Breaking Perfect (2 page)

Their
white stucco home was built up three stories in staggered variations and shapes
with one wide hexagon peak centered over the foyer.
 
The lack of symmetry sometimes irritated her,
so she focused her energy on maintaining the inside of the home. Libby liked
things just so and took pride in keeping her home lovely and neat for Mason and
herself.

When
she reached the third floor she opened what she referred to as the ‘tower
guestroom’. Dressed completely in pristine shades of white and ivory, the chic
French escape was as untouched as the day before when she inspected it. No one
had been up there besides her, but it was her routine to inspect each and every
room each day. It gave her a feeling of rightness. She rotated the ivory
lampshade one third of the way around the bulb, altering only one version of
perfect for another.

Descending
to the second floor, starting with the other, more masculine guestroom, she
quickly peeked in and found everything as it should be. She flipped the switch
at the door, bathing the room in a pale golden glow, on, off, on, off, on, off.
A sense of satisfaction blanketed her and she moved on.
 

Her
small feet trod quietly over the plush ivory runner as she inspected each area.
The soft click of one solid oak door after another and the whisper of her linen
skirt as she moved, was the only proof the home wasn’t vacant. She favored the
solitude of her soft intrusion. The sounds of her gentle presence calmed her anxiety.

The
casual den, Mason’s study, and the powder room all were perfectly tidy and
freshened. When she reached the entertainment room she pressed the shuffle key
on the disk player and moved to the next room. Yesterday was Motown so today
would be Jazz. She’d spent hours solving the formula that their stereo followed
to appear random. It was really only a simple matter of altering odd numbers
followed by a sequence of altering even numbered tracks.

 
By the time she reached their bedroom, the
rich, cool vocals of Etta James filled the house from small recessed speakers
hidden in each room, even the guest bedrooms. She smiled. This CD always
reminded Liberty of when they saw Ms. James perform at a private concert in New
Orleans a few years back.

Believing
their room was just as she left it ten minutes ago, she moved past the freshly
made bed and straight into the master bath. She adored her bathroom. It was a
perfect circle with a glass cathedral ceiling and Parisian chandelier set
precisely in the center. Mason referred to the bathroom as her palace of
beauty.

Sitting
in her skirted diamond back vanity seat she reached into the upper drawer of
her jewelry box and found two tortoise shell chopsticks. Liberty’s blonde hair
was something Mason had always adored. It hung to her shoulders in wide unruly
curls that only time and patience had taught her to tame. Never satisfied with
the way the front laid, given that she had about six cowlicks, she wore her
bangs in loose chopped twirls just above her blue eyes. With practiced ease she
twisted her hair atop her head and pinned it in place with the identical
sticks.

Straightening
her posture, elongating her neck, she turned her chin first left then right.
She delicately finagled an unruly curl until it fell in line with the others.
“Perfect,” she complimented her reflection.

From
her crystal jewelry box she plucked her Mother of Pearl stud earrings and
fastened them in her lobes. When finished, she quickly tidied the vanity and
returned downstairs.

The
scent of apple pie baking in the oven filled the foyer. Visiting the kitchen
briefly, she stirred the marinade. Tonight would be chicken sautéed in a
marmalade marinade with baby carrots in a complimenting glaze, and fresh spring
salad. The apple pie, Mason’s favorite, was for dessert. They would be
celebrating his thirty-eighth birthday tonight.

She
polished two silver place settings that morning and dressed the table with a
long burgundy runner and a low centerpiece filled with nine ripe green pears.
Two ivory chargers that cradled place settings taken from their wedding china,
sat upon rich satin placemats retrieved from the dry cleaner’s that morning.
Wedding china was only for holidays and birthdays, but the crystal they used
daily. Satin napkins folded in thirds rested half a teaspoon’s length to the
left of the charger. The butter knife shone under the candlelight, a teacup’s
diameter from the lip of the placemat.
Perfect.
What Mason would see as merely practical propriety, Liberty secretly drew
contentment from, each piece holding a particular place and filling a
fastidious hunger.

