The Secret Lives of Housewives (2 page)

As Monica crossed the parking lot toward her Lexus, she watched Angie climb into an older model sedan, Cait into a current-model-year Honda, and Eve into a Toyota that looked like it had seen better days—lots of them. “Interesting group,” she muttered to herself. “Samantha? Maybe that's exactly who I am.”

C
ait turned the key to her Accord V6 and waited for the GPS system to boot. Although she certainly knew the route home, she liked to watch the map out of the corner of her eye as she drove. Finally the screen activated and she pressed OK, then thumbed the voice button on the steering wheel and said, “XM Channel 10.” The feminine voice echoed back at her, then after a slight pause contemporary country music poured from the speakers and filled the car. They were playing Loretta Lynn's “You're Lookin' at Country,” and she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel in time to the cheery tune. She turned the thermostat to sixty-six, knowing that the climate control system would almost immediately kick in and fill the car with cool air, and flicked the wipers twice to squeegee the rain from the windshield.

As she pulled out of the parking space, she waved in the direction of the other women.
Decent sorts
, she thought. That Monica was a bit pushy but okay. Coffee after next week's class? Only if Logan was planning to be home. If he was planning to be out she'd have better things to do with her time than sip coffee with a bunch of suburban housewives.

She turned onto Willow Brook and headed for Sheraton. As she was growing up, this was the neighborhood she'd always dreamed of living in: four-acre zoning, no house under seven figures, long driveways and large sloping lawns with gardeners and landscapers to tend them. Wooded areas separated the houses. She knew that on a parallel street there were two large horse farms with riding stables and fenced areas for jumping. She took in a deep breath and smiled. Imagine. Caitlin Gaffney, from a run-down section of Omaha, living here.

She remembered when she'd first arrived in East Hudson. Ms. O'Leary, her new fourth grade teacher, had introduced her to the class. “This is another Caitlin,” she'd said.
Another Caitlin?
The teacher had held her shoulder and indicated a ponytailed girl in the second row. “This is Caitlin Hanley. We call her Caitlin. And this,” she'd said, pointing to a blonde with carefully styled hair toward the back of the room, “is Caitlin Oakes. We call her Cat. What about you? What would you like to be called?”

“Caitlin,” she said, her voice small and trembling. That was her name and she liked it. Caitlin Gaffney.

“I'm sure you can see how confusing
that
would be.” Ms. O'Leary's voice sounded kind, but there was an edge to it and her teeth showed bright white as she smiled a bit too widely. “When I call on Caitlin to answer a question, how would you know whether it was you or Caitlin Hanley? How about we call you Cait?” It sounded like Kate. “We could spell it C-A-I-T. That would make everyone feel better. We'd have a Caitlin, a Cat, and a Cait. Isn't that a great solution?”

Not for me
, she thought.
I want to be Caitlin.
But even at nine she understood that rank had its privileges, so she'd nodded and became Cait.

As she drove down Sheraton Road, now singing along with Dolly Parton's rendition of “Here I Come Again,” she noticed several lawn maintenance trucks parked along the roadside, and heard the sounds of Hispanic men pushing double-wide mowers. If she opened the windows, she knew she'd smell the wonderful odor of newly cut grass, but she kept them closed and enjoyed the cool air now pouring from the vents.

She arrived at the large colonial on 214 Sheraton Road and turned the car into the long, upwardly sloping driveway, shaded by massive maples that turned the most fabulous colors in October each year. She pressed the button above her head and watched the garage door slowly rise. Then she played her usual game. She'd learned exactly when to take her foot off the accelerator so the car arrived inside the three-car garage just as it slowed to a complete stop. If she had to touch the brake pedal, she lost the game. Pressing the control to lower the door again, she saw that Logan's sports car wasn't in its spot beside their van.
Great
, she thought.
I've got some time.

She walked into the large house, and in the spotless kitchen she saw the light blinking on the answering machine. Pressing
PLAY
, she heard, “Cait, it's Logan.” He always referred to himself in the third person. Who did he think it would be? Cait scoffed. “Parker Clay invited me to join him in a doubles match so I'll be home about three. Don't wait lunch for me, I'll just grab something with the guys here.” She glanced at her watch. Twelve-fifteen. Plenty of time. “Oh, and don't forget that we've got dinner with the Prescotts. Why don't you wear that new green dress that looks so good on you with the gold shoes I like, the ones with the sexy high heels? See you.”

The call ended and the machine said, “Ten-forty-seven, Saturday.” She pressed the
ERASE
button.

Cait rushed upstairs and quickly pulled off her designer leotard and underwear and dropped it all into the hamper in the bathroom. She turned on the water in the stall shower, adjusted the controls so the nozzles on three sides shot out a soft, warm spray, and climbed in.

