An Illusion of Trust (Sequel to The Brevity of Roses)

by Lewis, Linda Cassidy

  “He’s not back there. It’s just Victor right now.” She anticipates my question. “The old fool is buying a motorcycle, down the coast.”

  I motion for her to hold that thought and go to the kitchen. A couple minutes later, I return with plates of cooked vegetables for both kids and macaroni and cheese for Adam.

  “Nuggets,” he says.

  “They’re on the way. Eat this first. I’ll get you something to drink.” I ring up a customer while I’m up and then return to the table with milk for Adam and Cokes for me and Jennie. “So, a motorcycle, huh? Like a big Harley, or what?”

  She shakes her head, then takes a long drink before she speaks. “One of those silly three-wheeler things—a trike. He thinks we should go flying up and down the coast highway on that contraption. Have adventures, he says.”

  “You should.”

  “Oh please. The man’s almost seventy.”

  “All the more reason. And the woman only acts like she’s seventy.”

  Jennie shakes her head, but there’s a glimmer in her eye. I try to picture Jalal at seventy. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. What if he leaves me? What if Diane takes him away from me? Jennie grabs my hand and I jump.

  “Are you all right?” she says. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

  I try to laugh, but it sounds more like a sharp sigh. “I’m fine. Look, Adam, there’s your nuggets.” I get the rest of our food from the pick-up window. Avoiding Jennie’s eyes, I grab my sandwich. After the third bite, I put it down. I can’t taste it anyway. I grab napkins from the dispenser and clean cheese sauce from Mia Grace’s hands and face before pulling out the wet wipes. I pour a little milk in her sippy cup and hand it to her. “She’s starting to wean herself, months earlier than Adam did.”

  “She’s independent and headstrong, like her mother. Or like her mother used to be.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I worry about you. You’ve changed since you moved away.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You’ve lost your fight.”

  “No. I haven’t.” Laughter from the teens’ table draws my attention, and then I notice the last of the other customers getting up to leave, so I head to the cash register. I say and do all the right things while I’m there, but my mind is on what Jennie said. She knows me better than anyone, except Jalal—maybe better than Jalal. Have I lost my fight? Would I be worried about Diane taking Jalal from me, if I hadn’t? No. If I were myself, I’d be on the warpath. I look back at Adam and Mia Grace. Damn it to hell. Jalal made me promises and sealed them with those two babies. No way is he going anywhere.

  Adam and Mia Grace have been asleep for an hour, and I’ve been sitting here in the living room pretending to watch TV. Instead, even though I’ve vowed to give up the search, my eyes keep straying to the bookshelves. My ears tune in to the murmurs from the porch as the teens say goodnight. When the girls walk in the door, I get up to go pour myself another glass of wine.

  “Is it all right if we go talk in your bedroom,” Kristen asks, “or did you want us to stay out here with you?”

  “Go talk in private. In fact, you two can sleep in the bedroom tonight. I’ll be fine on the couch.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” The girls get halfway down the hall and then stop, whispering. A few seconds later, they join me in the kitchen. “Are we allowed to take a snack in there?”

  I motion that the kitchen is theirs for the pillaging. I’m trying to decide if I want to say to hell with wine rules and fill my glass to the top, or fill it halfway and take the bottle with me, or finish the whole damned thing straight from the bottle. I’d fall asleep for sure, which is preferable to lying awake thinking about whether I’ve changed or Jalal has—or both of us have—and what are we going to do about it?

  “Renee?”

  I look up to find both girls staring at me.

  “Is something wrong?” Kristen asks. “You’re standing there frozen.”

  “I’m fine,” I say and then point the bottle at her. “Don’t think I—”

  “We each had one glass of wine, which Mom lets me drink at home with dinner. Sometimes.”

  Wow. I was only going to say I hadn’t forgotten we needed to have a talk, but now that she’s confessed, I have to deal with it. “Well, Kristen, I believe the operative word there is ‘home.’ Besides that, something tells me Brittany’s mom doesn’t have the same rule. So not only did you break the rules but you put your friend in an awkward position and influenced her to do the same. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Kristen hangs her head. “Peer pressure.”

