Trouble Won't Wait (13 page)

“Do you think I would have done it?” he asks faintly, his voice so weak I strain to hear.

Who knows?

* * * *

I’m back in my downstairs bed, afflicted by full-body shivers and chattering teeth. After locking both the door at the bottom of the stairs and the door to this bedroom, I clutch my cellphone. It seems absurd to take these measures in my own home. Maybe I’ve over-dramatized what almost happened up there. All I know is, Mike is having some wild mood swings. Maybe the concept of the end of our marriage is sinking in, and he’s fighting it.

I make myself think of the kitten, Rascal, a happy thought to calm my whacked-out nerves, and dial Adam. He answers, worry evident in his greeting.

“Hey.” My voice is reasonably calm now, and at least my jaws aren’t shaking anymore. “How’s Rascal?” That’s a good reason to be calling at, say, eleven PM, right?

“He’s asleep. Little shit has my ankles all scratched up. What’s wrong?”

“Just missing you.” It’s true, I
am
missing him.

“Mandy, something happened. You wouldn’t call like this.” I know he’s imagining I’ve called to confess I’m taking Mike back. He’s worried. I won’t get by with brushing him off this time.

As if it’s the most obvious thing and he should know, I retort, “I’m ending a marriage, and trying like hell not to let anybody else know it. It’s a small strain, okay?”

He apologizes, so now I feel guilty but relieved that I pulled off the snow-job. “What are you doing?”

“Reading.”

I groan. “Not my book again?”

He snickers, so I know he is.

“Aren’t you done yet? It’s not that long.”

“It’s the second one.” Geez, now he’s got them both? I’d like to know what he thinks of them, but he’s not offering and I’m not asking. Do the love scenes turn him on the way they do women? Men usually like pictures more than words.

I’m struck by an idea.

“Are you in bed?” My voice is husky; I’m going for sexy.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Me too. I’m wearing a red lacy nightgown with a matching thong.”

He snorts uneasily. “What are you tryin’ to do? Get me all excited?”

“Yeah, like you were today when I left. I liked that a lot.”

He sucks in his breath.

“Being so close to you made me hot, Adam, real hot.” I let him think of that for a minute, and I can hear him shift around in his bed. “Are you excited?”

He answers with a very small “Yeah.”

“Mmm, good. I’m pulling up the nightie for you, so you can see the panties.” I can hear him moving more, regularly, and I have a good idea what he’s doing. This is working, and I like it. After what happened upstairs, controlling this feels mighty good. “I’m gonna slide the panties off, because I want you so much, okay?” I can’t believe I’m doing this.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Look at me, Adam. Touch me. Do you want me as much as I want you?”

“Mmm.”

“You’re slipping two fingers in, and I’m so wet for you. I’m ready, Adam, so ready.” My breath catches as I say it, as I imagine. His breathing is getting faster, deeper. It almost sounds painful. “Slide into me, Adam. I’m hot and slick, you know I am. Slide in, all the way in.”

He moans, and I wish like hell I was there, taking part in it. I want to see his face. My eyes close as I imagine.

When his breathing gets back to normal, he speaks. “Oh God.” He sounds sheepish as he says, “That’s a lot better with your voice.”

It makes me laugh, a little. “Adam?”

“Hmm?”
I
love you
. I want so bad to say it.

“I…” Better not. “Will you do something for me?”

“Anything.” God, does he mean that?

“Stay on the phone with me ’til I go to sleep? I don’t wanta be alone.”

“Sure.”

Chapter 8

It’s Monday. The kids have only this week of school left until they’re out for the holidays. It’s been snowing up a storm–no pun intended!–all night long. I make Ben take the bus down the hill to school this morning, partly because I feel like it’s safer, but also because I hate driving on slick roads.

After walking to the school, I spend my morning doing volunteer stuff , leaving a big plate of cookies in the teachers’ lounge, with a joking note of apology to the low-carbers.

