Frankly, I was bored with my own tears at that point. I’d cried so much over Charlie Miles, I was sick to death of my own pathetic affect.
Liam fetched a can of whipped cream from the fridge and topped our coffees off before giving me a wink. “I’ll leave you two to your catching up.”
“No, wait, please.” Suddenly I wanted a man’s perspective… well, the perspective of man who wasn’t in love with me. “Stay. You may as well hear this firsthand.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
With a quirked brow at Carrie, who shrugged and nodded, he poured another coffee, doctored it up and settled on the sofa with one arm around his wife. I curled up in the armchair next to them, warming my hands with the mug.
“Where’s Izzy?” I realized I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of their four-year-old adopted daughter. Usually Isabella was bouncing around my knees, lisping and giggling.
“She’s down at Noah and Margie’s for an overnight.” Liam sipped his drink. “I dropped her off after Carrie headed to the airport. Thought maybe you and Carrie might want some time alone.”
“This guy’s a gem, Caro. Hang on to him.”
“Do you see anything to indicate that I’m not hanging on?” Carrie gave me a smile as she leaned her dark head against Liam’s shoulder.
“Not really.” I tasted the whipped cream with the tip of my tongue. The scent of coffee and good Irish whiskey filled my nostrils. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I relaxed, letting the warmth from the fireplace seep into my tired body.
“How’s it feel to be a grandma?” Carrie snuggled closer to Liam. “Are you freaked or delighted?”
“Or both?” Liam added. “We saw the pictures on Kevin’s Facebook page—damn good-looking kid, Julie.”
“Being a grandma rocks. He’s a sweetie.” I sipped my coffee, letting the whiskey give me the courage to share my story. “I–I need to talk.”
“Julie, what is it?” Carrie reached out a hand to me. “What’s going on?”
Taking a deep breath, I dove in, telling them the whole story from the moment I discovered the emails between Charlie and Emily to the encounter with her at Tuckaway. I left out the intimate parts between Will and me—those were still too new to share. I wasn’t about to say anything in front of Liam about going across the hall in my rage over Charlie’s infidelity and practically attacking his best friend. He’d never get it and would probably worry about Will getting hurt. No, that was for later, when Carrie and I were alone.
They sat silently as I spoke, shock and concern evident on both their faces. Finally, when I stopped to take a breath, Carrie rose from the sofa to kneel on the soft rug in front of me.
“Oh, Jules, I’m so sorry,” she said, cupping my face with one hand. “What an awful discovery.” Sympathy tears shimmered in her eyes. Pure Carrie Reilly—aching for me as I knew I’d be aching for her if our roles were reversed.
I nearly lost it at her touch, but I bit the inside of my lip and set my jaw, firm in my resolve not to cry. I wanted to talk, to get some input from a more objective source than Will, to try to make sense of the bizarre twist my life had taken. I put my hand over hers and linked our fingers as I gazed into her face.
“Well… so what do you think?”
NINETEEN
“Sixteen years?” Liam repeated for the third time.
“Yup.”
We were on our second cup of Irish coffee, and I lapped at the froth floating in my mug, feeling rather proud that I’d managed to contain my tears. Fact was the urge to cry simply dissolved as I hashed out the story with Carrie and Liam. It was almost as if I was talking about a stranger rather than my husband of over thirty years. Yes, I was still hurting, but I was gaining perspective.
“God, I couldn’t be more shocked if you’d told me Liam was having an affair.” Carrie had settled back on the sofa. “This feels completely out of character for the Charlie Miles I knew.”
“Something was obviously missing—something he needed that I couldn’t provide.”
“Don’t!” Carrie said sharply. “Don’t take this out on yourself, Julianne Miles. This was all about Charlie. He was weak. You were a brilliant wife. You made him the perfect home.”
