She knew that Gwen would be loving and supportive, but this discovery was too new, too raw, and far too painful to share with even her closest friend.

  “I’m fine. Just a case of the dust sniffles. I’ve been cleaning out closets all morning. I’m knee-high in old junk and memories.”

  “I think it’s a bit more than that,” Gwen said. “I think that this move is really bothering you more than you’re willing to admit.”

  Grateful for any excuse to blame for her depressed mood, Sharon followed Gwen’s train of thought. “The reality of moving is harder to take than I thought.”

  “Sharon, you know how much I love John. He’s always been a good friend to me and a good husband to you, but honey, you’re nearly forty-five years old now. If you don’t want to move, you have every right to say so. Whatever you want, make him see your point of view. This is your life too.”

  “John is my life,” Sharon said, feeling a new batch of tears coming on. “He always has been and always will be.”

  “Sharon, tell him how you feel. You’ve done everything he’s always wanted you to do. Now it’s your turn. Let him make a sacrifice for you for a change.”

  Gwen’s word stung like a slap in the face. She was so right. Sharon had given up everything to give John the perfect life he craved, and all she expected in return was his love. And this was how he treated her? By cheating on her. In one powerful swoop, the pain and devastation she’d felt just minutes ago was replaced by an anger so palpable it demanded action.

  “Gwen, I have to go. I forgot that I promised to fax something to John.”

  “He’s still at the office? It’s after ten o’clock.”

  “He’s been working on a presentation for some new business venture since he got back from Belize. He’s staying at the company apartment all week.”

  Or so he says. Is that a lie too? Is he with her? Sharon wondered.

  “Okay, but after you send the fax, go take a hot bath and think about what I said. Be fair to yourself. Life is stressful enough, don’t take on any more than necessary.”

  Sharon hung up the phone and glanced around at the jumbled mess surrounding her. This mess had become a metaphor for her once-tidy life. Thanks to John, the man she’d entrusted with her love…her happiness, her life was in a shambles just like this room.

  First Amanda, now John. Was she sleepwalking through life, oblivious to the people around her? How could John have been with another woman and she not know? Was this the first time, or had he been a philandering womanizer their entire marriage?

  Angrily she took herself behind the desk and turned on
the computer. What she had to say couldn’t wait. If he was at the office as he said he would be, he’d get the fax now. If he wasn’t there, someone in the morning would find it. Let him suffer the embarrassment. She took her furor out on the keyboard and after several hours of composing and editing, she pushed the required buttons and, through the magic of Ma Bell, sent John a piece of her bewildered, hurt, and angry mind.

  Chapter 23

  The three men, shirtsleeves rolled to their elbows, heads bowed, stood huddled around the conference table. Amid the empty takeout containers, Styrofoam coffee cups, and cans of cola sat the focus of their attention—a chipboard model of a new boutique hotel in the heart of Dallas, Texas. This was to be the first project of the recently incorporated subsidiary, Carlson Properties. The new company was inspired by John’s work with Melanie on the Casa de Arte, and financed by investors he was preparing to meet in two days.

  “The entry stairway looks off,” John commented.

  “We had to move it in order to accommodate the concierge’s desk,” Austin explained. His comment was punctuated by the distant ring of the fax machine located in the far corner near John’s secretary’s desk. Austin glanced at his watch. It was 1:47 A.M.

  “At this hour, that’s got to be Giuseppe from Carrera with the quote for the Italian marble,” Trevor said. “I’ll run over and get it so we can finish plugging in the numbers for the reception area.”

  “I’ll get it,” John volunteered. “I need to pick up the blueprints from my desk for the office areas.”

  He held back a yawn as he walked. His exhaustion was tempered by the excitement he felt about his new endeavor. It was like the early days when his body seemed to run on little more than adrenaline and creative juice. As excited as he was about his idea, he’d be glad to be done with the initial details. The birthing of this new enterprise, combined with his travel back and forth to Belize, had consumed all of his time and energy, making it difficult to spend time with either Sharon or Melanie. He’d looked forward to getting things into place so he could return to his incredible life.

  While not a deeply religious man, John could not help but believe that God was truly good. He had been blessed with a wonderful wife, a sterling reputation, and a thriving career that had been revitalized thanks in great part to his beautiful friend and muse, Melanie. He was so grateful for the day Mel had walked into his office, leaving a sea of pearls in her wake. In many ways she was like a flashlight, shining light on the parts of him that he’d kept in the dark. His entire life had changed because of her. With her smile came the sunlight that had warmed his soul and made him truly believe in the wonder of love—both for self and others—for the very first time in his life. Even his relationship with his wife had changed because of her influence. His newfound willingness to share more honestly his feelings with Sharon had begun to add a new depth to their marriage.

  The fax machine beeped, signaling the end of the transmission. John picked up papers and began reading, expecting a multitude of numbers, not the stunning words that dropped him limply into the nearest chair.

  FACSIMILE COVER PAGE

  TO: John Remington Carlson FROM: Sharon Carlson

  TIME: 1:46 A.M. PAGES (including cover): 2

  John,

  Since you’re already accustomed to receiving personal and potentially embarrassing messages from your lover, I didn’t think you’d care if you got one from your wife. If you do, that’s too damn bad.

  Yes, I know about you and your friend Jax. I found several of her e-mails and love letters you saved in that old attaché case of yours. I guess if the Salvation Army wasn’t coming by tomorrow, I’d have never known that for twenty-four years I have been married to such a lying, cheating bastard.

