I loved him. I really loved him and right now it hurts so damned much that I want to melt into a river of emotion and flow away.
I have no idea how long we’ve been standing there when he finally says, “Kate, please come inside.” All I know is that I’m chilled to the bone; two cars have driven by and a neighbor we don’t know ran by with his Great Dane.
By the grace of God, somehow my legs carry me up to the porch and into the house. Caitlin is lying on the kitchen floor playing with Jack.
Corbin carries in my packages and all he says is, “I’m glad you’re home. I was worried.”
Corbin is still awake after I put Caitlin to bed. He’s sitting at the kitchen table with an open bottle of Opus One Cabernet and two glasses. He’s set out some Saga blue and Carr crackers on the marble cheese tray. To the right of the tray sits a dozen red roses and a black velvet jewelry box.
He stands when I enter the room. So formal, so polite. “Did you have dinner?”
I don’t know what to say—Caitlin told him about how I picked her up from school in the limo and how we went through the McDonald’s drive-through. I’m surprised he hasn’t said anything about that or the paint and packages that are still in the foyer. For all his pretentious airs, more often than not he’s a frugal fuddy-duddy. Not that there’s anything wrong with frugality. Limousines and Baccarat crystal are so far removed from how I was raised.
Sometimes I don’t even know how I got here—in this fancy house, driving my fancy car, living this hated country club life with my fancy doctor husband who cheats—“I’m not hungry, thanks.”
He stares at his hands clasped in front of him, makes a jerky movement as he simultaneously grabs a goblet and pulls out a chair for me. “Then sit, have some wine. Please?”
“No thank you.”
“Kate.” He steps toward me.
I step back, turn to leave.
“Did Melody send the letter?” I ask without looking at him.
He sighs. “Yes.”
That’s all I need to know. I start to walk away.
“Kate, please…just tell me what you want me to do. I’ll do anything to make it right.”
He says the words to my back.
I shake my head no, moving it so fast and furiously from side to side that the blues and yellows of the kitchen spin and merge with the stainless steel appliances. The rooster on the oil painting we bought in Montmartre on our last trip to Paris does a maniacal dance. It reminds me of how the world spun when we rode the carousel near Sacré-Coeur.
I grab the doorjamb.
“I want you to go. I want you out of my life.”
I close my eyes waiting for him to correct me. I’ll never be completely out of your life, Kate, because we’ll be forever joined by our children.
Our children.
The children we made when life was good.
Does Melody Wentworth want children?
I whirl around. “When did things change, Corbin? When did it all go bad? Tell me, because I can’t remember.”
He looks puzzled, as if I’m speaking Greek. I know he doesn’t know when it all went wrong any better than I do.
I sigh and walk out of the room.
He follows me upstairs.
“We’ll have to talk about this eventually. If you really want me to move out—and I would hope you’d think long and hard about that for Caitlin’s sake—I’ll have to find a place. I can’t just pack a bag and go.”
“Shhhhhhhh!” I point to Caitlin’s room, walk over and shut the door.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to go stay with his girlfriend, to teach him a lesson like when you give a child free rein over her own Halloween bag. Let him have so much Melody Wentworth he makes himself sick and barfs.
I walk into our bedroom and stand in front of our big, sad bed; I realize that though I don’t want him here, I don’t want him with her even more.
I grab his pillow and toss it to him.
“You can sleep in the guest room until you make new arrangements.”
For once, Corbin, we’re doing things on my terms.
I’m up to my elbows in paint when the doorbell rings. I don’t answer it. I don’t even climb down from my ladder, just keep painting and singing along with Simon and Garfunkel’s “I am a Rock.”
Nothing like a good song to help you express exactly what’s on your mind. That’s why I programmed Caitlin’s boom box to play the song over and over. An endless loop of go-to-hell-I-am-better-without-you song. I wanted to broadcast it over Corbin’s stereo so I could turn up the speakers as high as they’d go and blast the song in every room of the house like a feng shui space-cleaning ritual working in conjunction with the patchouli oil I’m burning in the diffuser. With all the buttons and knobs, I couldn’t figure out how to program the stereo, so I settled for the old reliable.
