by Talley, Liz
Andrew snorted. “Is that what you call them these days?”
“I’m serious. We haven’t slept together or anything. We haven’t even gone on a date. We’re friends.” She swung into her neighborhood, giving a wave to a woman in a jogging bra and running shorts who probably didn’t realize what she looked like from the back side, but, hey, you do you, girlfriend. Girl power.
“That’s cool. Who is he?”
“Hot cop.”
Her son laughed. “Hot Cop? That’s what you call him?”
“No, that’s what he is.”
“You are dating a cop?”
“He likes to be called a police officer or a law enforcement officer, but yeah.” She smiled when she thought of Joseph with his tight pants and panty-dropping smile. There were nice benefits to a guy in uniform . . . one with handcuffs and the knowledge of where people hid weapons and drugs on their body.
“That’s so not your type. I’m surprised.” Andrew gave her a smile. He didn’t like her to be mad at him. He was a good boy that way.
“Well, I’ve been married three times to my type, and I’m going to say that maybe ‘not my type’ would be a good thing.” She smiled as she pulled into the driveway, and the man himself was sitting there like she’d summoned him. But he was in his patrol car, which meant he was still on duty.
Dang it.
“Is this him?”
“Yeah, I’ll introduce you. Please remember that we’re just friends. For now.”
Andrew laughed. “Yeah, but I saw how you smiled when we pulled into the drive. I bet friends won’t last for long.”
Tennyson pushed the garage-door opener. “It won’t if he’s lucky.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A week later . . .
The image of Kit and Charlotte sitting together on the patio sucker punched Melanie when she entered the hotel’s outdoor restaurant and bar. Charlotte sat close to Kit, a fruity drink in front of her, shoulders bare and freshly tanned by the Florida sun. Kit perched on the stool, relaxed, his linen trousers adorably rumpled, dark glasses covering his pretty eyes, looking every inch the confident, sexy older man he was. The glittering green waters of the gulf coast framed them, making them look like a couple in a travel brochure. Come relax and reconnect with your love.
Except they weren’t lovers.
Or maybe they were.
Melanie wasn’t so sure anymore. Kit had seemed pleased his wife had come with him to Destin, but once they’d arrived, he’d disappeared into the wave of friends he’d cultivated over the years, Charlotte at his side looking very much sure she belonged there with him. Melanie had been left to see the bellhop up to the room and frantically text Kit to see where he was.
Answer: in the bar with a group of developers.
And, yeah, Charlotte had been right beside him, sipping a white wine and telling amusing anecdotes about the armadillos causing problems on the property they were clearing.
When Melanie had joined them, everyone had been friendly and said hello before going back to their builder lingo and past stories of funny things Bob or Edna had done back when the conference was in Vegas or Reno. Melanie had sipped her complimentary wine and tried to look interested in the conversation. But she was an outsider now, not knowing anyone but a handful of people, not understanding new building codes or materials. Eventually, she’d wandered over to the wives’ table and made a few new friends who were also bored by their husbands talking shop and more interested in the hot pool boy who someone had flirted with earlier.
Melanie had never felt so lonely.
And that feeling was back as she wound her way through the busy dining room toward the outside deck where her husband sat with Charlotte.
After the therapy session a few days before, she’d been determined to reconnect with her husband and repair the widening divide between them.
“Why don’t you trust me anymore, Mel?” Kit had asked at their last appointment. He’d set his hands on his knees and looked at Melanie as if he couldn’t understand any of her fears. To Kit, things were cut and dried. He didn’t wade into levels of emotion. He either did, or he didn’t. Black or white. Hot or cold.
“I do trust you, Kit. I don’t trust Charlotte,” Melanie said, her voice sounding accusing to her own ears.
The therapist’s office was sterile, the white walls punctuated with bright, modern art. Melanie supposed it looked like a therapist’s office should—a blank palette to splash one’s emotion upon. Or maybe the woman liked the balance of the ambitious art against nothingness.
Dr. Adele Marler tucked her severely cut dark bob behind both ears and leaned forward. “And why don’t you trust Charlotte, Melanie? Be specific and honest so that Kit can understand your feelings.”
