by Jill Winters
Hmm... Dispassionate nonsequiturs followed by a discussion of the ogre who was controlling her life. Boy, this phone call just kept getting better and better.
"Oh, fine," was all she said, hoping that Kenneth would take the hint and move on to topics unrelated to their graduate program.
"Well, have you finished the latest segment of his book?" he continued. "Have you encountered any difficulties, or...?"
She crinkled her face in confusion, but kept her tone neutral. "Uh, no... why?"
"No reason. I was just making conversation."
Well, it needs work, buddy, she thought. Then she felt a pang of guilt. Kenneth meant well—he was just unpracticed. She had to keep reminding herself that that had originally been part of his allure. He had always sat so studiously in their Cold War class, with thin-rimmed glasses, taking notes diligently and appearing brilliant. She hadn't gotten to know him then, though; that was just when he'd caught her eye. They had occasion to break the ice only after they were both assigned to Professor Kimble.
In truth, she didn't know what Kimble had Kenneth working on, but knowing Kimble, it could be anything from preparing his lectures to taking some of his kitschy seventies suits to the dry cleaners. Who knew? And more to the point, who cared? But it was becoming clearer and clearer that she and Kenneth had little else in common to discuss.
"So is that book you're working on for him almost done, or...?"
Okay, this was just getting annoying. "Actually Kenneth..." she said lightly as she chucked a dusty Pearl Jam tape back in the box. "Do you mind if we don't talk about school? I just don't want to think about it right now." When he fell silent, she added, "I mean, just because we're on winter break and everything, you know?"
After a moment he said, "Certainly, I understand."
"Thanks."
"Well, I really should get going," he said. "I just called to say hello."
"Oh... okay. Hello." And good-bye. Story of my life, she thought, referring to Pete. And then: Who are you kidding? Kenneth is no Pete.
"Uh, yes, all right," Kenneth said, bordering on a stammer. "Well, good night."
"Bye-bye," Reese said, folding her phone closed, and tossing it over her shoulder. It didn't crash, so it had to have hit the hamper or the carpet—good enough.
As she carelessly hauled the junk back into its box, she heard the crunching and cracking of plastic and didn't much care. There was something nagging at her, besides her off-putting relationship with Kenneth, and besides—thanks to Kenneth's reminder—her ever-encroaching deadlines for Kimble. She knew it involved Brian, and she knew it was more than simply embarrassment over what had happened in the cafe that afternoon.
It was more biting than guilt even. It was something that conjured memories of that very special New Year's Eve—how they had clicked so well, how Brian had made her stomach drop. Today he'd made it drop again, but she supposed she hadn't fully processed it because she'd been busy making a complete fool of herself.
Now, though, she was thinking more clearly, and she had to admit that seeing Brian again had stirred a strange feeling in her... like maybe they had some unfinished business.
Right. Ridiculous. So much for thinking clearly. She barely knew the guy. Reese sighed, and surveyed her cluttered closet, no longer anxious to clean it. Like everything else, the idea now seemed like a diversion from other things.
But she knew she wasn't tired enough to sleep yet.
Five minutes later she found herself in the sun-room, on Ally's treadmill. Reese left all the lights off so no one would be able to see her from outside as she struggled to maintain a fifteen-minute mile. The more labored her breathing became, the more disgusted she felt. I've got to lose some fucking weight.
Fine, she'd just add that to her to-do list, which also included making a final decision about Kenneth. Should she hang on, or turn him loose once and for all? More to the point, if she turned him loose, would Mr. Stoic even care?
After a few moments, Reese gave up on her dream of the fifteen-minute mile, and reduced the treadmill setting to "remedial." Ah... much better. Now she could breathe while she walked. Oxygen was good; it helped her think.
She was probably too young to be so cynical about love. But was it her fault that her last serious boyfriend, Pete, had masqueraded as the One, only to announce out of the blue that he was moving to South America to teach underprivileged kids how to read? Sometimes she really couldn't get over Pete's nerve. Albeit, those were very shortsighted, selfish times, but still. Wasn't she a little entitled? Especially after the man she'd thought she'd marry had traded a life with her for a shack in Caracas.