  “Yes.”

  “I made a bad choice.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I really am sorry, Renee. And I’m sorry I did that to you, Brittany.”

  Brittany hugs Kristen, and then Kristen hugs me. I haven’t the slightest doubt she’s sincere, so I say, “I won’t tell your uncle, this time, but—”

  “I’ll tell Mom,” Kristen says.

  I give her a thumbs-up. They gather their snacks and head out, but Kristen pauses at the breakfast bar. “Speaking of wine,” she says, “should I bring the baby monitor out to the living room, or will you need me to listen for them?”

  Geez, I’m surrounded by telepaths. But I appreciate the reminder that good mothers don’t get drunk on their watch. I cork the bottle and set my glass in the sink. “I’ll get the monitor. Give me a few minutes in the bathroom to get ready for bed and then the room’s all yours.” Who am I fooling? I don’t want to knock myself out anyway. I have a hundred books to look through.

  I found three more photos last night before I gave up. I won’t look for more. I don’t even know why I kept out the ones I found. I should take them out of my purse and stick them back in random books. I will do that, as soon as I’m done cleaning up Mia Grace. What was I thinking?

  I’ve just finished changing Mia Grace’s diaper when she cries out, “Ba,” and tries to roll off the changing table. I follow her gaze to Jalal, entering the bedroom.

  “Hello, sweet baby.” Jalal picks her up and kisses her bare belly. She giggles and grabs two handfuls of his hair. “Ow. Ow. Let me go.” She giggles again but doesn’t let loose. This is their game, a variation on the one he played with Adam. He kisses her belly again and she drops her hands. “Let Mama dress you now.” He lays her back down and steps aside.

  “I didn’t expect you for an hour or so,” I tell him. “How was the conference?”

  “I talked to some interesting people.”

  I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. “That’s it?”

  “Oh. Everything went well. Aza enjoyed herself.” Mia Grace is dressed now, so he takes her from me. “Where is Adam?”

  “Kristen and Brittany took him for a walk. They should be back soon.”

  “All right. That gives me a little alone time with my two favorite girls.” He kisses me and then carries Mia Grace out of the room.

  Why so tight-lipped about the conference? He usually gives me a play-by-play when he comes home from one. He was on a poetry panel, co-taught a workshop, and gave a reading this time, and all he says is “Everything went well”? Oh no. Maybe everything didn’t go well, and he doesn’t want to talk about it. Damn. He was looking forward to this one.

  What’s wrong with me? I’ve spent the weekend imagining him doing everything but what he was really at the conference to do. I searched every book in this house for what? Evidence? Evidence of what? Invaded his privacy, is what I did. I have to put the photos back. I have to forget I ever saw them.

  Just as I walk in the living room, Jalal’s phone rings. He answers, listens for a minute, and then says, “Uh … yeah. Let me call you back later.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Business.” He lifts Mia Grace into the air and flies her around the room. He raises his voice above her squeal level and asks, “Has Jennie seen her walk?”

  “Yeah.” My mind is on the phone call. Busi
ness? Or some woman he met at the conference? Maybe that’s why he had so little to say about it; she distracted him too much to notice anything else. Please don’t let it be Diane because that would mean Aza’s betrayed me too. Jalal lies down on the floor with Mia Grace to let her climb all over him—her favorite pastime. “Invite Jennie and Eduardo for dinner tomorrow,” he says.

  “Here?”

  “Yes. What should weahgh!” Mia Grace, having dropped, knees first, into his crotch, laughs at his reaction. “Careful, sweet baby,” he says when he can speak again. “You’ll ruin Baba’s plans for Mama tonight.” She giggles. Her innocence mocks my suspicion. I have to stop letting my imagination stir up trouble where there is none. Lock the door on the past. Close the blinds on the future. Now is all we have. It’s all I need.

