Losing weight had not been her intention in Kumasi, but she’d had no access to Goldfish crackers there. She’d eaten the meals served at the compound—lots of fresh vegetables, pork and chicken, beans and rice and luscious fruits. Between meals, she’d been too busy to snack. There were always children to take care of, always hearts and lungs to listen to, broken fingers to splint, cuts to disinfect and bandage, diseases to treat. Always arms extended by tearful, wide-eyed children who feared needles but understood that the momentary sting of the injection would keep them healthy.
“Tell me about Africa,” Curt said.
She studied the man seated across the round table from her. Half his face glowed golden where the firelight struck it; the other half was lost in shadow. She didn’t need perfect light to see him, however. She knew every line, every crease, the faint scar above his left eyebrow from when he’d been popped with a bat during a long-ago Little League game, the silver hair that had recently begun to thread through his neatly trimmed sideburns. She knew the slightly crooked tooth that four years of orthodontia had failed to realign and the dimple that dented his right cheek. She knew his eyes, concentric rings of green and gray and amber outlined in black.
She could visualize all his features in the uneven light from the fireplace, but she couldn’t discern what lay behind them. What was he after? Did he really want to hear about her experience so verse as, or was he obliquely questioning her about something else?
“You’ve never asked me to talk about it,” she said warily.
“I’m asking now.” His tone was low and blunt, almost a challenge.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to share those six months with him. Africa was hers, not theirs.
Yet his gaze seemed demanding, almost accusing. What would he do if she refused to discuss her work at the clinic with him? Or if she discussed it and didn’t tell him what he really wanted to know? Would he divorce her? She swallowed a bitter laugh.
She was spared from figuring out what to say by the arrival of the waiter with the fruit-and-cheese platter and their drinks. His appearance gave her a moment to regroup, to decide just what parts of her experience in Kumasi, if any, Curt was entitled to hear about. She shifted her attention to the platter, heaped with grapes, wedges of Gouda and Brie, Cortland apples and pale, round crackers. The waiter left two saucers and fruit knives, their coffee and a sugar bowl and pitcher of cream. Ellie plucked a sprig of grapes and set them on her plate.
“Well,” she said wryly. “We didn’t have Goldfish crackers there.”
Something flickered in Curt’s eyes. Irritation, perhaps.
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
“What it was like. What you did while you were there. What the people were like. The people you worked with.”
She twisted a grape from its stem and popped it in to her mouth. The tart skin contrasted with the sweet, juicy pulp. She let the flavors play on her tongue and prayed for them to keep her calm.
As soon as he mentioned the people she worked with, she understood what he was asking. And damn it, she didn’t want to answer. Today was her fiftieth birthday, she was on the verge of dissolving her marriage and she just didn’t feel like opening up her soul and letting him stomp all over it.
“I sent you e-mails,” she reminded him, keeping her tone noncommittal. “I wrote you about the clinic and the patients and the weather. And the food.”
“Right.” The word crackled like static electricity, dry and stinging. He cut a small slab of cheese, laid it on a cracker and devoured it in two bites. Ellie knew he would rather have crushed the cracker to powder in his fist. Anger simmered in his eyes.
Good. Let him stew. He was the one who’d shattered their marriage. He was the one who’d broken his vows. He was the one who’d moved away from Hope Street. If he wanted to be resentful, let him resent himself.
She sipped her coffee, then munched on another grape and wondered whether she’d be able to return to their très romantic room with him once their snack was gone. Just minutes ago they’d been stretched out side by side on the bed. They’d held hands. They’d gazed at the photo of their infant son on the TV screen and shared the pain of his death. For a few poignant moments, Ellie could have convinced herself she still loved Curt and their marriage bond was too strong to be severed.
Now…Now it didn’t matter what she felt.
“You went to Africa wearing your wedding band,” Curt finally said. “You came home not wearing it.”
