Ready for You (12 page)

Chapter Fourteen

“Where were you?” Phil said. He sat on the couch when she walked in.

“Outside.
I told you I needed some air.” She stood near him. “I need to leave, I can’t do this anymore.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…maybe we should see a sex therapist.” He half mumbled, half begged.

Chiara’s face burned. What it must be doing to Phil to say those words, what he must be going through. It wasn’t his fault his advances disgusted her. “I don’t think that will help. I--”

“Please just go on this trip. You promised we’d try. We haven’t been to see Dr. Michaels yet. And my parents…they’re counting on seeing us all and taking the boys to Disneyland. The boys too, right before Danny’s birthday, we can’t do that to them. Please, I know things aren’t what they should be, but we still love each other, right?”

“I can’t.”
Poor Phil.
He looked at her like Danny had when his puppy got hit by a car. Her stomach fell. She wasn’t even trying.
And why?
For sex?
Rocco offered a night, well, maybe a weekend, of sex. It would be amazing, no doubt, but at what cost? Everyone would find out and then…

“Please, unless you have some other reason?” A hint of suspicion gleamed in his eye. “You wouldn’t try to take the boys from me, would you? You know my parents would help me, I won’t let you take them.” He wouldn’t look at her but his voice was steady and sure.

“We weren’t talking about that.” She rubbed her arms. Icy water flowed through her. If she left him now, he’d have every reason to fight her in court and he might win. She couldn’t lose her boys. Rocco probably just wanted some hot sex and then he’d move on and she would have nothing. She sighed. “I’ll go, but then we’ll need to talk again. We can work something out.” Maybe she could explain to Rocco, if he could wait a little longer, maybe it would be okay if she filed the divorce papers, maybe that wouldn’t look so bad.

Phil kissed her cheek. “I knew I could count on you. I’m sorry I doubted your priorities. I know you love the boys as much as I do.”

“Goodnight,” she said as he moved toward the bedroom.

Finding her cell, she walked into the laundry room and called Rocco. He sounded so chipper, huh, and the noise of cars and trees rustling greeted her. Was he walking? Gravel crunched under footsteps. “Are you outside?” she asked once they’d said hello.

“I thought I’d meet you. Where are you?”

“Home.
I can’t come.”

“What? Why?” The sounds of his movements stopped.

“Phil and I promised the boys we’d take them on vacation. We’re leaving tomorrow for two weeks. I’m sorry--”

“Two weeks?”

“Maybe when we get back…”

“Right, we’ll have a good fuck then.” His words dripped bitter, like that horrible Asian hot sauce Phil liked.

“I didn’t mean--”

“You never mean to.” His breathing rasped. “Hey, you played a good game.”

“What?” Is that what this was to him?

“You know, it’s all been in fun. I bet a few guys at work I could get you into bed.” Her body clenched. His voice reverberated, harsh yet sportive. “Usually they wouldn’t give me a whole month, but since you’re married--”

“Fuck you,” she said. She shook, barely able to choke out the words.

“You wish.” Nice, he used her own words to cut her down. She hung up and took a deep breath.

He had to be lying. Except it wouldn’t be the first time a guy had pulled that crap on her. But then she’d had Jenny, who’d pantsed the guy in front of his friends. Chiara leaned against the wall and tilted her head up.

“What should I do, Jen?” she whispered.

“Fuhget about it,” Jen’s guido impression answered in her mind, full of laughter. Forget it, she’d say, he’s not worth your time. And then Jen’d take her out for a chocolate shake at The Ice Creamery or when they were older, a strawberry margarita at Fiesta Del Mar, where they scoped out the guys, giggling and flirting.

Chiara slid down the wall into her earthquake huddle. She’d been in denial. There had been an earthquake, a 5.5, and she was trapped alone in the rubble. Blocks of shame, guilt, anger, betrayal, and longing buried her, the carefully constructed walls destroyed. A low sob tried to escape. She covered her mouth with her hand. Rocco had seen her cry, knew her secrets, made her ecstatic, literally.

