It Isn't Cheating if He's Dead (23 page)

“Wow. Way to sell me on living with you.”
She grinned.

“I see a therapist twice a month. I’ve
turned the anger around and have been able to focus that negative energy into
more positive outcomes.” He took one of her hands. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong
with me now. I’m obsessive. I obsess over work. Obsessed over your case, over
you. That was the last straw that finally blew my marriage apart. I obsess over
exercise and fitness. And now,” he tickled her ribs, “I’m obsessed with getting
you to live with me.”

She giggled and pushed his hand away. “Don’t
forget sex. You’re obsessed with sex.”

“Only with you.” He brushed her hair aside
and took her earlobe in his mouth. His teeth scraped against her skin and his
tongue left a moist trail from her ear to her neck. He slid his hand inside her
shirt at the shoulder and slipped it down her arm. Firm bites and feather
kisses followed the path of his hand until her fastened buttons prevented him
going any further. With his other hand he undid them one by one, moving his
lips closer to her elbow with each popped button.

She shut her eyes and let the sensation of
his tongue and his teeth on her skin melt the rest of the world away. No matter
how often he held her, kissed her, made love to her, her chest ached and she
went weak in the knees.

He took her hand and led her to the living
room, drew the curtains shut and undressed her, kissing and tasting every inch
of her skin as it was uncovered. She pulled his shirt free of his waistband and
pulled it over his head. He stood, dropped his pants and kicked them towards
the front entry.

She fanned the fingers of her right hand
over his chest and pushed. He dropped backwards onto the sofa. She straddled
him, her hands on his shoulders, and rocked with him inside her, his face
buried between her breasts.

She was on the verge of climax when he held
her still and kissed her. Then he wrapped his arms around her and picked her
up. He set her feet on the floor, turned her away from him and bent her over
the wide armrest of the chair. He bent with her, his chest pressing against her
back, one arm around her middle. His lips and tongue danced on her neck. Quakes
of pleasure shot through her body.

Of all the men she’d been with, none had
the strength to manipulate her body, position her anywhere and everywhere
without a word, and with such gentle ease. She was safe in his hands. Safe with
him. In every way imaginable.

He brought her to the brink of climax again
and then slowed. “Damn,” he whispered in her ear. “Let me run upstairs and get
a condom.”

She reached one hand behind his head. “No.
Don’t stop.”

With that slight encouragement he kept
going until they were both moaning and panting. They climaxed together and he
went limp against her back. He grabbed her, spun around, and fell over the
armrest into the chair, pulling her down on top of him. He hugged her and nuzzled
his face into her neck.

“That was amazing. Wish we could do it bare
every time.”

“We can.”

“Jem, I love you but I’m not ready to be a
father.”

She twisted her neck around and looked at
him. “I went on the pill two weeks ago.”

He stared at her and ran a hand through her
hair. He brought his lips to hers and they shared another kiss. “Perfect,” he
whispered.

They sat in the chair in silence for
several minutes, their naked bodies curled up against each other. Her head rested
against his shoulder, her nose buried beneath his chin.

“I have an idea.” He kissed her forehead. “Only
a suggestion. Something to think on.”

“Shoot.”

“Don’t sell your house. Keep it.”

She shifted and looked up at him. “You want
to give up your mansion and cram in here with me?”

“That wouldn’t be a bad thing — as long as
we’re under the same roof. But I was thinking you could move in with me and turn
your house into an office. Run your practice out of it.”

She settled back onto his shoulder. One finger
stroked little circles on his chest. The best of both worlds. Live in a mansion
with this god of a man. Keep her house as a place of business. And have a fall-back
home in case things went south with Finn. Not that they would, but a girl’s got
to be practical. “I did buy a desk from Ikea. Almost got it together in the
spare room but gave up.”

“The living room could be a meeting place.
The kitchen could be your office — handy to the coffee machine and all. And you
could keep your bedroom as a bedroom. You know, for when I drop in some
afternoons for a quickie.” He tickled her ribs.

She giggled. “You’ve really thought this
through.”

She glanced around the room. What was she
holding on to? It was only a house, just plywood and plaster. Keeping it
wouldn’t bring Gerald home, wouldn’t turn back time. It didn’t even hold all
the best memories of him. The more often she replayed their short time here,
the more the truth started to smack her upside the head. The house represented Gerald's
worst.

“I like that idea,” she whispered. The feel
of Finn’s warm skin against hers, the touch of his hand, his soft kiss. That
was home. She didn’t want to be alone anymore. To be lonely. No way would she
let this go sideways.

“Yes.”

He sat up and looked her in the eye, his smile
bright, his face lit up. “Really?”

“Really.”

He slid out from under her, stood and
pulled her to her feet. In one quick movement she was up and over his shoulder,
her bare ass right next to his face. He tapped it in a playful spank. “Let’s go
celebrate.”

He jogged up the stairs to her room and
tossed her on the bed. She bounced on the mattress and he dove on top of her.

Insatiable.

acknowledgement of her existence

“Good morning, Joe.” Jem dropped to the
grass and crossed her legs.

Joe lifted one hand in a wave.

“Pastrami on rye, bananas, and orange juice
today.”

“Mustard?”

“What else?”

He dug into his breakfast and smiled.

“You’re in a good mood today. Did you shave
again?” She ran the back of her fingers along his cheek. Clean with a hint of
stubble.

He nodded and swallowed pastrami. “Showered
at the shelter last night.”

Butterflies danced in her stomach. That was
the first full sentence he’d ever spoken to her. His voice was strong, his eyes
bright. “That — that’s wonderful. Did you sleep there too?”