She turned to stare at the fire. Lively yellow flames licked the air, tiny tongues of aromatic heat. All these months, he hadn’t said a word about her missing ring. Now that they were actually planning to divorce, he had finally acknowledged her naked ring finger.
“Yes,” she said, turning back to him. “I had to wear latex gloves a lot of the time, and the rings weren’t comfortable. The edges of the diamonds on the eternity ring would tear the plastic. So I stopped wearing the rings.”
“And you didn’t start wearing them again when you came home.”
“What was the point? We were just as far apart when I got home as when I left. It seemed pretty clear nothing had changed.”
“Things changed,” he argued quietly. “You changed.”
True. She’d come home believing that even though she’d lost her own son, she had saved the lives of a few other children. She’d understood that she was worthy, that she was competent, that she was a healer, that she could sometimes, in some circumstances, make things better. She’d discovered that if she kept moving forward and stayed focused on helping others, she might not slip back into the black hole that had been her life from the moment Peter had died.
She’d come home understanding that healing herself wasn’t the same thing as healing her marriage. The first thought that had entered her mind when she spotted Curt and the girls waiting for her by the baggage claim at Logan Airport was, When I needed him most, he was with another woman. That hadn’t changed.
So she hadn’t put the wedding band back on.
She sighed. “I don’t want to talk about my rings.”
“Why not? We’re reliving your life, Ellie. For a long time, those rings were a part of your identity. Why can’t we talk about it?”
Because he had no right to ask. Because it was no longer his business.
Annoyed, she pushed away from the table and stood. If she opened her mouth, she’d say something awful, something spiteful, something to remind him of the role he’d played in destroying their marriage. So she kept her lips pressed together and stalked toward the door.
By the time she’d reached the hall, Curt had caught up to her. He clamped his hand on her shoulder, turned her around and pressed her against the wall. She was vaguely aware of its butter-yellow shade, the brass sconce just inches from her ear—and then he leaned in and kissed her.
It was an angry kiss, hard and possessive and forcing; a hostile claim, almost an assault. Yet the instant his tongue touched hers he grew gentle, his hand easing from her shoulder and his breath escaping in a quiet moan. He cupped her cheeks with his palms and she felt the tremor in his fingers—and a matching tremor inside herself. His kiss was suddenly so sweet, so yearning she wanted to weep.
This was the man she’d loved. The man she’d wed. The man who, twenty-seven years ago, had promised her hope.
The warmth of his mouth on hers melted her. It had been so long since he’d kissed her, so long since she’d felt anything but enraged or numb or hateful. So long since she’d looked at Curt and seen the man she’d counted on to prop her up—but who had instead walked away and let her fall.
He wasn’t letting her fall now. In fact, he was literally holding her up. She was certain that if he let go of her, she would slide down the wall until she was nothing but a pool of seething desire on the faded rug beneath her feet.
But he didn’t let go—and neither did she. She lifted her hands to his chest and felt the fierce drumming of his heart. Her lips pressed his,
moved with his. When he ran the tip of his tongue over her teeth, she sighed. Tooth enamel didn’t have nerve endings, did it? Yet she felt the stroke of his tongue in her throat, her chest, the cradle of her hips.
She wasn’t sure how long they stood in the hall beside the doorway to the keeping room, just kissing, kissing, clinging to each other and kissing. Eventually, Curt relented, easing his mouth from hers, tracing his fingertips down her cheeks until they met at the edge of her chin. She opened her eyes before he did, and she watched as his gaze came into focus on her. In the bright hallway light she had no difficulty reading his emotions in his face: Sorrow. Lust. And, God help her, hope.
He bowed his head and brushed his mouth against her brow. “Let’s go upstairs,” he murmured.
Wait. They were getting a divorce. He’d betrayed her. Their love had died along with their son.
She shook her head, partly to clear it and partly to reject his invitation. No way was she ready to waltz back upstairs to their très romantic room to finish what he seemed to think they’d started. Just because Curt could ignite her with a kiss—he’d always been able to, damn him—didn’t mean she should let that blaze consume her.