Once
the table was dressed, Libby made her way back to the kitchen and finished
preparing their meal. At six o’clock on the dot the low hum of her husband’s
Mercedes pulling into the garage accompanied a tingle of relief as the feeling
bloomed inside of her.
 
Mason always had
impeccable timing.
 
She quickly wiped her
hands on a dishcloth, rushing to fold the hand towel properly into thirds down
the center then thirds across the length so that no rough edges showed. After
setting it down precisely one inch from the edge of the counter and one from
the edge of the sink, she hastily moved to the front door.

Nine
feet, exactly three marble tiles, from the front door she stood, ankles
together, hands clasped tightly just below the hem of her blouse. A final
breath escaped as the knob turned. She savored that last bite of anxiety before
meeting her husband’s gaze.

“Hey,
beautiful girl,” Mason greeted as he stepped through the doorway carrying a rumpled
newspaper over his briefcase. Calm washed over her at the practiced
functionality of this part of their day. Predictable was good. No matter what,
he always made her feel cherished.

“Hi,
sweetie. Did you have a good day at work?”

“Okay.
How about you? Good day?” Mason dropped his papers in a pile of disarray on the
small table by the door and Libby released the mental hold on herself, moving
to him. Helping him off with his coat, she folded it over her arm, and righted
the papers with her free hand.
 
Smiling
up at him expectantly, he placed a soft kiss on her nose. This was the dance
they naturally practiced each day since moving into their home. It was routine.
It was right.

“Something
smells delicious. Did you have time to play?”

Libby
moved to the hall closet and hung up his coat. Noticing it was showing lint
again, she made a mental note to take it to the cleaners on Monday. “Very good.
I was able to finish the grocery shopping in under an hour today so I managed
to get in three hours of practice.”
 

“That’s
great.” When he smiled at her it was always genuine, always kind. She
appreciated his open manner and sincerity. “How long before we eat?”

“Dinner’s
about done now. I just need to bring it out to the table. Is that okay?”

“You
know it’s fine, Liberty,” he replied endearingly. “Why don’t you bring it out?
I’m just going to run upstairs and change. This tie’s been choking me all day.”

Liberty
nodded and quickly did as Mason asked. When he returned in a loose fitting pair
of sweats and an old Duke sweatshirt she joined him at the table.

“This
looks fantastic, Lib.”

“Thank
you. I also made apple pie.”

Mason
shut his eyes and gave an almost sexual groan at the mention of dessert.
Liberty’s mind was immediately flooded with images of her fantasy that
afternoon and the memory of coming all over her fingers and thighs. She quickly
averted her eyes so he didn’t sense her guilt.

As
they ate they chatted about Mason’s day. Liberty meticulously sliced her
carrots into thirds. Rather than acknowledge her husband’s disordered
vegetables, she focused on what he was saying. It was always a pleasure hearing
about all the fascinating people her husband came in contact with in one day.
As a trauma surgeon at Faith Baptist Hospital located just over the main bridge
into town, he never knew what he was walking into. He had a tolerance for
natural chaos Liberty admired and dreaded at the same time. She took great
pride in his success. Mason knew he wouldn’t be able to save everyone, but he
never lost hope or refused to try. It was inspiring. He was so brave compared
to her. He was her strength, her rock.

After
dinner was cleared she brought out the pie. Her lips curled into an easy smile
as Mason ate two generous slices. A bit of sweet glaze clung to the side of his
thumb as he took the last bite. Her mind imagined him leaning over her and
smearing the golden filling across her lower lip then licking it off. When he
removed the smudge from his thumb with the napkin her disappointment stung.

Recently,
she acknowledged that she was becoming a contradiction. While everything in her
craved normal, there was one part of her that was suddenly longing for
spontaneity, and she’d not yet thought of a way to discuss this with Mason. She
needed life to be predictable for reasons she didn’t like to think too hard on.
Mason worked diligently to provide a dependable environment. Asking for
something else made her feel like she was betraying his expectations.

