Marriage Matters (18 page)

Thirty-two

E
very time June thought about the way Charley had tripped over that rake, she felt guilty. He could have hit his head. Or had a heart attack. Or a stroke! June wanted to do something to make it up to him.

“Oooh, you’re going to bring him a casserole?” Chloe asked when she’d heard of June’s plan.

“No, not a casserole.” She sniffed. “I am not one of
those
women.”

“Well, you almost killed the guy,” Chloe said. “Bring something good. And dress up. Don’t go over there looking like you worked in the garden all day.”

At promptly 6 p.m., June showed up on Charley’s doorstep carrying a bag from the corner market. It was filled with a Cornish hen, a half pound of mashed potatoes, some well-cooked green beans and a pecan pie. Smoothing her hair, June considered what she was wearing. She had certainly not dressed up because she didn’t want Charley to get the wrong idea. However, she had donned a simple tweed dress with a pair of red high heels, then spritzed on some orange-scented perfume.

June pressed the doorbell, noticing the stained-glass etching along the edges of Charley’s door. When Eugene died, Kristine had forced June to buy a new door with no windows other than the peephole. “It would be so simple for a criminal to smash that glass, Mother.” It had broken her heart, but Kristine would not take no for an answer.

Charley’s door swept open. It took a moment for her to register that Rose was standing in the entryway, her hands on her hips. “Can I help you?” she asked, as though June were some kid trying to peddle magazines.

“Hello, yourself.” June pushed past Rose and surveyed the situation. The last time she had been present in Charley’s home, the place had smelled like a man. Now, it smelled like lavender bathwater. Turning to Rose, she said, “What are you doing here? Again?”

Rose pressed her manicured mauve nails into June’s shoulder. “I was speaking with Charley on the phone and he told me all about his accident.” Leaning forward, she murmured, “Just between you and me, it sounded like a cry for another casserole, but he really is feeling quite blue.”

June swept past her and into the den. Charley was stretched out on the chaise lounge, looking anything but blue. He was wearing a pair of silver reading glasses and flipping through the pages of a classic Sherlock Holmes novel.

“June!” Charley slid off his glasses. “How nice of you to drop by.”

“It looks like you already have company.” She had to make an effort to keep the annoyance out of her tone. “However, I’ve brought you some more food.”

Rose clucked. “The casserole is already in the oven. If we would have known you were coming . . .”

“Yes, June.” Charley grinned. “If
we
had known you were coming, we would have asked you to bring dessert.”

June flushed. “I did.” Setting the brown bag down on a wooden end table, she rifled through it and pulled out the pecan pie. “Here you are.”

“My goodness.” Rose folded her hands. “Is that . . . store-bought?”

“I think it looks delicious,” Charley said. “Pecan pie is my favorite.”

June was surprised to hear this. Pecan pie was her favorite, which was why she picked it. She had pegged Charley as more of a peach pie type of man. “It is indeed store-bought,” she told Rose, “but that particular store is serviced by the finest bakery in town. I imagine it will taste much better than a strudel.”

“Does this mean you’re staying for dinner?” Charley asked.

Rose narrowed her eyes. “I really don’t know if we’ll have enough food . . .”

The doorbell chimed. They all looked toward the entryway, and Charley seemed genuinely puzzled.

“Now, who in the world could that be?”

“I’ll get it,” Rose and June chorused. Glaring at each other, they strode out of the den and into the foyer. Rose’s high heels clicked across the hardwood floor like a horse trying to win a race.

In the hallway, she stopped abruptly in front of the mirror. Pinching her cheeks pink, she turned and glared at June. “Now, you listen to me.” Her voice was practically a hiss. “You may as well save your breath. Charley is as good as mine.”

“You can have him,” June said, exasperated. “I don’t even like the man.”

“Oh, please.” Rose made a face that could have been a frown, but with all of that Botox, it was hard to tell. “Sneaking in like you have nothing at stake. Don’t think you’re going to be the one who walks away with the silver fox.”

“The silver fox?” June echoed, bewildered. “What is he, a holiday ornament?”

