One to Hold (11 page)

“We’ll look ridiculous in swimsuits so early in the morning,” I tried to laugh. To think of anything to ease the intense misery growing inside me. But it didn’t work.

“I couldn’t care less.” He slipped the tee back over his head and took my hand, picking up my bag.

We caught the elevator down and then walked out into the still-cool morning. Neither of us spoke, but our hands were clasped tightly like two teenagers at the end of a summer romance. Once we reached the entrance to the spa hotel, he stopped and faced me.

“Last name?” he asked, but I shook my head no. I didn’t want him investigating me. I didn’t want him knowing. He exhaled. “I’ve been thinking. Maryland’s not so far.”

“I’ll be going back to Wilmington soon,” I said quietly.

He nodded, and something flickered in his eyes, thoughtful if still sad. “That’s good. I hope you’ll be happier there.”

A line creased my brow. “What do you mean?”

“That first night I saw you in the bar,” he paused, as if searching for the right words. “You were so sad.”

I relaxed. “If I’m happy now, I have you to thank.”

He reached forward and slid a curl off my cheek. “Thank you,” he murmured.

I remembered his odd gratitude the few first times we’d made love. “Why did you? Thank me, I mean. Those first times.”

“I knew you were doing something unusual, something you’d probably never have done.” He paused a moment, choosing his words. “I kept holding my breath, waiting for you to push me away or make me stop, and when you didn’t…”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He smiled. “You’re amazing. And you let me have you.”

He had no idea how much I’d let him have. For a moment we were quiet. I hated this goodbye so much. Suddenly, he reached forward and caught both my hands. He took a deep breath and looked straight into my eyes as if he’d just made a decision.

“I never expected things to go this way. To get so involved so fast.” He paused, glancing briefly at our clasped hands. I started to speak, but he continued. “And then I said a week, as if I could just do this one-week thing…”

My stomach was so tight, but I only blinked, waiting to hear him out.

“We both have lives back home,” he continued, “and maybe you can’t share your life with me now. But I’d take your call anytime.” He was holding my hands so securely. “I hope this goodbye isn’t—”

“Forever,” I said softly with him. His childhood game drifted through my memory.

My eyes were warm, and he stepped forward, releasing my hands and cupping my cheeks as he kissed me gently, then deeply.
When we see each other again, I thought, this is what we’ll do.
I placed my hands over his, opening my mouth to him for the last time, fighting tears with everything I had. I didn’t want his last memory to be of me crying.

When he stepped back, he touched the heart at my throat. “I meant what I wrote.”

I lifted it in my fingers. “I’ll take good care of it.”

The plane ride back to Maryland was miserable. Elaine and I were both quiet, thoughtful, and I could tell her parting with Patrick had been emotional, too. But in contrast, they’d exchanged contact information and a promise to keep in touch. I couldn’t do that.

In Atlanta, we parted ways, her headed east and me north. We hugged each other, and it was comforting to know we were close enough to be in this silent place of misery together and not have to question it, pick it apart, or even discuss it.

“So our next trip,” she said, her voice quiet. “I’ll start planning it the minute I get unpacked.”

I nodded, my smile tight. Tears were close in my eyes, but my friend didn’t seem to notice. I could tell she had her own tears to manage.

“Have a great start of the school year,” I said, squeezing her hands, not wanting to let her go.

She hugged me close. “I’ll be so glad when you’re finally home.”

“Me, too,” I breathed. “It shouldn’t be long now. I’ll keep you posted.”

With that we went our separate ways—at least temporarily.

The entire trip to Baltimore, I couldn’t rest. I couldn’t read. I only stared out the little window thinking of Derek and missing him so much. I was alone, headed back to my unfinished business, and Sloan had been calling the entire time. He was certain to be furious, and when he was furious…

I inhaled deeply as the announcer began telling us about the descent into the metropolitan airport. I collected my purse, which held the heart necklace in my wallet. I hadn’t worn it because I’d have to explain, but I was keeping it safe and secure, hoping against hope that I’d be able to find him again. And that when I did, it might actually work as well in real life as it had in our little one-week summer oasis.

Sloan’s car was waiting for me when I emerged from baggage claim. I wouldn’t have even seen it if Hal, his Asian driver, hadn’t called out to me.

“Mr. Reynolds said you’ll be needing a ride home,” he said with a smile, taking my suitcase.

“H-he did?” Instantly my stomach clenched. If Sloan knew when I was arriving and which airline, he must’ve found out where I went. I wondered just how much he knew. Derek and I’d thrown discretion to the wind our last day at the pool, and my insides tensed at the thought of what Sloan might do if he found out I’d taken a lover.

“Yes, Mrs. Reynolds,” Hal was still smiling. “He said you wouldn’t be expecting me.”

I exhaled deeply and felt my shoulders drop. I was back. “Thank you, Hal. And I’m not going by ‘Mrs. Reynolds’ anymore. I’ve told you that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, but I could tell he was only humoring me. No telling what Sloan had told his staff about me. Probably that I had mental problems. Or at the very least, that the whole thing was my fault.

I took one last look over my shoulder, back at the concourse, and then blinked away the mist in my eyes as I turned and followed the black-uniformed employee to my husband’s limo waiting to take me “home.”

Chapter 10 – Cut the Ties

No one greeted me when Hal dropped me at the front door. If I’d expected Sloan to be waiting with a snarl, I’d forgotten his style. He preferred to play it cool, aloof, much too busy for the childish behavior of his trophy wife. Then he’d strike for revenge once I’d forgotten I’d even done anything.

I hated him.

I slowly climbed the marble staircase to my room. Yes, we had separate rooms. This enormous house with a conservatory, a ballroom, and two formal dining areas—it was like something out of the fucking
Sound of Music
—had plenty of bedrooms, and my husband and I had only shared one for about two months when we moved here a year ago.