  How could you do this to me? I gave up everything for you. I left college to move east so you could further your career. I understood the need to scrimp and save while you poured our money into your architectural firm. And when you became a big-time architect (and even when you weren’t) I understood the need for you to be away so much, traveling all over the world to build up your firm’s reputation. Did you ever know how lonely I was, John? Of course you didn’t, because I never let my needs get in the way of yours.

  Most of all, didn’t I understand when we learned that because of you we couldn’t have children? I even accepted your rationale that we were a perfect team as we were, just the two of us, and refused to saddle you with any guilt despite how cheated I felt.

  Throughout our marriage I’ve done everything you asked me to do. Why wasn’t that enough, John? Why wasn’t I enough?

  Call me crazy, but I thought that we’d actually become closer these past few months. But now I understand the source of the new kinder and gentler John Carlson. I now understand your recent benevolence towards the needy. Was it your guilt over living inside of two women that drove your new tenderness?

  Were those cuff links a gift from your mistress or something you picked up to keep her ever present in your mind? And I suppose she was the one who sparked your curiosity in antique shopping. Do I have “Vintagejewel” to thank for my Christmas gift?

  How could I have lived the last twenty-four years with you and not know that you had this incredible thirst for more—a thirst that I obviously could not quench? One that she obviously can. Is Jax the reason you want to move back to New York? How long ago did you stop loving me? Before or after you met her?

  So what do we do now? Call in the lawyers? I know divorce is inevitable because how could I possibly trust you with my heart again? So tell me, how do we pack away the accumulated memories and the history that is our marriage? We’re like one person—same house, same name—how do we begin to dismantle us? How, John? Goddamn it, tell me how.

  With each breath John took, panic seemed to rush in through his nostrils and race through his body, turning the dull ache in his head into a full-blown migraine. Why hadn’t he thrown out those letters, as Melanie had requested? Now, thanks to his stupidity, his marvelous life, the one he’d just been gratefully giving homage to God for, was about to explode. He could only hope that the fallout would not be too costly.

  He held his head in his hands and squeezed, hoping to stop the throbbing. Finding no relief, he took a deep breath and dialed his number. As he listened to it ring, he prayed that Sharon would pick up the phone with her usual sense of fair play and compassion. But judging by her angry fax, a huge miracle was needed to get him through this miserable situation. After several moments, the machine came on. Determined, John hung up and dialed again. Still no answer. He tried a third time, his disappointment and anger at being ignored growing. Reluctantly he left a message.

  “Sharon, it’s me. It’s two in the morning. I know you’re home, so please answer the phone. Thank God no one else picked up your fax. Why the hell would you do something like that? Sharon? Sharon? PLEASE, DAMN IT. PICK UP THE PHONE.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to yell, it’s just…`we need to talk. Sharon? Okay, fine, if you won’t talk, then at least listen to me. Look, whatever you’re imagining might have happened, it’s not what you think. I can explain everything and will, just as soon as I see you.

  “I will try to call again later and I’ll drive home first thing in the morning. We’ll get this all straightened out when I—” John heard the end beep and slammed the phone down in frustration.

  I know about you and your friend Jax. Sharon’s declaration haunted him, adding concern for Melanie to his emotional gumbo. What if Sharon tried to contact Mel? He had to warn her. John picked up the phone once again and dialed the unlisted phone number. “Shit,” he cursed after Mel’s answering machine picked up. For a second time in less than fifteen minutes, John left a reluctant message for a woman he loved.

  “It’s me. I know it’s late, and I’m sorry to have to tell you like this, but I have no other choice. Sharon found some of your letters and faxed me a rather desperate note here at the office.

  “I don’t want you to worr
y about this. We’ll all get through this situation somehow, though at this very moment, I haven’t a clue how. I’ll try and call you tomorrow if I can. I…” love you. The words died in his throat. Though the sentiment was entirely true, it seemed inappropriate to express at this delicate time. “I’ll talk to you soon. ’Bye.”

  After his unsatisfactory attempt to contact both Sharon and Melanie, John felt like a zombie. Fear, remorse, and uncertainty consumed his body, suffocating the brain cells he desperately needed right now in order to think straight.

  He forced himself to concentrate as he tried to place himself in Sharon’s position. He went over every line of Melanie’s letters, long ago committed to memory. Usually her sweet and supportive words brought him joy, but tonight he mentally analyzed their content like a private detective looking for clues. At face value he had to admit that there was enough circumstantial evidence to convict him in the court of adulterous affairs. But the whole truth was that when taken out of context, the letters told only part of the story.

  Am I wrong for loving another human being just because she is a woman and I’m a married man? John thought. He’d been forced to keep his friendship under wraps like some dirty secret, simply because the world believed that a penis and vagina could not coexist in a state of unconsummated friendship.

  Yes, they had kissed. And yes, he had indeed entertained lustful thoughts about her, but had always respected the boundaries between them. Thoughts of sex and actually having sex were two totally different things to John. Hell, he didn’t know a man alive—straight or gay—who never had sexy musings about someone other than his partner. For what other reason did the Halle Berrys, Pamela Andersons, and Lucy Lius of the world exist?

  But John had learned a long time ago that how you see life is how you choose to look at it. He understood that his perspective and his wife’s would be drastically different on this issue. To save his marriage he would either have to change her vision or be forced to acquiesce to her reality.

  He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Tylenol. He swallowed three extra-strength painkillers before once again cradling his head in his hands, willing his headache and this uncomfortable situation to miraculously disappear. Instead his mind began to replay scenes from his youth—tearful, hysterical scenes starring his mother and father, acting and reacting to accusations of infidelity and blatant disrespect. This is nothing like that, John told himself. I am not my father. I am nothing like that bastard.