Blushing Pink (11 page)

Angela emerged from the bathroom to find her husband still watching C-SPAN in silence. "Honey..." she said gently. "It's time." She had her hand out, open-palmed, with his pill ready and waiting, and a paper cup filled with water.

She came closer in spite of his sigh. "Here," she said. "Do you want some more water? I can fill another cup—"

He shook his head, and took the pill and cup. "Don't worry about it; this is fine."

"Are you sure, honey? It's no trouble...." She motioned toward the bathroom.

"I don't
need
more," he said curtly. Then he drank the contents of the minuscule paper cup, set it down on the nightstand, and hopped out of bed.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

He ignored the question, and headed toward the bathroom. He must have thought the sound of the door closing on her was answer enough.

She just watched him walk around the bed, past it, past her, while her insides twisted with anguish, and her blood boiled with unspent emotion.
Zoom and now he's gone.

Pretty soon the only sound left in the room had been the deep voice of a C-SPAN anchor, broadcasting some thoroughly depressing news.

She sighed now, thinking about it, ignored the ringing of her fax machine, and sank her face into her hands. She'd first met Drew at a cocktail party. He'd been thirty-five then, and striking to her, with his rumpled handsomeness and reserved charm. It hadn't taken long for her to realize that he was her soul mate—despite their ten-year age difference, and despite the fact that he was divorced, which used to be synonymous with defective as far as Joanna was concerned.

They had gotten married on her twenty-seventh birthday, and since then, had had three fabulous years together. Until six months ago, when Drew had had a sudden heart attack, and everything had changed. No one could believe it; he was forty and not in bad shape. Dr. Stone had explained that Drew's heart attack really had to do with a genetic precondition, and now that he was aware of it, he could control it with medication. He'd even told Angela not to worry.

Hah!
As if that were an option.

She always tried to help Drew however she could—or
couldn't,
if most of the time was any indication. He seemed to hate her hovering. In fact, he'd been moping around depressed and diminished for the past six months, and all her help seemed only to make it worse.

Honestly? It was damn frustrating! The man resisted every effort she made to help him no matter how small. Yet every time she felt on the verge of giving him that smack, she remembered waiting in the ICU, clutching at her stomach, at some imaginary ulcer, and shaking too much to hold the coffee Reese kept bringing her. The memory was still so viscerally painful, it never failed to renew her sense of protection. Whether that annoying, pigheaded jerk liked it or not.

Of course, she wished she could talk about it with her sisters, but it was just too hard. She couldn't help feeling that she'd be violating the sacred bond she shared with Drew if she blabbed his personal problems to other people. Okay, so her sisters weren't just people. And Angela had already told Reese a million personal things about Drew, not to mention a few sexual things. But then again, those hadn't been problems.

And speaking of sex... Angela couldn't help noticing (daily) that she and Drew hadn't been intimate for almost three months. Since he was the one who was so emotionally distant, she hoped
he
would initiate something. She needed some reassurance, after all. But no, apparently it was not going to work that way.

Sure, Drew gave her an obligatory quick kiss hello and good-bye every day, but that was pretty much it. Angela never brought it up—all part of the futile effort to keep things light.
Hmm...
That begged the question: If she was keeping things light, why did she have an aching heaviness in her chest, and a sagging in her heart?

She clicked her mouse on the solitaire icon. She had about ten portfolios to look over today, but she really didn't give a damn. Nothing was going to keep her from moping. And playing solitaire would be the perfect sealing touch.

Several minutes and two lost games later, she broke. Forcefully pushing back from her desk, she bounced up out of her seat.
I'm not gonna take this anymore,
she thought, fairly sure she meant it, but uncertain what "it" really meant. All she did know was that she needed a change—a major change. She needed to fix her life, with or without her husband's help.

Although that wasn't totally realistic, because she needed her husband back more than anything. But that seemed like a lot to figure out at the moment, so instead she picked up the phone and dialed. After three rings, Reese picked up her cell. "Hello?"

"Hey, what's up?"

"Hi!"

"What are you doing? Just hanging out at home?"

"No, I was power walking. Or my unpowerful version of it," Reese said brightly.

Only then did Angela register the sounds of traffic in the distance, and a horn honking. "Where are you?"

"Just a couple blocks from home."

"Oh. Wanna go out for lunch?"

"Yeah, sure. When?"

Angela looked at her watch. "I'll leave now; I'll pick you up in fifteen minutes. Afterward, maybe we can go to the movies, or something."

"Oh, okay. But wait, don't you have to get back to work?"

Angela held the phone between her ear and her shoulder, while she took a pair of Nikes out of her bottom desk drawer. Shucking off her heels, she said, "I'm blowing it off."

"What?
Okay, if this is Ally, you're doing Angela's voice really well."

"Be quiet," Angela said, grinning. "So, fifteen minutes?" she asked, already feeling a little better.

"Sure, okay," Reese said. "This isn't like you."

"My thoughts exactly," Angela said and turned off her computer.

Chapter 8

Reese snapped her phone closed, and started climbing the tall flight of steps up to the front door. Her latest epiphany, which had come to her in a dream: If she felt better about herself, she might have the confidence to fix the other problems in her life. (Well, she never said it was
groundbreaking.)

She paused at the top step and inhaled deeply, feeling much healthier just by being outside in the crisp, clean air. Goldwood had always exuded a special aura—a perfect blend of modern suburbia and rustic northeast. The houses were contemporary, but the trees were thick, and the air was often sweet with the aroma of wood-burning stoves. That was how it had always been. Reese usually forgot how reassuring it was until she came back.