He’d complained it was too hot. He didn’t have enough room. He suggested we get a California king-sized bed, but it was too late. The damage had been done, and I just wanted my own space. He snored anyway.

Today my luggage would be delivered to my private suite on the east wing of the mansion. The staff would wait for me to unload it and sort my clothes between the dirty and clean. Laundry was sent to an outside service then returned pressed and folded. The housekeeper, Mrs. Widlow met me at the top of the stairs. Her sleek grey hair hung in a straight bob that never moved, and as always, she wore a pantsuit and matching scarf. Today the suit was puce, the scarf lavender.

“Did you have a nice trip, Mrs. Reynolds?” she said.

“It was very relaxing,” I answered. “And I’ve asked not to be called by that name any more.”

“Of course, ma’am,” she said.

Just like Hal.

They were Sloan’s staff, and like the rest, she didn’t give a shit what I said. Whatever Mr. Reynolds told them was law.

I continued making my way to my suite. The first time Sloan brought me here five years ago, when I was only twenty-six, everything about his huge mansion knocked my small-town socks off, from the grounds to the stables to the garage filled with all sorts of antique cars. Of course, at that time, it was still his father’s mansion.

Back then, the only thing more impressive to me than this house was that Sloan Reynolds, Princeton graduate, mogul, inheritor of his father’s export business, had taken an interest in me. I still hadn’t figured that puzzler out.

I was simply an ambitious marketing major based on the Carolina coast but participating in workshops at big-wig universities hoping to make bank by snagging some major clients. I was freelance, but in this digital age, I had dreams of managing the world from my hammock on the beach.

My future husband had been on campus that day delivering a check or having his butt kissed by some needy department chair. He’d spotted me making my pitch and invited me to lunch. He was older, but at the time, he was still sexy to me. He was experienced and worldly—rich, smooth, and in control. He took me to the best restaurants, ordered the best wines. The rest was history.

Five years as Mrs. Sloan Reynolds had left me
very
cynical. About everything.

The first months of our marriage were good—he was kind to me, and we enjoyed being together. Then slowly his interest faded. He seemed to enjoy my company less and less, and he started taking more and longer trips back to Baltimore.

When we relocated, his traveling increased. He said he had to take over his father’s schedule, meeting with investors and potential customers in far-off locations. I was never invited to join him, and I later found out why.

He’d asked me to put my marketing career on hold and take his mother’s place on her many local charity boards, auxiliaries, and civic associations. Of course, I agreed—anything to help with the transition. His father’s death changed everything.

So my marketing business dwindled, and I made few client contacts in the city. Instead, I did what the wives of the super-wealthy did. I attended meetings, had teas, cut ribbons. The only problem was, I didn’t want to give up my career. I didn’t want to be a lady who lunched. I didn’t even know how to play tennis.

I confess—I blamed myself a little for our marriage’s “failure to thrive,” as the counseling booklets called it. Sloan had swept me off my feet, and he had style. And drivers. And cache into all the best places. But apart from that, we had little in common. I told myself it didn’t matter. We would grow into those things.

The opposite happened.

And as if to hasten the decline, our sex life never got off the ground. When we did have intercourse, he at least seemed satisfied. He gasped and groaned and got off, and I sort of followed along. But his hands never drifted below my waist, he didn’t like blow jobs, didn’t give me head. We would have one disappointing moment, and then months would go by before we’d try again.

Eventually, I quit trying.

I was depressed as hell when I found the receipt in his pants pocket. He’d spent two thousand dollars on a Jessica Black. It only took a few Google searches for me to discover Ms. Black was a high-end call-girl.

He told me it meant nothing. He was having a crisis. He needed to “feel” something again. And after all, she was just a “faceless whore.” None of that mattered. I just wanted to be done with it. I wanted to go back to Wilmington and resume my career in marketing. I wanted to restart my freelance business, forget the whole marriage charade, and get back to what made me happy.

Six months had passed, and we’d tried counseling, therapy. I’d even talked to my mom, although I knew her advice before she offered it: All marriages hit rough patches, give it time. It had all been well and good until the night he decided he was tired of waiting for me to “get over it.”

Until the night he changed everything.

After that I never wanted to see him again. I filed for divorce two weeks ago—the week before Elaine had taken me to Scottsdale for our spa retreat. I hadn’t had a chance to tell anyone but her before we left. I hadn’t even had a chance to plan my exit strategy.

As it was, I still had to collect enough money for a deposit on my own place. I still had to decide how I would live—that is, unless I decided to come clean and move in with my mother until I got on my feet again. I wanted to save that option as the very last resort. I still had a few small marketing jobs in the works, and once those clients paid, I’d pack up and leave Baltimore.

Those were the details I was working out when I left for Scottsdale and met Derek.

Derek opened my eyes. He turned my body inside out, and then he set everything on fire. But at the same time, nothing had changed. Derek might’ve shown me I wasn’t to blame, that I could fall in love, that my life could get better. But before any of it could be realized, I had to finish here. I had to get back on my own two feet.

I was still unpacking my suitcase and pondering closure when my soon-to-be ex-husband found me. As I expected, he was not in an understanding mood.

He was ready to get to the bottom of my unannounced trip.

Chapter 11 – Portfolio Diversity

Sloan breezed into the room as if finding me here was the last thing he’d expected to happen—as if he hadn’t sent his driver to pick me up at the airport. My pulse sped up. My back was to him, and without turning, I cautiously lifted my hand to one of the small top drawers of my dresser. Sliding it open, I casually felt beneath my lingerie, locating the canister of pepper spray now hidden there.