Control
Kayla Perrin
Their romance was a modern-day fairy tale: handsome older millionaire falls for struggling young waitress.Robert swept Elsie off her feet—and into his bed—put a huge diamond on her finger and spirited her away in his private jet destined for happily-ever-after. Eight years later, Elsie Kolstadt realizes the clock has struck midnight. The five-star restaurants, exclusive address and exotic vacations can no longer make up for Robert's desire to control everything. From her hair to her music, Robert has things the way he wants them. No matter what. But it's Robert's ultimate, unforgivable manipulation that finally shocks Elsie into action.Though divorce would strip her of everything, she can't live under his roof any more. Making her decision easier is Dion Carter, a high-school football coach with a heart of gold and a body of sculpted steel. Suddenly Elsie is deep in a steamy affair that could cost her everything—because Robert will stop at nothing to keep her under his thumb.
Control
Kayla Perrin
www.spice-books.co.uk (http://www.spice-books.co.uk)
Also by Kayla Perrin
OBSESSION
GETTING SOME
GETTING EVEN
Look for Kayla’s next book
GETTING LUCKY
coming in 2011 from Spice Books.
For Helen and James I’m glad you both found each other, and I wish you a lifetime of happiness together!
Prologue
Oh, shit.
That was the first thought I had when my eyes met his hazel ones across the expanse of my shop. A man I had never seen before. He was the kind of man who sent a rush of heat through your body the moment you laid eyes on him. The kind of man who, with one look, made you think about getting naked.
The kind of man who inspired you to slip your left hand behind your back, hiding the visible sign to the world that you were married.
I had never done that before. Not once during the eight years that I’d been married.
He walked into my store on a Friday in late February. His tall frame—at least six foot two—was all muscle. Something about him oozed sex appeal, even though his eyes were dark and he looked as if he carried a burden on his wide shoulders. I could tell that something serious was going on in his world. He wasn’t in my shop to buy flowers for a happy occasion.
And he wasn’t interested in small talk, either.
He bought a ready-made bouquet with a Get Well Soon balloon. So I knew someone in his life was sick. And sick enough that he was very worried.
Then he left. There was nothing remarkable about our interaction, and yet I couldn’t forget him. I’d checked his left hand and found no wedding band there. That didn’t mean he wasn’t married, of course, or seriously involved with someone.
I didn’t know why I cared.
But I would come to think about him a lot over the next several weeks, to the point where I was disturbed by the unexpected direction of my thoughts.
Was it a sin to daydream about having sex with someone other than your husband? Not just a simple daydream, a quick flash of two naked bodies wrapped together. But a fully fledged, detailed fantasy about another man pleasing you in the way that only your husband should. Vividly picturing another man with his fingers and tongue all over your pussy, while you’re in the middle of fucking your husband. Imagining the moment you slide over a stranger’s cock and take him fully into your body.
Something about him awakened a sexual part of me that had been dormant for a long, long time. But it came roaring back to life that day, shocking me with its intensity.
What scared me was how easily thoughts about another man invaded my brain as a married woman. Don’t get me wrong—I loved my husband. And until that man walked into my floral shop, I never expected I would ever cross the line and fantasize about sex with a stranger. At least not to the point where it was no longer about the fantasy, but about the other man.
Seeing him and reacting to him were the beginning of a turning point for me, even though I didn’t know it that day. It wasn’t just lust that had been awakened in me, but something that my marriage had killed. I wouldn’t put all the pieces together until later, but when I did, I could look back on that day when the sexy stranger with the hazel eyes came into the store as the beginning of my rebirth.
The beginning of me reclaiming my life.
Part One
Chapter One
I gave myself a once-over in the bathroom mirror and smiled at my reflection. I looked good.
Sexy. Hot.
Hot enough that my husband wouldn’t be able to resist me.
I’d flat-ironed my hair, giving my shoulder-length ebony locks the razor-sharp straight look I didn’t wear often. Robert typically liked it softly curled. The straight hair, combined with the dress and dramatic makeup, gave me more of a high-fashion model or actress look. My hair had taken a good thirty minutes to perfect, but I was extremely pleased with the result.
I smoothed my hands over my black sheath dress. It was tight, hugging my curves. I’d put on a push-up bra to give me more cleavage, and the dress’s V-neck exposed a teasing amount of flesh. A little too much?
I shook my head. No, I didn’t think so.
I wasn’t trying to be subtle in my sex appeal, though I was trying to be tasteful. What I wanted was my husband thinking of getting me home—and naked—during every moment of our dinner.
We needed something to get us into baby-making mood.
“Elsie, what’s taking you so long?” I heard Robert call out to me. His voice was close, which meant he was in our bedroom. I’d left him downstairs watching CNN in the great room as I’d come to the master bathroom, locking the door so he couldn’t inadvertently see me before I wanted him to. This was the second time he’d come up to check on me.
“I’m almost—”
“We have a seven-o’clock reservation,” Robert said sternly. “It’s six-twenty.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I said. “We’ll get there. We’ve got enough time.”
“We’re going to midtown.”
The doorknob rattled, but with the door locked, it didn’t budge. “Open up, Elsie.”
“Just give me a few more minutes.” I wanted my look to be a surprise. We were going to The Melting Pot, a popular fondue restaurant in midtown Charlotte that always got rave reviews, and I wanted to look chic and sexy as I walked in on Robert’s arm.
He knocked on the door now—fast, impatient. “Open the door, Elsie.”
He was irritated. I could tell by his tone. He probably thought I was going to take another twenty minutes to finish getting ready. “Okay, I’m coming.”
I applied my deep red lipstick, picked my LuLu clutch up off the vanity—and then spotted the necklace I’d forgotten to put on. Robert liked classic pearls, but they weren’t right for this look, so I had decided on a six-strand beaded black necklace that I rarely wore.
“Jesus, Elsie!”
“I’m just putting my necklace on.” I secured the clasp at the back of my neck. Then I slipped into my Jimmy Choo black patent shoes. Yes, I thought. Perfect.
“I’m coming,” I called, and hurried to the door. I hoped Robert’s tone was an indicator of his impatience, as opposed to a bad mood. I’d been looking forward to our first visit to The Melting Pot for ages, and I didn’t want anything to sour our romantic evening.
I swung open the door and spread my arms. “Ta-da.”
It took only a second for Robert’s eyes to widen in surprise. That I expected. This wasn’t my typical demure look. His gaze roamed over my face and hair first, then went lower, stopping at my breasts. “What are you wearing?”
My husband’s expression was far from appreciative—not the reaction I had expected. “You don’t like it?”
“I thought you were going to wear the red dress I bought you last week.”
“I preferred this one. We are going to that hip fondue restaurant.” And I want you thinking about getting me naked. Creating a baby inside me.
“Restaurant. Exactly. Not a club with your friends.” Once again, Robert’s eyes landed on my cleavage. Then they moved upward. “And what on earth did you do to your hair?”
I raised my hand, fingering some of the strands. “I tried something different.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Oh.” I had hoped he would. I’d worked so hard on coming up with a hot, irresistible look. The kind that would have my husband whistling with appreciation, not staring at me with scorn.
Robert glanced at his watch. “We’re cutting it close, but you should have enough time to change. The red dress is more appropriate for dinner. Even if we’re a little late, I’m sure they’ll hold our reservation.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling deflated. “You think I should change.”
“Do hurry.”
“I’ll, uh, need a few more minutes to get ready then.” I spoke as evenly as possible, trying to hide my disappointment.
“I’ll be downstairs.”
Robert turned and walked out of the bedroom. There was no more discussion. He’d made his wishes clear, and if I went downstairs in anything other than the red dress, he would be miserable the entire night.
Closing the bathroom door, I tried to ignore the swell of unhappiness rising inside me. I tried, as I had done so many times before, to put the unpleasant feelings in an emotional box. It had taken him two years to agree to take me to The Melting Pot, and I didn’t want to ruin an evening I had been looking forward to.
I went back to the vanity table and looked at myself in the mirror one more time. The spark in my eyes had disappeared. The sexy, excited woman didn’t look sexy and excited anymore.
The his-and-her closets were connected to the bathroom by a carpeted hallway. I suppose the suite had been designed that way to make it easier for people fresh from the shower to be able to get dressed. Everything in a house like this—nearly ten thousand square feet—was about making life easier for the owners. If you wished to watch your favorite television show in the bathtub, you could do that. If you didn’t want to go downstairs to your home office, you didn’t need to; the master bedroom was so large, it had a desk and computer in a corner by the bay window. My closet was big enough to have shelves upon shelves for hundreds of pairs of shoes, plus racks to hang hundreds of outfits. So was Robert’s.
I took the red dress off the hook where I’d hung it after deciding I’d wear the black one instead. There was a mirror in my closet—two floor-length ones, in fact—so I didn’t need to go back to the bathroom to see what the gown looked like when I held it up against my body.
It was a perfectly nice dress. Classic. Elegant.
But it wasn’t the look I had wanted for tonight.
I pushed that thought aside. Time was ticking away. I had to tone down my dark makeup, which would be too dramatic for the red dress. I went back into the bathroom, dampened a face towel and tried to smudge off as much of my dark eye shadow as I could—then grabbed a tissue to dab at the tears that filled my eyes.
“Why are you crying?” I asked my reflection. “So what if Robert wants you to change? What’s the big deal?” I unzipped my black dress and wriggled out of it. “If he thinks the dress isn’t right, it’s because he knows more about this stuff than you do.”
My husband was the former head of a Fortune 500 company. Having lived most of his life in privilege, he knew much more about etiquette than I did. Maybe he thought I looked trashy, and as the wife of a wealthy and prominent citizen, I couldn’t bring any shame to him.
The words made sense to me, and yet I found myself thinking something that had flitted into my mind many times over the past couple of years. Robert doesn’t think I fit into his world. Even after all this time.
And then I had another thought: When you dress too provocatively, it screams to the world that you’re a trophy wife. Everyone will always see you as the woman who married up.
Robert had said that to me more than once when we’d first gotten married. I’d understood his point then, and I understood it now. Eight years ago, I’d married a wealthy man thirty years my senior. I know that most people would believe I did it for financial reasons. But that wasn’t true.
I married for love.