Honesty. Ugh. Did people really want honesty? Not always. Take Melanie when she tried on the sale swimsuits at Dillard’s a few days ago. Her daughter had been a little too honest about the cellulite on the back of her thighs. It made her not want to go to Destin. It made her not want to fight for her marriage. It made her want to pull on a muumuu and hide from the world.
Which was crazy because she was happy. Or had been until Tennyson moved back to Shreveport, her daughter announced she was marrying Andrew, and she had to tell her daughter about her past. Not the whole truth. Thankfully, Tennyson had seemed to understand that their children didn’t need to know about Albert Brevard and the big secret thing.
And really, did Melanie even hate Tennyson anymore?
She wasn’t sure.
“Melanie,” the therapist said, using her soothing “I understand all the feelings” voice.
“Sorry. Because Charlotte flirts with Kit constantly. In front of me.” Was that honest enough?
“Come on, Mel. That’s just how Char is. She’s a friendly person.” Kit sounded defensive, which was not being open and compassionate—more buzzwords for the therapist.
Dr. Marler turned to Kit. “How do you tell the difference between ‘friendly’ and ‘flirting’?”
Yeah. Answer that, Einstein.
“Guys just know. Charlotte is my business partner, and we spend a lot of time together. That requires a sort of intimacy, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to have sex with her.” Kit leaned back and crossed his arms a bit petulantly.
“At our last appointment you admitted that you liked when Charlotte gives you attention. You also said you often notice how attractive she is, and that you’ve had thoughts about what it might be like to be in a sexual relationship with her.”
“Duh, I’m a guy,” he said. Like that explained everything.
“And what does that mean specifically?” Dr. Marler asked. The therapist looked so sincere and interested. Well, hell, Melanie was interested, too. What did that mean?
Kit leaned forward. “It’s simple biology. Guys notice physical appearance. That shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone who has a rudimentary knowledge of science. But just because a guy notices a woman’s assets doesn’t mean he’s going to put his hands all over them. As for liking attention, well, show me someone who doesn’t like someone noticing his sense of humor or how he looks. Everyone likes attention. If I’m honest, Charlotte makes me feel good about myself. She looks up to me, like I can do stuff.”
“And Melanie doesn’t?” Dr. Marler asked.
Kit turned to look at her. “Mel, you know I love you. I mean, you and I have been through a lot, but you’re hard to . . .” He sighed.
“To love?” she finished for him, her heart feeling like it was breaking into a bajillion pieces. Was that what had always been wrong with her? She was hard to love?
“No,” Kit said, reaching over and patting her knee. “You’re easy to love. But you’re hard to feel competent around. You don’t need me, and you don’t seem to have time for me. It makes me feel . . . useless. And, yeah, Charlotte makes me feel brilliant, funny, and still attractive. She comments on my shirts, my stories, and my Twitter feed. She’s interested in me as a person.”
Melanie opened her mouth and then closed it. She wanted to say that she was interested in him, too, but she knew she hadn’t been interested in him in a while. Not really. Oh, she loved him. Still enjoyed conversations with him upon occasion. They shared a bed, the shampoo, and two children, but sometimes he felt more like a roommate than her husband. And the worst thing was she wasn’t dissatisfied with the way things were. “I’m sorry if I make you feel that way.”
“I’m not asking for an apology, and I know you don’t mean to ignore me. I suppose that after a while, when your wife’s not excited to see you or interested in sex anymore, you just start . . . I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’m even trying to say. I guess what I’m saying is that if Melanie was more into me, I wouldn’t be tempted.”
He made it sound like it was all her fault. How was his wanting to screw Charlotte her fault? What kind of man convinced himself it was normal to “think” about cheating on his vows merely because his wife didn’t fawn over him 24-7? “Okay, yes, I have been struggling with some issues, and it’s made me not so . . . attentive. That doesn’t mean I don’t love you or want you. I mean, sorry your ego is that fragile, but my sister is ill, our daughter is getting married, I’m overcommitted, and maybe I’m going through the start of menopause or something. I have zero energy, and I don’t feel like myself. So, yeah, I’m having trouble wanting to do you every night. You act like that’s the only thing you’re interested in doing with me anyway. Do I have to fuck you every night just so you know I love you?”