The doorbell chimed again. With a toss of her red-dyed hair, Rose pushed past June and opened the door. “What on earth are
you
doing here?” she gasped.

Rose sounded so genuinely distressed that June was certain it had to be Rose’s ex-husband. He was a distasteful man, with a rather strong passion for the drink. June pulled Rose out of the way, ready to give the man a piece of her mind. Charley or no Charley, no one messed with her friends.

To her surprise, the person on the front stoop wasn’t Rose’s ex-husband. In fact, it wasn’t a man at all.

It was Bernice, eagerly clutching a casserole.

Thirty-three

K
ristine leaned back in her black metal chair at a corner cafe. The hotel was right next door, a charming structure made from dark gray stone. Next to it loomed a building that had to be at least eight hundred years old, with its stained yellow walls and faded blue shutters.

“I love it out here,” Kristine told Ethan. “In fact, I think I love everything about Rome.” Kristine had been having the time of her life but something was happening, something between her and Ethan. Maybe it was the fact that she was spending so much time with him or because being in Italy felt like her life back home didn’t exist, but Kristine had found herself becoming more and more attracted to him. After all, he was paying attention to her in a way that her husband hadn’t in years. It made her feel uncomfortable but at the same time, bold and adventurous, in a way she’d always wanted to be.

Kristine shook her head. Reaching for the carafe, she refilled her wineglass. As the last drops of ruby liquid dripped into her cup, she said, “Looks like we should order another.”

A slight smile lifted the corners of Ethan’s mouth. “Something about that sounds delicious.”

A waiter darted from the inside of the restaurant back out into the street, balancing plates of steaming spaghetti carbonara, penne arrabiata and wild mushroom scallopini. Ethan caught his attention and, after dropping off the plates, the waiter brought more wine.

As he poured, Kristine watched a group of tourists rush past on the sidewalk. She wondered if any of their guidebooks were from her shop in Lincoln Park. Even with a good memory for her customers, it was doubtful she’d recognize any of them, since she was so far from home.

Kristine herself felt unrecognizable. That afternoon, she’d had it with her long, boring hair. Ducking inside a Roman beauty parlor, she made the universal motion for “chop it off.” When the hairdresser was finished, short, wispy tendrils framed her face and brushed the top of her shoulders. Ethan said, “It was like watching Michelangelo chip away at the marble until the angel came out.”

Now, he took her hand in his and caressed her palm with his thumb.

Kristine ran her tongue over the roof of her mouth, tasting the sweet aftertaste of the wine. Her breathing was shallow. She squeezed his hand, then pulled hers away.

Ethan’s eyes held hers for a long, questioning moment. “Come on,” he finally said, gesturing at the dance floor.

The dance floor was a partitioned area out in the middle of the street. White lights were strung overhead and a street band played from a small wooden platform. Couples of all ages moved their bodies to the music, under the looming neighborhood hotels.

Kristine hesitated for just a moment but got to her feet. She smiled as Ethan pulled her close to him, and she relished in the feeling of her body against his. He was an experienced dancer, guiding her in and out of turns. Each moment they touched, her entire body tingled. She found herself pressing against him, drawing out the moments, before he’d spin her out into a turn.

Slowly, the music ebbed into a gentle rhythm. Ethan put his hand at the small of her back and guided her close to him. They were both wet with sweat and Kristine closed her eyes, trying to fight against the attraction growing inside of her. The tingle in her stomach turned into a full-on shudder as Ethan buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply.

Pressing her hands into his shirt, Kristine blocked out everything but the feeling of his body against hers. She took in slow, steadying breaths as his thumb traced the exposed skin on the back of her arm.

Stop this
, her conscience screamed.
You shouldn’t be doing this!

But it felt too good to stop. She was just dancing, enjoying the feel of the air, the sight of the white lights swaying above her and the friendly face of the mandolin player bobbing along with the music.