Before walking down the aisle, I signed a prenup entitling me to one million dollars if our marriage ended before the ten year mark. My lawyer had wanted to renegotiate for a higher amount, arguing that Robert was enormously wealthy, but I had refused. My goal wasn’t how much I could get should we divorce, but rather on living happily ever after with the man I adored.
Reaching a hand behind me, I was about to unclasp my bra, figuring something more conservative would be better. But then I glanced at the clock. It was already 6:33. I could imagine Robert downstairs, sitting on the chaise in the great room, impatiently glancing at his watch.
So I kept the bra on and got into the red dress, a delicate number with a much higher neckline. The gown cinched below the bust with a black ribbon band, and from there flowed down to my knees. With the combination of the push-up bra and the ribbon detail, my breasts really popped.
But at least they were covered. It was one element that made me feel sexier, and I was grateful for that. I still wanted to be irresistible to Robert.
The only other issue was my hair. Robert had said he didn’t like it. I did. But again, I wanted to be turning him on, not off. I searched my vanity for a black clip. Instead of wearing my hair down, I swept the back of it up off my neck and styled it up with the clip. I arranged some loose tendrils around the sides of my face, giving me a softer look.
The black ribbon on my dress went well with my black clutch and shoes, and also my necklace, so at least I didn’t have to change my accessories. I wrapped a cashmere shawl around my shoulders and was ready to go.
One last time, I checked myself out in the mirror. I wasn’t the vixen I’d been a while earlier. But I was still attractive, hopefully in a way that would make my husband happy.
Because I still hoped that Robert and I would end up in our bed later, making love.
And making a baby.
Chapter Two
By the time we got to The Melting Pot, we were ten minutes late. But I had called ahead, ensuring that they’d hold our table, while Robert drove.
He pulled up to the valet stand in front of the restaurant. An attendant came over immediately. They usually did when the car was a Porsche.
Moments later, we were inside The Melting Pot. The restaurant was warm and inviting, done in a combination of dark beige and burgundy. Intimate, curved booths lined the walls. Unique lighting fixtures hung above the tables, reminding me of blown-glass designs I’d seen in Venice.
I liked the place. A lot. My mood instantly brightened.
The restaurant was full of chatter. Happy people all around us were laughing and talking and dipping various items into pots of fondue.
“I hope we made the right choice,” Robert mumbled.
I glanced at him as we approached the hostess stand. He didn’t make eye contact with me. I didn’t bother asking him what he meant.
The hostess sat us at our table in the center of the restaurant. I took my shawl off and placed it and my clutch on the seat next to me.
Robert was looking around. Not a casual glance inspecting his surroundings, but more of an intense, evaluating look.
Some of the diners were throwing curious glances our way, as well.
I suddenly understood why Robert had muttered that comment. The crowd was young—late twenties to late thirties, mostly. Young and attractive. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that Robert was uncomfortable here.
Uncomfortable because of our age difference.
I reached across the table and took his hand in mine, letting him know that I wasn’t uncomfortable. After eight years of marriage, I was used to the second glances we got from some people. At first those looks had bothered me, but not anymore.
I was with my husband, and if the rest of the world didn’t like it, they could go to hell.
In the beginning of our relationship, Robert had had no problem going out with me in public. He’d been a fit and attractive fifty-nine. And when he colored the gray in his hair, he looked more like fifty. So while there was obviously an age difference between us, he hadn’t been bothered by it.
But over the last few years, his face had aged considerably and his posture was no longer as imposing as it had once been. Because of knee replacement surgery last year, his gait wasn’t the strong, confident stride it had been when we’d met.
Once, Robert had been able to walk into a room and have heads turn—that’s the kind of attention he commanded. Not anymore.
The physical changes, capped off by a full head of gray hair he could no longer be bothered to color, troubled my husband. Oh, he never said as much, but I could tell. He was sixty-seven and looked it—his body defying his ageless spirit more and more.
“This place is beautiful,” I said, hoping to distract him from his thoughts. “The ambience, the decor…” I glanced up at the goldish-orange light fixture above our table, which sort of resembled a large, upside-down wineglass with a very long stem. “Remember that shop in Saint Mark’s Square—the one where we almost bought that chandelier before we realized it wouldn’t look good in our place? I wonder if these light fixtures came from there.”
“Perhaps.” Robert released my hand to withdraw his reading glasses from his jacket pocket.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” I said, hoping that being extra sweet would help his discomfort dissipate. “I keep hearing how fabulous the food is, that the menu is second to none.”
“Let’s hope so,” Robert stated.
He lifted his menu. Even with his glasses on, he squinted slightly as he read.
Something tugged at my heart as I watched him. A little sympathy. I was sorry about the changes age was bringing about that neither of us could control. I wasn’t thrilled about heading toward forty. I could only imagine how Robert felt, nearing seventy.
He needed something else in his life. Something positive to concentrate on, as opposed to life’s ticking clock. We both did.
Which was why I was hoping we’d get pregnant sooner rather than later.
“Good evening.” A man’s voice drew our attention, and I glanced up. The waiter who had arrived at our table wore a crisp white shirt, black tie and burgundy apron neatly tied around his waist. There was an air of confidence about him that said he’d been doing his job—and doing it well—for a long time.
“Good evening,” I replied. Robert continued to peruse the menu.
“Have you been here before?” the waiter asked.
“No,” I said. “We haven’t.”
“Then welcome. I think you’ll be very pleased. Our cheeses are aged to perfection to create the best possible fondue. You can enjoy them with bread or fruit. We have salads as well, if you prefer. And all of our entrées are cooked in our popular fondue styles.”
“Mmm.” I looked at Robert before meeting the waiter’s gaze again. “Sounds delicious.”
“The dinners for two are very popular, and come with a cheese fondue, salad, and one of three entrée items.” He pointed to the page on my open menu.
“Ooh, the surf and turf looks good.” I glanced at Robert. “What do you think, sweetheart? Lobster tails?”
“I think that we need a few more minutes to make up our minds,” he said.
“Certainly.” The waiter smiled cordially at both of us before his gaze landed on me. “My name is Alexander. And madam, the surf and turf is one of our more popular items. You certainly won’t be disappointed if you decide on it.”
“All right.” Robert’s tone held a tiny note of impatience. “You’ve done your job. Now run along and give us some time to make up our minds.”
Now run along?
My eyes went wide as I stared at him, shocked by the demeaning words. “Robert,” I began when the waiter was gone, “that wasn’t a very nice thing to say.”
“You would say that, wouldn’t you?”
I was confused by the comment. “Do you expect me to approve of you being rude to our waiter?”
“It was like he didn’t even know I was at the table,” Robert went on.
“That’s because I was the one doing the talking. You barely gave him a second glance.”
“I saw how he was looking at you.”
What was Robert getting at? That the waiter had been out of line? “He was looking at me like he was our waiter.”
“Right,” Robert said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
I didn’t understand what was happening. The waiter had been professional and cordial. He hadn’t ogled me or anything like that. So why was Robert making an issue out of nothing?
Because he never wanted to come here.
Was that what this was about—Robert making an issue because he didn’t want to be here? He hadn’t been interested when I’d suggested the place time and time again, and the moment he’d seen the crowd, there’d been a visible change in him.
“It’s that dress,” he said.
“The dress?” Again, I was confused. “This is the one you wanted me to wear, remember?”
“But what did you do to your breasts?” His expression was one of disdain as he lowered his eyes to my chest. “You’re wearing some kind of bra that makes them look larger. As if you got breast implants.”
Certainly that couldn’t be the issue. Even though I was annoyed that he seemed to be trying to sour the mood, I forged ahead gently. “What’s wrong? Is there something else bothering you?”
Robert pretended he didn’t hear me. Pretended to be absorbed in reading the menu.
It was probably best to let the matter drop. I lifted my own menu. “Do you want to do one of the entrées for two? Or decide on a cheese fondue and maybe a couple other items?”
“I’m trying to make up my mind.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
As we both perused the menu in silence, I decided I would let Robert choose our meals. Everything looked great, so it wasn’t as if I’d be disappointed. He was clearly irritable, and I wanted to keep him happy.
It was something I did a lot.
Why shouldn’t you decide? a tiny voice inside me asked.
Before I could even contemplate the question, Alexander arrived again, a warm smile on his attractive face. This time I noticed that he did stare at me before turning to Robert. But he had to look at someone first. Just because it was me didn’t mean he wanted to fuck me.
“We’ve hardly looked at the menu,” Robert all but snapped.
“Take your time.” Alexander clasped his hands together. “But may I start you off with a drink? Some wine or a cocktail?” He looked at me. “Or perhaps a martini.”
“Or perhaps my wife.”
My eyes grew wide with shock and horror. I gaped at my husband before looking at the waiter, who appeared absolutely mortified.
“Excuse me?” Alexander asked.
“Jesus, you’re salivating over her like she’s an item on the menu.”
“Robert, stop it.”
“It’s true,” he insisted calmly. “Isn’t it, Alexander?”
Embarrassment mixed with my horror. I pushed my chair back and stood. I was certain that people around us were overhearing this ridiculous conversation, and I could no longer stay here.
“Sir, I apologize if I somehow—”
“You’re not the one who needs to apologize,” I said, cutting Alexander off. I gave Robert a pointed look, barely keeping my fury contained. And to think I’d been concerned about keeping him happy. I picked up my clutch and my shawl. “We’re leaving.”
“Good idea,” Robert said.
Worry creased the waiter’s brow, almost as if he suspected Robert was the type to lodge a complaint with the manager. If that was his assumption, then he’d read my husband correctly.
Alexander held up both hands, a sign of submission. “If I was disrespectful in any way, I apologize.”
“Next time, look at a woman’s face—not her tits—when you’re speaking to her.”
I heard the words and cringed. For the first time in our marriage, I wanted to slap Robert.
I didn’t dare look around for fear everyone within earshot had heard his crude words. I wanted to meet the waiter’s dejected eyes and tell him that my husband’s high blood pressure medication was making him act like an asshole. But all I could do was head for the door before the embarrassment killed me.
I didn’t stop until the cool evening breeze hit my face. With Robert moving more slowly these days because of his knee, I made it outside before he did. And once there, I wanted to scream.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not with the valet attendants and other patrons nearby.
Robert had been rude on other occasions, more often than I liked these days, but his behavior tonight was completely uncalled for.
Was it his age, his medication, or his growing insecurity? Or was this the real Robert? Had I overlooked his true nature all of these years?