Yeah, she said that word. And she didn’t care that she had. They were being honest. That was what the therapist demanded, and so she was peeling away the polite veneer, the good-girl persona she’d been taught to use in all situations. Because that felt honest.
Kit’s eyes grew big, and then his mouth flatlined. “Come on, Mel. This isn’t about sex.”
“Isn’t it? Because that’s probably what Charlotte’s offering. That and what comes next. Let me fill you in on how this works, Kit. Charlotte is younger and probably doesn’t have much in her 401(k). And you’re older and have a lot in your bank account, retirement, et cetera, et cetera. Charlotte’s not stupid. She knows what you’re worth, and she knows her best years are slowly slipping away. Tick, tick, tick. She doesn’t want to drive a Toyota. She wants a Mercedes, designer clothes, and vacations in Fiji, but she can’t do that on her part-time assistant salary. But she can do that as the next Mrs. Christopher Layton, so she laughs at all your jokes, embraces the opportunity to touch you, and makes you feel like you’re the greatest man alive because that’s what her hormones and bank account are telling her to do. Because if she really wanted to do it all herself, she would have utilized that fancy business degree and stayed in Boston,” Melanie said, standing up and striding toward the window that overlooked downtown Shreveport. The therapist’s office was close to Kit’s because that was what was convenient for him. He didn’t care Melanie had to drive all the way downtown for the appointment because she didn’t work.
“Okay, let’s slow down here,” the therapist said.
“So you think a woman can only want me because of what’s in my wallet?” Kit asked, his voice quiet and somehow defeated. That tone caused Melanie’s surging anger to abate. Her words had been spiteful and not altogether true. Kit had way more to offer a woman than a healthy bank account. He was a great conversationalist, never stingy in bed, and could even sew a button back on a shirt. Not to mention all the obvious things like his sense of humor, attractiveness, and kindness.
“No, that’s not true.” She sighed and pushed a hand through her hair, wishing she’d washed it that morning. “Look, I’m angry and scared. That makes me defensive. You know my past makes me act that way. Everything that happened with my dad paired with the fact Tennyson is back in town, and it’s as if the black hole of bad in my life has reopened and is slowly swallowing me up.”
The therapist was wisely silent, watching them with eyes that were intense.
“Mel, I know things are unsettled, but all that with your father is in the past,” Kit said, rising and moving toward her.
Melanie snapped her head around. “He killed himself because of what Tennyson did. And now she’s back, acting like she didn’t . . .” She covered her face with her hands because she’d tried not to let Tennyson and the past tear at her, but there were times it all came back. And those memories still hurt. Even if she’d started not hating Tennyson as much. Even if she liked the way Tennyson pushed her buttons. For some reason, when she was with Tennyson, she felt stronger. Which was crazy cakes because the woman had betrayed her and ruined her life.
Kit braced her shoulders with his hands. “Mel, you can’t make yourself crazy with all this, and your father’s death wasn’t because of Tennyson. He had his own issues, and it feels easier to blame her. Your father didn’t handle the whole thing very well. He did what you’re not doing—he ran from his mistakes and let them define him. You’re a fighter, Mel. Come on, honey, let’s fight for our marriage, huh?”
And then his arms came around her, like a favorite Wubbie Blanket enveloping her and giving her the peace she so craved. She wanted to cry everything out. If she could release everything, then it would be easier. But those tears didn’t come, the emotions she needed to feel for her husband stayed barred behind the terrible defenses she’d erected against the hurt the world constantly gave her. Still, his arms around her gave a comfort she craved.
He released her, dropped a kiss on her forehead, and led her back to the white leather couch so they could further discuss her fears of abandonment and the alarming thought she wasn’t enough for him. They also talked about her concern about the Destin trip. When they left the therapist’s office, they were both better. Much better.
