Independence Day

by Amy Frazier

  “Not exactly.”

  “Honey,” his holiday slipping away, he glanced at his watch “the tide’s only going to give us so much leeway.”

  “Ah, yes. Time and tide wait for no man.” Her shoulders drooped slightly. “The high-school principal’s credo.”

  “Are you trying to pick a fight? Is your p—”

  The librarian poked her head into the foyer. “Is there something I could help you find?”

  If only. “No, thank you,” Nick replied. “We’re okay.”

  As the librarian made her way back to her desk, Chessie glared at Nick. “No, my period isn’t coming,” she whispered, “if that’s what you were about to suggest. It isn’t always about hormones.”

  He backpedaled. “Chessie, give me some credit. Is your…pot you wanted to work on under deadline?”

  Nice save. His wrist, the one with the watch on it, twitched.

  “Not in the usual sense.” She narrowed her eyes. “I told you a trustee for the Portland Museum of Art loved the idea for this piece. She wants it for her private collection. And she carries such influence in the New England art world that a successful sale might be the opening I’ve been looking for. The opening that could take my career to the next level.”

  “I didn’t understand.” A library patron tried to enter the cramped foyer with an armload of books, but the heavy sandwich board Chessie still wore got in the way.

  “Sorry.” Awkwardly, Nick and Chessie squeezed farther back into the corner.

  “I know you didn’t understand,” Chessie continued, lowering her voice even more. “Neither did the girls. That’s just the point. But you will.”

  Nick felt queasy. He liked explanations. Concise and logical explanations stripped of a storyteller’s suspenseful pacing. He didn’t like surprises. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he said, “Give me a hint.”

  “Let’s just say I’m having my midlife crisis. I’ve worked hard for it. I deserve it. And I’m going to enjoy it.”

  “Chessie. You’re only thirty-seven.”

  “And getting older by the minute.” She reached for the door. “Go on. Take the girls to the islands. I’ll spend the afternoon in my studio. We’ll watch the fireworks together from the terrace tonight.”

  He stayed her hand on the knob. “You’re kidding about the midlife crisis.”

  She paused. “If that explanation gets you thinking about the lopsided dynamics of our family life, so be it.”

  “What lopsided dynamics?”

  “Hadn’t noticed, had you?” Chessie bristled, an unusually combative look in her eyes. “How about my unappreciated backstage roles as the family’s chief cook and bottle washer, laundress, taxi driver, mediator, cheerleader, nurse, convenient lover and general bend-over-till-I-can-touch-my-nose-to-my-behind Gumby?”

  “You can’t possibly think of yourself that way.”

  “I don’t, but the rest of you—”

  “Shh!” A child in the picture-book section put her finger to her lips.

  With effort, Nick closed the door between the foyer and the main reading room. “What’s gotten into you?” He wasn’t a stupid person. He was the principal of a regional high school.

  She paused, leveling him with her gray-green stare. “I have work. Work I need to do for myself. For a change. It’s not as if I’m abandoning you. I don’t always have to be the recreation director. It will do the three of you good to spend some time alone together. To have your routine jostled a bit.”

  His work routine was always being jostled. He didn’t like upset in his personal life.

  “We’ll talk later,” she offered. “There’ll be a quiz on what you’ve learned this morning.”

  He didn’t react to her attempt at humor. “I’ll carry the sign home for you.” He needed to take charge, even in this small way.

  “Nick, Nick,” she purred, “you always were my knight in shining armor.”

  “Were?” He stiffened. “So what am I now?”

  “Your armor needs a little buffing.” She wriggled out of the sandwich board.

  Confused, Nick took the bulky sign from her and, with difficulty, turned it inside-out so the words were hidden. He opened the door as if nothing had happened.

  But something had.

  When they’d married eighteen years ago, they’d been in total agreement. He’d be the breadwinner. She’d keep home and hearth. Now Chessie wanted to change the agreement. It made Nick, a man who never tinkered with what worked, want to reach for the antacid tablets.