  Jalal reads Adam to sleep and then slips away to shower while I’m still nursing Mia Grace. She’s soon asleep, but I’m reluctant to end my cuddle time with her. She’s weaning herself so early. It’s silly for me to feel rejected, but I do. I’m afraid. What if she doesn’t love me? What if neither of them does? I don’t know the rules: when to be strict, when to give in. Will they hate me because I don’t want them to grow up as brats of privilege, spoiled by Jalal’s money? Adam stirs. He smiles in his sleep and mumbles, “Mama.” My tears spill over before the sound dies away. Present or absent, it seems love always makes me cry.

  When I leave the kids’ room, the girls are on their phones, so I just wave good night from the hallway and join Jalal. I close the door to our room and glance to make sure the baby monitor is turned on. “Don’t forget the girls are awake in the other room,” I tell him.

  “Why are you crying?” Jalal lays down his book and sits up straight, ready to deal with whatever the problem.

  “I’m not.”

  “You were.”

  I kneel on the edge of the bed so I can kiss him. “I love you all.” I start to pull away, but he slips a hand around the back of my head and pulls my mouth to his. His kisses are tender and fierce, hungry and satisfied, sweet and vulgar, always a contradiction, like Jalal himself. After a moment, I push him away. “I need a shower.”

  “No.”

  “I want one, then. Tell that thing to calm down.”

  He lifts the sheet and looks down. “Haste ye not, thou mighty lance.”

  “Smartass.” I smack him with my pillow and run for cover in the bathroom.

  For all Jalal’s good points, picking up his clothes is not one of them. Scattered on the floor are the clothes he changed out of when he first got home, plus the ones he took off before he showered. A strong scent of perfume hits me as I gather them. It’s coming from the shirt he wore home from the conference. I stuff everything in the hamper and take a deep breath, as much to clear the stench from my nose as to calm me down. This means nothing. Women are always hugging Jalal—young, old, even lesbian. He can’t help it. What matters is that he’s out there waiting for me.

  As I shower, I force myself not to think of anything but all the good things in my life. What woman wouldn’t want to be me?

  Jalal watches me walk toward the bed. “My very own Venus rising from the sea,” he says. “I am such a lucky man.” He throws back the sheet, and I lie down beside him.

  He lays a hand at my throat and tilts my chin up with his thumb. Just that touch, his skin against mine, awakens my need. I desire him. I want to devour him, to take him inside me and claim his soul. I want him to fill me and be fulfilled. I want to be him and he me. I want and I want and I want and I want for nothing.

  Afterward, Jalal collapses beside me. “Woman, you will surely kill me one of these times.” He reaches for my hand and brings it to his lips. “Have I told you how much I love you?”

  “Not for hours.”

  “Then I am woefully remiss.” He kisses my hand again. “Now bring me some wine.”

  I am weightless, sinking. “Go to sleep.”

  “I want to talk.”

  “If you want wine, go get it.”

  “What if the girls are still awake? I might embarrass them.”

  “Not if you put your pants on first.”

  “L. O. L.”

  I sigh, fully awake again, and get out of bed. “Which bottle?”

  “You choose.” I’m reaching for the door knob when he says, “Maybe a pinot noir.” I shoot him a look and open the door. “Renee?”

  “What?”

  “I love you.”

  “Yeah yeah.”

  Even before I open the door I can hear the TV. “That’s way too loud, Kristen,” I say as soon as I pass the kids’ room.

  “Are you sure?” she asks. Brittany hides her face behind a pillow. “I mean, we weren’t sure what was going on in there.”

  “Turn it down, smartass.” I give her a playful smack on the head and step into the kitchen. I open the wine and grab the glasses, holding them up to the girls as I walk back through the living room. “We’re just going to talk now.”

  Jalal is sitting up reading again. “What were you and the girls talking about,” he asks.

  “You heard us?”

  He nods.

  “Through the closed door?”

  It takes him a second, and then he grimaces. “Damn. Breakfast will be awkward.”

  He sets his book aside. I hand him the bottle and hold out the glasses. “So,” I say, “what’s our topic of conversation?”

  “I have an observation, actually.” With his eyes closed, he brings the glass to his nose, breathes in the bouquet, and then takes a sip and rolls it in his mouth. The man appreciates his wine.

  “An observation?”