That’s all I want—something simple and reliable. Is that asking for too much?
I give the roller a generous coating of paint and cut a bright orange swath over the wall, singing about how if I’d never loved I never would have cried.
A hand touches my leg.
I scream and nearly fall off my ladder, dropping my roller in the process. Paint splatters all over the beige Berber carpet.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” My mother bends and picks up the roller, hands it to me. “Quick, where’s a rag so I can blot this? Oh, I can’t believe I made you drop it. I’m just glad you didn’t fall.”
She grabs the old towel I’ve draped over the ladder and gets down on her hands and knees.
“Mom, don’t worry about it. I’m going to pull it up anyway.”
She stops blotting and looks up at me.
“Why aren’t you answering your door? Didn’t you hear me ring the bell?”
I stare at her, not quite sure what to say, wanting to say, I heard you ringing. Don’t you know when someone doesn’t answer the door it means they don’t want company?
But I don’t say it. My mother is much too sweet to deserve such snide insolence.
Simon pronounces the final line of the song, singing about a rock feeling no pain, and an island never crying. I want to say, what he said. I didn’t answer it because I don’t need anyone—except maybe my children— Oh, okay, and you.
“Sorry. I’m in the middle of painting and I thought you were a Jehovah’s Witness. We get so many of them around here I’ve quit answering the door when I’m busy.”
The song starts over. I wipe my hands on my overalls, glance at the stained couch, feeling a little guilty. I climb down and turn off the boom box. When I look up, my mother is eyeing the wall, wearing a dubious expression.
“What do you think?”
“Pretty, but it’s awfully bright, isn’t it? But what matters is that you like it.” She smiles, but it’s not her normal gracious smile, and I sense something’s wrong before she says, “Kate, I need to talk to you about your father.”
“Is everything all right?”
She eyes the couch, the tricolored brown pattern the cognac, dirt and mascara created on the beige sofa. I can see she’s choosing her words.
“Your father’s blood count came back high. The doctor says the cancer’s back. It’s spread to his liver.”
Her words roll over me. I can’t speak, I can’t move. All I can do is stand there gripping the ladder, hoping I didn’t hear her right.
She laughs a morbid, nervous laugh. “The doctor says it could be three months, could be three years. But you know your father, he says he’s going to live to one hundred just so he can make everyone else miserable. He’s just got to be fine. Tell me he’s going to be fine—”
Her hand flies to her mouth and she starts to sob.
“I’m so sorry.” I walk over and pull her into a hug, and she cries. We stand there together; she, limp as a rag doll, I, stiff as a stone statue.
It’s not because my heart isn’t breaking all over again for the second time in twenty-four hours. In fact, I’m pretty
sure it’s ground to the consistency of powdered glass. So, fine—I don’t have any sharp edges left.
Well, maybe I have one. The one I’m clinging to desperately right now, knowing that if I let go I’ll slide down into the black hole of grief and never find my way out.
“I’ll make us some tea,” I whisper.
I forget about the four-pound box of Godiva, sitting well pillaged next to the roses and unopened jewelry case until I see it all sitting on the table like a shrine to our broken marriage when we walk into the kitchen.
Mom’s teary gaze lingers over the items, and she quirks a brow. “Those are awfully pretty roses.” She sniffs. “Did I miss something?”
I hand her a tissue from the box on the shelf, shake my head, trying to concoct a plausible excuse for such extravagant gifts. But anything I say will make Corbin look good. So I don’t say anything.
She blows her nose, sniffs again. “There’s only two occasions a man gives jewelry and roses like that to his wife—when there’s something to celebrate or something to be sorry for.”