Yes.
The answer sounded in my mind—and it scared me.
Chapter Three
I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders as I stood outside waiting for Robert. I didn’t turn back to see how close he was, or if he’d stopped to complain to the manager. It was just the kind of thing he would do.
Several agonizing seconds passed and no Robert. My curiosity getting the better of me, I turned. He was a couple steps from the entryway.
People were staring in his direction with the kind of interest reserved for tabloids and reality shows.
Despite my anger, I reached for the door and opened it for him. It was something I did all the time, the kind of thing a younger wife did to take care of her elderly husband.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Robert said casually, as though he hadn’t created a public spectacle inside.
I didn’t respond. Just watched as he approached the valet stand and handed in our ticket.
A few minutes later, our yellow Porsche 911 Carrera pulled up to the curb. The young valet who’d brought it held the driver’s door open for Robert, then made his way around the car and opened the passenger door for me.
Not going to accuse him of staring at my tits? I thought sourly.
No, Robert just handed the young man a ten. Then he revved the engine and began to drive.
Angry, I stared ahead blankly. I was going to give Robert the silent treatment if he spoke to me, but he didn’t say a word, either. After a couple of minutes, I glanced his way to gauge his mood. On his face, I saw a contented expression—and if I wasn’t mistaken, a hint of smugness. Not at all the look of a man who’d acted so outraged that a waiter had been inappropriately ogling his wife.
If he truly believed that ridiculous claim.
Robert hit a button to turn on the stereo, and classical music filled the car. He thrummed his fingers against the steering wheel like a man who didn’t have a care in the world.
“I say we head to the country club. You can count on professionalism there.”
I turned my gaze from his face to my window. To the country club…gee, what a surprise. Suddenly, I couldn’t help thinking that Robert had orchestrated the whole ugly incident just so we would leave The Melting Pot. He hadn’t wanted to go there in the first place, and what a perfect plan, to make the experience so uncomfortable there was no way we could have stayed.
Did you do it on purpose? I wanted to ask him. Did you humiliate our waiter just so you could get your way?
Yes. You know he did, Elsie.
And I did. That was exactly his style. Passive-aggressive bullshit so that he could always get his way.
After a few minutes, Robert asked, “Are you not going to speak to me again?” He sounded almost cheery.
I said nothing.
“Elsie…”
“You embarrassed me,” I said. “Not to mention that poor waiter.”
“That poor waiter needs to learn some respect.”
Now I faced Robert. “What are you talking about? He wasn’t looking at my tits, as you so crudely put it.”
“He was.”
“I didn’t see it.”
“You never see it, do you?”
Knowing what Robert was referring to, I once again turned to look out the window.
“I don’t want a repeat of Hawaii,” he said.
“Hawaii?”
“Yes, Hawaii,” Robert stated curtly. “Don’t play dumb when you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Nothing had happened in Hawaii—though Robert wouldn’t believe it. During our last vacation there, over Christmas, he had been convinced that one of the pool attendants was hitting on me. The man had made pleasant conversation, brought me extra towels, reserved our lounge chairs every day. Robert had point-blank asked the man if he’d been trying to get me into bed.
He hadn’t been, of course—even if I can admit he was flirting. Robert and I weren’t the only May-December couple who went to the spectacular St. Regis Resort in Kauai over Christmas, year after year. Hollywood producers and their young wives also packed the place over the holidays. Men with power and money and trophy wives. The hotel staff knew how to cater to just that kind of clientele. How to pander to them and even kiss their asses when necessary. But this attendant, Richard, was new, and didn’t keep the same kind of “professional” distance that men like Robert expected. He’d talk to you about the weather, your interests, where you were from—that sort of thing. And sure, he probably stole a few excited glances of me in my two-piece.
That was to be expected. Guys the world over checked women out, not caring if they were married or not. And wasn’t that supposed to be the perk of having a beautiful woman on your arm—that other men were openly envious of your catch?
Unfortunately for Richard, Robert had been so offended by his “lack of professionalism” that he’d complained to the hotel. There was no way that management wanted to risk losing any of their high-end customers, especially not Robert Kolstad, so Richard had been made to apologize to me and Robert—and then he’d been fired.
“Our waiter was nothing but courteous and professional,” I said.
“He’s lucky I didn’t speak to the manager.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“I’m sure you are.”
I sighed. “Robert, can you just let it go? Please, you’re making an issue where there is none.”
He had never been jealous. Not early in our relationship, anyway. But in the last few years, I think, as the realization that he was getting older, while I was still comparatively a young woman, hit him, he had become far less secure in our marriage.
That had to be the reason for his odd behavior. Which was why I felt he needed something else to make him feel more secure. Something that would show I loved him and was committed to him.
A baby. I wanted a baby more than anything.
“Maybe I did overreact,” he admitted. “I guess I need to accept that I have a wife most men would love to steal from me.”
Then don’t push me away, I thought silently. It was a sentiment I’d felt more than once over the last year—that Robert’s behavior was eroding the relationship we had. There were other men out there, maybe someone who was perfect for me.
Like the man with the hazel eyes who had come into my shop a couple weeks before.
But I said to Robert, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good.” He paused a beat. “Shall we go to the country club?”
“Sure,” I said. You got your way again.
When I was out of town or on vacation, and anyone asked me where I lived, I always said Charlotte. But Robert and I actually lived just north of Charlotte in an exclusive community called The Peninsula. Situated on Lake Norman, The Peninsula was a country-club community with so much to do, you didn’t have to go anywhere else if you didn’t want to. There was a yacht club, a championship golf course, swimming, tennis. Casual and fine dining. We were members of both The Peninsula Yacht Club and The Peninsula Club. Though we had our own pool at home, we sometimes used the pool at the yacht club when we socialized.
On most days, Robert could be found on the greens at The Peninsula Club. It was his home away from home. We ate there much of the time when we chose to dine out, which was why I had wanted to try someplace different.
But that’s where we went, and Robert was a much happier man. After a casual dinner and a couple of drinks, we headed home—where I still hoped to end the night the way I had originally planned.
I tried to get Robert in the mood after we pulled up in front of the house. Reaching across the seat, I lazily skimmed my fingertips over his hand before taking it in mine.
Robert squeezed my fingers in return. Then he met my eyes.
I stared at the man I had married. He was getting older, yes, but he was still so distinguished. Still looked like Harry Belafonte, a man who no matter how old he got would always be attractive.
“I love you,” I told him. “Only you.”
Robert’s mouth curled in a small smile, one thing that despite the years was as dazzling as it had been the first day I met him.
Leaning forward, I pressed my lips to his. A lingering kiss that said we would continue this in our bedroom.
“I love you, too, Elsie,” Robert whispered as we pulled apart.
We exited the Porsche, which he had parked at the front of the house. A series of pod lights and spotlights illuminated our grand, Italian renaissance manor. It truly was a spectacular place, complete with a Roman-style fountain on an island of grass in the center of the long circular driveway.
I looped my arm through Robert’s as we made our way up the steps. Once inside, I kissed his cheek. The double front doors led to a huge great room with a plasma television mounted on the wall, a fireplace, sofa, love seat and lounge chair. There was plenty of room to make love right there, and Olga, our housekeeper, was long gone for the day. But I knew my husband. He would want to wait until we were comfortably settled in our bedroom, as opposed to getting hot and heavy on the sofa.
Holding his hand, I led him up the curved staircase, across the portion of hallway that overlooked the great room below, to the double doors at the end that led to our bedroom.
The moment we crossed the threshold, I turned to face Robert, snaking my arms around his neck, my mouth on his, slowly coaxing his lips apart. Slipping my tongue into his mouth, I held him tighter. Robert began to kiss me back and I moaned, the sound ripe not just with desire, but with desperate need.
Robert’s hands went to my upper arms. He held me for several seconds, kissing me. Then he tightened his grip and forced my body away from his.
“I haven’t taken my pill, Elsie.”
“You can take it now.” I moved forward to kiss him once more, but he held me away.
“I want to make love to you—I do. But tonight—”
I planted another kiss on his lips. “Please, sweetheart. Please…”
I continued to kiss Robert, not ready for our night to end like this. He allowed it to go on for a few more seconds before pulling away again.
“I’m sorry, Elsie.” His eyes roamed over my face. And I thought I saw, just for a moment, a flash of disapproval.
“What is it?” I asked him.
“It’s…” He fingered the loose locks of hair around my face, almost as if examining the strands. “I’m tired, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
I got the feeling that Robert had been about to say something else. That there was another reason he didn’t want to take me to bed.
But it was late for him—nearly eleven—and he’d had a couple glasses of that expensive cognac at the club, which always made him a little drowsy.
“Okay.” I gave him a soft kiss this time, trying to quell my disappointment. “If you’re tired, you’re tired. Why don’t you go get ready for bed, then? I’ll do some reading in the great room.”
“I’m sorry,” Robert repeated.
“It’s okay.” I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.
I turned and exited the bedroom. Halfway down the hallway, I felt tears fill my eyes.
What am I doing wrong?
Robert and I hadn’t made love in nearly two weeks. There’d been some crisis at the office, Kolstad Systems, and he’d stepped in to help sort the problem out. I’d been busy with work. With all that had been going on, we hadn’t carved out any time for us.
This was the first evening in a while that we had spent any significant time together. I hadn’t wanted it to end like this.
Because I was pretty certain I was ovulating.
I went downstairs to the kitchen and made some tea and put on some smooth jazz. I hoped it would wash away my disappointment, but it didn’t. Two years I’d been off the Pill. Two years I’d been trying to get pregnant.
Robert’s rejection—even if he was tired—stung.
And then I asked myself why the night was necessarily over. Sometimes one partner had to do some coaxing to get the other in the mood. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seduced my husband.
My drive renewed, I made my way back upstairs. I would take off my clothes and crawl into bed with him. All he needed to do was get erect. I would climb on top of him and do the rest of the work.
As I neared the bedroom, I unzipped my dress. I pulled it over my head and tossed it onto the floor. Then I unclasped my bra and let it fall, as well. It was an idea that came to me, and I acted. Surely when I entered the room, naked except for the pumps and necklace, Robert would become aroused.
Outside the door, I paused to strip off my thong panties.
The lights in the room were doused, except the lamp on my night table. Robert was lying on his side with his back to me. He didn’t hear me approach.