  “Yes. Sex is better here.”

  “Let’s see,” I drink slowly to do the math, “in the almost eleven months since we moved to Coelho, we’ve spent maybe fifteen nights here. So, ninety-five percent of our sex life is lousy?”

  “That is not what I said. I meant that you are more relaxed here, so—”

  “Oh. I get it. It’s just me. I’m a lousy lover most of the time.”

  He shakes his head vigorously. “You are one of the best.”

  “Nice to know I rank as ‘one of the best’, considering the great number of women you’ve slept with.” Now he looks so alarmed it’s hard to keep a straight face.

  He gulps the rest of his wine and sets the glass on the bedside table. “If you had let me finish, I would have said it might not be truthful to say you are the best of all the women in the world because my sample is limited. Though I certainly cannot discount that you are, indeed, the queen among women.”

  I finish off my wine, mostly to keep from laughing. “You are so full of it. You sound like you’re running for office.”

  “I live only to serve you, sweet love.”

  I smack him. Then I kiss him. He kisses me back. Then his hands are at my waist, lifting, and I twist toward him, sliding my thigh over his. Wham! An image from one of the photos rises up and halts this game. I push away and sit back against the headboard. Why did I look for them? I want my old life forgotten. Gone. Dead. So why did I resurrect his?

  “Renee?” Jalal leans forward to see my face better. “What happened?”

  I get up and open the door, relieved that the living room is dark and quiet and the girls seem to be asleep. I tiptoe down the hall, slide my purse off the breakfast bar, and return to the bedroom. Jalal is still sitting in bed, but he’s pulled the sheet up to his waist. I pour myself another glass of wine before I hand the photos to him. “These were in your books,” I say.

  He shuffles through them, giving each a one-second view, and then lays the stack face down on the table beside him. His jaw works as he stares, seemingly at his feet, for another thirty seconds. Still silent, he gets out of bed and goes into the bathroom.

  Jalal is furious. I don’t know what to do except gulp an entire glass of wine like water. He’s the one who’s always urging me to discuss things, but I’m betting we won’t discuss this tonight. Breakfast will be awkward for mor
e than one reason. He comes out of the bathroom, opens a dresser drawer, and pulls out sweats and a tee. I suck in a breath, but it stops in my throat. Is he leaving? “Jalal?”

  He ignores me and rummages through the closet floor. Then he sits on his side of the bed to put on his running shoes. I breathe easier now. He’s just going to run it off. He stands up and walks toward the door. “You might as well go to sleep,” he says in a voice so cold I barely recognize it. “We are not talking about this tonight.”

  “I wasn’t snooping, Jalal. I just found the photos when I—”

  “Stop.” His glare pierces my heart. “We both know that is a lie. Maybe you found the first one accidentally, but you had to look through a hell of a lot of books to find the others. The question is why you did that.”

  I want to tell him I don’t know why. I’m sorry. Let’s forget it. But he’s already gone.

  Eleven

  We make it through breakfast, pretending everything is fine, and then Jalal gives the girls money to walk into town and shop. He plays with the kids while I straighten the rooms. Though the girls packed their backpacks before they left, as I make the rounds, I gather nail polish, earrings, and flip-flops they’ve left scattered around the house. Jalal feeds the kids lunch while I do laundry. He and I exchange less than fifty words in five hours, most of them concerning Adam or Mia Grace.

  He promised to meet the girls for lunch at Vincenza, so after a short walk with the kids we start their nap routine. I take Mia Grace to their room and he takes Adam to the bathroom. I’m sitting in the rocking chair, nursing her, when he carries Adam in and lays him on the bed. “Story,” Adam says.

  “Not today.”

  “Please.”

  Jalal relents and reaches for a book on the shelves between the bed and crib. He sits down on the edge of the bed and begins to read. Mia Grace pulls away from me and reaches toward Jalal. “Ba.”

  Jalal stands and takes her from me and reads the story to them both. When he’s through, he kisses Mia Grace and lays her in her crib. He sits back down beside Adam. “I have to drive Kristen and Brittany home now,” he tells him.