To Tuscany with Love (23 page)

“What’s the big deal?”

“The ‘big deal’ is that you made it one, by hiding it and lying to me. Not once, but twice.”

It was only a museum, for God’s sake, he thought. He shrugged.

“Let me guess, you had pasta tonight, didn’t you?” She looked venomous.

“So what if I did? You don’t approve of my choice of cuisine?”

She slammed her hand against the coffee table. Her arm trembled as she leaned on the table. “Lee,” she said, her quiet, level voice rocking him harder than if she’d screamed, “these things are symptomatic of significant issues.” She was using her psychiatrist voice, the calm demeanor that enticed her patients to spill their life’s secrets and angst to her.

Lee’s chest heaved with rapid, deep breaths. “You wanna psychoanalyze me? Go right ahead. Tell me how fucked up I am.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You’re not ‘fucked up.’ You are, however, unhappy in your job, and maybe in your marriage, too, although I’m still trying to get a read on that one.”

She stood up and started pacing; her words increased in tempo to match her stride. “I know you often wonder about Meghan. Where is she? Is she married? Beyond the pedestal you’ll always place her on as your first love, she’s a symbol of all you sacrificed to follow your family’s behest and become a physician.” Merry stopped pacing and stood in front of him with her hands on her hips. “So, you tell me, Lee, what is it you truly want? Do you want to leave me? Leave, and go chase a dream?”

Lee wondered if the dream she referred to was Meghan or art. Either way, he was screwed. They depended on his salary to pay the mortgage, the car payments, the private school tuition, and, soon, college. Merry’s income paid for everything else. He couldn’t afford to chuck it all.

“Every day I pray this is a midlife crisis you’re going through. But know that in spite of everything, I still love you. I want you to stay. Yes, you deserve happiness, but I’ve seen it time and time again. Men and women get to a certain age, and they panic. Stay the course. Let’s get the kids through college and then, if you want to run off to Italy with an old or new girlfriend, so be it.”

She was asking him for eight years of being a good father and provider. Eight years, Lee thought. To him, it sounded like a life sentence.

25

Fort Collins, Colorado

H
ope wondered when she first knew she had a lousy marriage. I’m forty-five now, she thought, so it’s been fifteen, or maybe twenty years? It had been after Erica, her daughter, was born. That’s all Hope remembered, because she had buried most of those early memories of Charlie’s meanness.

“You’re the hostess tonight,” Charlie said. Her husband stood inside their bedroom; his hands rested on his hips and he spread his legs wide in a fortress of opposition. “You should be downstairs, mingling.”

Hope turned away from the mirror and dropped her comb to the counter. “I came upstairs because I had something in my eye. I took the chance to pee while I was up here.” Her stomach burned. She ducked around him to the hallway and scurried down the stairs as if she were a child caught snitching cookies an hour before dinner.

“Try to restrain yourself at dinner,” Charlie said to her retreating back. “I don’t want you making a pig of yourself. Grant’s mother won’t stuff her face. And take it easy on the wine, too. You don’t want anyone to think you’re a lush.”

Hope cringed. A sharp stab of pain hit her gut. She bit back the words that soured her tongue. At the base of the stairs, Hope stopped. She composed her lips into her best smile and walked outside to join the party.

Grant stood in a pack with his groomsmen under the oak tree. The men’s voices were low, but their leers at the bridesmaids were as obvious as if they were shouting. Hope’s face tingled with heat. Grant, the ringleader, dangled a cigar from his hand. Hope watched him bring it to the corner of his mouth, gangster-like. She shuddered.

Erica, sweet and glowing in her pink summer sundress, skipped past her mother to join her fiancé. Hope stared at her daughter, who cuddled next to Grant. Erica kissed him on the cheek and linked her arm in his.

Grant turned to look down at her, the girl a head shorter and not much more than half his width. “Not now,” he said, loud enough for Hope to hear. “Can’t you see I’m with my buddies? Christ, I’m going to have my whole life with you.”

Erica backed away. One step, then two.

Grant returned the cigar to his mouth and dismissed his bride-to-be with a flick of his fingers. He nodded at the most voluptuous bridesmaid. Gesturing for his friends, Grant raised his hands in tandem and twisted imaginary breasts; he cackled loud enough to make the bridesmaid turn around. The girl flushed crimson and scampered in retreat to the bar.

Hope’s mouth gaped open. Her daughter had seen everything. Erica turned and stumbled away from Grant.

Hope intercepted her and wrapped one stout arm around her daughter. “Hey, pumpkin,” Hope said. “Want to go inside and talk?”

Erica brushed her mother’s arm aside. She turned around with slow deliberation. “Mom, this is my rehearsal dinner.” Erica gulped. “I ... I’ve got people to see. You know, socialize.” Her shoulders straightened. “Thank them for coming.”

Good Lord, she’s just like me. Hope nodded. She lowered her voice. “What about Grant?”

Hope saw calm acceptance take command of the young face. Erica’s hand flicked away the accusation as if it were a fly. “He’s only being a guy.” Her chin rose. “You ought to know. He’s just like Dad.” Without waiting for a reply, she waltzed to the table of seated guests. Erica draped her arms over the shoulders of her future in-laws and bent to kiss them each on the cheek.