She had almost given herself to him as she had with no one else, definitely no other man. Yet some things she still held, some truths stayed untold, even to
herself
. She acknowledged them now before entombing the feelings and truths in a fresh construction made from the destruction. She stood and wiped her hands on her skirt, as if she’d used her bare hands to build those dusty walls. It used to be she had to stuff her feelings down with food, but now she was stronger, years of careful living crafted her fortitude. But the precise building she’d thought would free her hemmed her in, leaving her alone.
So alone.

And yet she wasn’t alone. When she eased into bed later, hoping Phil was
asleep,
he scooted next to her, snuggling against her back.
Unbelievable.
She’d said she wanted to leave him and he thought she wanted to snuggle?

“Phil,” she said in warning. She edged away from him.

“Maybe if we…can’t you try? I think our lack of intimacy is part of the problem, don’t you think?”

She hated it when he was so reasonable, especially about sex. Sex should be crazy, messy,
spontaneous
. “I don’t want to.”

He lay on his back. “Is there someone else?”

“No,” she said, too emphatically. She’d always prided herself on being honest, at least when asked a direct question.

“I don’t understand. We got along so well in the beginning. I thought all the problems would solve themselves once you were done with the pregnancies and babies. But now…I know I haven’t changed.”

“Maybe I have.”

Phil sighed. “Do you feel anything for me?”

“You’re the father of my children. I’m tired. Can we talk in the morning?”

“Okay,” he said, almost in a whine like Danny’s.

Chiara let out an exasperated breath and closed her eyes.

The aroma of coffee caused her to open her eyes the next morning. Maybe Phil had actually made breakfast. She scuffed into the kitchen.

“I made some coffee if you’d like some,” he said. “What’s for breakfast?”

Sometimes she wanted to smack him. And his coffee was weak. Rocco probably knew how to make good, strong coffee and he’d make her breakfast in bed.
In her dreams.

“I’m having toast,” she said.

“Shouldn’t we have eggs or something? It’s going to be a long day.”

“But we’re having lunch at my parents’ before we leave.”

“Fine,” he said in a clipped tone.

She knew he disliked her parents, her whole family, really. The feeling was mutual; she didn’t like his family much either.

The boys were cranky by the time they arrived at Phil’s parents’ house that evening. But of course, they insisted on taking everyone out to dinner and then gave Chiara disappointed raised eyebrow looks the whole time, as if the boys’ behavior was her fault. A delicate blush of embarrassment spread over Phil’s mother’s cheeks when an acquaintance of hers stopped by the table and wasn’t greeted properly by the boys.

“Bennington, Kitty, what a pleasure,” the perfectly coiffed and perfumed woman said with a quick snide glance at Chiara. She still couldn’t believe her in-laws names, though at first she’d been charmed, thinking them some fifties throwback, like the rich in-laws from “Father of the Bride” with Spencer Tracy and Liz Taylor. In a way they
were,
all old money and politeness. The first rude awakening had come at the wedding, soon followed by the tussle over Danny’s name. Phil and his parents wanted him named Bennington.

“Claire,” Phil said some time later. “Mom asked if you wanted dessert.”

“I’m sorry. No thank you,” she said.

“She’s so absent-minded,” Phil said in an aside to his parents.

Chiara tugged both ends of her napkin.
Two solid weeks of the attack of the Kirkwoods.
She didn’t know how she would make it.

At least that night she managed to go to bed with the boys. Max felt scared being in a new place and despite their disapproving looks, Chiara snuggled with him in the twin bed in the guest room Kitty had decorated just for the boys. As Max’s breathing steadied in sleep, Chiara stared at the mural of the ocean on the ceiling. Danny loved it but Max didn’t care for it much. He tended to get ignored a bit here; he was too much like her family except he already knew when to keep his feelings to himself. It had taken Chiara many years to learn that lesson.

Uncomfortable as that bed was with two people in it, Chiara preferred it to sleeping with Phil. It wasn’t any worse than Max’s bed at home, where she often slept. In fact, the mattress was cushier. Only the most expensive furniture could be found in Kitty’s home. Also, she let Chiara sleep in. Finally someone else made breakfast. It was nine by the time Chiara walked into the large, bright kitchen. She’d already showered and dressed. One did not appear in pajamas at the Kirkwoods’.

