by Nina Lane
Well, of course she was. Who wouldn’t be? She was also young, pretty, and presumably single…
“Madeline!” Richard’s tone sliced through the darkness engulfing me. “What the hell…”
I blinked, trying to pull my senses back together. I was holding a broken wineglass, shards covering the table amidst a puddle of wine and a few drops of blood.
Blood? I forced myself to focus, realizing the glass had shattered in my grip. A waiter’s voice sounded as he approached our table. Richard was getting to his feet, reaching out to take the remains of the glass from my hand.
“Are you all right?”
Ben’s voice suddenly flooded me like sunlight. I looked up into his face, his eyes that I had lost myself in more times than I could count. Concern etched his features as he took hold of my wrist and pressed a clean napkin against my palm.
“All right?” he repeated, his fingers against my pulse.
I managed to nod. Richard was still standing there, looking somewhat baffled by the fact that a stranger had hurried over to tend to me.
“Richard.” I curled the fingers of my other hand into a fist. Dizziness tilted the world off balance. “Richard, this…”
My voice wavered.
Keep it together, Madeline Collins.
“This is Mr. Ben Hunter, principal of Sweetwater Elementary,” I told Richard, trying surreptitiously to ease my wrist from Ben’s grip. “Mr. Hunter, my husband Richard Collins.”
“Good to meet you, Ben.” Richard extended a hand. “Madeline tells me you’re doing an excellent job.”
Ben nodded, making no move to take Richard’s hand. After an awkward moment, Richard lowered his arm to his side. Two waiters and the restaurant manager hovered over the table, cleaning up the mess and asking if I needed medical attention.
“No, no, I’m fine.” I put up my other hand to wave them away. “It was just a clumsy accident. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Two cuts, but they’re not deep.” Ben turned my injured hand to examine my palm, his fingertips brushing against mine. “Does it hurt much?”
I shook my head. What hurt was my wild, desperate love for him. His touch eased away the mild physical pain, but only intensified my heartache.
“I can take it from here.” Richard reached out to take the bloodied napkin away from Ben. “Thanks for the help, man.”
For an instant, Ben didn’t move. Apprehension flickered in me as I thought he might throw caution to the wind and divulge everything. But then he stepped back, turning toward the girl who was standing nearby.
I couldn’t stop watching them, even when Richard took my hand to look at my palm. Ben lowered his head to say something to the girl. I caught the words “school parent” and “PTO.” The girl glanced past Ben and caught my eye. She gave me a friendly little wave.
I turned my attention back to Richard, tugging my hand from his grip. “Let’s go home.”
I dreamed about him, of course. As the weeks passed and our beach weekend became increasingly distant and almost mythical, the realness of Ben Hunter was replaced by the man who invaded my sleep almost every night.
Some of the dreams were erotic—the two of us coupling in different positions, his hands and mouth on my naked body, his cock sliding in and out of me, and after those dreams I woke hot and aching, furtively rubbing myself to an orgasm that provided little if any relief.
Other dreams were almost tangibly ordinary. Ben and I having dinner together, taking a nap, reading, walking along a street in some tourist town. Those dreams filled me with sharp longing for a simple, free life, and then guilt consumed me for daring to want more than I already had.
And some of the dreams were downright frightening. In one, Ben turned into a vicious monster that devoured me whole. In another, I was drowning, sucked into a fetid swamp covered with algae, screaming for help while Ben watched impassively from the shore. I woke from the nightmares sweaty and shaking.
Sleep became my own personal little hell. I tried exhausting myself with work and exercise, hoping to tire out both my body and my brain, but like ocean waves, the dreams kept crashing into me.
I no longer saw Ben when I volunteered at school, and I told myself I wasn’t looking for him when I walked through the front doors. We had two PTO meetings during the month of May, and the vice-principal attended both of them in Ben’s place. I told myself I wasn’t disappointed. I told myself I hadn’t selected my outfits or taken extra care with my appearance because I’d been hoping to see Ben.
