by Nesly Clerge
She muted the TV and pulled her laptop close, logged on to her Goodreads account and read Luke’s latest message. She typed, You’re most welcome. What are you doing right now? And hit Send.
Why had she asked something so personal? It was too late to retract it. She sent a second message that asked, Writing the next great novel?
Several minutes later, a reply came in.
Not doing much at the moment. What about you? By the way, thank you for posting your review. And if I’m not sounding inappropriately forward, I’d appreciate input from you. I’d mentioned meeting for coffee. You didn’t reply about that—I hope I didn’t offend you. I promise it’s nothing more than a beginning author’s appreciation for a reader who’s been kind about his work. That said, do you think it will ever be possible for us to talk rather than messaging back and forth? Humbly yours.
So, he was serious about their meeting. She’d thought he was being polite when he’d mentioned it as a possibility. He seemed to genuinely want her input, perhaps might even value it.
Who was she kidding? That’s all there was to it.
Was her disappointment because that was the extent of his interest?
Another feeling surfaced: Guilt. What the hell was she thinking?
She turned off her computer and called Penelope. “Sounds like you’re at home.”
“I am.”
“I thought you’d be out. On a date.”
“So, because you thought I wouldn’t be available, you called me. Okay, Chels, talk.”
“Remember the writer I told you about?”
“Luke something.”
“He wants to meet for coffee. To get my thoughts about his book. Should I meet with him? Should I give him my number or ask for his so we don’t confuse things? You know how text messages leave out the subtleties. Like is he flirting with me or not.”
“Stop all this mental chatter. Go ahead and meet with him. By the way, I looked him up.”
“Why?”
“You made such a big deal about him.”
“He’s an exceptional writer.”
“He’s a hunk. What’s the harm in talking with him? What’s the harm in feeling flattered by an author who also happens to be a stud? It would do you some good.”
“You really think that’s all he wants? Because I don’t want to mislead him.”
“Has he indicated he wants more?”
“No. I think he’s too honorable to do that, not that he’d even want more to do with me. Besides, he’s married. As am I.”
“You don’t know whether he’s honorable or not. And don’t be so sure that his interest in you stops at your praise for his novel.”
“It’s wrong for me to even wonder about this.”
“Chels, are you having any fun?”
“What do you mean?”
“Looks to me like Garrett is the only one enjoying himself. Other than time with me, you’re not doing anything for pleasure. Seriously, what’s the harm? It doesn’t have to go anywhere you don’t want it to. Right?”
“Of course. I’m just anxious about talking with him.”
“Ha! You decided to meet him. Before you called me. Didn’t you?”
“I suppose.”
“Then why’d you call me? For approval? You don’t need it. Go for it.”
“I guess I wanted you to talk me out of it.”
“Forget that. It’s a little innocent spice added to your life.”
“I don’t know why I’m making such a fuss.”
“Problem solved. And, I do have a date. Gotta run.”
It really was innocent. Two people who live in the same town, one an author, one a fan of the author. They could have just as easily met anywhere in town and decided to chat over coffee.
Completely innocent.
Then why did it feel anything but that?
Her mother would say all this pondering was the result of consuming one too many romance novels. That there was no there, there.
She had no intention of mentioning any of this to her mother. She could feel foolish without any assistance.
CHAPTER 32
As expected, the lights were off when Garrett arrived home after his liaison with Dr. Kent and friend. He’d showered at the hotel. But that had left him smelling like the hotel’s bath products. Better that than reeking of the edible body oil the ladies had brought with them.
He’d been concerned that management would disapprove of the quantity of oil left on the sheets—the entire bottle had been used. The women assured him the oil would come out in the wash. Hell, he’d pay for new sheets, if he needed to. Pay to play. It was worth it. Especially with those two voluptuous creatures. They’d soaped the oil off each other in the shower, which had led to his arriving home later than intended.
Chelsea was too suspicious as it was. He went out the back door, stripped, and slid into the swimming pool. After a few laps in the moonlight, he dried off with a towel from the cabana and slipped on one of the several robes kept in there. He grabbed his clothes and went into the library, also used as a home office. The transfer of eight thousand dollars to his sister’s account was made. Then he dialed her number.
“I know it’s late to call.”
“It’s almost two in the morning, G.”
“I thought you’d sleep better if you knew your account now has money in it. I sent more than you asked for. Figured you’d need it for any overdue bills and such.”
“Thanks. Is it polite to ask how much more?”
“I transferred eight thousand.” He heard her whoop. “There’s a but attached. I want you to use the rest to enroll in an educational program. You said you have an interest in massage therapy, right?”
“Right. I just never had the funds to get it going.”
“Now you do. Sign up. Tomorrow. Take it from there. I know massage therapists who do really well. Chloe, I want you to be able to rely on yourself. To know you can be independent. My offer still stands about living here, at least while you go to school. Might as well cut down on living expenses as much as you can.”
“I appreciate it, but I’d rather keep some of my independence.” She laughed. “I’ll find a school tomorrow. G, I’m going to make you proud.”