When the treadmill flashed 1.5 miles across its display screen, Reese hit "cooldown." Good enough. As her legs slowed with the machine, a throbbing kind of relief flooded them, making the muscles feel heavy and full. She vaguely recognized the feeling, and knew enough to know it was a good thing.
Soon the walking belt had slowed to a dead crawl, then finally to a full stop. Reese remained standing, leaning her elbows on the display screen, and staring out the windows into the blackness of the night.
Her mind was still swirling with thoughts of Brian and Kenneth and Pete. Men, she thought futilely and unoriginally, as she stepped off the treadmill, left the sunroom, and climbed the stairs to bed.
* * *
If she kept listening to that song, she'd swear she'd cry. And since an emotional breakdown didn't scream competent financial analyst, crying wasn't an option at the moment.
So Angela reached over and pressed "stop" on her CD-ROM. She released a sigh that felt nothing like a release. Her chest only got tighter, and she felt even more bereft of hope—if that were possible.
Suddenly her intercom buzzed. "Yes, Cyn," she said, struggling to keep her voice neutral—and restraining herself from unloading all her sadness, unsolicited, on her assistant.
"Bryer's on line two."
"Oh—"
"Sorry, I was using line one."
"No problem. Um..." The thought of going over "the numbers" with Bryer right now made her physically ill. Or maybe it was the thirty-two-ounce black coffee she'd had for breakfast to keep her awake, because she'd been up all night, thinking, sulking, and—surprise, surprise—crying. "Could you tell him I went to a meeting?"
"Okay," Cyn said, "I'll tell him you'll call him this afternoon."
"Make it tomorrow. Actually, next week."
Cyn paused and said, "Okay. Is everything all right?"
"Yeah, fine," Angela lied, feeling fresh tears sting the backs of her eyes. No, she would not give in; she would not break down bawling to her assistant just because she was a friendly face, a pleasant person, and a fellow woman. No, she couldn't.
"Thanks, Cyn," she said quickly, before she could change her mind, and pressed "off."
She spun in her chair to face her monitor, and stared at it, loathing everything she saw. It was a good job—in a prestigious, money-making sort of way. But it also filled her with dread every morning.
She didn't know exactly when the dread had started. After she'd graduated from college she had been an enthusiastic, capitalistic hopeful, like every other finance major. And with every promotion she'd achieved over the years, she had become only more committed to her work—to numbers.
Oh, brother. She was thirty years old, her personal life had frozen to lifelessness, and at work, it was numbers. How pathetic. Hell, if she was already depressed, she might as well turn her music back on.
She hit "play," and as soon as Angela heard Torising, "You're right next to me, but I need an airplane," a tear rolled down her cheek, because it reminded her of the night before.
She and Drew had gotten home from dinner with the family and said about ten words to each other before they'd changed for bed. And then things really took a nosedive.
"Do you like this new lampshade?" Angela had asked, sliding under the comforter and into bed beside him. (A decadent king-size bed, the springs of which, she knew, wouldn'
t squeak all night. Talk about depressing.) "It was on sale... I just thought it would be cute."
"Yeah," he said, glancing at the lamp on the nightstand. "It's nice."
"Thanks, really? I just thought it would be a nice change. The yellow goes with the wallpaper well, I thought."
"Mmm-hmm," he mumbled, and switched on C-SPAN.
She kept smiling at him, beaming, really, as if this weren't a pathetic conversation, but he didn't seem to notice. A few moments passed before her smile evaporated, and her hand started itching to give him a good smack—an urge she'd gotten a lot lately. She was fairly certain she wouldn't act on it.
"So... did you like the dinner?" she asked. "Mom gave me the recipe. I could make it for us sometime."
"What? Oh, yeah, it was good," he said, still watching the TV. She looked up to see what was so damn enthralling. So news coverage of a soccer game is more interesting than me. Thanks, jerk. She plastered another smile on her face.