I tried, in my heart, to wish him well. On some level I succeeded, wanting his happiness because I loved him. On another level, jealousy and anger scraped me raw at the thought of him finding that happiness with another woman.
But… I had no right to wish for or expect anything else.
Soon May became a month of the past, and the anticipation of summer prickled through the air. The children were all energized with thoughts of vacation, camps, and long, lazy days. Richard continued planning our week in the Caribbean for the end of June, and, oddly, I began to look forward to it.
I was still wary about the idea of spending all that time alone with my husband, but he was making an effort, and I thought the change of scenery might do me some good.
For weeks, and at my request, Richard had slept in the guest bedroom. We were polite to each other and sometimes even amicable—the knife-edges of our infidelities and violence temporarily put aside in favor of regaining whatever footing we could. The children didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong, but even if they did, they didn’t ask questions or seem affected by it.
In that, at least, Richard and I were united. We continued to raise our children as we’d always done, with care, attention, and a deep love untainted by the ugliness of our marriage.
Or so I wanted to hope.
“Did you register her for soccer this summer?” Richard climbed onto the bleachers beside me.
I shook my head, keeping my attention on the soccer field where Emma was playing her final Saturday afternoon game of the season.
“You need to sign her up,” Richard said. “I’m not letting her slack off.”
“She wants to go to theater camp. The schedule conflicts with soccer.” I had no idea if that was true, but I did know Emma was uninterested in playing soccer this summer.
“I’ll talk to her tonight.” Richard leaned forward, cupping his hands around his mouth and yelling, “Go, Emma! Good kick!”
I set the shutter speed on my camera, focusing on Emma as she dribbled the ball downfield, cutting right and left to avoid defenders. A few more steps and she’d be inside the penalty area. As she drew closer, a boy from the opposing team blocked her to intercept the ball.
They battled for control of the ball. I snapped a series of pictures. The ball bounced away and was taken by the fullback, who kicked it upfield. The boy who’d intercepted the ball from Emma tripped, putting his hands out to catch himself. Before he could get up, Emma drew her foot back and deliberately slammed her cleats into his stomach.
Shocked gasps rose from the crowd. My heart plummeted.
“What the hell?” Richard muttered.
“Foul!” yelled the referee, as the coaches ran out onto the field.
The other team’s coach and the referee tended to the boy, who was getting to his feet. Emma paced back and forth, her whole body tight with tension and her fists clenched. Her coach stopped beside her and yanked her to a halt. He got down to eye-level with her, his expression serious.
Ignoring the “no parental interference” rule, I hurried down from the bleachers.
“She’s out,” the referee said, pointing Emma to the sidelines and holding up a red card.
The coach straightened and let Emma go. She stomped off the field, her jaw clenched, and tears brimming in her eyes.
“Emma, what happened?” I asked. “Why did you do that?”
“He’s a jerk,” she snapped.
“What was that about?” Richard hu
rried to my side and reached for our daughter.
“Don’t touch me.” She yanked herself from his grip and ran toward the parking lot. “Leave me alone!”
Richard started after her. I put out my hand to stop him.
“Let her go,” I said. “It was just a rough play.”
He nodded. But I knew neither one of us believed that.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‡
Emma calmed down shortly after we returned home, but she still refused to talk about what had incited her to kick the boy. I emailed her coach, promising that Emma would write the boy a letter of apology and saying she would be “taking a break” from soccer this summer.
I tried to talk myself out of my unease—Emma had always been a strong soccer player, but she’d never been outright mean. I didn’t want to think the tension between Richard and me had anything to do with her sudden aggression.
“She had a bad day,” Noah said in his reasonable, matter-of-fact tone. “We all sometimes do.”
That same evening, a babysitter came to stay with the children while Richard and I went to the Sweetwater Fine Arts Museum for the education fundraiser event. Exhibition banners hung from the museum entrance, and limos and town cars lined the driveway like a river.