  Chessie knew that, after her demonstration, Nick would want to make it home without attracting any more attention. But the sight of Penn, along with Sean, Kit and Alex waiting for them outside the library told her escape would be impossible. McCabes—even in small groups—were notorious for practicing family by committee.

  “So, this is what you had in mind when you said you had other plans and couldn’t come to the family picnic,” his father said.

  Chessie saw Nick flinch. “I was going to take my family to the islands,” he replied, a defensive edge to his voice. “I never have time to get out on the water. It seems I rarely have time to see my wife and daughters.”

  “Is that what Chessie’s demanding?” With an amused twinkle in his eye, Penn indicated the now reversed sandwich board. “More attention?”

  “Pop, butt out.” Good-naturedly, Sean nudged their father.

  “Hey, I’m just wondering if I should be wearing a protest sign,” Penn retorted. “I’m his old man, and I never see him.”

  “I’m busy, Pop. Making a living.”

  “We all are,” Sean noted. “So…great speech.”

  “Aunt Chessie, can I play your trumpet?” Sean’s nine-year-old daughter Alex piped up. Nick looked relieved to be out of the spotlight for a moment.

  “Sure.” Chessie relinquished her noisemaker. “Do you think you can play it better than I did?”

  “You weren’t very good,” Alex said with her typical candor. She put the trumpet to her lips, then blew till she was red in the face. Only a hiss of air came out. With a frown she lowered the instrument. “But you’re better than me.”

  The adults laughed.

  “Take it home with you,” Nick urged. “You can practice.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Sean ruffled Alex’s hair. “Just what we need. More noise in the house.”

  “Your Uncle Nick’s afraid Aunt Chessie might try to make a point with it again,” Penn declared dryly.

  “So…” Kit indicated both the trumpet and the sandwich board. “Are we talking about this?”

  “Sure,” Chessie replied as Nick said, “No.”

  If anyone would understand her mission, it was Kit. At twenty-five, her sister-in-law had been on her own for nine years—nine unconventional years—until Sean convinced her that loving him and Alex didn’t mean she had to give up her individuality.

  Nick looked at his watch. “The tide…”

  “You know McCabe parties go on forever,” Sean said. “Stop by when you get in.”

  “Thanks.” Nick smiled, but he didn’t say they’d be there.

  Chessie wondered about that as they made their way home. Nick had told her that moving this last time was a good idea because they’d settle into a ready-made family. She and the girls had done the settling, but Nick remained strangely aloof.

  “Are you and your family okay?” she asked.

  “Why wouldn’t we be?”

  She didn’t pursue the issue. Nick’s relationship with his family had always been…special. His mother had died when he was twelve and Jonas, his youngest brother, just one. Nick had been old enough at the time to shoulder some of the responsibility of looking after the kids. She could see where the experience had honed his deeply ingrained provider instinct. But when he’d left for college nineteen years ago, he’d left for a future away from Pritchard’s Neck. And when they’d returned last year, Nick had never seemed completely at ease with either his father or his siblings.

/>   He seemed as emotionally AWOL with them as he was with her.

  Chessie couldn’t control his relationships with others, but if her strike woke her husband up, she might not be the only one whose needs were met.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “CHESSIE?” Nick glanced at his watch. Seven-thirty. “We’re home!”

  “I’m up in the bedroom.”

  She sounded rational. With some sense of relief that she hadn’t ambushed him with more laundry, he climbed the stairs. Yet today’s explosion—having gone beyond anything she’d ever pulled on them before—still worried him. He was tired from exploring the islands with the girls, but he needed to get to the bottom of this before the situation escalated.

  But what was the situation? What did she really want from them? From him? She’d spoken in riddles.

  Chessie had mentioned a project that was important to her. He’d always liked her interest in ceramics because it seemed to relax her, but maybe the self-imposed pressure to excel had gotten out of hand. Maybe she actually needed to lay off the pottery for a while.

