In the middle of the following week, my ex-husband Spencer called and asked me to have lunch with him.
I balked. Why the hell would I want to break bread with him? We didn’t stay in touch. We weren’t “friends.”
“How about we make it a quick drink instead?” I was proud of myself for setting boundaries. For years I had no idea how to do that, and I’d let Spencer walk all over me. But that girl was gone. I’d grown up since then.
“That’s fine. I just have some news that I’d like to talk with you about in person.”
“Okay.” Maybe he was moving away. That would be ideal. I hated going to parties and seeing Spencer there with some wet-behind-the-ears bimbo. For the most part we were civil to each other, but he was an unpleasant reminder of a very unhappy time in my life. He’d cheated on me with a revolving door of young paralegals and various assistants and I preferred to keep all that in my rearview mirror.
We met at a bar called Vic’s the next evening. I ordered a glass of red wine and he asked for an Old Fashioned.
I had to give Spencer credit, he looked good. His curly chestnut hair fell alluringly over his right brow, and I felt a tinge of reminiscence of when I used to think he was the sexiest man alive. My heart was too scarred to let those feelings rise to the surface, but they remained in the back of my consciousness, the way a phantom limb remains.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” he said, fidgeting with a plastic sword that had accompanied his drink.
“Sure,” I answered benevolently. “What’s up?”
“I guess there’s no easy way to say this.” He sighed deeply before continuing. “I’m getting married.”
The sip of wine I’d just taken went down the wrong way with a hard gulp and I began a coughing jag that lasted several minutes. I guess it was better than spitting it all over the front of my blouse, but it hurt.
“You okay?” Spencer’s hand was on my back.
I nodded vigorously, shaking away his touch.
When I finally returned to some semblance of normal, I croaked, “Sorry.”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry.”
God, spare me this bullshit. “What the hell are you sorry for?” I snapped.
“Well, I’m sorry to spring that on you like this. I just didn’t want you to hear it from someone else first.”
“Aw thanks. You’re such a prince.” Sarcasm dripped from my words like rancid honey.
He hung his head. “Look, Sophie, I know I was a shitty husband, but I’m trying to be better. I’m trying to be a decent person. I just thought you should know.”
I rolled my eyes. “Who’s the lucky girl?”
“You don’t know her.”
“That’s fine. What’s her name, Spencer?”
“Julie. Julie Hightower.”
“Oh, and how did you meet Julie Hightower?” I wished I could control the acid in my tone, but I was having no such luck. It was all I could do not to punch him in the face.
One of the ways I’d dealt with Spencer’s betrayal and our breakup was by telling myself that his man-whore ways would only ensure a lifetime of empty sexual conquests that would eventually lead to Spencer living alone, miserably regretting the fact that he’d thrown away the wonderful life he could have had if only he hadn’t been such a dick to me. This new piece of information flew in the face of that eventuality, and it knocked the wind out of me.
“She’s a nurse. We met when she was taking care of my grandmother.”
Florence Nightingale to boot.
“What? Is she pregnant?”
“No. Why would you ask that?”
“Seriously? It seemed like the most logical explanation. I figured as soon as we split, you’d have years of sowing your wild oats to do. Oh wait, I guess you don’t since you never had a problem doing that while we were married.”
“I deserve that.”
I didn’t like this “new” Spencer. It was like he was almost taking responsibility for himself. Now he was going to become a good guy? Great timing. Why the hell couldn’t he have decided to be a good guy while we’d been married? “What’s wrong with you?” I scoffed.
He grinned like a fool. “I’m in love.”
I wanted to vomit, but I managed to say, “Good for you, Spencer. Good for you.”
I could have spent the next hour lecturing him on infidelity, questioning him on how why he thought this time would be different, but I didn’t. He was Julie Hightower’s problem now.
Plus, I didn’t have the energy.
As soon as I finished my drink, I set the empty glass on the bar and slung my bag over my shoulder. “Good luck, Spencer. You’re going to need it,” I said and walked out the door, leaving him with the tab.
With everyone I knew getting engaged, I felt like the only single person in Ft. Worth. I knew that was ridiculous, but it was how I felt. As soon as I reached Quentin by phone, I started venting my frustrations.
“Not only is Shelby getting married, but now so is Spencer,” I whined.
“Why do you care what he does?” Quentin asked, the voice of reason.
“I don’t, really. It just feels like everyone else is getting their happy ending and I’m not.”
“We’re not happy?” he asked, and suddenly I felt foolish.
“It’s not that…”
“Well, what is it?”
“I don’t know. I just feel like things are hard, with us having to be long distance.”
“You’re right. That part sucks. I’m sorry. Hopefully we can rectify that at some point.”
Vague, but at least he said the right things.
“Hey, I have some news and a proposition.”
That sounded promising. “What’s that?”
“I just found out this morning that I’ve been nominated for an Academy Award.”
“Oh my God! Quentin! For Winged?”
“Yes.”
“That’s incredible! Congratulations! I’m so happy for you.”
“Thank you, pet. Now for the proposition. How would you like to go with me to Hollywood to the ceremony?”