Trying to inch closer without being obvious, she shifted her shoulder and just barely brushed her knee against his side. In response, her sullen husband remained stationary and unaffected. This marriage was getting to be hell on her ego.
Sucking in a breath, she looked up at the ceiling, silently pleading, God, please make this man normal again, that is, if you're not too busy. Then she glanced back at Drew, and that was when she noticed him tugging at the collar of his T-shirt.
He tugged again. Oh, no. He looked hot, constricted. A mental and emotional flag went up. Could he be feeling strangled? Short of breath? Oh, God, was he in pain?
"Honey, do you feel okay?" she asked, suddenly concerned, and reaching for him.
He held up his hand to stop her, but she ignored it. "I'm fine," he said.
"Okay, it's just you look a little hot, or—"
"Angela, I'm just getting comfortable. Can we not call in the National Guard on that one?" Then he settled back in on his pillows, and turned the volume up on the television.
Frustrated, Angela sighed, and slid out of bed.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"I forgot to take out my contacts," she replied, not even looking back at him. She went into the bathroom and flipped on the switch. The room filled with bright white light that always made her look pale and cellulite-y. Well, it didn't exactly make her look that way, but it never created a flattering pretense she could live with, so that was just as bad.
She reached for her contact solution, and came across Drew's medication. She usually reminded him, but tonight she hadn't because she didn't want him to get annoyed with her. Now she was rethinking that concept. Could she really just take a chance that he'd forget? No, she loved him too much to take that chance—even if men were the most ungrateful creatures on the planet when it came to things like love.
Angela emerged from the bathroom to find her husband still watching C-SPAN in silence. "Honey..." she said gently. "It's time." She had her hand out, open-palmed, with his pill ready and waiting, and a paper cup filled with water.
She came closer in spite of his sigh. "Here," she said. "Do you want some more water? I can fill another cup—"
He shook his head, and took the pill and cup. "Don't worry about it; this is fine."
"Are you sure, honey? It's no trouble...." She motioned toward the bathroom.
"I don't need more," he said curtly. Then he drank the contents of the minuscule paper cup, set it down on the nightstand, and hopped out of bed.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
He ignored the question, and headed toward the bathroom. He must have thought the sound of the door closing on her was answer enough.
She just watched him walk around the bed, past it, past her, while her insides twisted with anguish, and her blood boiled with unspent emotion. Zoom and now he's gone.
Pretty soon the only sound left in the room had been the deep voice of a C-SPAN anchor, broadcasting some thoroughly depressing news.
She sighed now, thinking about it, ignored the ringing of her fax machine, and sank her face into her hands. She'd first met Drew at a cocktail party. He'd been thirty-five then, and striking to her, with his rumpled handsomeness and reserved charm. It hadn't taken long for her to realize that he was her soul mate—despite their ten-year age difference, and despite the fact that he was divorced, which used to be synonymous with defective as far as Joanna was concerned.
They had gotten married on her twenty-seventh birthday, and since then, had had three fabulous years together. Until six months ago, when Drew had had a sudden heart attack, and everything had changed. No one could believe it; he was forty and not in bad shape. Dr. Stone had explained that Drew's heart attack really had to do with a genetic precondition, and now that he was aware of it, he could control it with medication. He'd even told Angela not to worry.
Hah! As if that were an option.
She always tried to help Drew however she could—or couldn't, if most of the time was any indication. He seemed to hate her hovering. In fact, he'd been moping around depressed and diminished for the past six months, and all her help seemed only to make it worse.
Honestly? It was damn frustrating! The man resisted every effort she made to help him no matter how small. Yet every time she felt on the verge of giving him that smack, she remembered waiting in the ICU, clutching at her stomach, at some imaginary ulcer, and shaking too much to hold the coffee Reese kept bringing her. The memory was still so viscerally painful, it never failed to renew her sense of protection. Whether that annoying, pigheaded jerk liked it or not.