“I just want you to get some balance in your life and stay there.”
“I could say the same.”
“Chloe.”
“Just saying. I love you, G.”
“Me too. Go back to sleep.”
He changed into his clothes and dropped the robe into the basket in the laundry room.
There had to be something he could do to get his wife and his family off his back. But what?
CHAPTER 33
Twenty minutes early, Chelsea sat in her car parked outside Dr. Moore’s office. Five days had passed since she’d read Luke’s message. What must he think of her for not replying to his request. Not even with a refusal. He probably thought she was nothing more than a flighty female. Some kind of flake. Maybe she was turning into one. One whose backbone was missing.
She went inside the office, filled out the necessary forms and waited to be called in.
Several minutes later, Dr. Moore opened the door next to the reception desk. “Mrs. Hall. Please come in.”
Chelsea nodded and stood, feeling dowdy in comparison with the stylish doctor.
Dr. Moore extended her hand. “I recognize you from my forum. You asked me to sign your book.”
Chelsea shook the hand offered. “I’m surprised that with all the people you come across, you remember me.”
“I have a memory for faces. Plus, it hasn’t been long enough for me to forget you.” She smiled. “And there’s the hair. This way, please. We’ll talk in my office.”
Chelsea followed Dr. Moore to an elegant room, with walls that had a faux finish and furniture that belonged in a magazine that featured exclusive homes. The cherry desk was polished to a reflective sheen, and the few items on it were tidy. And expensive. Across from the desk
was a large leather-covered sofa. Adjacent was a large chaise longue, also leather.
Dr. Moore said, “Sit anywhere you’ll feel comfortable. I want you to feel relaxed enough to be completely honest with me. And with yourself.”
“I understand.” Chelsea sat at one end of the sofa, her purse gripped in her hands on her lap.
Dr. Moore sat at the other end, tablet and pen in hand. “Tell me what brought you here.”
Chelsea cleared her throat. “I can’t shake my depression. I have to try to do something about it.”
“How long have you felt this way?”
“Two years.” She shook her head. “That’s not true. It’s been longer.”
“Any idea what that’s about?”
“My husband cheated on me. Twice that I was able to confirm; though, I’m fairly certain it’s more than that. After the second time—that I know about, which was last year, I lost it. I’ve dealt with the pain by eating, as you can see. I didn’t always look like this.” Chelsea waved a hand. “Okay, truth is, there’s been an issue of baby weight for a number of years, which I struggled to lose and failed. But my husband’s disapproval about my appearance, along with his actions, made it worse. And the more I gained the more depressed I got. I can’t get myself to stop overeating. It’s all stress-related. I’m never not stressed.”
Dr. Moore scribbled on her tablet. “We’ll discuss that in more depth at another time, but I’d like you to tell me about your husband—when you met, as well as about your children. How many do you have?”
“Just one. Our daughter. I met Garrett when I was a college freshman. He was in pre-med; I was in pre-law. Our daughter, Kimberlie, is fifteen. And the only real joy I have in my life. But she has a life of her own, which means I’m often left alone.”
“And your husband?”
“Garrett’s always been a hard worker. Graduated top of his class. Went on to medical school the year after we met. He’s a radiologist, with certifications in internal medicine and cardiology.”
“Sounds like he has a determined personality.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“How would you put it?”
Chelsea shrugged. “He seems determined to neglect me.”
Dr. Moore jotted a note onto the paper. “Have you always felt neglected by him, including as a result of his professional life?”
“Not when we were first married. He was very attentive the first few years. His attentions slacked off when I started showing my pregnancy. Anyway, I worked in my own profession until I had Kimberlie. It was a mutual decision that I stay home with her. That’s when I began to notice how often he wasn’t there. I didn’t realize this initially. I was too busy with Kimmie. What was going on became obvious to me after she started school. Then she reached adolescence and didn’t need me as much. That’s when the reality really hit.”
“How did you discover your husband was cheating?”
“The first time it was because he left in a hurry, left his phone at home. I answered when it rang. I didn’t recognize the woman’s name on caller ID. She hung up when I said hello. I tracked the number on the billing call log and discovered they talked several times a day, and had been for months.”
“What did you do?”
“I waited a few hours and called her from Garrett’s phone. I lied and told her Garrett had confessed. She admitted to the affair and apologized. Like that made a difference. It didn’t stop Garrett, though, despite his profuse apologies and swearing it would never happen again. I chose to believe him. I was desperate to, you see.”
“You said that was the first time.”
“The second time I found out—the one last year, was with a nurse at the hospital where he works. The woman showed up at my house! Thank God it was while Kimmie was at school. She said she’d fallen in love with Garrett. Said he wanted to leave me to be with her but that I was being difficult. She confronted me at my home, to get me to see logic.” Chelsea pulled a tissue from the box next to her and wept into it.
“That must have been a painful time for you.”
“Still is.”