“Robert,” I whispered.
No answer.
Time for plan B.
I kicked off my pumps and pulled the covers back on my side of the bed. Then I slipped under the sheets, their coolness caressing my skin. I slid over to my husband, running my hand down his left arm. He didn’t react, so I leaned closer, nuzzling against his neck.
That’s when I heard his deep, steady breaths—and realized he was sleeping.
Still, I ran my hand over his hip and stroked him through his silk pajamas, hoping to wake him. Robert didn’t react.
I was defeated. I lay back on my pillow, sighing. It wasn’t just that I wanted to make a baby. I was sexually frustrated, needed sexual release.
As I lay in the dimly lit room listening to my husband’s steady breathing, I rested my right hand on the lower edge of my belly. I ran my fingertips over my skin. It was my own touch, yet my vagina thrummed in response. It needed to be stroked.
My hand went lower, over my pubic hair and to my center. I spread my folds. Lazily let my finger stroke my clitoris.
Angling my head slightly, I glanced at Robert. He hadn’t moved. He was still asleep. But even if he woke up and found me touching myself, I wouldn’t stop.
If he saw me, hopefully he would become aroused and make love to me.
I circled my finger around my clit, each stroke making me hotter. Raising my left hand to my breast, I tweaked my nipple. It hardened instantly.
I played with my nipple. Played with my clit. Looked toward Robert and saw that his back was still to me. He was clueless.
Closing my eyes, I started to imagine my husband’s hands on my pussy. But the fact that he was sleeping beside me, that he’d turned me down…It left me cold.
So I began to imagine someone else’s hand playing with my pussy. A man who, if I climbed into bed naked beside him, would wake up. He would wake up, lower his head over my chest and lick my nipples with his tongue. He would lick and suck, pull at them with his teeth…
My clit flinched in response to the image playing out in my mind. I moved my finger more quickly over my sweet spot, then dipped it into the soft folds. I was wet.
I used two fingers to play with my pussy now, but in my mind it was a tongue. A wet and hungry tongue that couldn’t get enough of me.
The tongue belonged to the man with the hazel eyes. And he was merciless with it. He circled it around my clit, over and over and over. Oh, God, I needed this. And he needed it, too, this lover of mine. He was young and virile and would fuck me all night long…eat my pussy all night long, if he knew I wanted that.
I spread my legs wider and arched my hips upward, giving him more of me. He buried his fingers inside of me and drew my engorged clitoris into his mouth and suckled me so damn sweetly…
An orgasm shuddered through my entire body. I arched my back, pushed my fingers deep into my pussy as I rode the wave. The pleasure was so intense and overdue that I couldn’t suppress my moan. I let myself enjoy every last bit of my orgasm.
As it subsided, I glanced to my right again. Robert’s back was still to me. He was still asleep, unaware that I’d brought myself to climax.
And for just a moment, I wished the man with the hazel eyes was beside me in this bed. That I could climb on him right now and slide onto a hard penis. One that could stay hard for a very long time.
Just as quickly as I thought it, I pushed the idea away. Guilt ate at me immediately. It wasn’t the first time I had fantasized about him—but I hoped it would be the last.
It was wrong, I knew. Wrong to have such an explicit fantasy about someone other than Robert.
I got up and went to the bathroom, where I started the shower. I stayed in there for a good long time, letting the cool water splash over my body.
Letting the memory of my fantasy wash away, like the soapsuds disappearing down the drain.
Chapter Four
All the next week, Robert was preoccupied by business. There was some complication with a company out of Germany that Kolstad Systems wanted to buy—a software firm with some sort of graphics technology that would aid in the computer systems Robert’s company created. The German owner was suddenly stalling, and Robert believed he was trying to solicit other bids. If this acquisition didn’t go through as planned, Robert feared that Kolstad Systems’ stock would fall.
With all of this weighing on his mind, he wasn’t interested in sex—not in the least. But I was able to coax him to erection one morning with a blow job. Excited that he was hard—and without the aid of Viagra, at that—I had straddled him, then moved slowly and steadily over his penis until I made him come.
I hadn’t come, but that didn’t matter. My husband’s sperm was inside me, and I was elated.
“What are you doing?” Robert had asked when he came out of the bathroom and saw me lying on my back on the bed, my legs bent at the knee. What he couldn’t see was the pillow beneath my hips, positioned to angle my pelvis on a downward slope—something I hoped would give Robert’s sperm the advantage of gravity.
“I read somewhere that lying on your back for thirty minutes increases the chance of conception,” I told him. “I’ve got fifteen minutes to go.”
“Oh.” He raised his eyebrows. “All right. I’ll be downstairs, having breakfast.”
“If I don’t see you, I hope all goes well at the office.”
When I was sure Robert was downstairs, I closed my eyes and began to stroke my clit. A couple minutes later, my body was shuddering with an orgasm.
What I didn’t tell Robert was something else I’d read—that a woman’s orgasm also aided her chances of conceiving.
I didn’t know if that was true, but I wanted to give myself every advantage in getting pregnant.
Nothing else had worked thus far.
I didn’t typically masturbate, yet I did twice more that week. Both times when Robert wasn’t home. My body had needed release—release I wasn’t getting from my husband. And as I touched my pussy I found myself thinking about the man with the hazel eyes, not Robert. Each fantasy was becoming longer and more vivid.
On Thursday morning, as another earth-shattering orgasm ripped through my body, I gazed at Robert’s side of the bed. It was empty. And I realized why I was consumed with this phantom lover: I was lonely.
Or was there more to it than that?
Even though Robert had retired from his position as CEO of Kolstad Systems, he was still involved in the company’s operations as a board member. He had been in the office every day this week, dealing with one problem after another regarding this German acquisition.
His absence reminded me of the early days of our marriage, after we’d returned from our honeymoon and Robert had gone back to work. I’d had fantasies of the wonderful life I would share with my distinguished and successful and charming husband. But it hadn’t quite played out the way I had dreamed.
After Robert proposed, I’d quit my job as a waitress, so I wasn’t working when we got married. He, of course, had his business to run. Robert would be at the office sometimes twelve or fourteen hours a day. Even longer on some occasions. I had missed him terribly, and didn’t like being in my new, oversize home with the housekeeper as my only company. Especially when he went out of town.
I’d occasionally accompanied Robert on his longer business trips to Europe. He promised we’d steal some romantic time to see the sights when his work was done. But on more occasions than not, I would sit alone in my hotel room in London or Paris, longing for my husband’s touch, but having to settle for a glass of wine as I watched a movie in our lavish suite.
Convincing Robert to fund my own business venture had been not only the fruition of a dream, but a godsend in terms of my mental sanity. I needed something constructive to do—much more than shopping and lunching with other wealthy men’s wives.
Before Robert and I married, he’d promised to make my dream of opening a floral shop a reality. Ask any of my friends from childhood and they’ll tell you how I would always pick dandelions and wildflowers and arrange them in a bouquet. If they had a bad day, I would make them something special. Ditto if they got a good mark on a test. My teachers probably got bored with all the homemade bouquets I brought in for them. And I got in trouble more than once for picking tulips and roses from a neighbor’s garden.
Meeting and marrying Robert had enabled me to open Distinct Creations, a shop in downtown Cornelius, just north of Charlotte.
We had a beautiful house, luxury cars, lots of money in the bank. We’d traveled on yachts, and to exotic and exclusive places all over the world.
And yet something was missing.
I hadn’t given a second thought to what it would mean to marry a considerably older and powerful man, or that anything would ever go wrong. Yet the fact that he’d been married and divorced twice was testament to the fact that money and security didn’t guarantee a lasting marriage.
No matter what happened, I would always be grateful to Robert for the life he had given me. But I couldn’t deny the reality that we didn’t seem to be on the same page anymore. There were times I wondered if we were even in the same book.
It wasn’t about his age. I loved my husband the day I married him, and I still loved him now. And yet there had to be some reason I was so vividly making love to a stranger in my mind.
Maybe it was because the passion with Robert had undeniably faded.
I’d married him for better or for worse. I’d known that “worse” would be the age issue—and I had never expected that we would be able to fuck like bunnies. That kind of passion hadn’t mattered to me then, and it didn’t now.
It was the intimacy I craved most.
I almost wouldn’t mind if Robert chewed guys out for staring at me, if he followed up that proprietary attitude with some genuine attention. Some romance and affection.
Something that showed he viewed me as more than a possession.
I wanted Robert to hold me and kiss me, even if he couldn’t make love to me. I wanted him to assure me that he wanted a baby as much as I did, even if it meant adopting. He never said those words, and there were times I got the feeling that he didn’t care at all if we had one.
It was one of the things that made me wonder if we were on the same page—and with that thought came the question as to whether or not there would be a happily ever after for us, after all.
Don’t think it, Elsie, I said to myself as I stared at the ceiling. You did not get married to get divorced. You married Robert because he was the first man who made you feel that he could give you the emotional stability you needed.
He wasn’t a man interested only in hot sex. I’d had hot sex with the younger men I’d dated, but had always felt cold in those relationships. Probably because sex was the first thing—and seemingly most important thing—they wanted from me. Being seen as desirable should have made me feel confident, but instead it brought out my insecurity.
Because it reminded me of my childhood with my mother.
My mom had treated sex like a sport, breaking my father’s heart over and over again as she engaged in meaningless rendezvous with man after man. As a young child, I didn’t understand what was going on. I would overhear heated arguments between my parents and know that something was wrong. And there were days I would come home from school to find my mother gone, and my dad crying. Even the bouquets I made for him didn’t help to cheer him up.
As I got older I understood what caused most of their marital conflicts. In the bits I overheard, my mother always claimed the other men meant nothing to her, that for her sex didn’t mean love.
I don’t know why my father stayed with her. Much later, I began to suspect there was some emotional issue about my mother he understood that I did not. But I always felt for him, was brokenhearted for him.
I was fourteen when my father asked one day how I would feel about going with him to Texas for a long visit, just me and him. He had a sister there. I had been elated by the idea. It was a chance to get away, escape my parents’ arguments for a while.
Two days later, my mother hurriedly made me pack some things while my dad was at work. She ushered me into the cab of a Mack truck between her and some guy I didn’t know, and suddenly we were off to God only knew where.
