Snowbound

by Kim Golden

  Copyright © 2013 by Kimberly Golden Malmgren.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at kimtalksbooks@gmail.com.

  Publisher's Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Andrew Brown of Design for Writers

  Book Layout ©2013 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Snowbound/ Kim Golden. — 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-0-0000000-0-0

  ISBN: 9781483512181

  To Tord, my noisy muse.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to my writing buddy, Kim Kane, for listening to me babble about Snowbound for weeks on end as I tried to finish NaNoWriMo 2011. Your enthusiasm for this story and our Monday Butt to Chair sessions helped me finish on time!

  And I owe so much love and thanks to the very awesome Matera Brainstormers, who encouraged me to get this baby out there when I was beginning to lose faith in it.

  Huge thanks to Genevieve Scholl for helping me whip this into shape! You are a star, sweetie!

  Tord, thanks so much for your patience while I went through the writing and editing process. When I finally hit the best sellers list, we'll buy our house in the country. We deserve it. :)

  And love and gratitude to my mom, Barbara Golden, who--even though she wanted me to be something far more practical like a lawyer or an accountant, supported me when I decided I wanted an MFA even when I knew it wouldn't pay the bills.:)

  1 Happy Thanksgiving: Mia

  He's late. He should have been here over an hour ago, but so far he hasn't even sent a text message like he usually does. I keep going to the living room window, staring out at Pine Street glittering with frost and fallen leaves, hoping to spot his arrival.

  So far, nothing.

  Jane touches my shoulder. "Come in the kitchen with me," she says. "You need something to do besides car-spot." This, she says with a saucy wink. There's no point in getting annoyed with her. She means well. Besides, she's right. I am behaving like a restless child, jumping every time I hear a car pass by or voices that sound somewhat familiar. I follow her into the kitchen, and she puts me to work with mixing the cornbread stuffing.

  "Have a glass of wine too." She plonks down a glass of Chardonnay, by my station at the kitchen island. "You're way too geared."

  "You would be too if you were me." Tomorrow is going to be a stellar day for Evan and me. Tomorrow he'll arrive at our apartment with boxes of all his belongings and we'll finally start our life together. I like the sound of that—together. No more pretending we are simply colleagues, no more romantic evenings postponed because his in-laws are coming, no more subterfuge at all!

  Jane knows all about Evan. She says she knew when I first met him that we'd end up together—well, she predicted we'd end up in bed together. I don't think she expected us to embark on two years of sneaking around, while his wife bitched and moaned about their townhouse in Fairmount not being swanky enough, or how all of her friends were having babies and she wanted one too, even though she'd agreed that neither of them wanted children. Jane knows all about this, but she doesn't approve. She never says she doesn't approve, because she is too good a friend to criticize me relentlessly, but she's already made it clear on one occasion that she does not condone my relationship with Evan, because we are betraying his wife. And I can respect how Jane feels. She and Brian have been married for six years and—knock on wood—no one has come between them. But she hates how my relationship with Evan forces me to lie.

  "Are you sure he's told Melissa?" Jane checks on the turkey again.

  "He told her on Monday," I say. "Apparently she acted like she'd been expecting this for a while."

  "Something isn't adding up then," Jane mutters.

  I add a little more salt to the stuffing and stir slowly. I don't want to hear her speculations of doom and mayhem when it comes to my future with Evan. I trust him. He's never lied to me, never made promises he knew he couldn't keep.

  "Did you hear me?"

  "Yes, you said something doesn't add up, but I'm not listening to you."

  "You should."

  "Jane, please."

  "No, you should know he called here earlier and said Melissa was coming with him."

  "I know—"

  "Mia, he didn't sound like a man who was about to leave his wife. She didn't sound like a woman who knows that her husband is leaving her for someone else.

  "You spoke to her?"

  "I heard her in the background. She sounded chipper."

  "She always sounds chipper."