  Maybe he could engineer a short break for the two of them, since he’d chosen not to take his scheduled vacation this year. The AP science teacher had promised his spring term students a bus trip to Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire next week. A reward for passing their Advanced Placement exams. Maybe he and Chessie could hook up as chaperones. It wouldn’t be a real vacation, it wasn’t an overnight trip, but it would be a change of scene. Maybe he could afford one more day off work. If he could only get next fall’s hiring completed this week.

  There were far too many ifs and maybes.

  He found himself stalled in the upstairs hallway.

  “Do you plan to step over the threshold?” Chessie leaned against the bedroom door frame, looking up at him. Lost in thought, he hadn’t even noticed her. “I won’t bite,” she added.

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  “I said we’d talk later. Now’s good.”

  “The fireworks start at nine.”

  “Oh, we have plenty of time before the fireworks start.” With a gleam in her eye that could itself be described as pyrotechnic, she pulled him into their bedroom and closed the door firmly behind them.

  Things were looking up.

  He moved to take her in his arms.

  “Talk,” she said, pushing him down to sit on the bed while she remained standing. “So…what did you learn today?”

  He was in treacherous, uncharted territory. “Chessie—”

  “Maaaa!” The adolescent shriek careened up the stairwell and through the closed door. “Are there any strawberries and whipped cream left over from breakfast?” Gabriella.

  With a shudder, Chessie opened the door. “Miss McCabe, unless you broke both legs and at least one arm on your trip to the islands, you can open the refrigerator door and check for yourself.” Her shoulders seemed to droop. “Please don’t interrupt. Your father and I are in the middle of an important conversation.”

  “It won’t interfere with us watching the fireworks, will it?”

  “If you don’t give us ten minutes, the fireworks will begin early, I promise.”

  Even from upstairs, Nick could hear Gabriella stomping off to the kitchen. He’d always admired Chessie’s infinite patience with their daughters, especially Gabby, who was proving a handful. This evening, however, that patience showed signs of wear and tear.

  Breathing deeply, Chessie turned back into the room. “Where was I?”

  “You wanted to know what I’d learned today.” He chose his words carefully. “I think perhaps you want more time to yourself.”

  “Not quite. It’s more that I don’t believe you and the girls see me as being a self. I’m your wife, their mom. Outside of that, I think I’m a bit of a blur.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Okay. What was I wearing this morning?”

  A trick question. Was she wearing the shorts and T-shirt she had on now?

  “Besides a sandwich board?” he asked, stalling.

  Clearly impatient now, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Underneath the sandwich board.”

  He frowned. Before she’d surprised him with her strike sign, she’d shown every intention of working on her pots. He hazarded a guess. “Shorts. A smock.”

  “What color were my toenails?”

  He glanced quickly at her feet. She wore sneakers. “Red, white and blue?”

  “Have you ever seen me paint my nails? Ever? The girls, yes, but me? I don’t think so.” With an unexpected snort of laughter, she picked up a pillow from the window seat and threw it at him. “Red, white and blue. I’ll give you C+ for creativity.”

  The fact that she didn’t appear angry seemed to augur the return of the old, familiar Chessie, mischievous but sweet. His exact opposite. Perhaps that’s why he’d been drawn to her back in high school—

  Another pillow hit him in the head. “No daydreaming in class.”

  “Then can we cut to the chase? My day off is almost gone. I’d like to spend the rest of it with my family. With you.”

  “About this morning—”

  “You’re forgiven.” He grinned, then immediately regretted his ill-timed humor as another pillow whizzed by his head.

  “You and the girls mustn’t take me for granted any longer.” The renewed rebellion in her eyes told him this was no joke. “There are times I feel invisible.”

  “Sweetheart.” He opened his arms to her. “You are the most colorful, least invisible woman I know. The girls and I love every quirky bone in your body.” Okay, so it wasn’t Robert Browning. He was a high-school principal—a weary high-school principal—not a poet.