Not trusting her voice, she turned and walked back into the keeping room, where their fruit-and-cheese platter awaited them. She sat, took a sip of her coffee—which had grown tepid—and waited, wondering if he would follow her or leave her alone.
Alone was something she ought to get used to, she thought, gazing at the creamy wedges of cheese and the apples polished to such a high sheen that their red skin mirrored the flickering flames in the fireplace.
Never kissing Curt again was something she ought to get used to, too.
HE STOOD JUST BEYOND THE doorway for a long minute, trying to compose himself.
Hell. He’d been so furious with her—why couldn’t she just tell him what she’d done in Africa? It wasn’t as if he’d hate her for having a fling. He deserved as much. He’d strayed. Let her stray. Then they’d be even. Then, maybe, they could move past this anger.
But no, she had to play games with him. No more rings, no more marriage—yet she couldn’t just tell him, “Yes, I slept with someone else.” Or even, “Yes, I fell in love with someone else.”
He was a big boy. He could handle the truth. What he couldn’t handle was not knowing.
No matter how bad things were between Ellie and him, they’d always been honest with each other. When he’d had his bout of neediness or horniness or just plain insanity with Moira, he’d told Ellie. He’d done it, he’d regretted it and he’d confessed. For the sake of honesty, which had always been the essence of their marriage, he’d kept nothing from her.
She refused to show him that same courtesy. Perhaps this was her way of punishing him. Deny him the truth. Keep him guessing. Leave him never knowing some vital thing about the woman he’d married.
She wanted a divorce? He’d give her a divorce. She wanted financial support? Fine—he earned a lot more as a partner in his law firm than she did as a public-school nurse, so alimony wasn’t out of the question. She wanted the house? They could work it out. She couldn’t have his BMW, but everything else was negotiable.
First, though, she had to tell him the truth. Until their divorce was signed and sealed, he was still her husband and he had a right to know. And she wasn’t going to get her damn divorce until she told him.
He drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders and marched back into the keeping room. When he saw her seated at the table, flickers of gold firelight illuminating her pensive expression and a feast of fruit and cheese arrayed before her, he experienced a sharp tug in his gut—and lower. The hell with the truth. The hell with the divorce. He wanted her.
Just like the first time he’d seen her in college. She’d been linked to some other guy then—and, God help him, she might be linked to some other guy now. But that didn’t change the wanting.
His desire was stronger now than it was then, because now he knew what having her was like. Just minutes ago, he’d had his mouth fused to hers. He’d been drinking from her like a parched nomad who’d just stumbled upon an oasis after two and a half years in the desert. She’d tasted like grapes and coffee and Ellie. Like home. Like love.
She’d wanted him, too, for as long as he’d been kissing her. He shouldn’t have stopped. He should have kept his lips locked on hers and carried her up the stairs to their room. He shouldn’t have given her a chance to think.
Too late. She sat at their intimate little table, a wedge of apple pinched between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, one leg crossed over the other and the flowing black skirt of her dress primly covering her knees.
He shrugged off his disappointment. Now he knew what he wanted—his wife in his arms, in his bed. He had a mission, and he’d figure out how to achieve it. Her purse was upstairs. She’d have to return to the room for that, and for the DVD. He had the room key, so she wouldn’t be able to get into the room without him. Once he had her inside…
He’d make love to her. The hell with her birthday, the movie, their divorce plans. He’d love her, love every inch of her, bring her every kind of pleasure he could think of. And then she’d tell him the truth. She’d never be enable to hide anything from him in bed.
He lowered himself onto the chair across from her and offered a conciliatory smile. “All right,” he said. “Forget about your rings. Tell me something else about Africa. Something besides the weather and the food.”
She eyed him warily, then took a delicate bite of the apple wedge in her hand. “Can you be more specific?”