“Good morning,” Kitty said. She placed a cup of coffee in front of Chiara, who thanked her. “The boys have all walked down to the beach.” She smiled briefly at Chiara. That wasn’t good. She must have something unpleasant on her mind. “I hope you don’t mind I made reservations for you and Phil at Le Fountainebleau next Friday. I know you two don’t get out enough together and it’s such a romantic dining experience.”

Chiara’s stomach rolled and not from hunger. “Thank you,” she said trying to unclench her teeth.

“We want you and Phil to be happy.”

So she knew they weren’t. Chiara plastered a smile on.

“We’d do anything for our Philip,” Kitty said as she arranged sliced melon, strawberries, and kiwi on a white oval platter.
“Just like he’d do anything for his sons.
He’s such a devoted father.”

Chiara met her eyes briefly. Phil had obviously been talking to his parents, too much. Kitty’s eyes were at once watery with pity and glimmering with determination. What she was determined to do Chiara wasn’t sure. She was sure she wouldn’t want to get on Kitty’s bad side. For all her seeming politeness, polished exterior, and fluttery dependence on her husband, Chiara knew Kitty concealed a shrewd, organized, and ruthless woman underneath. And both Phil’s sister, Kim, and her husband were lawyers, lawyers with a vast network of connections all over California. Chiara smoothed her hand on the granite counter and shivered. But she kept smiling.

Chapter Fifteen

Rocco shifted on the couch. He muted the Giants game on TV when the phone rang. For a second, a tiny bubble of hope popped up, thinking it might be Chiara, but she didn’t have his home number. And she was with her husband. He shut his eyes and leaned his head back. Body odor and beer burned in his nostrils.

“Dad, are you there?” Sabrina’s voice called into the answering machine. “I’m wondering about tomorrow, you know, we always spend the Fourth with you. But you haven’t said anything. Shawn and I thought we could go to a ball game or maybe Uncle Ray’s, but if we don’t hear from you, Mom would like us to go to John’s for a barbeque. Let me know, okay? Love you, bye.”
A click then silence.
He blew out a breath.

Pain seared in his shoulder when he sat up. He shouldn’t have body slammed into that fence walking home last night. He stood and scuffed down the hall. The second bathroom, veiled in dust, looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Oh, right, he had. For his shoulder’s sake, he shouldn’t have done that either. Plus, he’d damaged usable parts, like the vanity, now cracked, and some of the tile, smashed into jagged pieces. It could be repaired, unlike him.

Doing an about face, he went into the kitchen and took another beer from the fridge. He’d gone out this morning to Safeway, instead of Franco’s Market where he usually shopped, and bought a twelve pack and some frozen dinners. He wasn’t planning on leaving the house until Monday.

Steam rose from the bathtub as he filled it with water. He set the beer on the tile floor of his bathroom and stripped off his shorts and tee shirt, wincing in pain when he lifted his right shoulder. Soon he submerged himself in the too hot water. He leaned his head back and shut his eyes again. Water enveloped his shoulders, dulling the sharp pain into a manageable ache. If only he could do the same for his heart.

Chiara should be in this bath with him. Her hair, wet and softly scented, would be matted against his chest. His hands would encircle her waist, soon moving up or down to find all her secret spots. Pressed against him, her nakedness would arouse him until she whispered in his ear. And she would slide herself back and…dammit. He reached for his beer and took a long swig. He had never needed or wanted a woman this bad. No reason to start now. He knew what he had to do.

The weekend was a blur of beer, TV, bad food, and pain. At least he slept, on and off, but never well.
Always waking alone.

The alarm buzzed at him on Monday morning. He dragged himself from bed and took a long, hot shower. Presentable, yes, at least in appearance, and no beer during the workweek--it was gone anyway. He could get more on Friday.

Somehow he’d managed to put off seeing his family for another week. They wouldn’t understand.

He drank himself to sleep on Friday night. Drinking wasn’t enough. He sobered up a bit for Saturday night so he could get laid.

He groaned out of bed on Sunday morning, the bright mid-morning light poking through the drawn curtains. He tried to work his mouth around on the way to the kitchen but only a glass of water began to chase the bitter fuzziness away. Measuring some coffee and turning on the pot, he searched his mind for details of last night. He’d made out with some woman, not Chiara. A familiar sickening in his gut began, worse even than the one he used to get when he cheated on his wife.