  "I'm just saying…"

  "I know, I know. Everything is fine. You'll see."

  Jane sighs. I recognize this long, exasperated sigh. It is the one she uses when she has given up on trying to make me see things her way. It's also the one she uses when she thinks I'm being too petulant. So, we work in silence with her iPod streaming a playlist of Norah Jones, Carla Bruni and a few other vocalists whose bittersweet love songs ought to be warning flags for me. But I tune them out, just like I tune out Jane's pointed looks and the litany of sighs and head-shaking that are all part of her repertoire. I put the cornbread stuffing in the oven and set the timer for 30 minutes. Jane refills my glass.

  We're both a little relieved when the doorbell rings.

  Evan's voice comes to us down the long hall, leading from Jane and Brian's vestibule to the kitchen. I smooth my hair from my face and wipe my hands on my apron. I've dressed perfectly for my moment in the sun. I've taken care with my makeup and hair. I've worn a body-skimming pencil skirt and a tight cashmere sweater, so there is no mistaking that I am a woman who is exactly what a red-blooded man wants—curvy in the right way. I've taken care of myself. I know his wife doesn't do these things. Of course, she doesn't need to. She is one of those naturally slim women, who eat as much as they want and never gain any weight. I don't immediately go out into the hall. That would make me look too anxious. Jane is watching me now, waiting to see what I will do. She sighs again and unties her own apron.

  "Don't look so smug," she says as she drops the apron on a kitchen chair. "It isn't becoming."

  "Sorry." I try to think of something else other than that this is Melissa's last Thanksgiving with Evan; that next year he'll be with me. But I think it makes me look even more smug, because Jane mutters, "You're incorrigible…" and then goes into the hall to greet Evan and Melissa. I follow her.

  Already, more of our friends are arriving. Priya and Dennis bustle in, apologizing for being so late and blaming it on their three-year-old daughter Asha, who apparently refused to wear the dress Priya had bought especially for Thanksgiving. As they hang up their coats in the closet under the stairs, Asha careens toward me and throws her chubby arms around my legs. I bend down pick her up, give her a cuddle, and ask her if she's been a good girl. But before she can answer, Priya informs me that Asha has been a very naughty little girl all morning.

  "The dress was just the icing on the cake, I promise you…" Asha gives me a wet, sloppy kiss on the cheek and asks for ice cream.

  "Nope, sweetie, it's soon time for dinner," I tell her in my best adult voice. "After dinner, ice cream."

  I love Asha. Despite Priya's constantly swearing that h
er daughter is a nightmare, Asha's willfulness is one of the things I love most about her. She isn't a quiet, simpering child—the type I am sure Melissa would have should she ever have a baby. And I imagine that Asha will be a little like Jane and me—sassy, independent and funny—when she grows up. Priya isn't sassy or funny, but we love her still. She, Jane and I were roommates in college. We taught Priya how to smoke and she taught us how to make a curry, so spicy and fragrant it was like a love elixir. She swears she used that curry to hook Dennis. Maybe I should have used the curry earlier. Then I wouldn't be in my current situation.

  By the time Evan and Melissa make their way down the hall to say hello, Asha has ruined my makeup with her smooches, but now it doesn't seem to matter. Evan grins at me and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. "You look great, Mia. Maybe it's time for you to start a family."

  "First she has to find a man," Melissa adds with her tinkling laugh. "Just kidding! But you and Asha look so precious together! We should take a picture…"

  "No, no, no…that's fine." I set the squirming little girl down on the floor and let her run down the hall to her father, who is asking if we're having drinks first or tucking in.

  "Drinks first," Brian calls out. "In the living room."

  Evan gives me a look that I think is meaningful. It's a look that says "not much longer." And I can't wait. I let them all go into the living room before I join them. I want to check my face first. And then I want to savor the knowledge that this time Melissa won't win. I've been waiting for her fall for a long time. Ever since she first stole Evan from me. Back when she and I were still friends.