“Oh my Gosh, I’d love that. You mean like go to the Academy Awards? The actual one like they have on TV with all the celebrities and the red carpet and everything?”
“The very one. The movie people are putting me up at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and I’d love nothing more than for you to join me. We can talk about it more this weekend when you come to Seattle.”
“Oh, Quentin, this is so exciting. I’m so proud of you!”
“Thanks, pet. It is a rather big honor.”
The minute I hung up with him, I dialed Shelby’s number to tell her.
What in the world was I going to wear?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A few days later, Quentin and I strolled between aisles of produce, flowers, and most of all fish. The Seattle Fish Market was the main attraction at the outdoor Pacific Northwestern version of a farmer’s market. Quentin had asked if I’d wanted to have breakfast at the market this brisk Saturday morning and I’d eagerly taken him up on the invitation.
When he took my hand, all my doubts about us flew away. His big, strong fingers curled around mine, warming my small hand and making me feel protected. Secure. That morning things between us seemed perfect.
Since we didn’t see each other frequently, the time we did have together was usually spent naked, making up for lost time. But it was nice, going out into the world like a regular couple. We could forget about the strain of the long distance between us and the kinky proclivities that were often the central focus of our relationship, and simply be together.
The smell of ground coffee beans wafted past as we walked along the rows of colorful fruits and vegetables. I squinted into the early morning light to admire the chiseled features of his profile, and I squeezed his hand.
When we got to the section where the fish market guys were throwing fish, I grew a bit nervous. I was afraid they’d pluck me out of the passers
by, and I’d get roped into touching a fish. I enjoyed a good fish on my table, but I didn’t relish the smell getting on me and having to wear it the whole rest of the day.
I needn’t have worried. Two of the fish guys were putting on a show. They yelled some fish jokes back and forth and threw a huge fish between each other.
“My goodness!” I whispered to Quentin. “How much do you think that thing weighs?”
“At least twenty pounds,” he answered. “Maybe thirty.”
“Heavens!” At that moment a little girl of about four came barreling into me, knocking herself down in the process. I bent over her. “Are you all right?”
A pair of troubled, big brown eyes peeked out from behind a fringe of dark bangs. “You’re not my mommy.”
“No. No, I’m not.” I offered her a hand and helped her to her feet. “Have you lost track of your mom?”
“Yes. She was right here. I was watching the men throw the fish, but now she’s not here.” The girl looked around frantically.
The men had stopped throwing the fish and were now focusing on the girl. “Is everything all right?” one of them asked.
“She’s missing her mom, but I’m sure she’ll be back in a minute.”
The fish guys nodded. “Let us know if you don’t find her, and we can make an announcement.” Then they started to engage some customers several feet away.
“Do you remember what your mommy was wearing?”
“A blue sweater.”
Quentin and I scanned the crowd, but we didn’t see a woman wearing a blue sweater.
“I should go look for her,” the child sniveled.
“Maybe, but if you stay here I think she may come back looking for you.”
The child’s bottom lip began to quiver.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Dorinda.”
“What a lovely name. Dorinda, where were you the last time you saw your mom? Was she watching the fish men, too?”
The child nodded, her light-brown curls bobbed around her head. She wore a pink headband that matched her pink coveralls. How fun it would be to dress a little girl like this one day.
Before I could ask her any more questions, a much older, darker version of Dorinda pushed through the crowd of people milling around, screaming, “There you are!”
The woman wore a black coat and blue sweater, and she scooped Dorinda into her arms and held her tight, peppering the child with kisses. “Where were you?” she asked, her tone morphing from relief to scolding.
“Mommy! I was right here. Watching the men throw the fish.”
“Didn’t you hear me say to come along?”
The little girl shook her head. “But I found this nice lady. You know how you always tell me if I get lost to find a mommy? I found this one and she was going to help me find you.”
The woman noticed Quentin and me for the first time. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “Thank you. Thank you for looking out for her. Sometimes she doesn’t listen very well.”
“It’s all right. Children are like that,” I said. Then as way of an explanation, “I’m a kindergarten teacher.”
The woman hugged Dorinda tight. “See, Dorinda? Next year you’ll have a teacher like this nice lady.” Then she turned her attention to me. “Thank you again. I don’t know what I’d do…” her voice trailed off as she thought of the unthinkable alternative to having found her daughter safe and sound.
I patted her arm. “It’s okay. She’s fine. It happens all the time. You two have a nice day. Bye, Dorinda.”
The little girl waved goodbye as her mother settled her onto her hip and went back to her shopping, her mouth forming the silent words “thank you” again before turning away and disappearing down the aisle.
In all the excitement, I’d almost forgotten about Quentin. It had been so chaotic for a moment there, and he’d remained quiet during the whole situation, letting me take care of things. It made sense. I was the kindergarten teacher, the one who dealt with young children and their frantic parents on a daily basis, but when I looked over at him he was frowning and I couldn’t determine why.