He blew out a breath and shook his head. The whole “it will only work with Chiara” thing had to be bullshit. So he couldn’t go through with it last night. A little more time and effort and Chiara’d be just a foggy memory, like all the others.

Apparently almost forty and hung over was a lot different than thirty or even thirty-five and recovering from a night of partying. It took four days walking around, working, making
himself
meals, and grocery shopping in a daze before he felt normal again. Not that he knew what normal was and he sure as hell wasn’t there when it came to Chiara.

He went to the Safeway again, worried someone his parents knew would see him at Franco’s, where his parents had shopped for as long as he could remember. Standing in front of the liquor, the pull of it made him reach out his hand. If he had some vodka or a nice scotch, it would ease the hangover and numb the tight pain of missing Chiara. But he was leaving for San Diego in a couple days and he knew once he went with the hard stuff it would be even more difficult to stop. He could control the beer. And if he could do that, he could conquer his urge, the pull for her too. He could do this. He went home with only a frozen pizza and some fruit in his bag.

“Are you sure this is it?” Rocco asked Sabrina and Maddy as he slung their five bags into the bed of his truck on Thursday morning. He had one--they were only going for three days. They laughed and nodded. “You really okay to drive?” he said to Sabrina.

“Yes, Dad.
You look too tired to drive, anyway. Haven’t you been sleeping?” she asked as she hopped into the driver’s seat. Maddy climbed into the passenger side while Rocco swung himself into the back, which he’d cleared out for the trip.

“Getting used to the new house,” he said.
That and pacing around it thinking of and imagining Chiara.
A couple times he even walked down to her dark, empty house, peering at it as if it held the secret to why she wouldn’t leave her husband. He’d done the same that night almost two weeks ago when she’d called him as he’d walked to meet her. But then the house wasn’t empty and dark. A light shone from the far end of the house, near the kitchen. Maybe the laundry room, he’d thought. Maybe she had been in that room when she’d called and broken him.

Once someone had taken a bat to him and that was how he felt after her call, freshly beaten. Now the bruises settled, multicolored and tender. He shut his eyes. The girls chatted and turned on the radio as the tires tread down the new pavement of his ex’s street. A song started and he clenched his hands, his throat tightened. It was the song Chiara sang that evening at his house.

“What song is this?” he asked. He tried to keep his voice even, but it sounded like a croak.

“It’s Alicia Keys’ ‘Unthinkable.’ I love her,” Sabrina said. “Why, have I finally changed your taste?”

“No, but she has a nice voice. I’m going to try to get some shut eye, okay? Let me know when you want me to drive,” he said as Sabrina sped onto 580
East
.

“Sure Dad, rest up.”

He closed his eyes again and let the song and Chiara’s image, the memory of her blazing touch,
transport
him. Half asleep, he could dream his own truth, the beauty of her, of them together.

That night, he lay on the bed in his hotel room, unable to sleep. The window let in the bay breeze and the sound of lapping water which would usually have put him right to sleep. But all he could hear were couples laughing together or the distant shouts of young people out late at the various party spots around Mission Bay. He should be out there with Chiara, or better yet in here, holding her, soft and warm, in his arms.

He stood and gazed out the window. Why did she feel so close? He’d felt a lot of things for women, but never this particular combination of closeness, concern, and craving. He better get some sleep, though, since Sabrina and Maddy were full of enthusiasm and wanted him to go to breakfast and the beach with them before they took off on their own in the afternoon and evening. He stretched and fell back into the bed.

Fortunately, Sabrina and Maddy weren’t early risers. He usually was, but after nights of drifting in and out of a fitful sleep, he liked being able to get up later. The sun shone warm through the window and reflected off the bay, a vast glittering expanse beyond the light sandy beach. Palms rustled and he rubbed his arms, colder than the slight breeze should make him. He tested his shoulder, mostly better now. A hot shower would help.

