by Nesly Clerge
He didn’t change the locks as he’d threatened; they both knew it was an idle threat. That she knew this annoyed him even more. He wanted her to come home now so he could confront her, so he could call her a cheating bitch.
The latest nanny answered the in-house phone in her upstairs bedroom when he buzzed her.
“Keep the kids up there until morning,” he said.
He waited and planned what he was going to say to his wife. He drank more than he should have, especially when the grandfather clock in the foyer struck twelve then one then two.
At two-thirty, he made a pot of coffee but forgot to drink it.
At three fifteen, the garage door opened and Kayla’s Ferrari growled its way into the enclosure.
He was ready.
CHAPTER 68
KAYLA ENTERED THE house through the kitchen door. Starks was seated at the marble-topped dinette table.
“You shouldn’t have waited up,” she said. “I’m surprised you were able to stay awake, considering how empty that bottle is.”
“Who the fuck is McSean Dwest?”
“How should I know?”
She paused, waving her hand in front of her face. “I can smell the whiskey from here. You need to watch how much you drink. It’s making you delusional, and less than your usual charming self.”
“You’re a fucking tramp.”
“You’re drunk. I’m not going to waste time talking to you when you’re like this.”
Starks pulled a folder from where he’d hidden it on the chair seat next to him and slammed it on the tabletop. He turned the file to face her, opened the cover and pointed to the printed sheets. A vein in middle of his forehead throbbed blue against red.
“Lying bitch. These are your Twitter messages with him, along with a number of other men.” He rose and stood inches from her. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
She pushed him away. “Get out of my face.”
His arm swung back, his fist ready to make contact.
Kayla stood firm. “Go head,” she told him. “Let our children see what Daddy did to Mommy. Show our sons that it’s okay to beat women. Teach Kaitlin it’s okay for men to hit her.”
There was a mirror behind Starks. Kayla glanced at her reflection, checked her hair and lipstick.
Starks needed an outlet for his rage. He yanked the mirror in the gilded frame from the wall and threw it as far as he could. The mirror connected with the French doors. Wood splintered; glass flew in all directions.
One brief moment of silence was followed by doors slamming open from above and feet pounding across the landing, down the stairs, and finally to where Starks and Kayla stood.
Starks whirled around; saw the nanny shielding Kaitlin with her arms, saw Nathan fighting to control his tears, and Blake with his mouth pinched tight.
All eyes were on Starks. A keening grief rose in his chest.
Kayla slid the folder into a drawer of the china cabinet. She pulled her cell phone from her handbag, dialed then stepped outside to talk.
When she came back into the kitchen, Starks said, “I’m leaving. And I’m not paying for anything anymore. You’re on your own, slut.”
Kaitlin began to wail. The boys looked from their father to their mother, waiting for one of them to say or do something that would restore their sense of security.
It was Kayla who spoke first. “Your father isn’t feeling well. He has a fever.”
“Yeah,” Starks said, “and you fucking gave it to me.”
The officer glanced at Kayla, noting how the long robe she wore was wrapped extra tight around her and belted to stay in place. He saw how she clutched the thick fabric closed near her neck. She had on stockings, but no shoes, and kept shifting from one foot to the other.
“Mrs. Starks, maybe, especially since your husband’s been drinking… maybe there’s someplace you and the children can go tonight. Let things calm down. He’s still pretty upset. And drunk.”
“We don’t need to leave. Just… if you would, put him in bed upstairs. I don’t want to… I can’t manage him up the stairs. I think it’s better if he’s up there and we’re down here.”
“We can do that.”
“Turn left at the top of the stairs. It’s the room at the end of the hall.”
She glanced at the children and their nanny unmoving on the sofa in the family room. “If there’s anymore trouble, I’ll get the children away from here and call you.”
He flipped his notebook closed. “Okay, ma’am.”
The officer, with Kayla following him, went to the formal living room, where his partner had taken Starks who was passed out on the floor.
“Let’s get him tucked in for the night. His wife says it’ll be okay.”
“Yeah. He’s done for the night.
CHAPTER 69
STARKS FLUNG A hand up to cover his eyes from sunlight. Kayla, damn her, must have opened the drapes all the way. On purpose.
He needed liquid to thin the muddy feeling in his mouth, and something to make his head stop drumming.
Body revolting as he moved, he lurched to the east window and closed the drapes. Flashbacks from the previous night started up. Some were hazy, some were clear, especially the way his children had looked at him. A moan escaped his dry throat.
The digital clock next to his side of the bed read 10:21. That’s when he realized he’d slept on Kayla’s side of the bed; his side was untouched. Someone other than his wife must have put him in bed fully dressed, he noted, except for his shoes.
No sounds came from inside the house. Heart pounding, he raced to the first of his children’s bedrooms. Closets and drawers were still full. Cherished items were still in their places. It was the same for the other bedrooms. Then he remembered: the children would be in school at this time.
He leaned against the embossed wallpaper in the hallway, waiting for his breathing to slow. One sleeve of his shirt that still smelled of Scotch was used to wipe perspiration from his face. Steps imbued with frustration carried him to the master bathroom.