  In the living room, Brian has several bottles of champagne and a pitcher of juice for the kids. He and Jane's youngest, Max, is on the floor by the picture window with Priya, playing with some DuPlo blocks. We're still waiting for two more friends—Jenny and her boyfriend Hong. They have a set of twin girls who are the same age as Max. They never arrive anywhere on time and we have all come to accept it. We know that by the time we've finished the champagne, they will stumble through the door in a chaotic knot, bearing slightly smashed dessert, screaming toddlers, and harried apologies. On cue, Jane's cell phone beeps. She checks it and says, "Jenny and Hong are late, they say we should go ahead with drinks." She glances at me. I am still standing in the doorway, not sure where to sit. Evan and Melissa have claimed one of the couches, leaving the tiniest of spots free on Evan's side. On the other couch, Priya and Dennis hold court with Brian on the edge. The only available spots are the Moroccan style poufs or the floor. From upstairs, we hear a crash and an outraged screech, followed by what sounds like a herd of wildebeests trampling down the stairs. Two tow-headed boys—Billy and Marcus, Jane and Brian's elder sons—scramble into the living room and announce they are hungry.

  "Dinner will be ready soon," Jane says in a patient but very firm voice. "We're just waiting for Otis and Jimmy." Otis and Jimmy are Jenny and Hong's little boys. Though they are younger than Marcus and Billy, the older boys tolerate them. I think this is mostly due to their being twins.

  Brian tells them to go back upstairs and finish watching their movie. They say the movie has finished. I offer to go upstairs and help them start a new one, but Brian shakes his head. "They know how to do it."

  The boys grumble, but follow their dad's orders.

  Then, Brian begins uncorking and pouring the champagne. Jane chooses one of the poufs. I take the spot next to Evan, cross my legs and let the side of my foot brush his pant leg. He doesn't look my way. Last year, when we sat like this, waiting for the champagne to be served, he found an excuse to go out into the hall and then I followed after a reasonable amount of time, claiming I needed the powder room. We kissed in the powder room, he sucked my nipples until I ached, then I went down on him. We could hear Melissa in the hall wondering where he'd gone. Jane covered for us then, saying Evan had probably gone to the upstairs bathroom, since I was in the powder room. I stopped sucking Evan's cock long enough to say, "I'll be out in a second" and then sucked him off until he came. Later we laughed about it—how easy it was to find places to steal a few moments together, even when the house was teeming with our friends.

  But now, Evan shifts his leg away and begins talking about how this year he appreciates our Thanksgiving dinner tradition more than ever. I smile, thinking that maybe this is his clue to me that we are still on track. I have to keep reminding myself that no matter what he says or does, now, tomorrow he will be moving in with me. We've made this promise. We sealed it with long kisses in my bedroom and sex that left me feeling like molten lava for hours afterward. I can still hear him whispering his promises to me. He doesn't love Melissa. Now he knows it was a mistake to marry her. And he wants out, before any children get involved. Now Melissa has taken over, babbling about something boring going on at the law firm where she works. Not for the first time, I ask myself how he could have married her. But I know the answer. I was too wild, and he was too scared to go for someone who wasn't exactly what his parents were expecting.

  The champagne glasses are filled and everyone reaches for one, eager for that bubbly giddiness the first sip brings—everyone except Melissa. Her left hand rests on her belly and I ask myself if I am imagining its slight swell. She is a tiny thing. One of those naturally slim, petite girls who never exercises, but still has the waifish figure of a teenager. It is one of the reasons I have always envied her. She makes everything look too easy.

  "No champagne?" Brian grins at Melissa. "I've never seen you turn down a glass before."