Women in glittering evening gowns and men in tuxedos climbed the steps to the great hall, where linen-draped tables sat around an open bar and buffet table. All of the guests had paid to attend the exclusive opening of an exhibition on Mayan art and enjoy the catered dinner and bar.
I left Richard’s side as soon as we arrived, with the accurate excuse that I had to work since we were raising money for the museum education department. I knew most of the big donors and guests, so I walked around greeting people, thanking them for coming and ensuring they had whatever they needed.
Despite all that had happened in the past few weeks, I knew I looked cool and elegant on the outside—my Donna Karan black sheath dress fit my curves to perfection, and diamonds glittered at my throat and neck. I’d kept my hair styled in its usual smooth pageboy, though my stylist had added buttery highlights that complemented my skin and eyes. With my armor in place, I could get through anything.
“Hello, Madeline.” Linda Crawford, my arch-nemesis who had spread word about my sexless marriage to God knew how many other parents, gave me a smile. Sleek and elegant in a red gown and dark lipstick, she reminded me of a witch from a fairy tale. “Have you met my husband, Paul?”
The beefy, heavyset man beside her stuck his hand out, his gaze roaming over me admiringly. “Madeline, I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I’m sure.” I quickly eased my hand from his sweaty grip and glanced at Linda’s half-full wineglass. “Do you both have everything you need?”
“Yes, thank you.” Linda’s smile sharpened. “Do you?”
I smothered the urge to slap her. “Most assuredly. Do help yourself to dinner.” I deliberately eyed her plump figure. “I imagine you’ll want seconds.”
I turned and walked away. A string quartet performed on a stage near the tables, the music filtering through the warm spring air. I greeted people, shook hands, said “thank you” more times than I could count, and smiled, smiled, smiled.
This time, he saw me first. I turned to find him watching me, his eyes like an arc of heat across the crowd. My heart leapt in response, that blue light filling my veins. We moved toward each other simultaneously, maneuvering through the clusters of people.
Oh, he looked gorgeous in a well-fitted tuxedo, his blond hair glowing under the lights, his body edged with a masculine grace that promised untold pleasures. Pleasures of which I was fully aware.
I curled my fingers against my palm to prevent myself from reaching out to touch him when we stopped in front of each other.
“Hi,” I breathed.
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Hi. You’re beautiful.”
My heart swelled. “Thank you. So are you. I didn’t know you were on the guest list.”
“I’m one of the museum donors, so I get invited to these events,” Ben said. “The exhibition is fantastic.”
“It is, isn’t it?” I glanced past his shoulder, unease rising into my throat. “Are you… um, here with someone?”
Ben shook his head, his gaze holding mine.
“Oh.” I tried to ignore the intense relief. “That girl you were with…”
“A set-up by a friend.” Ben lowered his voice. “And I was only with her because I was trying to forget about you. When I figured out how unfair that was to her, I broke it off.”
Oh.
I had no right to be warmed by his words, but I was. I let myself drink in the sight of his strong features, the tanned column of his throat, the way his tie nestled so perfectly at his neck.
“How’s your hand?” he asked.
“Fine.” I held up my palm to show him. “And you’ve been all right?”
He shrugged, a faint darkness passing across his expression.
“Are you still quitting the PTO?” he asked.
I nodded. “My tenure is almost over, so this seems like a good time to step down.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I didn’t tell him that I also had no intentions of volunteering in the classroom next year, or of having anything to do with Sweetwater Elementary, aside from making sure my children were doing well there. If I disassociated myself entirely from the school, there was much less chance I’d run into Ben.
Although I’d seen him twice now in the past month—and neither time at school.
Surely it would get easier, I told myself. It had to get easier. Otherwise I would lose my mind. Or I’d have to convince Richard to take a job somewhere else if I could no longer stand living in Sweetwater.
That thought was as upsetting as the thought of staying.