She tucks the tissue in her pocket, picks up the black velvet box and opens it. Her mouth flattens into a thin line; her eyes flicker to me.
“You don’t turn forty for another few months. Your big twenty-year anniversary celebration has already passed. Do you have something you need to talk about?”
I feel myself slipping, the black hole closing around me. If I don’t say anything I’ll be okay. But she’s standing there looking at me, expectant. I have to say something.
“Everything’s fine, why do you ask?”
She snaps the case shut, returns it to the table. My stomach hurts as though a big hand has grabbed it and fisted it into a knot.
“Well, for starters, you haven’t returned my calls, and your husband phoned last night after suppertime looking for you and his little girl. Kate, that’s not like you.”
I walk over to the stove, get the kettle and carry it to the sink. “Oh, well…ummm…we just got our wires crossed.”
“Are you and Corbin having problems, baby?”
I turn on the water. “Corbin and I are getting a divorce.”
The words spill out in one breath. Just like the water pouring from the faucet. I can’t believe I blurt it out when really I had no intention of telling her. Not now. Not in the wake of the news about Dad.
My mother’s hand is on my shoulder. The other one reaches out and turns off the tap. She walks me to the table and sits me down, as if I’m five years old.
She sits in the chair next to me, perching on the edge, never once taking her gaze off me. Big, fat, silent tears roll down my face, and I start to shake.
She touches my arm with a gentle hand. “Oh, baby, what’s happened?”
I shrug, cover my face with my hands, then let them fall into my lap.
“Is there someone else?”
I nod, sniff and shudder before I say it. “Corbin’s having an affair.”
All she does is shake her head, wearing that disappointed look that used to slay me when I was a child.
She doesn’t believe in divorce. No one in her family has ever been divorced. I shouldn’t have told her like this.
“I’m sorry,” is all I can say, over and over again.
She hugs me. “Now, you just listen to me. You deserve a lot better than this, and if he’s cheating, I don’t blame you one iota.”
That’s when the tears really flow. Every drop that’s been stopped up inside me since seeing the photos yesterday morning pours out. For my father, for my mother, for my shattered marriage.
This time it’s my turn to cry on her shoulder. She strokes my hair and we cry together. I know we’ll get through this; I know somehow we will survive this.
Right now, I’m just not quite sure how.
CHAPTER 9
It’s the middle of the day, and I don’t realize Corbin’s home until I turn around on the ladder and see him standing in the middle of the living room. His mouth is open like he wants to say something. Instead, he stands speechless gaping at the walls like a slack-jawed Cro-Magnon man.
I don’t care if he hates the tangerine paint or the smell of patchouli in the diffuser. He’ll just have to deal with it.
Finally, he manages, “What have you done to our living room?”
Not Hello or How is your day, just a clipped What the hell have you done? enunciated through gritted teeth.
When I was a small girl, my mother used to tell me she couldn’t hear me when I forgot my manners. I use the same tactic on him. Except I don’t bother to tell him that’s what I’m doing. I just ignore him.
I walk over to the diffuser, sprinkle a few more drops of patchouli oil, survey my work.
The paint needs to dry for about an hour before I add the gold wash. Should be ready after I pick up Caitlin from school. Corbin rented a car this morning so transportation isn’t a problem today.
Pity. The limo was fun.
“I know you’re mad at me,” he says. “But have you gone completely off your rocker?”
Hmm…what shall I fix for dinner tonight? Frozen pizza? Corn dogs? Maybe I’ll call Enzos and order five-star takeout. Naaaaa, Caitlin would prefer corn dogs.
Maybe I’ll get Enzos for me and do a quick corndog for her.
I hum “I am a Rock,” contemplate additional dinner possibilities and dab a little patchouli oil on my wrist, behind my ear. Jerk repellent.
“Kate.” He grabs my arm, making me drop the open bottle on the carpet as I pull out of his grasp.
“Don’t touch me.”