When I walk back to the house, it’s time to shovel the walks again. The city allows twenty-four hours after snow falls before it issues tickets to homeowners who haven’t shoveled, but I try to keep up on it as a few inches accumulate.

Everyone is talking about whether we’ll have a white Christmas. Even though it’s Colorado, this is not a given in Rifle. The ground could be bare, or we could have a foot of snow. The way it’s dumping now, it’s looking like snow will be around for a couple weeks.

The shoveling leaves me exhilarated and prickly-hot under my stocking cap.

Inside the house, I’m feeling excited about Christmas. I have much more shopping to do, but I sure won’t be driving around to do it today. Instead, I spend some time wrapping previously purchased gifts and sticking them under the tree.

* * * *

I’m thinking of Adam. When am I not? I want to get him something really special, but nothing is coming to me. Speaking of Adam, it’s time for my walk. I won’t do the loop today. With the snow coming down this fast, it won’t be plowed properly and I have no desire to be mowed over by a four-wheel-drive pickup sliding out of control on packed snow. Nope. I’ll walk the neighborhoods, where the sidewalks are scooped. It’s hard work walking in my heavy Columbia boots anyway.

I called my ob-gyn this morning and had her phone in a prescription for me, for the Pill. Now I’m thankful I don’t use the family doctor for female needs anymore. It might seem fishy to him and raise questions, since he did Mike’s vasectomy.

As I clomp past Adam’s back fence, a very wet snowball clobbers the back of my head. I react in time to see a second tightly packed missile heading at my chest, and move aside without a moment to spare. Adam thinks he has an advantage hiding behind his fence, but he doesn’t expect me to charge straight for him and run through the gate so he can face me like a man. In his yard, we wage silent war for several minutes. The only audible evidence of the battle is the splatting of snowballs exploding on impact, and an occasional grunt as we bend our old bodies over to form our weapons.

I’ve been stockpiling mine, awaiting opportunity. Which just arrived. He’s bent over, packing and rounding a huge ball. He must think there’s some Snowball Fight Code of Ethics, and I won’t attack if he’s unarmed.

He’s sadly mistaken. I launch my stash in quick succession, until his entire backside is white. He waves his snow-whitened glove in the air, begging, “Truce, truce!”

“You started it, troublemaker!” I cautiously approach, making sure he’s going to abide by his truce and it’s not an ambush. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are bright.

“I see the wheels turning, tell me what you’re thinking,” he prods softly.

“How lucky I am that I met you at just the right time.”

“You’re tryin’ to kill me, aren’t you?”

It makes me giggle, while he hugs me hard against him. With all our outerwear, it’s more of a big squeeze than a hug. I can see Rascal trying to scratch at the glass on the back door. Adam lets him out to gingerly stick his little paw in the snow. He’s more interested in batting at the falling flakes. Once his nose gets smacked by a big wet one, Rascal decides snow sucks and scampers back inside.

It’s time for me to go, and as I back out the gate, Adam says, “I’m crazy for you, remember.”

I answer with, “Me, too. Bonkers. Nutso.” I turn and run, before he tries to catch me for a kiss.

* * * *

I know I’m still grinning like a fool when I get home. Mike is there, home early to avoid being stormed in at Aspen. A box of fine chocolates sits on the counter. I groan aloud. Is he at it again?

He comes to the kitchen and explains, “It’s just an apology. I’m not expecting anything for it.” He looks me up and down. I’m basically soaked from head to toe. “You fall down out there, or what?”

Or what
. I smile as I’m quickly turning my back.

“We have an appointment with Baldwin tomorrow at nine,” he tells me.

Jesus, that guy again? Whatever. I’m mostly in it for comic relief now. There has to be a way I can use him as a character in one of my books. What would he do if I showed up for our session with my own little notebook, scribbling notes about
him
? I laugh out loud at the thought, making Mike look at me funny.

“All right,” I sing back at him, on the way to shower.