  She titters. "I'm having a white month. I thought it would be good for my body to avoid alcohol…"

  Then I see the look she and Evan exchange. He's slid his arm around her shoulder. She's beaming at him…and he looks genuinely pleased. A tiny nugget of doubt materializes within me. What's going on with them? Why is he being affectionate with her when he says he hates touching her these days? I lean forward to take my glass, hoping he'll at least peep at the perfect display of the tops of my breasts swelling in the deep v-neck of my sweater, but his attention remains firmly focused on Melissa and her squeaky voice. This isn't how I envisioned our first Thanksgiving starting. Maybe this is all part of his "lull before the storm"—play nice and wait until they are at home alone to drop the bomb. But this isn't what he told me would happen.

  "I'll tell her in the morning, and then she won't want to come with me to the dinner," he'd assured me when we were lying in my bed together just 48 hours ago.

  "She'll want to come," I'd countered. "She'll want to keep up appearances."

  "She won't want to come if I tell her we're going to announce our intentions."

  And when he'd said those words, I was certain that we were safe. Now, I am not so sure. Why doesn't he give me a sign? If I go to the powder room, will he follow? Or will I be waiting in the hall, desperately hoping for just a smidgen of affection? I don't want to be one of those women who resorts to begging. I hate women like that. Melissa is that type. I have seen her beg, I've heard how she wheedles and spins to get her way. I will not beg.

  I refuse to.

  I gulp down my champagne and the fizzy golden liquid goes straight to my head. Brian teases me and says I need to savor the flavor. I just smile and hold my glass out for a refill. I can feel Jane watching me. I know that if I look at her I will see concern clouding her eyes. I don't want to make eye contact just yet. Maybe this is all a ruse. Maybe we have to go through this dinner with Melissa thinking she's won so that we can be together tomorrow. What difference can one day make?

  By Christmas, it will be Evan and me.

  Dinner is as it always is—everyone talking at the same time, so many conversations layering the air that the background music Brian chose is barely audible. He is at the head of the table with Max sleeping on his shoulder. He's nodding and grinning at Hong, but he looks tired. At the opposite end of the table, Jane holds court, leaning forward and laughing, her hands splayed on the table top. The only thing I can hear from h
er is a gasped, "Oh no he didn't!" followed by an explosion of laughter. I am sandwiched in between Evan and Dennis, who've been talking around me the entire meal. From time to time, I try to capture Evan's wayward attention by brushing my hand against his thigh under the guise of the tablecloth or touching his shoulder when I want to add my own two cents to the conversation. Each time, he visibly bristles as though there has never been any intimacy between us. I pretend not to care. I know it's an act that he's deemed necessary. Though we've been fucking for over a year, we've never tried to embarrass Melissa in public by being too obvious. I don't think any of our mutual friends—aside from Jane and Brian—know about us. If they do, they haven't come forward with well-meant but unwanted advice.

  I know that my status as the only single woman in the group sometimes bothers Priya and Jenny, who are of the belief that every woman above the age of twenty-five should be connected to a man, and not just any man, a good-looking and successful man who makes enough money so that he can afford to support and spoil you. They've never had any interest in the starving artist type. Priya's husband, Dennis, has one of those hotshot Wall Street jobs that no one really understands, but that pulls in so much cash that they have a summer house on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. They take European vacations—when he can actually take time off—and live in a very posh townhouse in Old City. It helps that he comes from money. Priya tells us this often. Dennis is easy on the eyes and on the wallet. He doesn't need maintenance. He maintains her.

  Jenny, on the other hand, got together with Hong when he had nothing, but she said she saw his potential from the very beginning. He does something very technical with Google and creates apps for smart phones. I know that one of the apps he created earns nearly 50,000 dollars a day for his company and his annual bonus is more than most people make in one year. And Jenny no longer works. She stays at home with Otis and Jimmy, having left her job as an assistant district attorney, following the birth of Jimmy. She is a lady who lunches with the other Latte Moms, she has her yoga classes in the afternoon and she often calls me when I am at work, wanting to gossip until I remind her that I am at work, which generally elicits a "poor you" from her before she hangs up.