He frowns and backs up, both hands in the air. “I got a call today from the store manager at Bloomingdale’s thanking me for my purchase of the ten-thousand-dollar Shifman bed. Would you care to explain?”
Oh shit.
I squat down and press the lid back on the paint can. What the hell was the manager doing calling Corbin’s office?
The bills go there. Of course.
“I bought a bed. What else would you like to know?”
He crosses his arms and eyes the oily patchouli stain spreading on the floor, rubs his nose and makes a face. “We have a perfectly good bed—”
“That you’ll need in your new home.” I walk out of the living room to wash the roller in the kitchen sink. He follows me.
“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that,” he says.
I glance over my shoulder and see him standing there with his arms akimbo, a defiant stance that suggests he’s losing his patience.
“Well, Corbin, I guess you made your bed, didn’t you? Now you can take it with you to your new home and lie in it.”
Color floods his cheeks. “Whether I stay or go, you are not spending ten thousand dollars on a bed.”
I drop the roller in the sink and whirl around to face him.
“You’re not telling me what I can and can’t do. If you want to push someone around, Mel-o-dy would probably like it. She’s probably looking for a father figure to tell her what to do.”
He winces. I’d like to believe it was because of the way I said her name. I’m tempted to keep spitting it at him, rapid-fire.
Mel-o-dy.
Mel-o-dy.
Mel-o-dy.
Mel-o-dy.
“I said nothing about your limousine excursion yesterday. Nor did I question your shopping spree or mention the way you dumped my five-hundred-dollar cognac all over the couch during your tantrum.”
“Well, you’re mentioning it now, so you lose your gold star on that one.”
He rolls his eyes, raises a hand. “You may keep the diamond necklace I bought you.” He pushes the black velvet box across the table. “But I draw the line at your spending ten thousand dollars on a bed.” He arcs a brow. “Since you’re kicking me out, we’re going to have to tighten our belts if I have to pay for two households.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you should pay.” And pay and pay and pay. For the rest of your bloody life.
I walk to the tab
le and shove the jewelry box back at him. It slides like a lethargic hockey puck.
He smiles—not a nice smile, one I’m sure that’s meant to put me in my place. He picks up the jewelry box and puts it in his pocket.
I don’t care. He can have it. He’d just better not give it to her.
Corbin sighs. “Look, Kate, let’s be adult about this.”
“Since when have you been interested in adults? Juveniles seem to be more your style these days.”
His face is stony, but I can see his jaw tick. “I canceled our Bloomingdale’s account and your order for the Shifman. If you want to spend ten thousand dollars on a bed, then I would suggest you get a job.”
“Well, that’s just fine. Fine.” Any store manager stupid enough to call a husband after the wife drops that much money in his store is a moron and doesn’t deserve the sale.
I’ll show him. I’ll call around for the same bed, use a different credit card, and leave strict instructions for the manager not to call my husband because it’s a surprise.
Corbin turns to leave, but before he does, he glances over his shoulder. “When you start looking for a job, you can rule out interior decorating because the living room looks hideous.”
Oh! “You wait just a minute—” I scream.
He slams the door to the garage. “Don’t you walk out on me!”
I grab the sopping paint roller, yank open the door and fling it at him as hard as I can. It smacks him in the back, leaving a big tangerine-colored splotch on his white shirt.
Corbin’s been in his new apartment a week now. He was able to lease a condominium at the Waverly, an upscale high-rise downtown. The perfect bachelor pad to impress young Mel-o-dy Wentworth, I’m sure.
It’s not so bad living here alone with Caitlin.
Really, it’s not.
The house is big for two, but it’s our house. Moving would mean too many changes for her six-year-old mind to process. The counselor agreed. I thought it best to have counseling lined up for when we broke the news.
I know children are resilient, but I want to arm myself with the best resources possible to help her through this. I don’t want to scar her for life or have her end up poisoned against marriage as Alex is.
Out with the Old, In with the New Page 9