Half an hour later, he walked to the girls’ room next door. They were ready for the day, swimsuits under skirts and tees, beachy flip-flops on. Walking across the street, they stopped at Roberto’s for breakfast burritos before they checked out the ocean beach and the old wooden roller coaster nearby. A few surfers dotted the cresting waves and already the beach began to fill with lounging people on colorful towels. They
strolled
the pathways and hung out on the beach for awhile. Rocco sat on the grainy warming sand watching the girls giggle while they played chicken with the waves. It was kind of nice, different noises than home. Waves splashed against the shore, shouts and laughter, the clack of the coaster, the swish of sand, the crunch of it underfoot on concrete. Attune to the various Fairvale noises, it seemed quiet there, too silent lately. Here his thoughts were virtually pushed away by the distractions.

“Dad,” Sabrina said as she and Maddy ran up. “I’ve been calling you, what’s up?”

“Sorry,” he said. He stood and brushed off his trunks.

“Let’s go over to the other beach, okay?”

“Sure,” he said. He followed the girls, each with a tote bag slung on their shoulder, back across the street.

As his feet sunk slightly in the sand, he scoped the area. Not as crowded, more families over here, away from the more dangerous ocean waters. He was a little surprised the girls wanted to come over to this beach, but then he recalled Maddy was afraid of the ocean, so that would explain it. A pop of bright blue caught his eye.

“Here, okay?” Sabrina said. He nodded and stood, peeling off his tee shirt, while they laid out towels.

He glanced at the woman who had caught his eye with her turquoise swimsuit. She
lay
on her stomach, head cradled sideways on her arms. A glowing tan shone on her olive skin, her dark hair glinted in the light. A little ruffle on the bottom of her suit rippled, drawing his eye to her rear.

He eased onto his towel while Sabrina and Maddy settled themselves. The woman shifted slightly. Her ass was as fine as Chiara’s, maybe nicer, though he’d never seen hers in a figure hugging swimsuit. And the open back of it, he could see right down to the very
tip, that
curved spot before the cheeks.

He stared now. Prickles needled his neck and arms.
Christ, that
was Chiara. Swear to God, it was her, lying there like an Italian starlet a few feet away. She flipped over and leant up on her elbows, watching the water. Her breasts peeked out either side of the Marilyn Monroe neckline, like the front of the dress she’d worn to his mom’s party. The dress he’d moved his hands under, feeling her, making her…uh-oh. He quickly turned onto his stomach and looked away. And he’d done so well, not checking out women in front of Maddy and Sabrina and here he was getting a hard-on in front of them, for a married woman, no less.

The beach had silenced. A breeze whispered in his ear, the bay water shushed. A few children laughed in the distance.

“Claire, Claire,” a sharp, irritated voice demanded. Rocco looked over.
The husband.
His stomach knotted. Sabrina sat up. The husband continued. “Claire!” Chiara looked up as her husband loomed over her, or as much as a man of his height could. Rocco smirked. “You see how she is, Mom? I worry about her neglecting the boys. She’s always off in her own silly world,” he said to an older, petite, blonde woman who stood near him.

Chiara rose, looking even finer than in a prone position. Rocco studied the scene as he supported himself on his elbows. Tension blasted from all sides. “I was watching the boys with your father just now and I told you, my name isn’t Claire.” She crossed her arms over her chest. This only caused her breasts to wink at him. He sat up.

“I married Claire,” the husband said. “The mother of my boys is Claire. This Chiara is a stranger.
A stranger who yells and wears inappropriate clothes.
Look at your suit,” he hissed. Rocco looked and smiled. “I won’t
let--”

“Now Phil,” the woman Rocco assumed was Phil’s mother said. She put a tiny white hand on the man’s arm. “You and Claire can talk over dinner. I’m going to go swim. Come along.”

Rocco choked back a laugh at how she spoke to him, like he was a little lap dog. He kind of looked like one, an oversized pug, with his big belly and frowning face. Rocco grinned.

“Chiara,” Sabrina called as she stood with a hop. The older woman walked down the beach but Chiara’s husband stopped following and glanced back. Only a few feet away, he’d be able to hear every word. Maybe Rocco would have some fun with this situation. The guy deserved it. And Rocco needed a good time.

Sabrina hugged Chiara and they asked after each other. Rocco walked up behind his daughter. “I love your swimsuit,” Sabrina said. “Isn’t it pretty, Dad?” He loved his daughter.