Starks downed two pills for his headache then stripped. In the shower he alternated steaming and frigid water. Shaved and dressed, there was another task he wanted to take care of before heading downstairs for desperately needed coffee. Instead of finding what he thought he would, he got a surprise. Anger surged; he made his way to the kitchen.
Kayla was at the table, coffee mug in hand as she read the newspaper. She didn’t look at him. “Coffee’s made. I’m sure you need some.”
The hot beverage was too strong, the way she liked it. He drank half a cup while leaning against the cabinet, watching her deliberately not look at him.
The spot on the wall where the mirror had been was a blank space framed by paint exposed to more life than the covered surface. He glanced left and saw that new French doors had been installed.
He downed his coffee and turned to go back to the counter to refill his cup, stepping on a small mirror shard missed by whoever had cleaned up the mess. The uncomfortable quiet was broken when his weight crushed the ragged piece into dust.
Eyes aimed downward he said, “Your cell phone’s no longer in service.”
“I cancelled it.”
He poured the coffee, took a sip. “I know you’re not going to go without a phone. I want the new number and your password.”
“I don’t think so.”
Kayla turned a page of the newspaper.
Starks slammed his cup down on the counter. “You give me the goddamned number and password or our marriage is over.”
Finally, she looked at him. “Whatever.”
“You’d rather end our marriage?”
“I’m not afraid of illusions.” She looked away. “You’re welcome to go.”
And he had.
Seven months he’d lived at his mother’s house, until his relatives persuaded him to return home, hammering the belief that family and pride were fruits of the same tree.
The reunion between
him and Kayla had not been an easy one. Only the children seemed comforted at having everyone under the same roof.
And for a while, he too had thought shared space was enough.
CHAPTER 70
STARKS HAD CANCELLED his plans for that first Saturday night after he’d moved back home. The children were put to bed after ten, bathed, happy, and exhausted from a full family day. Their nanny retired to her room after tucking them in.
In his favorite chair by the fireplace in the master bedroom, Starks slipped off his alligator loafers, leaned over to remove his socks, all the while planning the right thing to say to Kayla that would persuade her to let him enter her and enjoy what he was entitled to as her husband and provider—an experience she’d withheld from him since he’d returned. He missed the feel of her, the taste of her.
Earlier in the day, she’d been more relaxed than he’d seen her in a long time, with many moments where she laughed at the children’s pool play out back. At one point he brought his mouth close to her ear and whispered things he wanted to do to her. Her eyes stayed on the children, her smile was non-committal. But she didn’t said no.
The shower had stopped a quarter hour ago; she was taking extra time getting ready tonight. He imagined Kayla’s exit from the bathroom, her dressed in his favorite satin nightgown, her skin wafting the delicate citrus scent of the lotions she applied to every inch of her body each night. Her mouth taking him in. He thought about kissing the small, red heart-shaped mole, with its point directed to where he wanted his tongue to travel to. The thought made him hard.
He started to unbutton his shirt just as the bathroom door opened. Kayla came out dressed in second-skin jeans, a low V-cut cashmere sweater—no bra, and high-heeled boots. Slinking to her vanity table, she spritzed her neck with some of the expensive perfume he’d given her a few weeks ago. She glanced over her shoulder at him. One of her eyebrows went up at the rise in front of his slacks. She smiled then walked out of the room.
She’s teasing me, he thought, pleased with what the outcome was sure to be. It was how she liked to play it with him: Tease him then drive him wild. What she was going to get downstairs was a mystery, but knowing Kayla, it would add flavor to their experience.
Naked, he waited on the bed. Ten minutes later, he wondered what she was doing, what was taking so long. He wrapped his robe around him and realized that had to be the game: She was down there wondering what was taking him so long to figure it out. He was grateful the children and nanny were settled in for the night. He didn’t want any of them to see how the front of his robe protruded.
His anticipation surged as he checked the living room, family room, kitchen. He stood at the French doors, straining his eyes in the dark, certain she was near the pool waiting to be ravaged. She wasn’t there. Nor was she in the pool house. He checked the garage. Her Ferrari was there. His Bentley, with its quiet engine, was gone.
He wanted to believe she’d needed something special from the store but knew better.
Bitch.
How long did she think he’d tolerate such disrespect?
Starks linked two fingers around the neck of a bottle of Scotch, grabbed a glass with his other hand then went up to the master bedroom. A shot of whiskey was swallowed in one gulp before he stepped under the showerhead, where he relieved his pressing need as hot water pulsed down on him. Minutes later, his back propped against the headboard, he ordered a two-hour movie, poured glass after glass of whiskey until he fell asleep.
The garage door woke him when it hummed open at three thirty.
The uneven clomp of her boots grew louder as she made her way up to their room. Without looking at him, Kayla staggered to the bathroom and shut the door.
He waited for the lavatory water to turn on. Waited for a toilet to flush, or worse, another shower to be taken. None of these sounds came from the bathroom. Fifteen minutes of silence passed before he got up to find out what she was doing.
The door wasn’t locked. She’d lowered the toilet lid, sat, and fallen asleep. Her mouth hung open, spoiling the air with her breath.