The trucker, as it turned out, was my mother’s boyfriend. He took us to Philadelphia, where we moved into his small apartment. They fought, too, but I heard them screwing every night in the bedroom next to me.
I was devastated at the way I’d been uprooted. And knew I would never be able to forgive my mother for leaving my father behind.
I had always known that I didn’t want sex to be the first priority in any relationship of mine, no doubt because of my mother, and that’s why I’d grown wary of men my own age. Robert was older, far more mature than any of the men I had dated, and genuinely seemed to want to make an emotional connection with me first, instead of a sexual one.
It hadn’t taken me long to realize I could have emotional security with him—something I desperately wanted after my parents’ fucked-up marriage…
My bedside phone rang, startling me from my thoughts. I rolled over to my night table and plucked the cordless handset off its base. “Hello?”
“Morning, Elsie. I hope it’s not too early to call.”
“Sharon.” My spirits lifted. Her call was the distraction I needed. “No, it’s not too early. How are you?”
“So-so. I’ve been mostly up. I really have. But last night I was way down.”
“Oh, sweetie.”
“It gets to me sometimes, being in this big empty house.”
“Of course it does.”
“Maybe I need to get out and volunteer. Do something so that I’m not home alone so much.”
“You know your doctor said you’ll have to take it easy for this pregnancy. You don’t want anything to jeopardize carrying your baby to term.”
Two months ago, Sharon’s husband had been tragically killed in a plane crash on his way back from a business trip. As if that wasn’t devastating enough, Sharon had just learned she was pregnant. She’d been able to share the thrilling news with Warren over the phone, and had been looking forward to celebrating with him upon his return. Only his company’s private plane had gone down shortly after takeoff in Virginia, killing all on board, including three members of the firm’s executive team.
“I know…and I want this baby more than anything. Warren and I both did. I keep trying to look on the bright side. I’m financially set and I don’t have to travel to a job every day, which means I can take it nice and easy and make sure to carry this baby to term. I’ll be able to hire a nanny, which will be great—as much for the company as for the help. But the truth is…the truth is I keep thinking about what a wonderful father he would have been, and how much he wanted this baby. I miss him so much, Elsie. I can’t believe I’m finally pregnant and he’s not here…”
Sharon was one of my closest friends, and she sounded as if she was about to fall apart. “You want me to swing by your place on my way to work?”
“No. No, I’ll be fine. But I was thinking that I wouldn’t mind getting away this weekend. If Robert can spare you, will you go to South Carolina with me? We could drive to Charleston, or Myrtle Beach. Stay from Friday to Sunday. It’s not quite bikini weather yet, but I might put one on anyway—before my stomach gets too big.” Sharon laughed, but the sound morphed into a whimper.
“Shh,” I soothed. It broke my heart what she was going through. She had mentioned being financially set, but all the money in the world couldn’t ease a loss like this. “Maybe I should stop by.”
“No…you have to go to work. I just want you to give me something to look forward to. But if you can’t because of the shop, I’ll understand.”
“I’d love to go away,” I told her. “I can get Spike to run things for a couple of days.” Spike was my righthand man at the store, and I didn’t anticipate any problems with him heading up operations for Friday and Saturday. My shop was closed on Sundays. The only issue would be Robert, and whether or not he would have a problem with me going away.
That was another thing that bothered me about my husband on occasion: as much as he had his own life and traveled a lot on his own, he didn’t like me to travel without him. He didn’t outright tell me I couldn’t go somewhere, but when I returned he would complain incessantly about how much he’d missed me, how the house hadn’t been the same without me, how there was an event in Charlotte he would have liked to have taken me to—if only I’d been home. It used to drive me crazy.
I learned to seek Robert’s approval first, and not just tell him I was planning to go somewhere with a friend. More times than not he would find some reason to object to my plans. And more times than not, I ended up staying home because I didn’t want to disappoint him.
But this weekend Sharon wasn’t the only one who could use some time away.
“If you can, that’d be great,” she said, sounding better already. “I need a change of scenery, you know?”
“Of course you do. Robert’s been in the office all week, but I’ll run it by him tonight. I know a great place in Charleston we can stay, this quaint bed-and-breakfast where he and I stayed the last time we were there.”
“I’ll wait to hear back from you.”
As I hung up, I mentally prepared myself for broaching the subject with Robert. I’d take him to the club tonight, where we would have a nice dinner and he could unwind. If I could get him to relax and be happy, then he’d be more likely to say yes to me going away.
I climbed out of bed and headed for the shower, a niggling thought bothering me.
That I was Robert’s wife, not his child—and I shouldn’t have to get his permission to take a short trip with a friend.
Chapter Five
I called Robert at lunchtime and told him I’d made reservations at the club for seven. “You’ve been working hard all week and I’ve hardly seen you. I’d love to have a nice dinner with you tonight.”
“That’s a great idea, Elsie. Thank you.”
Robert looked harried when he arrived at home, but once we were seated in The Peninsula Club’s dining room, I could see the stress begin to fade from his face.
Good. The better his mood, the more likely he would be favorable to what I was going to suggest.
Everyone knew us here, and shortly after we were seated, Robert’s usual glass of Remy Martin Louis XIII was brought over—an outrageously priced cognac considered to be one of the best in the world. There was also a glass of Santa Lucia Highlands pinot noir for me—much more reasonably priced by comparison. This is how we always started our order, so the staff knew there would be no complaints.
Robert took a sip of his very pricey drink, and I could almost see more of his stress dissipate. He felt comfortable here, his home away from home. Perhaps also because—unlike The Melting Pot—it was full of people he could relate to: rich older men with wives who knew their place.
Wives who didn’t want to lose, by way of a nasty divorce, the luxuries they’d become accustomed to. I saw some in the dining room who I believed should have left their marriages ages ago. Ruthie Davenport. Agnes Long. They were older, in their sixties, but it was long rumored that their husbands had had affairs with several younger women. Ruthie’s husband apparently had gotten not one, but two mistresses knocked up.
Felicity Williams was in her early thirties, and her husband was a philandering pro athlete. They’d been college sweethearts, and the word was that she wasn’t going to let some “skank-ass ho” steal her man.
There were even a couple rumors of physical abuse. But through it all, those wives had stayed.
I had always pitied the wives of such husbands. And I’d never seen Robert as a man who would abuse his wife either emotionally or physically. And yet here I was, a little fearful of asking if he would be okay if I went out of town with a dear friend for a few days.
How had our marriage gotten to this point? For the first couple of years, I never would have been afraid to ask Robert anything. He had been thoughtful and patient—at least with me. I’d heard him argue with his ex-wives on occasion, and had always thought it odd that he could be so cruel with them, yet loving with me. Once, when wife number two was dropping off their teenage daughter, she’d murmured, “Enjoy Robert while he’s nice. Because once he turns…”
She hadn’t finished her statement, but I’d dismissed her warning as a comment from a bitter ex-wife.
Now, as I looked around the busy dining room, I couldn’t help wondering if anyone there pitied me? The wait staff? The managers? The other wives? Had any of them seen something in my marriage that I had missed?
Robert smiled brightly and waved at someone across the room. He was charming and pleasant. Definitely likable. Successful.
Though I’d been having some doubts about my marriage over the last several months, I now found myself flip-flopping. Robert’s irritability, and his occasional rude behavior, such as he displayed at The Melting Pot—they had to be effects of getting older. Either emotional or physical—or both.
Approaching seventy, he could no longer ignore his mortality. And maybe there were changes in a man’s body that made him more irritable as he hit a certain age. If there was some physiological reason for Robert’s behavior, how could I hold it against him?
And there were so many happy memories from early in our marriage that I clung to.
Like the time we were in Paris, and I was in the hotel suite alone while Robert was at a business meeting. There was a knock on the door and I’d opened it to find Room Service delivering a cart with three trays on it. The waiter wheeled the cart into the room and lifted the silver lids to reveal fresh fruit slices and chocolate fondue.
I’d assumed Robert had simply sent the fruit to the room as a treat for me—but the real surprise came when he suddenly appeared in the doorway as the waiter was leaving.
Robert had ordered the fondue platter not so much for the fruit, but for me. For my body. He put the chocolate on my nipples, licked it off slowly. He put it on my ass, then ate it off with his tongue and his teeth. And he made me come—over and over—when he’d licked chocolate off my clit with tender, hot strokes…
“Cindy,” Robert was saying warmly.
At the sound of his voice, I was jerked from my memory. I glanced upward at Cindy, a waitress we knew well. He greeted her by squeezing her hand. “How are you?”
“Better now that you’re here.”
A flirtatious comment? Perhaps, but I didn’t take it seriously—and I certainly would never get mad at Robert for it. Unlike how he had treated Alexander.
Robert chuckled. He proceeded to joke with Cindy and make conversation about her studies. She was putting herself through UNC, the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, and one day hoped to become a lawyer.
Cindy smiled as she answered his questions—and yet I would never consider her anything other than professional. She was being nice to a customer. The same thing the waiter at the other restaurant had been doing.
Cindy or any of the waitresses here could easily have designs on some of the rich regulars at the club. And they’d be in a far better position to try and undermine a marriage than a waiter we were likely to see only once in our lives.
Forget what happened at The Melting Pot, I told myself.
But the hypocrisy bothered me—even if I could forgive Robert’s behavior.
I glanced around as he continued to chat with Cindy. And when my eyes landed on a pair of wide shoulders beneath a black blazer, my heart pounded in my chest.
The shoulders…that golden-brown skin…the shaved head.
Oh, my God. Was it him?
My pussy began to throb.
“Elsie,” Robert said urgently.
I jerked my eyes back to his. “Sorry.”
“Cindy wants to know if you’re having the steak.”
“Yes. Yes, the steak is fine.”
My eyes ventured across the dining room again. Disappointment came crashing in.
It wasn’t him. Lord, it wasn’t him.
The guest had turned, and now I could see his face. He wasn’t the man I’d been fantasizing about.
As Cindy walked away, I brought my wineglass to my lips and sipped. But the wine didn’t wash away my discontent.
I tried to push the sexy stranger out of my mind as we enjoyed our dinner. Tonight was about getting Robert to agree to my trip with Sharon.
By the end of the meal, two glasses of cognac had had their effect on Robert. His business problems forgotten, he was smiling and laughing and telling me stories about the early days of his company.
It was the perfect time for me to ask him about my trip.