“Apparently, that was the problem. Life was too perfect.” I couldn’t help the snort of laughter at the ridiculousness of those words. “I made him feel like he had to be perfect, and he couldn’t handle it.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Carrie swatted the idea away with the back of her hand. “Too perfect? For God’s sake, honestly—”
“Hang on a minute, honey,” Liam interrupted with one hand on Carrie’s thigh.
“You better not be thinking about defending him, Liam Michael Reilly!” Carrie swung around to glare at her husband. “What he did was unspeakable!”
“Chill, babe. You’re right. That’s not where I’m headed.” Liam gave me a long look. “Jules, Charlie led a charmed life—dynamic, successful career, gorgeous wife, beautiful, smart kids, great friends—and he always had to live up to the image he created. I know how it feels to try to be something you’re not.”
“Are you seriously going to try to compare your playboy life before me with Charlie’s screwing around on his wife?” Carrie’s eyes were huge and her voice squeaked. “Did you know already? Did he confess this to you on the golf course or during one of those ‘boys’ nights’ on your boat?”
He tossed her a quick scowl. “Of course not. I’m as shocked as you are.”
I considered jumping in to head off a marital spat, but I was curious as to where he was going. I’d asked him to stay, believing I wanted an objective man’s viewpoint. Liam and Charlie had become good friends in the last few years. Perhaps the Maestro had insight.
I gave Carrie a head shake. “Go on, Liam.”
She threw herself back against the sofa cushions with a frustrated little sound, crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her toe. My dear friend was clearly in full-on outrage, undoubtedly furious with Charlie because he’d hurt me. But Charlie was dead. She had nowhere to put the anger, so she turned it on Liam.
I could identify. It’s difficult to be pissed at a dead man. I was still hurt beyond words, but talking it out had lessened my anger considerably.
“What I’m trying to say,” Liam continued, “is that it’s hard to be someone you’re not, even if you’re in the midst of a life you’re proud of and enjoy. It’s not easy to become a celebrity in the world of classical music, and I loved the whole image of being a famous conductor. Hell, I still love it. But the persona I’d allowed to be created around me? Not the real me. The harder I tried to live the way I thought I should, the worse I felt.” He paused and glanced at Carrie out of the corner of his eye.
She sat in stony silence, obviously not prepared to give him one moment of quarter. All I could think was that he’d better get to his point fast or he’d be sleeping over at Noah and Margie’s with his daughter tonight.
“Charlie wasn’t—what was the word that woman used?” Liam raised his hands, palms up. “Superman? But that’s how all of us saw him and it’s how he saw himself. We depended on him to be a super hero. He thought he was.”
“But he created that.” Carrie turned her whole body on the sofa to face him. “He did that. We didn’t ask him to be Superman. Julie never wanted him to be perfect. She loved him just the way he was.”
“Perfect,” I whispered.
“What?” She swung around to me. “What did you say?”
“Caro, I see it. I hate it, but I kinda see what Liam’s saying.” I stared at him. “I fell in love with this guy who worked so hard to be everything to everybody. Because he seemed so perfect, I worked hard, too, being exactly what I knew would make him happy and proud. I never once asked myself, What do I want? Always, always the question in my mind was, What does Charlie want?”
“So he repays your devotion by finding another woman and screwing he
r brains out for sixteen years?” Carrie’s voice rose another octave. “How in God’s name are you making that work?”
“Do you know that I used to get up really early and do my face and hair and then go back to bed and wait for him to wake up?” My mind was reeling and I knew I wasn’t making sense, but I had to process all of this mess, so I went on relentlessly. “He was a morning man, and I didn’t want him to have sex with someone who wasn’t… perfect. Both Charlie and I worked so hard to create and maintain that fairy tale life. No fucking reality.