  “Do you understand how important my work is to me?” she asked.

  “If there were a Maine Mom-and-Wife-of-the-Year Award, I’d nominate you in a heartbeat.”

  “And my pottery?”

  “I love your pots.” Better keep it simple. Talk of arts and crafts dragged him out of his league.

  “Do you know how much money I put away from my teaching and sales last year?”

  “I never asked because that’s your mad money.”

  “Mad money? After taxes last year I added twelve thousand dollars to the girls’ college fund.”

  Twelve thousand dollars? He nearly choked. He had no idea a hobby could be so lucrative.

  “Mad money, indeed,” Chessie muttered as she closed in on him. “The negotiating price for this new piece alone is fifteen hundred dollars. This is art, Nick, not Play-Doh.”

  “Fifteen—” He did choke. And sputtered. Chessie whacked him on the back. A little too hard, if you asked him. “We need to have a talk with our tax man. Have we declared your earnings?”

  She sighed. “I filed separate forms as a self-employed businesswoman. I’ve kept my own books. I’ve joined the Better Business Bureau. Taken an Internet workshop on finances and investments.”

  He seemed to recall their tax man mentioning the separate filing, but the news had been overshadowed at the time by the threat of a sports-injury lawsuit at school.

  “When did you do all this?” Her secret life astounded him.

  “While the girls were in school. Any night you worked late.”

  That could’ve been any night of the week.

  “And you didn’t think I’d be interested?”

  “I tried to tell you a dozen times,” she insisted, “but you weren’t listening.”

  With a sinking heart, he took her point.

  “Aha!” she exclaimed when she saw he understood. “And did you know I’m very close to opening that gallery I’ve always wanted? In the barn on the ground floor.”

  He looked hard at this woman he’d underestimated. What else had she been up to in his absence? The possibilities racing though his mind made Nick feel—for the first time in his life—blown off course.

  “How do you expect me to take you seriously when we haven’t talked about any of this?”

  She seemed ta
ken aback by his question, but only briefly. “So much of our ever-shrinking time together is spent discussing your job and how it affects our future. The rest of the time it’s the girls—”

  “That’s a cop-out, Chessie, and you know it. You want recognition, but you’re not communicating.”

  Her nostrils widened as she inhaled sharply. “Maybe you’re right…but today I woke up. I won’t ever be satisfied if I don’t tell you why I’m dissatisfied.”

  “And how.” Smiling ruefully, he rubbed the back of his neck. “So…your pots can bring in that much?” Here he thought she’d been having a few friends over for coffee and crafts. “I’m impressed, Chessie.”

  “Impressed with the idea of a real business, are you? But do you appreciate the woman behind the work?”

  “Of course we do,” he replied.

  “Let’s leave the girls out of this. I’ll deal with them separately. Do you appreciate me? All of me.”

  Hell, yes. He gazed at her as she strode across the bedroom to stand in front of the window. She was tall and still had a great figure after two children. Her long unruly auburn hair was partially held back by a ribbon. Her skin seemed otherworldly. Creamy. Smooth. Cool, most likely. She was always blessedly cool to the touch on even the hottest summer day. There was nothing cool about her eyes, though. Fire and ice. That was his Chessie. And ever since high school she’d had the power to excite him. He felt himself grow hard.

  “If wanting you can be construed as appreciation,” he ventured, “I’d say I recognize what a lucky man I am.”

  “So you want to make love to me?”

  “Now that’s a fact.”

  “Perhaps because we always make love on nights before you start your workweek?”

  He didn’t like this detour. “You make it sound like a routine.”

  “That’s what I haven’t quite figured out.” Crossing her arms again, she began to tap her fingers restlessly on her elbows. “I’m not sure if you really want to make love to me…or whether you’re simply after a bit of release from tension.”

  “You’ve been spoiling for a fight all day. It has to be hormones.”

  Low blow. And one he instantly regretted.

  She glared at him.