“Tell me about your patients,” he asked.
“I worked mostly with children,” she said.
“You work with children at home,” here minded her. “How were these children different from the ones you deal with at the school?”
“They didn’t have iPods,” she said, then chuckled sadly. “Sometimes they didn’t have shoes.”
“Tell me,” Curt said, and realized that he really did want to hear about this—maybe even as much as he wanted to hear why she’d chosen to remove her rings.
SEVEN
Eight months ago
“I THOUGHT WE’D BE SEEING all our patients at the clinic,” Ellie said.
“Most of them, yes,” Adrian assured her, helping her climb into the passenger seat of the clinic’s open Jeep before he slid in behind the wheel. “Sometimes we make house calls. The families in the outlying villages don’t always have transportation into town. And it can be helpful to observe the children in their natural environment. Housing, family dynamics—all of that plays into their health. So off we go to visit them in their own homes. Atu and Rose can manage the clinic for a few hours without me hovering over them.”
Ellie glanced over her left shoulder at the back of the Jeep. There was a large black satchel on the floor behind Adrian’s seat. A doctor’s bag. She hadn’t seen one since she was a little girl, in the days when doctors in the United States still made house calls. She remembered when she and her brothers had shared a wretched case of the measles, and Dr. Feldman had come to the house rather than insisting they travel to his office on an Arctic-cold January day when they were all spiking fevers. Ellie had been enthralled by Dr. Feldman’s bag, the way its top flaps hinged back to reveal its magical contents: stethoscope, otoscope, tongue depressors, diagnostic hammer and sample vials of drugs. She’d seen the same items in his office, but in his bag they seemed more mysterious somehow, more potent. That might have been the moment she thought she should become a doctor. If she did, she could have a bag like Dr. Feldman’s.
That Adrian Wesker owned such a bag intrigued her. Did it signify that Ghana was forty years behind the United States when it came to medical treatment, or simply that Ghana hadn’t jettisoned the practices that had once made doctors seem so special, at least to a nine-year-old girl with a fever and a blotchy red rash?
“How many patients will we be visiting?” she asked as he steered acro
ss the dirt lot adjacent to the clinic building and out onto the street.
“At least two. More if time allows. Remember, we won’t just be seeing patients, Ellie. We’ll be checking out their homes and families. We’ll be scrutinizing their contexts.”
The wind blasted them in their roofless vehicle and blew Adrian’s long, wavy hair back from his face. Sunglasses hid his eyes, and she slid her own sunglasses up the bridge of her nose as the morning sun glared through the windshield. The Jeep had to be at least a few decades old. It lacked seat belts, let alone air bags. Adrian wasn’t the most cautious driver she’d ever ridden with, either. She gripped the window frame and held on tight as he careered around turns and zigzagged past cars, bicycles, motor scooters and pedestrians milling through the neighborhood’s busy roads. More than a few of the people clogging the sidewalks waved and shouted a greeting at him. Dr. Wesker was clearly a popular figure in town.
“My fans,” he muttered with mock humility when a couple of dimple-faced children shouted, “Hey, Dr. Wesker! Ya, Doc!” at him, their voices distorted by the wind as he cruised past them.
“Amazing how they recognize you, even with those sunglasses on,” she teased.
He shot her a sly grin. “Celebrity is such a bloody burden, isn’t it? Stick around, Ellie. You’ll have your own fan club soon, too.”
She actually liked that idea. Not that she wanted fans idolizing her, but she’d be thrilled if, after she’d spent six months in Ghana, the children she’d treated would feel she was truly a part of their community, and would remember her fondly once she was gone.
The village shrank behind them, and they found themselves on a roughly paved road that cut through farmland. “That’s cacao,” Adrian told her, gesturing toward the rows of dark green shrubs spreading back from the side of the road. “Chocolate beans.”
Hope Street: Hope StreetThe Marriage Bed Page 8