Furious, disgusted, he left her there and slept in one of the guest bedrooms.
Seven o’clock Sunday morning, Starks went to the master bedroom. Kayla wasn’t there. He slid on jeans and a T-shirt and padded barefoot downstairs. The aroma of coffee reached him when he entered the family room. No one else was awake yet.
He poured a cup of coffee and sipped.
Kayla stood two feet away. Without looking at him, she said, “I’m making toast. Would you like some?”
“You have a fucking nerve.”
“Fine. Fix whatever you want yourself.”
“It’s not about toast. It’s about you leaving me when you knew what I wanted. It’s about you coming back in the middle of the night so drunk you fell asleep on the toilet. It’s about you disrespecting me in my own house. It’s about the example you are to our children.”
He grabbed the china plate Kayla had set aside for her toast and hurled it against the wall.
She crossed her arms in front of her and glared at him. “Like you’re such an example of right behavior.” Her voice softened. “What is it with you and destroying beautiful things?”
Doors above them opened. Footfalls on the stairway grew louder.
Her shoulders sagged as she looked down at the sharp-edged fragments on the floor. “One of these days, maybe you’ll start cleaning up the messes you make. Maybe you’ll stop making them.”
“Maybe you’ll stop giving me reasons.”
They heard their oldest, Blake, as he entered the family room ask of no one, “What is it this time?”
Starks kicked a piece of the plate, sending it across the room. “I’m done with this shit.” He avoided Blake’s eyes and the eyes of his other children as he passed them. “Just an accident. Wet hands and china don’t mix.” He forced a chuckle, rubbed his son’s head in passing, and cringed when the boy ducked from his touch.
His home office was downstairs. It was quiet in there. It was a place where he usually could get his thoughts straight. Slouched in his armed leather desk chair, he felt relieved he hadn’t hit Kayla. It had come close. The impulse was stronger every time she gave him reason to get angry with her. He’d raised his sons to never hit a female, just as he’d been told by his grandfather, unless it was done in indisputable self-defense.
God, but that woman made it difficult for him to abide by that rule.
It was time to face facts: The marriage was over.
He’d have to be the one to leave. No way would he uproot his children. And whatever their mother was, it was best they stay with her. The nanny would look after them when their mother wasn’t around, especially when she went out at night to degrade herself.
Kaitlin’s lower lip trembled. Tears welled in her brown eyes. In her small voice she asked, “Daddy, where are you going?”
Nathan held his sister’s hand, his eyes wide, disbelieving.
Blake scowled and followed his father’s movements as the packing continued. “He’s leaving Mommy. For good this time.”
Kaitlin pulled her hand away and ran to her father, wrapping her arms around his legs. “No, Daddy. Stay.”
Nathan ran to his room to suffer in silence, as he always did.
Blake gently pried his sister from their father, who stood rigid, eyes aimed upward.
“Come with me, Kaitie. I’m sure Daddy will tell us goodbye before he leaves. C’mon. I’ll let you play on my computer.”
Eyes and nose leaking, Kaitlin took her brother’s hand and let him lead her away. In the doorway, she turned.
Starks, straining to keep his expression impassive, watched her. Her small mouth formed a silent “Daddy.”
Until that moment, Starks had believed he knew what a broken heart felt like.
He’d been wrong.
CHAPTER 71
THE DOOR TO Starks’s hospital room opened and the usual physical therapist entered smiling.
“Good morning, Mr. Starks. Time for you to show me your stuff.”
Starks stepped onto the floor. “I’ve been practicing the exercises on my own.”
“You’ve done a good job. Came a long way since we started.”
During the next forty-five minutes, the therapist focused on every flex and extension of each of his patient’s limbs.
“Perfect score, Mr. Starks. You’ve reached maximal medical improvement.”
“Great. What does it mean?”
“You’re done with therapy.”
“What’s next?”
No longer smiling, the therapist said, “You’ll be released soon.”
“I see.” Starks held out his hand. “Thanks for everything, and for your encouragement.”
“I wish circumstances were different for you.”
“Circumstances can always be changed, one way or another.”
That afternoon, the nurse on duty came in to check his vital signs.
“How am I doing?” he asked her.
“You’re back in good working order. In fact,” she glanced at him, “you’re being released tomorrow.”
Starks slumped back. “It had to happen sometime. I appreciate all you and everyone here did for me. One thing: Would you do me a favor? It’s important.”
“If I can.”
“There’s a nurse in the trauma unit—Ana Ramirez. She was especially kind to me during those rough first weeks. Would you let her know I’m leaving? Ask her to take a few minutes to drop in to say goodbye? I want to thank her.”
“I can do that.”
“How do I get back… to Sands, I mean?”
“The prison van will pick you up. They said to have you ready around one o’clock.”
“Any chance I can have lunch before I leave?”
“Food’s that bad?”
“You have no idea.” He laughed. “Please ask Ana to come by before then, okay?”
“I’ll get a message to her. But I can’t guarantee anything.”
“My beliefs about what’s guaranteed in life have changed.”