“Is this the first time you’re seeking professional assistance?” Chelsea’s sobs grew louder. “It’s okay, Mrs. Hall. Take your time.”
Chelsea blew her nose. “We went to counseling for a while, but Garrett stopped not long after the sessions started. Said he was too busy. Which was B.S. I continued going for a while then couldn’t take it anymore. The counselor didn’t understand how I felt.”
“How do you feel?”
“Garrett picks women who have perfect bodies. Even if I starved myself to look like them, I don’t think he’d be willing to be faithful.”
Dr. Moore waited for the crying jag that followed to subside. “Mrs. Hall, the first thing I want you to understand is that you’re a beautiful woman. You’re intelligent and have a lot to offer. Never allow anyone to take that away from you. The second thing I want you to understand is that those women are not perfect. You’re looking at them ‘through a glass darkly,’ as the saying goes. I promise you they have flaws and shortcomings.”
Chelsea sniffed. “Maybe. But I don’t think Garrett sees that.”
“I’m sure they showed him only what they wanted him to see. Not the whole truth. You can’t learn the truth about a person when you engage in nothing more than a tryst. Do you love your husband, Mrs. Hall?”
“God help me, but I still do.” She buried her face in her hands.
“Are you willing to forgive him?”
Chelsea’s sobs stopped. She glared at Dr. Moore. “You, too? I’ve had this discussion so many times, with the counselor and with Garrett. Not to mention my mother. How can I forgive what I can’t forget?”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“Then my answer is that I don’t know. I haven’t been able to forgive him so far.”
“That’s something we’ll explore in another session, as well. For now, I want you to know that I understand how you feel. You know that’s true, from my presentation.”
“You said it happened to you. What happened, exactly? I’m sorry. It’s not appropriate for me to ask that or expect you to answer.”
“It’s fine. In my first marriage, we grew apart. I thought I’d find what I was looking for with another man. I cheated. And it didn’t take long for me to regret it, especially when I saw and felt the pain it caused everyone involved. I remarried a few years later, not realizing my second husband was a chronic womanizer. I left him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sad, but valuable. I learned it’s impossible to run away from pain and the grief we feel for what’s lost. Those emotions have to be faced head-on, if we’re ever going to get beyond them. Like any form of grief, it takes the time it takes to heal. Denial never healed anything or anyone. You’ll never forget what happened, but you can fill your life in meaningful ways so that you don’t remember it as often. And at the times you do remember, the pain will be less than before.”
“Shades of my mother, again. I suppose I have to take your word about that.”
Dr. Moore smiled. “Sometimes, a mother’s honesty is difficult to take.
“Our time’s up. I think it’s best we continue to meet weekly. Please schedule your next appointment before you leave.”
Dr. Moore stood. Chelsea did the same, depositing her used tissues in the waste receptacle near the sofa.
“Thank you, Dr. Moore. It makes a difference talking to someone who’s been through it.”
“Believe me. I know. See you next week.”
It did make a difference. But would it ever be enough?
She still felt emptier than empty.
CHAPTER 34
Five days of Chelsea giving him the silent treatment every morning was enough. Not that she didn’t have good reason. He’d come home later than late for the last week. It was Dr. Jacobs’ fault. She’d shown up with a big bag of goodies the first night. He’d asked her if there was
anything left on the shelves in the sex shop. They still hadn’t tried all the trinkets and gadgets as yet. That would take a few months. But they each relished discovering which were their favorites to use and have used on them.
Chelsea answered his call after the first ring.
Garrett leaned back in his chair. “Hi, sweetheart. How about a date with your overworked husband tonight? Say the word and I’ll cut my day short.”
“Really, Garrett?”
“You’ve got six hours. Pamper yourself however you want to then put on your prettiest dress. I’ll make reservations at Chez Pierre’s for seven, unless there’s someplace else you’d rather go.”
“You know it’s my favorite.”
“I’ll pick you up at six thirty. Gotta run.”
It took little to arrange for Kimberlie to spend the night at Susan’s house. Little to pack an overnight bag and bring it to Susan’s mother, Angela, so Kimberlie could go straight there after school.
It took a little more effort and profuse begging and the promise of a huge tip to, at the last minute, get a facial, her hair washed and styled, her makeup and nails—all twenty—done to perfection.
It took dealing with her embarrassment and a tremendous effort not to scream during her first Brazilian wax. She even squeezed in enough time to get a new dress that was more flattering for her figure, as well as one more item.
Chelsea stood in front of the full-length mirror in her closet. “Not perfect, but no one could call me a schlump.” Her mother’s advice whispered in her mind: A woman may not be able to be made more beautiful than she is, but she can always be made more glamorous.
And that’s how she felt.
How long had it been?
She also wondered what Garrett would think of the other purchase she’d made. It was impossible to suppress the small smile on her reddened lips.
CHAPTER 35
The magnum of Veuve Clicquot had been chilled to icy perfection. Garrett prepped a small toast round with crumbled boiled egg, minced onion, and caviar—just the way Chelsea liked it—and handed it to her.