“Would you like to go to that cafe over there and grab a bite? I’m suddenly feeling a need for some sustenance.” A storm seemed to have come over his countenance, and I hoped it would be a quick-passing one.
“Sure. That sounds lovely,” I said, grabbing his hand again, hoping we could get back to that place we’d been before the incident with the lost child.
We found a table that was somewhat shielded from the wind, where we could still be outside and watch the people. We ordered coffee and a muffin for me, a bagel for him. Quentin seemed distracted, and after the waitress brought us our coffee and moved on to another table, I asked him about it. “Are you okay?”
He nodded and took a sip of his coffee. Then he ran a hand nervously through his dark mop of perfect hair, messing it up if only for a brief moment before it fell back into place perfectly.
“You don’t seem like it.” I placed a hand on his. “You sure everything’s all right?”
He shrugged. “I guess. It can happen so quickly.” His eyes looked off into the distance, as if he were seeing something I wasn’t.
“What can?”
“Losing a child.”
“That’s true. They are quick little boogers.” I laughed, but he didn’t laugh with me. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair and tasted my coffee. Damn! It burned my tongue.
“There’s something I probably should have told you.” I froze at his words, my mind zoomed round at over a thousand miles per hour, and dread gripped me. This couldn’t be a good thing.
“What is it?” I croaked.
But before he could say anything, the waitress brought the food to our table and set it down in front of us. Quentin thanked her politely, while I remained frozen in time, willing him to speak.
The waitress left, and finally he did.
“I had a child once,” he began.
“A child?”
“With my wife. We had a son. His name was Sam.” He dragged his eyes away from that far-off place and brought them to rest on mine. “He died.”
“You lost him,” I whispered. Then I reached for his hand, but he pulled it back and folded his hands in his lap.
Stung, I sat silent, waiting for him to continue.
“He was six. It was a boating accident. My fault.” He sniffed. “I’ll never forgive myself. But that’s what I was saying—it can all happen so fast. In the blink of an eye.”
“But Quentin, you mustn’t blame yourself,” I said, wanting to reach him, to comfort him.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I did it. I ran over him with the boat. Who else is there to blame?” he sneered.
Blood roared loud in my ears, and I was torn between sympathy and lashing out at him for being nasty. Sympathy won out. “Quentin, I’m so sorry. I had no idea…”
“Of course you didn’t.” His voice was clipped, and I knew he was about to dismiss the whole conversation. But I had more questions.
“Is that why your wife and you split up?”
“Probably. She couldn’t forgive me for killing our son, nor could I.”
That made sense. I knew that the divorce rate skyrocketed when a couple lost a child. I learned all about what that could do to a marriage by observing the parents of my student whose sister died of leukemia. Watching them deal with the tragedy had been awful. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to go through it myself. The sense of helplessness was overwhelming. I couldn’t even fathom how you would feel if you thought your child’s death was your fault. My heart bled for him. The man who seemed to have it all—looks, confidence that could fill a stadium, talent. But now I understood him.
Quentin had everything except peace.
“Oh darling, I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”
His steely exterior returned. “Yes, thank you, Sophie. It was tragic. The worst time in my life, but I’ve put it beh
ind me. There’s no use wallowing in it. One must move forward. I apologize for bringing it up. We can’t let the past spoil our day.” He took a deep breath, attempted a half smile, and I knew the subject was closed for now.
We ate the rest of our breakfast in silence, and I’d already made a plan to Google that boating accident when I got home. Just because he didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t mean I didn’t intend to find out more. I considered being angry that he hadn’t told me about his son before, but clearly he kept that information tucked deep down inside, and instead I felt honored that he’d been able to share it with me, however briefly. More would come in time. I’d learned that as difficult as it was to be patient with Quentin, he usually rewarded me for it.
The rest of the weekend our sessions had an emotional intensity they’d never had before. It felt like him telling me about his son opened something inside him, and I felt the connection between us strengthen. As for me, I began to view Quentin as a man with secrets and flaws—multidimensional—as opposed to the perfect, always in control Dom whom I was acquainted with.
That he’d shown me his vulnerable side touched my heart and intensified my feelings for him. Since he wouldn’t allow me to comfort him, didn’t want to cry in my arms, I gave him my love the only way I knew how—with my submission.
Each lash of the whip, each slap of his palm, each obedient act was my way of helping heal him.
I offered myself to him completely, and he swallowed up everything I gave him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As much as I liked my kinky, adventurous sex life, I had to admit I was starting to want more. Maybe I would talk with Quentin about it during out trip to California for the Academy Awards. If I was honest with myself, I’d like a little of what Shelby had with Bryan. A man who adored me to come home to, not just to see once or twice a month when his schedule permitted.
I’d always heard long-distance relationships were hell, but in the beginning I believed Quentin and I could make it work. We were “different.” But now I wasn’t so sure.
We’d been together for months, but he was still secretive, aloof, even distant. And while he gave lip service to the idea of us moving in together at some point, I was starting to believe that this arrangement was exactly what he wanted. Him residing in Washington, while I resided in Texas—it was the perfect arrangement for a man who wanted a lot of space.
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