Mason
was an incredible husband. He provided for her well beyond what she could ever
ask for. None of the luxuries they enjoyed were required to love him. She only
required him to be true to her, to be the emotional anchor she needed to get
through each day. Her tendency to obsess over making everything perfect drove
many people away, but Mason always made her quirks seem inconsequential. Her
compulsive side resented her insidious ache to change. Change was sloppy and
contagious. One aspect could not be changed without somehow disturbing the
general balance of things.

Her
husband was a beautiful man. His thick dark hair was clipped sophisticatedly
short and a strong jaw that no matter how frequently he shaved always appeared
to be overdue for another trim. He was tall. Of course, Liberty was only five
foot so everyone was taller, but Mason was very tall, over six feet. He dressed
impeccably. His well thought out wardrobe set off his swimmers physique. Though
she rarely had the opportunity to analyze his nude body in broad daylight, when
they used the pool she often admired his broad shoulders and trim abdomen.

They
disagreed about plenty of things. They were husband and wife after all, but
Mason never once raised his voice to her and was gentle and always in control
of himself. She’d never seen him in a rage. On days that she knew he’d lost a
patient on his table she did everything she could to soothe him. Sometimes it
pained her to see that part of her husband that she could never quite reach. It
was as if he withheld parts of himself from her, perhaps afraid if he leaned on
her too heavily she might break. Perhaps he was right.

Liberty
supposed everyone had secrets, but the part of him that he didn’t share with
her was huge, and for that reason she always ended up crying on the nights
Mason needed to be left alone to sort out his emotions. She was not made of
glass, but definitely had cracks that burdened her with emotional limits. She
wished he would come to her, just once, so that she could be there for him the
way he was there for her. In spite of his emotional barriers Mason was a
wonderful man and an even better husband. So, yes, Libby would cry at times,
but in the end she would chastise herself for being selfish and a shrew for not
being satisfied with all the amazing parts of him he did share.

They
had a great marriage. They laughed together, enjoyed the same movies. Her
passion was playing the piano and Mason loved to listen. She needed to take
care of him and he needed her to make sure he didn’t walk out the door with
newspaper smudges on his fingers or shaving cream in his ear. Five years
together and she was very happy.

“Hello,
Earth to Libby…” Liberty drew her gaze from her half-eaten pie and looked into
Mason’s laughing eyes. “Where’d you go there? I was telling you something and
you just zoned out.”

“Oh,
I—” The sound of the phone ringing saved her from having to form an excuse.
“I’ll get that. Excuse me.”

He
smirked at her with raised eyebrows as she quickly removed his dish and
scurried off to the kitchen.

“Whoever
it is, I’m not here. I want a nice evening with my wife, a good movie, and no
interruptions,” he called after her.

Libby
smiled to herself in the kitchen and grabbed the phone on the third ring.
“Hello?” When she heard nothing but dead air she assumed the caller hung up.
“Hello?”

“Hi.”
                                                      

Libby
smiled and crinkled her brow at the phone. She looked at the caller ID and
didn’t recognize the number. “Hi. Who is this?”

“This—”
The deep voice stumbled as if searching for words, “Um… is this…is this Mrs.
Davis?”

“Speaking.”

“Wife
of Dr. Mason Davis?”

“Yes,
this is Liberty, Mason’s wife. Can I help you?”

“Liberty.”
The gravelly voice on the other end said her name slowly as if tasting the
word.

“I’m
sorry, who is this?”

“Is…Is
Dr. Davis home?”

Liberty
moved to the counter and grabbed the small tablet she used to write down
Mason’s messages. Glancing to the clock over the double oven, she wrote the
exact time and date in the upper left corner. “No, he’s not. May I take a
message?”

“Do
you know when you expect him back?”

Mason
came into the kitchen and hugged her from behind. The act was unexpected. Her
pussy clenched and her nipples grew suddenly hard. His touch always had an effect
on her, but being caught off guard added a new and exciting element of arousal.
The peculiarity of his caress threw her slightly off balance. With her husband,
all things sexual were usually limited to their intimate encounters refined to
their bedroom. Spontaneity never tempted her before and her desire for such
nonsense only frustrated her now.