“Darling.” I reached across the table and covered his hand with mine. “There’s something I want to talk about.”
Robert swirled the dregs of cognac in his glass. “Yes?”
“You know Sharon’s been having a hard time ever since…ever since Warren’s death.”
Sharon was one of the first women I’d met in the neighborhood after marrying Robert. A stunning, dark-skinned beauty, she could have easily passed for a high-fashion model. I’d been pleasantly surprised to find her completely down-to-earth. She was a couple years older than me, and had married Warren the month after their college graduation. Warren had gone on to start an Internet business, which he’d sold for millions and millions before the dot-com bust. He took part of that profit and began a telecommunications company, which was also a huge success.
Like Robert, Warren had been a self-made millionaire. But the difference between Sharon and Warren’s relationship and mine and Robert’s was that they’d met and fallen in love before either of them had any money. And from everything Sharon had told me, Warren always treated her as an equal in their marriage.
“Yes, of course. Such a tragedy.”
That was an understatement. The one thing that had kept them from being one hundred percent content was their inability to have a baby. Sharon had been pregnant six times, but miscarried each one. For a few years she’d gone on the Pill, giving up her dream altogether. Then they’d decided to try again. Six months after going off the Pill, she miraculously got pregnant.
And then she’d lost her husband.
“Understandably, Sharon is feeling glum. Oh, she’s putting on a brave face. She’s been incredibly strong since losing Warren.” I knew she was trying to be extra strong, not wanting anything to cause her to miscarry again. “But she could use a change of scenery. And who could blame her?”
I paused. Swallowed. Asking my husband if I could go away with a friend for a weekend shouldn’t have given me such anxiety, but it did.
“She wants to go away?” Robert asked.
“Just for the weekend,” I quickly said. “Probably drive down to Charleston, or Myrtle Beach. You know. To get her out of that big, empty house.”
“And she wants you to go with her,” Robert stated.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“This weekend. Tomorrow until Sunday.”
“So you’ve already planned it,” Robert said.
“No.” I tried to sound casual. “Nothing is planned. I told her I would run it by you first, but that as far as I know we have no plans, so hopefully…”
“I think Charleston would be the best option,” Robert said. “I don’t think a pregnant woman has any business at Myrtle Beach. There are too many horny college kids there. It’s not a good scene.”
My anxiety ebbed away. I tried to mask my surprise when I met Robert’s eyes. “So, you don’t mind that I go with her?”
As Robert sipped the last of his cognac, I wondered if it had magical powers. For the price, it certainly should. And in this case, if it had put him in such a good mood that he was offering no objections, it was well worth the money.
“Why would I mind?” he asked. “I’m sure you’ve been bored all week. I’ve been working more than usual. And you’re Sharon’s closest friend here. Of course she would want to go with you.”
I felt a smile break out on my face. “Thank you, Robert. She’ll be very happy.”
“What about the shop?” he asked. “It’s not a busy weekend?”
“Not particularly. Spike can handle all orders, and Tabitha is always asking for more hours. I’m sure between her, Maxine and Olivia, the store will be appropriately staffed.”
“Sounds like it’s all set. You should stay at that wonderful bed-and-breakfast where we went the last time we were there.”
“The Barksdale House Inn. I’ll call them to see if they’ve got room.”
“Very good, then.”
My lips curled in a soft smile as I stared at Robert. This was the man I’d fallen in love with—the kind and considerate man.
My doubts about our marriage seemed to float away.
Robert had his flaws, sure.
But no one was perfect.
Chapter Six
I had always believed that I was not motivated by sex. That for me, an emotional connection was paramount, first and foremost. So I was very surprised to find myself having another hot dream about the stranger from my store later that week.
In the dream, I was sitting at the bar, looked to my right—and suddenly he was there. My body had an immediate reaction to him, as if an electric current were hitting me.
He said no words, just smiled at me, the kind of smile that oozed sensual heat. Then, abruptly, we were no longer in the bar, but in a bedroom somewhere, with only one lamp on.
He was sitting on the large bed. I was standing in front of him.
“Take your clothes off,” he said.
The words aroused me. The thought of undressing for this stranger, of fucking him, excited me beyond anything I had ever known.
So I pulled my dress over my head, revealing my nude body. I stood in front of him for a long while, his hazel eyes feasting on my nakedness and almost burning me with desire.
I’d never stood naked like this in front of a stranger before, and yet I didn’t feel self-conscious. Instead, a delicious rush coursed through my body.
“Touch your pussy,” he said.
I ran the tip of my finger over my clit, something I had never done in front of a man I didn’t know.
“Are you wet?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling an erotic charge at the admission. “Very.”
Slowly, he rose from the bed and came to me. He kissed me, deep and hot, while his hands covered my breasts. As he squeezed the soft mounds, tweaked my nipples, he moaned—a low, hot growl that made me feel a surge of feminine power beyond anything I had ever experienced.
I gripped the edges of his shirt, anxious to see him naked, as well. As his tongue tangled with mine, I pulled his shirt out of his pants and splayed my hands on his abdomen. He was all hard ripples and muscles, with the body of an Adonis.
Tearing his lips from mine, he lowered his head to my breast and drew one of my nipples into his mouth. Prickles of pleasure and pain shot through me. He suckled me hard, hungrily. This was raw, primal. About lust and need with a man whose body spoke to mine in a language all its own.
I arched my back, moaned. Stroked his cock through his pants.
As his tongue worked its wicked magic on my nipples, he cupped my pussy. I melted. Had anyone’s touch ever felt this good?
When his fingers slipped into my layers of flesh, I gripped his shoulders and threw my head back, whimpering from the exquisite pleasure. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”
“Yes, baby,” he whispered against my ear, and penetrated my vagina with a finger, pushed it in deep. “I love how your pussy feels.” His digit still inside of me, he went down on his haunches. “Now I want to see how you taste.”
He flicked his thumb over my clit, and then his tongue—and a shudder roared through my body. Then he spread my folds and suckled me with exquisite gentleness until I was coming and screaming.
I woke up to find my hand between my legs, my pussy throbbing and wet. I rode the wave of my orgasm from my dream state to consciousness.
After my pleasure subsided, I was satisfied but perplexed. I had just come while dreaming.
Me—someone who hadn’t had these kinds of arousing fantasies even as a teenager.
Something was changing in me. I was having sexual needs and urges I wasn’t used to.
And I was liking them.
On Friday around ten, Sharon and I left for Charleston. She wanted to drive, and that was fine, so she came by my place and picked me up in her Cadillac Escalade. Robert had once again left for the office early that morning, but before he went, he’d kissed me deeply and told me to have a good time.
I had expected him to be busy with the board, with conference calls to Germany and whatever else he needed to do in order to seal the acquisition deal. So I was surprised when my iPhone trilled before Sharon and I even made it Charleston.
“I had a break, so I thought I’d call,” he explained when I picked up. “I phoned the bed-and-breakfast. They said you hadn’t checked in yet.”
“That’s because we’re just getting into Charleston now.”
“It’s nearly three o’clock,” Robert said.
“We didn’t leave until ten, and there was must have been a wreck on I-77, because we were backed up for a good hour.”
“Oh. So how far are you?”
“Ten minutes from the B and B, I think. Maybe fifteen.”
“Call me when you get settled,” he told me.
But before I could, he called again, just as Sharon and I got to the room.
I put the phone to my ear. “Hi, sweetheart.”
“Just making sure you’ve arrived.”
Or checking up on me? “We’re here.”
“Are you going to go get a bite to eat?”
“A snack, most likely. I already made reservations at Hyman’s.”
“The seafood place. Ah, very nice. For what time?”
“Six-thirty.”
“What’s the weather like?”
“Pretty nice. About seventy-one, right, Sharon?”
“Yeah, that’s what they said on the radio,” she concurred. “I might bring out that bikini yet.”
“What?” Robert asked. “What was that about a bikini?”
“It was a joke,” I told him. “We’re definitely not going swimming.” I paused. “Can I call you back? We just got up to the room, and we want to get settled—”
“No problem. I’ll talk to you later.”
Hanging up, I faced Sharon. “He wanted to make sure we arrived okay.”
She smiled and looked away. But I got the feeling there was an opinion behind the grin.
It might not have been warm enough to swim, but it was warm enough for ice cream—at least as far as Sharon was concerned. So, two hours later, after getting a manicure, we went into an ice cream shop in historic Charleston. I got a cone. Sharon got a hot fudge sundae.
We were walking down the street two minutes later when my phone rang again. I pretty much knew, before looking at the display, that it would be Robert.
I lifted my phone from my purse. Somehow, I refrained from rolling my eyes when I saw his number on the display screen. I didn’t know what had gotten into him.
“Give me a second, Sharon,” I said, stopping. “It’s Robert.”
“Again?” she asked.
I answered my phone. “Hello?”
“Where are you?”
What kind of greeting was that? “Sharon and I are taking a stroll.”
“Oh. I called the room, and you weren’t there. And then your phone went straight to voice mail. I thought you might have headed to Myrtle Beach.”
“What? Myrtle Beach is two hours away.” I wondered why Robert was calling so much. He was acting like a paranoid parent checking up on a kid who’d gone off on her own for the first time. “We were getting our nails done, so I turned my phone off.”
“Of course. Of course. Are you having a good time?”
I looked at Sharon, who was making quick work of finishing off her sundae. “Yeah, we are. So far, so good.”
“Don’t let Sharon drag you into anything scandalous,” Robert said. “Like scoping out a new father for her baby.”
“What?” I asked, stunned by such a ridiculous question.
“Bad joke,” he admitted. “I was out of line.”
Bad joke was right.
“I suppose you’re tired of me calling, but I just miss you, that’s all,” Robert said. “I kind of feel a little…off.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing in particular. A little woozy. Some aches and pains.”
“How serious?” I asked.
“It’s probably stress,” he replied. “It’s been a long week. Nothing a nap won’t cure.”
“You have been very stressed this week. Any success with the acquisition?”
“Finally, I think so.” Robert sounded relieved. “The deal should go through by Monday, as planned—so this is very, very good news.”
“I’m so glad to hear that, darling. I know how much of a headache it’s been for you.”
“It has been, but the end is in sight.” He paused briefly. “So, Hyman’s, right?”
“Yep.”
“Six-thirty?”
“Yep. Six-thirty.”