Another fiery bullet shot through Hope. She forced her eyes wide to halt the tears. Hope picked at her food during the dinner. Her first catered dinner party in years. Charlie liked it when Hope cooked for their parties; somehow, her culinary skills became his accomplishment.

Since they lived out of town, Grant’s parents had asked Hope to work with the caterer. But now, she couldn’t even enjoy the meal she had taken such care in selecting. She pushed aside the green beans, “crunchy haricots verts with fresh dill,” as the caterer called them. The “herb-crusted sea bass resting on a swirl of beurre blanc”—delicious at her tasting—sat cold before her.

The bridal couple sat across the table from Hope and Charlie. A line of empty glasses stood in front of Grant’s plate. Hope had watched his beer consumption increase throughout the night.

Grant stood up and rapped his fork against an empty beer bottle. “Thank you all for coming.” Leering at Erica, Grant hauled her to her feet by slinging one arm behind her back and under her armpit. Grant grinned at his buddies. His eyes bugged out; a sloppy half-sneer crossed his face. “I’m happy you came, and I’m happy to now be able to do this,” he grabbed Erica’s breast with the hand lodged under her arm, “in public.”

Hope heard the horrified gasp from Erica’s godmother. She elbowed Charlie for assistance.

Charlie rose in slow motion. He clapped one hand to Hope’s shoulder. His vise-like grip ratcheted down on her, making her flinch. “Grant, we know you’re excited to be marrying my beautiful, intelligent daughter. A toast to the happy couple.” Charlie lifted his glass of wine in Grant’s direction, which prompted the young man to release Erica’s breast and reach for his beer.

Erica slumped back on her chair. A glare from her future hubby sent her scrambling for her wineglass. Erica stood up. She kissed Grant’s cheek and clinked his glass. She brought her glass to her mouth. Hope watched her daughter return the glass to the table without the wine even touching her lips.

A foul lump lodged in the back of Hope’s mouth. She forced it down. Her hand reached for her wineglass but stopped short, remembering Charlie’s admonitions. Her fingers curled into a fist and dropped to her side. Erica had learned her lessons well.

26

Fort Collins, Colorado

T
he invitation to the reunion sat open on the kitchen table between Charlie and Hope.

Charlie pushed his large, hairy hands against the thick maple table. “I can’t believe you’d even consider this. You can’t go without me. It’d be ludicrous. And then there’s the matter of the company picnic. We always host it the fourth weekend in September. Always.”

Hope lowered her head and her voice. “Maybe we could have an Oktoberfest this year.”

Charlie’s palms pressed harder against the table, his fingers turning a splotchy red. Tension rippled up his arms. “You can’t go.” He sneered at her over the table. “You traveling alone? You’d get lost.”

She felt like she was facing her father rather than her husband. “You forget. I made this trip alone before.”

“The world is different now. I can’t believe you’d even want to go if I wasn’t along. It’s ridiculous.”

Hope studied his balding head, the only place on his body where the thick mat of hair had disappeared. She spoke in an even, quiet tone. “It was a remarkable time for all of us. A key part of our college evolution. We were the best of friends.”

“Right. And how many of these great friends have you kept in touch with?”

Hope’s stomach flopped over on itself. After their marriage, Charlie’s friends had become her friends.

“It’s settled, then.” He reached for the trip itinerary and invitation to Italy. “Maybe we can cash this in for my Canadian fishing trip or something.”

Hope’s hand darted to the papers for Italy. “No.” She flipped them into her lap. “Let’s wait a little. Sit on the decision.”

Charlie pushed up from the table. “You’re not going. Now give me that.” He motioned to the invitation.

Hope clutched the papers in her hand. She ran upstairs to the bathroom and locked herself in. She sat on the closed toilet lid and dropped her head to her hands.

The brass door lever jiggled.

“God damn it. Open the door.” Charlie wiggled the lever again. His voice grew louder. “You should know by now. You can’t solve problems by running away. That’s why your business failed. Why you don’t have any friends.”

Hope studied the wrought-iron shelf in the corner. It held a scented candle, a faded silk flower arrangement purchased at the school’s auction when Erica was a senior, and one spare roll of toilet paper, the ends of the tissue folded into a point. Seashells from the previous summer’s reward trip to the Caribbean leaned against each other at jaunty angles, yet even they couldn’t disguise the lack of personal touches in the room.

Everything in this house was a prop—an orchestrated prop in the life she had designed for Charlie.

“What? Are you so worthless you can’t even talk?” Charlie thwacked his hand against the door. “What is it? You think one of those old farts is going to think you’re beautiful and charming? It’ll take five minutes for everyone to see you for what you are—a fat, do-nothing housewife who’s lived on the gravy train of her husband’s hard work.”

Hope bit the inside of her lip. She closed her eyes to force back the sting of his words.
You’re worthless. You’re fat. You’re hopeless
. She steeled herself against the pain. Pain—that’s what he wants. To hurt her. Hurt her where no one else can see it.