Of course, she wished she could talk about it with her sisters, but it was just too hard. She couldn't help feeling that she'd be violating the sacred bond she shared with Drew if she blabbed his personal problems to other people. Okay, so her sisters weren't just people. And Angela had already told Reese a million personal things about Drew, not to mention a few sexual things. But then again, those hadn't been problems.
And speaking of sex... Angela couldn't help noticing (daily) that she and Drew hadn't been intimate for almost three months. Since he was the one who was so emotionally distant, she hoped he would initiate something. She needed some reassurance, after all. But no, apparently it was not going to work that way.
Sure, Drew gave her an obligatory quick kiss hello and good-bye every day, but that was pretty much it. Angela never brought it up—all part of the futile effort to keep things light. Hmm... That begged the question: If she was keeping things light, why did she have an aching heaviness in her chest, and a sagging in her heart?
She clicked her mouse on the solitaire icon. She had about ten portfolios to look over today, but she really didn't give a damn. Nothing was going to keep her from moping. And playing solitaire would be the perfect sealing touch.
Several minutes and two lost games later, she broke. Forcefully pushing back from her desk, she bounced up out of her seat. I'm not gonna take this anymore, she thought, fairly sure she meant it, but uncertain what "it" really meant. All she did know was that she needed a change—a major change. She needed to fix her life, with or without her husband's help.
Although that wasn't totally realistic, because she needed her husband back more than anything. But that seemed like a lot to figure out at the moment, so instead she picked up the phone and dialed. After three rings, Reese picked up her cell. "Hello?"
"Hey, what's up?"
"Hi!"
"What are you doing? Just hanging out at home?"
"No, I was power walking. Or my unpowerful version of it," Reese said brightly.
Only then did Angela register the sounds of traffic in the distance, and a horn honking. "Where are you?"
"Just a couple blocks from home."
"Oh. Wanna go out for lunch?"
"Yeah, sure. When?"
Angela looked at her watch. "I'll leave now; I'll pick you up in fifteen minutes. Afterward, maybe we can go to the movies, or something."
"Oh, okay. But wait, don't you have to get back to w
ork?"
Angela held the phone between her ear and her shoulder, while she took a pair of Nikes out of her bottom desk drawer. Shucking off her heels, she said, "I'm blowing it off."
"What? Okay, if this is Ally, you're doing Angela's voice really well."
"Be quiet," Angela said, grinning. "So, fifteen minutes?" she asked, already feeling a little better.
"Sure, okay," Reese said. "This isn't like you."
"My thoughts exactly," Angela said and turned off her computer.
Chapter 8
Reese snapped her phone closed, and started climbing the tall flight of steps up to the front door. Her latest epiphany, which had come to her in a dream: If she felt better about herself, she might have the confidence to fix the other problems in her life. (Well, she never said it was groundbreaking.)
She paused at the top step and inhaled deeply, feeling much healthier just by being outside in the crisp, clean air. Goldwood had always exuded a special aura—a perfect blend of modern suburbia and rustic northeast. The houses were contemporary, but the trees were thick, and the air was often sweet with the aroma of wood-burning stoves. That was how it had always been. Reese usually forgot how reassuring it was until she came back.
Just as she fit her house key in the lock, she heard a withery voice call out. She turned and saw their tiny, white-haired next-door neighbor. Reese waved. "Hi, Mrs. Rosenburrow. How are you today?"
"Oh, I'm so excited for your sister's wedding!" Mrs. Rosenburrow called from her porch. Both of her fragile hands were clutching at the doily collar of her cardigan, keeping it closed around her neck. "Your mother tells me that you're going to keep me company there!"
Reese kept her smile frozen in place. "Yeah, definitely," she said, though that was the first time she'd heard about it.
"Your mother said you'll introduce me to some new people! Ever since Harvey passed, I've been wanting to branch out!"
"Oh, mmm-hmm."
"I wouldn't mind meeting a man! Your mother said you'll find me one!"
Reese was beginning to feel dumb having this conversation outside and at shouting level. Also, she couldn't help being irritated, yet again, by her mother's promises. Where was Reese supposed to find an eligible eighty-year-old for Mrs. Rosenburrow?