Sharon narrowed her eyes at me. I could read her thought: What’s with the twenty questions?
“Excellent,” Robert said. “I love you, sweetheart. I’ll call you later.”
“Love you, too,” I replied, then pressed the button to end the call.
I sighed loudly, playing up my own frustration with Robert’s many calls. “Sometimes it’s like he can’t survive without me.”
“That’s sweet,” Sharon commented, and she seemed sincere. “At least it can’t be said that he doesn’t love his wife.”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
She made a wistful sound. “I miss that. The calls to see where you are, even if they’re annoying. I miss it so much.”
“Oh, Sharon.” I put my arm around her shoulders and squeezed. For the most part, ever since Warren’s funeral, she had kept her feelings locked inside. It was a rare moment when she even talked about missing her husband. So for her to be doing so now made it clear to me how much she was hurting. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She placed a hand on her belly. “I have our baby. I’ll be okay.”
“You want to go back to the room and relax for a bit before dinner?” I asked, releasing her.
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind another hot fudge sundae.”
We both smiled.
I was surprised she’d finished off the first huge one. But I said, “Who am I to keep a pregnant woman from what she craves?”
We made it through dinner without Robert phoning again. I was relieved. Despite what Sharon said about Robert’s calls proving he loved me, she had to be wondering the same thing I was.
If he was checking up on me.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
I looked up at her. “Hmm?”
“You’ve hardly touched your key lime pie.”
And before I could speak, my phone rang.
If this was Robert calling for an itemized list of what we’d eaten…
Instead, the display showed the name Felicity Williams.
“It’s Felicity,” I announced, almost happily. I put the phone to my ear. “Hey, Felicity. What’s up?”
“Wondering where you are tonight. A few of us are going to head to NV Lounge to kick back and have a couple of drinks, and wanted to know if you’d like to join us.”
“I can’t. I’m out of town right now.”
“Oh.”
“With Sharon.”
“Ohh.” Felicity’s tone fizzled. “How is she?”
“She’s good. Doing well, all things considering.”
“So sad, what she’s going through,” Felicity said, but she didn’t quite sound sincere.
“I’m gone for the weekend, so I’ll call you when I get back to town,” I told her.
“Where are you?”
“In Charleston.”
“Well, have fun. Ta-ta.”
“Bye,” I said, and ended the call.
“Did she actually ask about me?” Sharon inquired, looking dubious.
“She asked how you’re doing.”
“Funny—she could call me herself to find that out.”
“You still haven’t heard from her?”
“Ha ha ha. That’s a good one.”
Up until the time Warren died, Sharon and I used to get together on Sundays after church with a few other wives “to lunch.” Felicity was one of the women we regularly met with, as was Carmen, the wife of another Carolina Panther. It was what society women did, and we’d discuss what was happening in our worlds, charitable efforts and, of course, gossip.
Unlike Sharon—whom I truly connected with—there seemed to be a wall of glass around Felicity and Carmen. As if you could see them on the other side of the table, but couldn’t touch them. Couldn’t get close.
I’d taken to Sharon the instant I’d met her, seen her as a real person. Felicity and Carmen always put on a bright smile and played like they were happy to see you, but I never felt either one was genuine.
The fact that they hadn’t seen Sharon since her husband’s funeral proved me right.
“I can’t believe Felicity.” I shook my head. “You haven’t heard from Carmen, either?”
“You know those two are thick as thieves. What one does, they both do. And they suddenly have no use for me.”
“Do you think they’re staying away because they don’t know how to…to deal with your grief?” I knew that some people were uncomfortable in the face of another person’s pain.
“Yeah, that’s it.” Sharon rolled her eyes. “Let’s get back to you and what’s going on with you.”
“Me?”
She gave me a pointed look. “You know what I’m talking about.”
I did. And it was one of the reasons I’d wanted to go away with her—to use her as a sounding board for some of my doubts about Robert.
I cut my fork into the key lime pie, but didn’t lift the morsel to my mouth. I did it to keep my hands occupied.
“What’s bothering you?” Sharon pressed.
I sighed. “I just wonder sometimes.”
She raised an eyebrow, waiting for me to go on.
“You and Warren were married for sixteen years. And I know you were college sweethearts and all that. But I just wonder…did you ever…Is it normal to sometimes feel that maybe you’re not sure about your marriage? To wonder if it will last?” I finished with difficulty.
“Is it normal to have doubts about your marriage? Of course it is.”
“So you had doubts at times?”
“Doubts?” Sharon made a face. “There were times I didn’t know if we would make it.”
“Really?”
“After my last miscarriage, I shut down. I had an emotional wall up that no one could penetrate. Warren threw himself into work as a way to avoid both my pain and his. For nearly a month, we hardly spoke.”
“Wow,” I said softly.
“I felt like a failure. We had a great life, and all I wanted was to complete our family with a baby.” Sharon stopped. Inhaled deeply.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t meant to…to be a downer.”
“You’re not. Of course I’m thinking about Warren.” A soft smile curved her lips. “Gosh, we would fight sometimes. Yell and scream at each other. But when we made up…”
I chuckled.
“So, yeah, it’s normal to go through rough times.”
Again, I moved my fork around on my plate. Then I leaned forward and whispered, “But is it normal to…to have fantasies about other men?”
Sharon didn’t answer right away. She took a sip of her water first, which made me wonder if my question had shocked her.
But she said, “I think fantasies are fine. If they help your sex life, why not? It’s a hell of a lot better than some of the things I’ve heard some of our neighbors have done to spice up their love lives.”
I was about to ask if she would still feel that way if all the fantasies were about the same man, but the waitress arrived at our table right then.
“Are you still eating your dessert?” she asked, nodding toward my half-eaten key lime pie.
“No. Please, take it away. I’m stuffed.” I pushed the dessert plate toward her.
“Can I get you ladies anything else?”
“We’re fine, thank you,” I said. “Just bring me the bill, please.”
“Actually, you can bring me the bill,” Sharon said. “It’ll be my treat.”
“That’s not necessary, Sharon,” I told her. “I can take care of it.”
“Lucky for both of you,” the waitress interjected, “the bill’s already been settled.”
I stared up at her in confusion. “But I didn’t give you my card.”
“Are you Elsie Kolstad?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Your husband called in.” Now the woman smiled. “He gave us his credit card and strict instructions to charge the bill to him.”
I looked across the table at Sharon. She shrugged.
“Oh,” I said lamely. “So it’s already been paid.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the waitress replied. “I wish my husband was so thoughtful.”
“Yeah,” I responded, making sure to keep my voice cheery.
It wasn’t the first time Robert had called ahead to pay my dinner bill, even if I was just out for the evening with friends. The first time he’d done it, I’d considered the gesture chivalrous.
Not today. Today, it seemed like control.
Chapter Seven
Despite my lack of appetite for dessert, Sharon and I sat on the sofa munching on popcorn and watching a teen slasher flick that we’d picked up from a variety store—a movie that neither of us had heard of, starring no-name actors. The special effects were so pathetic and the story line so incredible that the movie wasn’t scary in the least. In fact, it was laughable.
We were watching a shower scene now, with a big-busted woman who seemed more interested in touching herself than getting clean, lathering soap over her breasts and ass in what was meant to be an erotic display.
“All right, all right, we get it,” Sharon mumbled. “Can we move on with the plot, please?”
“What plot?” I asked, laughing.
“Why are there never any naked guys in these movies?” she asked.
“Because the writers and producers are men. And they obviously don’t think that women enjoy seeing a nice male ass, too.”
Sensing a noise, the actress paused with her hands on her nipples, which she had caressed to an erect state. The music’s tempo had picked up, indicating that danger was imminent. The blonde-haired beauty asked, “Who’s there?” and then playfully, “Donnie, is that you?”
Though Sharon and I had to know what was coming, that when the woman pulled back the shower curtain she would face the masked killer, we screamed when it happened. The woman’s eyes went wide with terror, and the killer raised a large butcher knife. She started to scream, but it was too late, and a moment later blood sprayed all over the bathroom.
Or tomato juice.
The gruesome murder completed, the killer muttered, “Nice tits.”
“Right,” Sharon said in an exaggerated tone. “That’s realistic.”
I started to laugh. So did she. The movie might have been stupid, but it was just what we needed—something so far from reality that it wouldn’t remind Sharon of the loss of her husband.
The scene went from the gruesome one in the bathroom to a college campus. I picked up a handful of popcorn—extra butter as Sharon had requested—and had just begun to munch on a mouthful when the room phone rang.
“I know it’s not for me,” she said.
“I guess Robert’s calling to say good-night.”
I got up from the sofa and hurried to the phone. Sharon paused the DVD.
“Hello?” I said.
“Oh, darling.” He seemed a little breathless. “I’m glad I reached you.”
Instantly, I was alarmed. “Robert, what’s the matter?”
“I don’t know…but I haven’t been feeling well for the last couple of hours.” He sounded as if it hurt to talk. “I…”
“What hurts? Your head? Is it stomach pains again?”
“My…chest.”
“Oh, my God.”
Sharon flashed me a look of concern.
“All the stress of this week…I think it’s gotten to me.”
“Oh, Robert.”
“I need you, Elsie.”
“Of course.” My heart pounded against my rib cage. “Oh, my God.” I spoke hurriedly, my own breathing ragged. “You have to hang up and call 911. Get to a hospital, Robert.”
“All…right…I will.”
Sharon got up and moved to stand beside me. “You’ll be fine, sweetheart,” I told him. He had to be. “You’ll be fine.”
“I need you, Elsie.”
“I’ll leave right now. Have the hospital call me when you get there, so I know which one you’ve gone to.”
“Elsie…If anything happens, I love you. I want you to know that.”
“Don’t talk like that! You’re going to be fine. But please call for an ambulance. Now.”
My hands were shaking as I replaced the receiver. I met my friend’s concerned gaze. “We have to go. Right now.” My hands began to shake. “Oh, Sharon.”
“What?” she asked. “What’s going on?”
“I think Robert might be having a heart attack!”
Fear unlike any I’d ever experienced before gripped me for the entire drive home. Even if I’d taken my car to Charleston, Sharon would have had to drive back. I was far too shaky to control the wheel.
With each passing second, I grew more and more terrified. I’d called every hospital in the Cornelius area, and even within Charlotte proper, but couldn’t confirm that a Robert Kolstad had been admitted to any of them. If he wasn’t in the hospital, did that mean he was dead on the floor of our house?