There was a low wolf whistle from the side. Kristine’s eyes opened and she looked over, embarrassed. But the young Italian with slicked black hair, his red shirt open at the collar, was not whistling at her. He was tapping his hands against his knees and staring at a dark-haired woman undulating in the center of the floor.

Ethan reached up and, ever so slowly, moved Kristine’s hair away from her shoulder. As the singer wailed about lost love over the microphone, Ethan lowered his full, warm lips to her skin. “
Come sei bella
,”
he whispered. “Let’s go back to the hotel . . .”

They were only steps away and she hesitated. It was obvious her husband had lost interest in her a long time ago. Was she really going to spend the rest of her life waiting for something to change?

Ethan spun her around. Leading her away from the dance floor, he kissed the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. They stopped for a moment on the front steps, gazing at each other in the yellow light of the ancient streetlamp. Gently, he reached forward and tucked a strand of hair behind her ears.

Leaning in, he brushed his lips against her ear. “I told you,” he whispered. “You’re the woman in the cream-colored dress.”

He reached for the door handle and pulled it open. Her heart was beating in quick little starts and she took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to put an end to the evening. Suddenly, as her eyes focused, she felt her heart thud to a heavy stop.

There, in the red couch facing the front door, sat her husband.

Thirty-four

K
ristine stood stock-still, stunned. What was Kevin doing here? What had he
seen
?

Without a word, he stood up and strode toward the stairs.

“Kevin, wait!” She dropped Ethan’s hand and rushed after him, up all three flights of stairs. Her legs burned with the effort, her heart pounding in her ears. “Kevin,” she begged. “It’s not what you think.”

Her husband didn’t look at her, just keyed into her room. The door remained open behind him and she stood in silence, trying to compose herself. The thought that he had been right next to where she’d had dinner, right next to the dance floor . . . A brackish taste filled her mouth. She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm the icy waves crashing through her heart.

Walking into the room, Kristine locked the door and dared to look at him. Kevin avoided her gaze, ducking into the bathroom. He left the door half open and there was the sound of running water. She bit her nail to the quick, waiting. She jumped slightly as he walked back out, wiping his face with a towel.

Kristine dropped her gaze to the luggage rack, where his suitcase was neatly set out. “That’s amazing.” Her voice came out high pitched, a little drunk. “In the U.S., I can’t even talk to the credit card company without your authorization but here, you’re welcome to just move in.” She felt panic settling in. What was she saying? What had she
done
? “This room is too small for two people. We’ll need to get something bigger.”

“The room’s fine.” Kevin walked over to the window and threw open the shutters, staring outside. The scent of garlic and onions filled their room from the restaurant down below. The smell made Kristine’s stomach turn. She wondered if Ethan’s window was open. His room was by the alley, too. Would he hear the conversation they were inevitably about to have?

Kevin turned and studied her for a long moment. His eyes were dull, like the ocean after a storm. “You cut your hair.”

Kristine flushed, bringing a hand up to touch it. “I did.”

Dishes clattered downstairs. Absently, she reached for the hair that was no longer there as though to twist it into a tight bun. Frustrated, she dropped her hands.

Why wasn’t he saying anything? It all felt so unfair. Kristine had been loyal for twenty-five years, without exception. Could Kevin say the same? There had been so many times when he was away on his business trips that she couldn’t help but wonder. Had he ever gone for a drink, flirted with a stranger, considered breaking their vows?

In her heart, she’d always trusted him. The same way he’d trusted her. At the thought, a tiny headache pulsed behind her eye.

“I’d like to go to bed,” she said. “I’m tired.”

Kristine wasn’t tired; her stomach was churning with shame. But turning off the lights, climbing into bed and falling asleep sounded like a welcome relief. Much more appealing than having a knock-down, drag-out fight about something she didn’t yet understand.

“I’m sorry,” Kevin said.

At first, she thought her husband meant,
Sorry you’re tired, but I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen.

He surprised her by adding, “I’m sorry, Kristine. I should have come with you. When you asked.”

Kristine squeezed her hands in confusion. Where was the anger? The accusations? She moved her mouth as though to speak but nothing came out.