So why had Kit reverted back to a man who was oblivious to his wife the moment they arrived in Florida? Why was Kit allowing Charlotte to press herself beside him, making inside jokes that intentionally snubbed his wife?
When Melanie got to the table where Charlotte and Kit were seated, they were in such deep discussion that at first they didn’t notice her.
“Hey,” she said, sitting down.
“Oh, Melanie, hey,” Charlotte said, tossing her a smile. “Did you have a nice day on the beach?”
Melanie pulled a napkin into her lap and flagged a waiter. She wore the dress she’d bought in Dallas. When she’d left the room, carefully patting her somewhat sunburned nose with a mattifying powder and painting her lips with the berry lipstick she’d gotten as a sample from the Neiman Marcus Chanel counter, she’d felt a prettier version of herself. But looking at Charlotte in her strapless white pantsuit with several gold chains casually looping her neck, she felt overdressed and trying too hard. “I did. Took a walk and picked up three sand dollars. You remember how hard we searched for sand dollars the year after that hurricane, Kit?”
He smiled. “We found one, and it was broken.”
“The kids were so disappointed. It was definitely the golden goose that trip,” Melanie said, congratulating herself on steering the conversation toward the warm familial glow of beach trips past.
Charlotte sipped her wine. “It must be weird to have all that behind you. Your children are grown, and I suppose that feels like starting a new life, huh? Almost like a blank slate for you both.”
What the hell did that mean?
Kit nodded. “We still have one more year with Noah, but then he’ll be off to college. And my daughter’s getting married? Makes me feel a million years old.”
“You’re not old. You’re in your prime. Look at you,” Charlotte said, allowing her gaze to do just that. Heifer.
“Aren’t I the lucky woman?” Melanie said.
The waitress showed up at that very second. “Can I get you a drink?”
“I’ll have a mojito,” Melanie said. No one else requested another drink, so the waitress vamoosed toward the bar.
“I love mojitos,” Charlotte said, leaning back in her c
hair. “But they just have so much sugar. My figure can’t handle it.”
Score one for Team Whore.
Melanie curled her hand into a fist. God, she wanted to hit Charlotte. Like a hard throat punch that would lay her out and have her rolling around the sandy deck clasping her throat, eyes bugging.
“So I made dinner reservations for eight o’clock. That gives us time to have a few drinks and then change,” Kit said.
Melanie’s stomach growled as she glanced at her Apple watch. She wished she hadn’t skipped lunch in favor of more rays. It was only 5:45 p.m., and she could cheerfully eat her own arm.
“That’s perfect,” Charlotte said, placing her hand on Kit’s forearm. She looked up and smiled at Melanie. “I have a darling dress I just bought that I’ve been dying to wear. Tonight will be perfect. Because we’re celebrating your nomination for treasurer.”
“Really? You were nominated for treasurer?” Melanie asked, looking over at Kit and frowning at Charlotte’s hand on his arm.
Kit seemed to get the hint and moved his arm. “Yeah, the nominating committee slated me on the ballot. Crazy, huh?”
“It’s not crazy,” Charlotte said, lifting her glass his way. “He’s totally worthy.”
Melanie looked over at Kit and tried to communicate all she felt. “He is. Very much worth it.” And he’s mine, whore.
The waitress set her drink down and asked if they wanted anything else. Kit ordered another bourbon, and Melanie longed to order something to eat, but there was no way in hell she was going to eat in front of Miss Size 4. So she sipped her drink, enjoying the sweet tartness and the way the liquor slid warm down her throat. Around them people conversed, but Kit looked content to play with a toothpick and enjoy the sea breeze on his face. Charlotte seemed aware that Melanie wanted to do her bodily harm. The smile flirting at her lips said that she liked making Melanie uncomfortable.
By the time Melanie sucked the last of her drink down, she felt loose and not so intimidated. She thumbed the big diamond Kit had bought her on their fifteenth wedding anniversary so that the dying light of the day caught it. It was nearly three karats and cost more than Charlotte’s car. As she spun it, holding her hand up slightly the way Emma had been doing every twenty-two-point-five seconds, she smiled. Perhaps a bit goadingly.