“Charlie never once had to ask for so much as a coffee refill, I was always right there, anticipating his every need. I got up with him each morning to brew coffee exactly the way he liked it and make breakfast, always elegant in my designer jogging suit or a silk nightie and robe. My hair was done, my makeup flawless.” I bounded out of the armchair, moving restlessly around the room. “Shit, Charlie never even felt razor stubble on my legs—I kept myself smooth and gorgeous, right down to the French bikini wax he adored, but I hated.” I grimaced. “Sorry, Liam—that’s probably TMI.”
“No problem.” His teeth gleamed in the lamplight.
“I didn’t do the Paris and New York shows, which could’ve put my career into orbit, because it might’ve interfered with his life. And I loved going out on gigs—it was the only time I got to think about just me. But I never pursued anything more than the catalog stuff. Instead I stayed right here, being… I don’t know… June goddamn Cleaver. Charlie built the perfect house for his perfect wife and kids and installed us there, while he went off to his perfect job of saving people’s lives. And he got to be the hero of the world.”
“Dammit, Jules, if you say perfect one more time, I swear I’m gonna smack you!” Carrie pressed her stomach against the back of the sofa, having turned and risen to her knees to follow me as I paced.
“But that’s it, don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t see anything except you trying to take responsibility for Charlie’s awful behavior.”
“Liam, you see, don’t you?” Beseeching, I turned to him.
“Honey, I think what she’s trying to say is Charlie created such a fantasy that he couldn’t live up to it after a while, and yet, he couldn’t destroy Julie and the kids by not being that guy.” Liam put one hand on the small of Carrie’s back as he explained. “The other woman was a place to decompress. A poor choice, obviously.”
“Why are you two making excuses for him?” Carrie slammed her palm on the sofa and expelled a frustrated breath. “What he did was wrong! He cheated. He took something he’d promised only to you and gave it to another woman.”
The irony of the situation struck me, and I couldn’t help grinning at her. I’d come all the way to Willow Bay so my best friend could talk me through my anger and pain, yet sweet, tender-hearted Carrie was the one who was furious and unforgiving. I was the one trying to be understanding of what Charlie had done.
“But, it didn’t affect my life one bit, Caro.” Even as I said it, I realized the truth of it. “He was still a wonderful husband, and he loved me.”
“He did love you,” Liam said. “He was crazy about you. You could see it every time he looked at you. More than once, he told me how lucky he was to have you.”
“Thanks for that, pal.” I walked around to perch on the coffee table in front of Carrie as she sat back down. “Realizing that I couldn’t be everything he needed hurts beyond words. But I bought into the Leave It to Beaver scenario, too. I never stopped to ask if our life was what he really wanted. Hell, I never stopped to wonder if it was what I really wanted. We started it and it took off—a fantasy marriage that ate him alive.”
“So, that’s it?” She sank back, glaring first at me and then at Liam. “We chalk this all up to poor old Charlie having too much perfection in his life and let it go?”
“No.” I knit my fingers together in my lap, struggling to find the words I wanted. “I have a lot of thinking to do. Why didn’t he feel he could come to me when he got overwhelmed? I’ve got to try to figure out what I might have done differently, so I don’t make the same mistake again. If I ever have another opportunity—”
“I hate that bastard,” Carrie burst out. “You’re beautiful and wonderful and good, and he made you doubt yourself. I hate him for that. Why didn’t he delete all the damned emails?”
“I imagine because he didn’t expect to die so suddenly,” I replied with a little shrug. “Part of the Superman complex. Charlie was gonna live forever, “It’s done now, Caro. But you know one thing that Emily said really stuck with me.”
“What was that?” Liam had embraced Carrie again, stroking her arm, soothing her anger. It was working. She’d settled back against him, curled up next to him like a kitten.
“She said, ‘I took nothing from you.’ At first, I was floored and furious. I couldn’t believe she said that. But you know what? She was right. I had everything—my marriage, my kids, my beautiful home, and Charlie’s devotion.”
“But, he wasn’t—”
“No.” I raised one hand to stop Carrie’s denial. “Don’t you get it? As far as I ever knew he was completely devoted. She didn’t take anything from me at the time.”