“Why does no hospital have any record of him being admitted?” I asked. My voice was shrill, laced with panic.
And I was also feeling guilty. Guilty that I’d entertained, even for a minute, the idea of leaving Robert.
“Maybe it’s too soon,” Sharon said. “Or maybe there was an error when they put him in the system.”
“Or maybe he’s dead on the floor!”
“He’s not dead.” Sharon reached for my hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. “I know he’s not. Don’t start thinking the worst.”
“I should call Olga!” I exclaimed, remembering our housekeeper. “She’s not normally in on the weekends, but—”
“Olga’s out of town for her daughter’s wedding this weekend, remember?”
“Oh, shit. That’s right.” I pressed a palm to my forehead. “Shit, Sharon. He mentioned he wasn’t feeling the best. I shouldn’t have left him. I shouldn’t have…”
“Don’t blame yourself. He’s okay. I know it. And we’re almost there.”
My phone was sweaty in my hands. “I’m going to try the hospitals again.”
Calls to all area hospitals produced no results. I would make the rounds of every one if I had to, but first I needed to go home and see if Robert was there.
If he was…
No, he’s not. He can’t be.
As Sharon pulled into my driveway, I drew in a gaspy breath and wiped away tears. I wasn’t sure how she’d been so strong after the death of her husband, but I was already an emotional wreck, anticipating finding Robert’s lifeless body in the house.
“Don’t do that,” she said. “Don’t fall apart yet.”
I nodded. “Thank you, Sharon.” I reached for the car door. “Thank you.”
“You think you’re going inside without me? Not a chance.”
I pulled on the handle a couple of times, wondering why it wouldn’t open.
“It’s locked, sweetie,” Sharon said. “Give me a second.”
Of course.
I let go of the handle, and she hit the button to release the locks. I all but fell out of the car when I opened the door.
Sharon had to unlock the front door to my house because I was too jittery to do it. She stepped inside first. I took a deep breath and went in after her.
The great room was empty, but I had expected that. If Robert was anywhere, it was going to be our bedroom.
I rushed for the staircase. Darted upstairs. At the top I turned left and ran down the long hallway.
The double doors were slightly ajar, and I pushed them open. The light on Robert’s night table was on, illuminating his still form on the bed.
I gasped. Started to cry.
“Robert!” I ran toward him.
And that’s when something amazing happened. He lifted his head and looked at me.
Utterly surprised, I stopped dead in my tracks. It was as if I had so expected the worst that my brain couldn’t process what I was seeing.
“Elsie…”
The sound of Robert’s voice broke the spell. Happiness bubbled out of me in a relieved breath.
“Thank God!” I quickly looked at Sharon. She clasped her hands together, clearly overjoyed. Then I made my way to the bed, where I sat beside Robert and took his hand in mine.
“You’re here.” He sounded weak.
“Oh, baby. I was so worried.” I pressed his hand against my cheek. “What happened?”
“I’m fine now. That’s all the matters.”
“You went to the hospital?”
Robert’s eyes flicked in Sharon’s direction. I got his meaning. He didn’t want to discuss the situation with her here.
I eased off the bed and crossed the room to the door, where Sharon was standing, respectfully keeping her distance.
“Well, he’s not dead,” I said, stating the obvious. I heaved a weary sigh. “Thank you so much for getting me here safe and sound. I couldn’t have done it alone.”
She waved away my comment. “There’s no need to thank me.”
“I’m sorry we had to cut our weekend short,” I told her.
“Gimme a break. There’s no need to apologize for that.”
I nodded, then gave her a hug. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Update you on Robert’s progress.”
“Go take care of your husband.”
“Let me see you out.”
I walked downstairs with Sharon, saw her to her car, then went back inside. Before rejoining Robert, I went to the kitchen and put on the kettle to make some tea for him.
The kettle on, I headed upstairs. Robert was still lying in bed.
I climbed onto the bed beside him and gently stroked his face. “How’re you feeling?”
“I’m good now.” He reached for my hand. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”
“I called every hospital. No one could tell me if you were admitted. I was going out of my mind with worry. I thought I’d come here and find…and find…”
“I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to put you through that.”
“Where did you go? University Hospital?”
“I went to Lake Norman.”
“Weird,” I said. I’d phoned Lake Norman Regional Medical Center first. “I called there. A few times. They said they didn’t have you in their system.”
“Perhaps because I was in Emergency.”
“Perhaps,” I acknowledged. After a beat, I went on. “Obviously, you didn’t have a heart attack.”
“I didn’t.” Robert chuckled softly. “You’ll think this is silly. It was gas pains.”
Three years ago, I’d rushed Robert to the hospital when he’d been having chest pains. We’d feared a heart attack, but we’d learned that he actually had a gas bubble in his chest that was causing the pain.
“Like the last time,” I said.
“Yes.” Again, Robert chuckled. “Just like the last time.”
“Well.” I planted a kiss on my husband’s soft cheek. “Thank God it wasn’t a heart attack. I really freaked out, Robert. All the way driving here, I was…”
“I’m sorry about your weekend.”
“Don’t apologize. Of course I had to come home.” I gazed down at him, once again feeling guilty for thinking that he and I might be headed for divorce. Biting back that thought, I said, “Look, I’ve got the kettle on. Would you like some peppermint tea?”
“Oh, that would be nice.”
“All right. I’ll be back up soon.”
Downstairs, I prepared tea for both of us, and arranged the cups on a silver tray, along with two spoons and a jar of honey.
“Here you go,” I said, setting the tray on the large night table closest to Robert. We had a four-poster bed, with oversize nightstands and dressers. I’d thought the tables too large when I’d first seen them, but the marble surface did come in handy when extra space was needed.
Robert eased himself up and reached for a cup. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t put any honey in it.”
“Oh, it’s fine like this.”
“By the way, how did you get home?” I asked.
“Pardon me?”
“From the hospital. You called for an ambulance, right?”
“Oh. Right. Yes, yes I did.”
“So how did you get home?”
“I…I took a taxi.”
“You could have waited for me at the hospital. I would have picked you up.”
“It was no bother.”
I glanced at the bedside clock. “You made it through the E.R. in very good time.” It was a little after 2:00 a.m., and Robert had called me just before ten. Sharon and I had wasted no time in checking out, but it still took us about three and a half hours to get home.
“A man my age who goes to Emergency with chest pains…The doctors don’t want to take any chances.”
“Of course not. And I’m glad. I just wish I’d been here for you.”
Robert sipped more of his tea. He finished about half of it before putting the cup back on the tray. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m very tired. I’d like to get some sleep.”
“It’s very late. We both need to get some sleep.” I gave my husband a lingering kiss on the lips. I collected the tray and cups and took them down to the kitchen.
By the time I came back upstairs, Robert was asleep, his lips parted as he snored quietly.
I went to the master bathroom. Seeing my reflection in the mirror, I groaned. I looked awful. The worry had had its effect on me, but that was to be expected. Thank God the crisis had passed.
The last time Robert had gone to the hospital for chest pains and learned it was gas, the E.R. doctor had given him a prescription for lactulose—a thick, sugary liquid that he’d complained about taking, though it had worked wonders.
I didn’t see a bottle of lactulose on the bathroom counter, or any other prescription bottle. I searched the medicine cabinet, but once again saw nothing other than the regular medicines Robert was already taking.
Something made me head downstairs to the kitchen again. I couldn’t remember if the prescription Robert had been given last time was supposed to be stored in the fridge. But there was no lactulose in our refrigerator, either.
Was Robert lying?
“No,” I replied aloud to my silent question. “Robert wouldn’t have lied about something so serious.”
But he was in and out of Emergency so quickly.
The time we had gone to the hospital for the same issue, it had taken more than four hours, what with the myriad tests he’d gone through. They’d given him an EKG, X-ray, blood tests. Breathing tests.
Even if I could understand him getting through Emergency in under three hours, I found myself wondering about his current physical condition.
When he’d had the heart attack scare the first time, there had been shortness of breath and intense pain every time he inhaled. The agony had lasted for hours before the medicine kicked in. But this time, Robert wasn’t exhibiting any of those symptoms.
What if this whole incident was an elaborate scheme to get me to come home?
I’d been wary of broaching the subject of going away. Robert didn’t like me to leave him, and definitely not for a few days. In fact, I’d been a little surprised that he’d been so agreeable to the idea of me and Sharon taking off for the weekend.
But then there had been the constant phone calls. Him paying our bill at the restaurant. I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that that was Robert’s way to check and see if I was actually there…
Maybe I was overreacting.
“Or maybe I’m not,” I whispered. It wasn’t the first time he had done something to subtly—or not so subtly—convince me to change my mind about something.
Like the time a year ago when my father had invited me to Texas for a visit. After my mother took me away when I was fourteen, I didn’t see my dad for four years. There were no cell phones back then, so no easy way for me to sneak a call to him without my mother finding out. But I’d called my father collect from a payphone on my first day at my new school. I’d been relieved to reach him, and quickly told him where I was so that he could come and get me. I’d been stunned to learn that he already knew where I was. My mother had called him days after we’d arrived in Philadelphia. I didn’t understand why he hadn’t come for me, but he explained that he’d wanted to do exactly that, that he’d contacted the authorities to try and find me. But my mother had convinced him that she was in a better position to take care of me. My father worked long hours as a janitor at two different office buildings and didn’t make a ton of money. Who would see me off to school in the morning, or make dinner for me when he worked late? He also explained that while his desire was to fight for custody of me, he knew that the courts favored the mothers the majority of the time. Besides, going to court would cost money—money he didn’t have. He promised we would stay in touch via phone calls and hopefully visits when the opportunity arose.
I’d had to accept what he’d told me—I didn’t have any other choice. But I secretly believed that he hadn’t pushed the issue of custody because he didn’t want to fall out of favor with my mother. That after everything she had done to hurt him, he still hoped she would come back to him one day.
Their relationship may have been dysfunctional, but he’d loved her.
True to his word, my father and I did stay in touch. We talked on the phone about once a week in the beginning, then tapered off to about once a month. When I was eighteen and legally an adult, I borrowed money from a friend to go see my dad. I thought maybe I could live with him. But a week into the visit, I knew it wasn’t going to work out.
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