“Yeah. More comfortable.”

“I bet.” She leaned back on her palms and
looked skyward. The sun sparkled behind the leaves of tall trees. A slight
breeze shifted branches, the sun playing peek-a-boo behind the foliage. “What a
beautiful day.”

“Yes. Warm.” He finished the last bite of
his sandwich, peeled the banana, and stared at the ground. “I talked to
someone.”

She bolted upright. “Excuse me?”

“At the shelter. A counselor.”

“Joe, that’s wonderful. Fantastic. How do
you feel about it?”

“Pretty good. Good to talk. To cry.”

“And now what?”

“Going back. He’s lost people. Left
people.”

“And he got his life back?”

He nodded.

“Joe, do you want your life back?”

“Won’t be the same. But maybe.”

Inside her head she screamed and jumped up
and down and danced a little jig. But she showed him a serious face. “Who did
you leave behind, Joe? In your old life?”

“No one.”

“What about your wife. I know you have one.
The ring, remember?”

His face reddened and tears fell. “Emma.”

Her heart skipped a beat. There it was. Acknowledgment
of her existence.

“That’s a lovely name.” She sat forward and
looked him in the eye “Where is Emma, Joe? Are you divorced?”

He shook his head and wiped his cheeks and
nose, rubbed the back of his hand on his filthy pants.

She reached towards him touched the scars
on his arm. “Joe, what happened? Please tell me.”

“Car accident.”

“Is that how you got your scars?”

He nodded “My fault. She died.”

Tears sprung to Jem's eyes. “I’m so sorry,
Joe." She held his hand and let the weight of the moment rest.
"Joe?" she whispered. "How was it your fault?”

His eyes flashed. Not anger. Not at her. “I
was driving. Lost control.” He hung his head, covered his face with his hands
and sobbed. “I tried to save her.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. No more questions
today. But here’s something for you to consider.” She stroked his head. “Not
all accidents are someone’s fault. Sometimes they are circumstances beyond your
control. Let’s work on letting you forgive yourself, okay? Maybe talk to the
counselor about forgiveness. Do you think you can do that?”

He glared at her. “I doubt it.”

“All right. You’re in control. Would you
consider seeing a psychologist?”

“I have no money.”

“If money wasn’t a concern, and you could
get therapy, real therapy — would you?”

“I suppose. But no money.”

“I know someone. You wouldn’t have to pay
him. Can I take you to him?”

He rested his hands in his lap and looked
across the park. “Maybe,” he whispered.

leap right
through

Jem carried the last box of her clothes
down the stairs and stacked it with the others in the living room. She ran a
hand over the back of the chair and eyed the sofa. Finn’s house was jam-packed
with furniture, all of it newer and nicer than anything she owned. Perhaps a
charity would like her living room set and the television, so tiny compared to
Finn’s projection screen.

She sat on the sofa, grabbed a throw
cushion and hugged it to her chest. She closed her eyes and remembered the day
she and Gerald had picked out the furniture. Neither had anything worth
bringing into a new home, so they decided to donate their old stuff and start
fresh with things that belonged to the two of them.

Now she was giving it up and accepting that
she’d live with things that were Finn’s and Finn’s alone. Or Finn’s and Amy’s.

She glanced around the room. Her gaze
paused on the hole behind the television where Gerald had ripped the cable from
the wall, on the shelves now vacant of Gerald's awards and photos. She’d spent
so many nights and weekends alone even before they moved in together, waiting
for Gerald to stop working, to stop writing, to stop long enough to pay her any
attention at all.

She’d wanted a soft sofa and comfortable chairs
that reclined. He thought they were gauche. Pedestrian. He wanted something
nice, classy. With legs you could vacuum under and deep-but-sturdy cushions and
high armrests. Something you’d be proud to show off when you had guests, he’d
said. Even though they never had guests. And he rarely used the living room
furniture.

None of this was hers. It was his. All his.
She’d lost every argument, every discussion. Not because he was completely
rigid. No, it was her fault. She always caved in to what he wanted. Funny how
that reality dimmed over the years and some legend of him, of their
relationship, took its place. No, she didn’t need any of this. It could all go.

The lock clicked and the door popped open. Finn's
head appeared from behind the door. “Hey, you all packed?”

“Kind of. All my clothes and bathroom
stuff.”

“I can get a moving van this weekend. We
can put all this furniture downstairs. I always wanted to make a family room
down there. Never had a good reason to.”

“I like the idea of a family room, but not
with this stuff. I’m letting it all go. We can figure out the basement later.
Maybe with stuff for us.”

He crossed the floor and sat beside her, wrapped
his arm around her shoulder and pulled her against him. “For us. I like it.” He
kissed her temple. “If there’s anything in the house that you don’t want, don’t
like. Just say so.”

“Your home is beautiful.”

“Our home. And I’m serious. Anything. You
tell me, promise?”

“Promise.” She licked her lips. "There
is one thing. It's stupid, really."

"I doubt that. What is it?"

"In your living room. The
sculpture."

He smiled. "The abstract. Bodies
entwined."

"That's the one."

"It isn't about me and Amy." He
kissed her forehead. "I bought that last month."

She pulled away and looked at his face.
"Before we — or after?"

"A couple of days after."

She gazed into his eyes. "Then it can
stay."

“All right then. Let me load these boxes up.
I’ve got champagne in the fridge. I think a night in is in order, no?”

She smiled and tossed the cushion aside. “My
favourite. Maybe we can imitate the sculpture.”