* * * *

Baldwin’s deadline for fixing our marriage is looming. I can say in all honesty, that even if I’d wanted his help, he’d have failed miserably. Today he asks us to speak “candidly” about the current state of our physical relationship.
I believe this is territory we’ve covered, Dr. Bangs.

For most of the session, I’m thinking of websites where I might find him some roach clips, like the ones girls wore in their hair in the eighties. I’d like to buy him some. His bangs are thin and limp, and the clips would hold them back just fine. Maybe some with pink and purple feathers.

Mike talks up a storm, mostly hooey as far as I can tell. He’s managed to tell Baldwin about my “spiteful” episode with the showerhead, but conveniently left out the tale of him nearly forcing himself on me only three nights ago. If this were real therapy, I’d even the playing field, but why bother upsetting myself by reliving that night?

When Mike keeps blathering about how much my rejections hurt him, I am sorely tempted to tell him I spent Saturday night on the phone with my soon-to-be lover, dishing up phone sex like a pro. I’d like to see his jaw drop upon hearing it. But then, he’d probably accuse me of making it up.

Baldwin’s dress code has gradually deteriorated since our first visit, when he wore a suit. The day he came on to me, he had on khakis and a pull-over shirt with a peace sign. Today he’s sporting some type of slacks, and an untucked dress shirt he’s tie-dyed.

Oops. He just asked me a question, and now I need him to repeat it.

“What if we were to dispense with this archaic European concept of monogamy, and focus on the love between you?”

I have to look at Mike to see if he finds this idea as ridiculous as I do. His apologetic expression says he does.

If I closed my eyes and counted to ten, would my response be kinder? Who cares? “Monogamy’s not a
concept
, Baldwin. It’s a commitment. It was a promise! Have you ever had someone break a promise to you? A lifelong promise?”

He squirms some, and looks away.

“You’ve never been married.” An educated guess on my part. “Have you ever had a girlfriend, or a partner cheat on you?” I say “partner” because he could be gay. Again, no answer. Jesus, the guy is such a flake, I doubt he’s had a serious girlfriend. Now I remember he wanted me, so I guess he’s not completely gay.

Because I’m cranky, and I’d like to get out of here early, I ask, “Have you ever had a relationship with a girl that lasted after the weed wore off?” Mike’s elbow nudges my ribs before I rise. “Then, Baldwin, you have no
concept
of our love, and what it means to us, or why we chose, together, to enter into a vow of monogamy. The
love between us
was irreparably harmed by the breaking of that vow. And unless you can empathize with my feelings of betrayal, you can’t help me.”

As I march out of there, I give thanks to God above for the fifteen minutes I salvaged by leaving early.

* * * *

Today is lunch with big brother, Mark. During Mark’s five years of college, he went through nine majors, including pre-med and law. His last month of school, he met the owner of a plumbing supply company while bartending, and landed a job as a rep, making more money than most of the doctors around here do.

Mark’s happily married and has twin daughters and a son, Jake. Jake is Rachel’s age, and he usually spends a lot of time at our house. Come to think of it, he hasn’t been around much lately. I’ll have to ask Mark why.

Everybody knows Mark, and pretty much all of them like him in spite of his endless supply of politically incorrect jokes. I don’t personally believe he’s prejudiced against every minority, gays, churches
and
atheists, democrats
and
republicans, communists, illegals, blondes, cheerleaders, and women, but a person didn’t know him and listened to him talk, would. Mark knows more jokes than Rodney Dangerfield, I swear.

As I sit in the Mexican restaurant waiting for him, I wonder why the heck I haven’t confided in him before. He always has something to say to make me laugh.

Here he comes in the door now, flirting with the hostess, though she’s a minority, a woman, and probably Catholic. Mark is a big, strapping guy. He has a body built for physical labor. In days of yore he would have been a blacksmith or a log-tosser at the lumber mill. If he’d been an outlaw, he would have kicked every ass in town. Instead, I got him as a big brother, and I’m sorry to admit, he kicked a lot of little boy butt at my request. Anybody crossed me at school or on the bus home, Big Mark was comin’ at ’em.