“Well.” I took a step back from Ben, feeling as if I were moving against the force of the ocean tides. “I should get back to the guests. I’m on duty tonight.”
Ben nodded. I felt him still watching me as I turned to join another group of guests. I looked around for Richard and found him seated beside a pretty redhead, intent on whatever she was saying.
I almost expected to feel something—jealousy, anger—because I was certain such interactions were how Richard’s affairs had always started. Instead, I felt nothing. Not only did I not love my husband anymore, it seemed I didn’t care about him at all. I’d given all my romantic love and devotion to Ben. It was now his to keep safe.
Two more hours, tops, I told myself. Then I could go home, strip out of this dress that was starting to feel too tight, and cry myself to sleep in blissful privacy.
As dinner was served, I escaped to use the bathroom so I could avoid being trapped at a table. On my way out, I stopped by one of the darkened galleries where European art glittered like jewels from the walls and vitrines.
I stopped in front of a painting that I’d seen a hundred times before—a Madonna and Child, the Madonna looking so serene and peaceful that it seemed nothing could affect her. An inner light glowed from her lovely face.
“Nice, huh?” A voice boomed through the silent gallery, like a fart in a church.
I turned to see Paul Crawford approaching me, his tie askew and his face shiny. He stopped next to me and studied the painting. The smell of alcohol clung to him.
“Gotta love a virgin,” he said, nudging me with his elbow.
I turned on my heel and started toward the door. He grabbed my arm, his meaty fingers digging into my skin.
I gave him an icy look. “Let go of me.”
He smiled. “Linda said you were a haughty bitch. She was right, huh?”
I bit back a retort, having no desire to converse with this disgusting boor in any fashion.
“I’ll ask you again to let go,” I said through clenched teeth.
His fingers tightened. Faint alarm swirled through me. Then he put his other hand flat on my chest and pushed me up against the wall, right next to the
painting.
I brought my knee up toward his groin. He moved at the last second, barking out an unpleasant laugh. The stench of whiskey filled my head. Before I could wrest myself from his grip, he shoved his heavy body against mine and trapped me.
Bile rose in my throat. I twisted, trying to push him away.
“Get away from me or I’ll scream,” I hissed.
His hand clamped over my mouth and nose. My alarm turned to outright fear. I couldn’t breathe. Paul lowered his head, a hot gleam rising to his eyes. Sweat dripped down his temple.
“Bitch,” he muttered. “I hear you want a good fuck, but that your dickless husband isn’t giving it to you. Lucky for you, I can fill the job.”
He groped my thigh, pushing his groin up against me. Though I’d fended off unwanted advances before, he was too big and heavy, his hand tight over my nose and mouth. Dizziness churned through my head as I tried to breathe past the suffocation of his palm. I couldn’t move.
Paul’s expression heated as he stared at me. He took his hand away from my mouth. I dragged in a hard breath, my senses filling with relief in the instant before he smashed his lips against mine.
A scream lodged in my throat. I wrestled to get him off me, my stomach roiling at the fetid taste of his slimy mouth—
Suddenly he was yanked off me, jerking backward like a rag doll. The scream escaped me, scraping my throat. I stumbled to maintain my balance, grabbing the edge of a display case.
My heart lurched as I saw Ben, his features set in a mask of rage. He pulled his fist back and slammed it into Paul’s face. With a grunt, Paul staggered, his hands coming up in defense. Ben advanced, his muscles tight with anger.
“Ben!” His name flew out of me.
He lunged at Paul like an arrow, tackling the other man and bringing him to the ground. Ben’s fists were a blur, hitting Paul’s face, his neck, anywhere he could reach. Shocked, I ran forward to grab Ben’s arm.
“Ben, stop!”
He yanked his arm from my grip and hit Paul again. A sudden yell rumbled from Paul’s chest. In one violent movement, he threw Ben off and punched him in the jaw. Ben went down. Paul tackled him, latching a hand around Ben’s throat.