Just as she fit her house key in the lock, she heard a withery voice call out. She turned and saw their tiny, white-haired next-door neighbor. Reese waved. "Hi, Mrs. Rosenburrow. How are you today?"

"Oh, I'm so excited for your sister's wedding!" Mrs. Rosenburrow called from her porch. Both of her fragile hands were clutching at the doily collar of her cardigan, keeping it closed around her neck. "Your mother tells me that you're going to keep me company there!"

Reese kept her smile frozen in place. "Yeah, definitely," she said, though that was the first time she'd heard about it.

"Your mother said you'll introduce me to some new people! Ever since Harvey passed, I've been wanting to branch out!"

"Oh, mmm-hmm."

"I wouldn't mind meeting a man! Your mother said you'll find me one!"

Reese was beginning to feel dumb having this conversation outside and at shouting level. Also, she couldn't help being irritated, yet again, by her mother's promises. Where was Reese supposed to find an eligible eighty-year-old for Mrs. Rosenburrow?

"Okay, great!" Reese called. Mrs. Rosenburrow took one hand off her doily collar to wave again. "Bye-bye," Reese added, smiling, and turned the key. She'd just nudged the front door closed with her hip when her cell rang again. Figuring it was probably Angela, she snapped it open and said, "Yes?"

"Reese?"

"Uh... um... yes?" She was stalling. She knew exactly who it was (she recognized the deep, authoritative voice, and the undercurrent of impending doom).

"This is Professor Kimble," he stated majestically. "I trust you're working hard."

"Um, uh-huh, sure, yeah, of course."
Quit babbling.
She couldn't help it—Kimble was the last person she expected to talk to. In fact, she'd given him her cell phone number only in passing, when she'd slipped up and mentioned she was going home for break, and no, unfortunately, her family didn't have a phone. She'd prayed so many times that he wouldn't remember the number, and when she hadn't heard from him in a few days, she'd thought she was in the clear until spring semester.

But no, things were rarely so easy with Kimble. Talk about an egomaniac. For pete's sake, this was her break! She was keeping up with his work, but did they actually have to
converse,
too?

"How far have you gotten with chapter eight?" he asked. No
How's it going? Looking forward to the holidays? Sorry to disturb you on your VACATION?

"I'm almost done with it actually." At least that was true. Before she'd gone home for break, she'd finished most of chapter eight, entitled "Historical Documents and Their Importance in Understanding Documented History." She just had to ramble on in circles for a few more pages, find a few more synonyms for "discover" and "forefathers."

"That's what I was counting on," he said. No:
Thank you. Wow, almost done, already?
Or,
How do you stand writing that crap?
"I'll need you to make some additions, however."

"Oh, really?" That seemed hard to imagine, because as it was, she was having trouble eking out enough BS for a whole chapter.

"Yes, I've compiled some closing thoughts that will flesh out the analysis a bit more." Jesus, was that possible? Kimble had pretty much reduced the "analysis" to its most basic state.

"All right," she said, "if you just want to e-mail me the new material, I'll try to take a look at it this week—"

"No, I'm afraid that simply won't do," he said imperiously. "I want to convey these ideas to you while they're still fresh."
Fresh?
Reese stifled a laugh.

Rolling her eyes, she scoured the bureau in the front hall for a pen and paper. No luck. "Hold on just a minute," she said, and Kimble merely grunted. Taking the steps two at a time, Reese sprinted upstairs and into her bedroom. She pulled a spiral notebook and pink ballpoint out of her book bag, and said on a breath, "Okay, I'm ready."

Promptly Kimble began his usual mode of dictation: speaking as if he were at a poetry slam, every syllable imbued with affected pretense, while Reese tried not to toss her cookies. "Historical documents provide a discourse," he said slowly, dramatically. "No, wait. They provide... a discursive
framework.
Yes, a discursive framework. Full stop."

She rolled her eyes again, and shimmied out of her track pants. "Uh-huh." She managed a half-assed, shorthand version as she rooted around for some jeans.

"New sentence. Historical documents teach us—and
allow
us to be
taught."

She tossed her pad on the bed; she could invent better bullshit on her worst day. With the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, she jumped into a pair of faded blue jeans. As she worked the button-fly, she heard keys at the front door.

Kimble droned on, while Reese jogged down the stairs and found Angela in the kitchen. "Hey!" she said, looking bubbly and adorable in a suit skirt, with silver Nikes and the BC sweatshirt Reese had given her years ago. Her hair was flipped out and wild from the wind, and her face was rosy, which only made her eyes appear more intensely dark.

"Hey," Reese whispered, pushing the phone away from her mouth. "You're
very
sultry."

Angela glanced down at herself, then said, "Oh, whatever." Reese held up her finger, because she thought she heard Kimble say something like, "Now, read it back to me."
Shoot!

"Um... what?" More stalling.

"Wait, actually I forgot something!" he said. "Final sentence. It is crucial for people to uncover historical documents, and was it not Foucault who once said, 'Nothing ventured, nothing gained'? Full stop."

Reese hesitated, then said, "I-I don't think Foucault said that." Okay, she didn't give a damn about Kimble's book, and she didn't pretend to understand all of what Foucault
did
say, but this was just too much. Jeez, wouldn't Kimble allow her
any
intellectual honesty?

"Pardon me?" he said.

She held her ground. "I don't believe Foucault said that."

"Ever?"
he challenged.

"Well, not originally."

Kimble paused, and Reese made a face to Angela that cried
Save me.
Angela just smiled, perched up on the counter, and continued picking on some leftover mini-éclairs Joanna had left in the fridge. Finally Kimble said, "Care to make it interesting?"