The bathroom was a microcosm of the whole house, starkly modern, with primarily white tile and black fixtures. Inlaid, hand-painted, Mexican-style tiles added the only color. Once she'd bought several handmade Mexican pots and filled them with greenery to soften the atmosphere. Logan hadn't particularly liked the plants, so when they died from lack of proper care, she put the pots on a shelf in the garage.

When she finished her quick shower, she wrapped herself in a huge white bath towel and hurried into the bedroom. She ran a quick comb through her auburn hair, glad that it was easy enough to care for so that the blow dryer could stay in the closet, to be used only on special occasions. The bedroom was luxurious. The drapes, quilt, and pillow coverings were white, as was the deep pile carpeting. Fortunately Clara came three times a week, and after vacuuming, used stain remover on any small imperfections. The dressers, head and foot boards of the bed, and her dressing table were Chinese, black enamel, with brass fittings. The spread was squares of black and white satin, accented with lipstick-red throw pillows and red ginger jar lamps on the black enamel end tables.

Still wrapped in her towel, Cait strode into the den, where Logan kept his computer, booted it up, and watched the familiar Windows logo appear. She pulled off her engagement and wedding rings and put them on the desk beside the keyboard. She dropped into the ergonomic chair Logan had insisted on and pressed the familiar series of keys. The “Paul's Place” logo appeared at the top of the screen and the window to the chat room opened. She read down the “who's here” list. Hotguy344. They'd chatted before, with delicious results. She saw her screen name appear on the list, Loverlady214.

There was a moment's pause.

She knew that when she clicked the correct keys she and Hotguy344 would be alone in cyberspace. She felt herself getting wet in anticipation. Her nipples were already tight, sticking out from her white flesh.

Cait's hands shook as she typed.

Cait found herself looking down. When she and Hotguy344 had chatted before, he'd described himself: twenty-eight, muscular, with shaggy brown hair and deep blue eyes. Was that what he truly looked like? Probably not, but she didn't care. After all, she'd taken ten years off and told him she was twenty-five with long, ebony hair. She'd always wanted to be a brunette so she'd described herself that way. On the 'Net, she could be anyone she wanted to be. As she typed she pictured Hotguy as he'd described himself. Who cared who he really was?

Cait stood and removed the towel. Her well-toned body trembled with expectation. She resisted the temptation to touch herself. She'd let it all wait. After all, anticipation was the best part.

Last time they had chatted, Hotguy344 had suggested that she get a digital camera and attach it to her computer so they could see each other as they played. Hot chatting with a camera on each person would make it so much better. At first she'd worried about him recognizing her somehow, but the odds that Hotguy or anyone else came from this little Hudson River town built around a train station were minimal. And wouldn't the risk make it sweeter?

She hadn't yet figured out a good story to tell Logan about getting a camera. Why would she need one? Maybe to talk to her parents and his. Yeah, that might work. He'd always wanted her to get closer to his folks, and since they lived in the city, that hook might just work.

She'd have to tell Hotguy344 what she really looked like before he saw her, of course, but he'd understand. Anyway, she'd keep the camera pointed at her torso, with her head in shadows.

Cait rubbed her slippery fingers over her clit, then pushed two inside her channel. She too was typing one-handed, so the conversation got much slower. She was used to that and it increased both her excitement and her anticipation.

Cait laughed. He was so easy. He usually came before she did but today she was ready really quickly. It was amazing to her. After she refused to continue trying to conceive, sex with Logan had quickly dwindled until it became nonexistent, and she had been getting more and more frustrated. At first, the idea of hot chatting on the Internet at all seemed silly to her, but she'd been so desperately bored one afternoon that, with no idea how to find an erotic chat room, she'd clicked over from a truly tedious recipe site to the chat room area. She'd done what someone had called lurking, just watching the conversations, and had been bored silly. TV shows and movies, diets and lawn care. She'd bounced from one to another. Then, in a Let's Talk About Texas room, one person had asked another to click over to Paul's Place. Curious and hopeful, she'd clicked over, too. She knew better than to use her own name so she selected the screen name Sheraton35 after her street and her age.

It had been deliciously embarrassing. The people were talking openly about sex. Positions, lubes, sex toys. Using words like pussy, cock, snatch, and fucking. Over and over, couples—at least she assumed they were couples—disappeared to private rooms. The idea of being “alone” in cyberspace with some guy was surprisingly exciting. Anonymous sex. Then a guy named SuperStud333 had sent her a message.

That was how it had begun. She'd selected a new screen name that said she was female and that she was interested. Loverlady. When she couldn't have that one because someone else was already using it, she added her house number, 214, and that name was accepted by the system. Then she began to sign on more and more often.

Reading Hotguy344's messages, Cait was breathing as if she'd run a mile and her pulse was pounding in her ears. She rubbed her pussy, feeling her clit get more and more prominent.