“But I’m here.” His voice was quiet. “It’s what you wanted, so I . . .” He stopped, as though realizing her wants might have changed completely.

“Yes,” Kristine said quickly. “It’s what I wanted. I’m glad you came.”

Kevin pressed his palm against the windowsill and stared into the night. She followed his gaze to the building across the street. It was the one with the stained yellow walls and faded blue shutters, the one she’d admired from the restaurant. The lights were off in most of the rooms.

Kristine took a seat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was small, which Kevin wouldn’t like. He’d hang off the ends of the bed like an extra appendage that didn’t belong. The thought made her unspeakably sad.

“Please.” She willed her voice not to tremble. “Let’s just go to bed.”

Kevin continued to stare out the window. A motorbike drove by outside. As the sound faded into the distance, her husband said, “Did you sleep with him?”

The question hung in the air between them like exhaust. It was a question that, in all of their twenty-five years of marriage, they’d never had to ask.

Kristine ducked her head. “No.”

Her husband let out a loud breath and buried his face in his hands. He was silent for such a long moment that she didn’t know what to think. Finally, she heard a slight snuffle.

“Are you crying?” Kevin hadn’t cried in front of her in ages.

“When I saw you walk in, holding that guy’s hand . . .” Lowering his hands, he turned to face her. A tiny tear glistened beneath his lower eyelash. It sparkled in the low light of the room.

Kristine felt a lump in the back of her throat. Grabbing for the tiny bottle of water on the bedside table, she took a desperate, cleansing sip. “Kevin, it wasn’t what you—”

He shook his head. “I’ve really fucked this up. Haven’t I?”

“It’s not you, it’s . . .” Once again, she reached for her hair, desperate to twist it on top of her head. But it wasn’t there anymore. Kristine was so frustrated, her eyes filled with tears. “We don’t see each other enough to talk or just . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Back when they were first married, they’d spent every moment of free time together biking along Lake Michigan, exploring Thai restaurants in search of the perfect curry, taking a boat out with friends . . . When had all of that fallen away? Kristine had spent more time with Ethan this week than she’d spent with her husband all year.

“We’re just not like we used to be,” she said.

“No.” Kevin wiped the back of his hand over his eyes. “I guess not.”

Downstairs, someone yelled,
“Bellissima!”
There was the sound of glasses clinking.

Turning, Kevin closed the window. After a moment, he walked over to her and took a seat on the bed. The mattress dipped, causing her to fall against him. He reached for her hand. Kristine gripped his like an anchor.

“I love you, Firecracker.” Kevin said the nickname slowly, as though it was a foreign word. “I know we haven’t been what you wanted for a while now but that’s going to change. I promise you that.”

Kristine let out a small, shaky breath. She’d waited to hear him say those words for such a long time. But now that he had, the ice that had formed over her heart did not break free and float away as she’d once expected. Instead, a little voice inside her head said,
We’ll
see.

“I don’t even know what to say about tonight,” he said, staring down at their hands. “I . . .” Looking up at the ceiling, he breathed in sharply through his nose.

Kristine squeezed his hands as hard as she could. “Nothing happened. Kevin, look at me.”

Kevin turned to face her. Her heart ached to think that she had caused him so much pain. It was so hard to believe that he was here, in Italy, just like she’d wanted, but that these were the moments they were sharing.

“I love you.” Her voice trembled. “I’m so sorry.”

“I love you, too.” The words came out in a rush.

Kristine tried to release his hand, patting it gently, but he held on tight. Kevin leaned in as though to kiss her.

For years, Kristine had entertained actual fantasies about kissing her husband on foreign soil. She imagined a passionate embrace beneath the Eiffel Tower, a stolen moment in a cab in Cairo or even a simple snuggle under the bright lights of Tokyo. But never once had she imagined sharing this kiss on a night when she’d walked into a hotel with another man.

Kristine put her hand on his shoulder before their lips could touch. “It’s been a long night. Let’s just go to bed.” Standing up, she found her pajamas and walked to the bathroom to change.