“What about now? What about all the memories she’s tainted?”
“I was the one who went looking for her. As far as she was concerned, it was done.” I shook my head with a small smile. “Those memories are mine, Caro, not hers. She can’t ruin something she was never a part of. Don’t you see? If I let over thirty years of wonderful be destroyed by this news, then that’s a choice I make. And why would I do that to myself? That would just be stupid.”
“And that makes it all okay? You decide to let this go and Charlie’s still the big hero?”
“No.” Wrapping my arms around myself, I scooted closer to the fire. “No, Charlie’s still a cheating son of a bitch. But he’s dead. I can wallow and spend the rest of my life hating him. Or I can square my shoulders and get on with my life. This time I get to choose.”
An unfamiliar, but suddenly empowering sense of self-assurance surged through me as I stared into the flames.
“I get to choose.”
TWENTY
I opened the gate and stood staring at the big beautiful house that Charlie Miles built. The clapboards were damp from the frost melting off the roof in the morning sun. The yard was covered in a thin layer of late winter snow. A piece of screen that had pulled loose from the enclosed back porch flapped in the breeze.
Charlie and I had talked about needing to fix that tear when we’d been at Mackinac Island over a year ago. It had been on his honey-do list, along with repairing the broken drawer handle in the powder room, redoing the master bedroom closet, and replacing the drain cover in the basement laundry room. None of it ever got done.
Stomping snow off my fur-lined boots as I entered the porch, I saw that someone—probably Carrie—had removed the cushions from the wicker furniture and rolled up the woven rugs. Charlie and I had spent many a summer night on this porch, snuggling on the settee, sipping wine, and listening to the sound of the waves on the shore far below.
Nostalgia welled up in me, but to my surprise, not melancholy. Instead I smiled at a vivid memory from years ago. Our eight-year-old twins, their faces grubby, careening into the screened porch with a jar full of lightning bugs one dusky July evening. Charlie had helped them punch holes in the jar lid with an ice pick, so the bugs’ lighted tails could be a lantern for a while. He’d always had time for the children, ready to wipe snotty noses, help build a soapbox derby car, explain a tricky math problem, or cuddle away a nightmare. He’d been a stellar dad. No one could deny it.
When I shouldered open the back door to the house—it always stuck in the winter—the scent of fresh paint smacked me. I gasped. Apparently, Liam had kept the painters busy in the kitchen as well as in the master bedroom because Charlie’s lake-blue kitchen was now soft pale yellow. The old dark oak cabinets gleamed white in the morning s
un, freshly painted and bearing new pewter hardware. It was gorgeous. Carrie’s handiwork, I was sure. As I removed my down jacket, I smiled at how well my dear friend knew me.
The yellow walls continued into the breakfast nook where they’d painted the plantation shutters white as well. The round oak pedestal table had been replaced with a glass and bronze pub-style set, and the built-in corner cupboard also bore a new coat of white paint. With a bright red-and-yellow rug on the hardwood floor and cheery red and yellow flowered cushions on the tall chairs, the entire effect was cozy, French, and totally me.
I wandered slowly through the rest of the downstairs, trailing my fingers over the leather sofa, opening the blinds, straightening a crooked lampshade. Someone had cleaned recently—every surface was dust-free. Each room held memories of Charlie. His office off the family room where I could visualize him sitting at his massive mahogany desk, writing articles for some medical journal. The sofa where he’d spent rowdy Sunday afternoons with Kevin and Ryan watching football, basketball, baseball—whatever sport was in season. The dining room where we’d served so many holiday meals together, toasting friends and family and stuffing ourselves silly.
Upstairs, I followed my nose to the master bedroom, which reeked of the primer the painters had applied the day before. The room was in complete disarray. Furniture was shoved into the middle of the room and covered with a giant drop-cloth, the bed was taken apart, and the mattress and box springs were nowhere to be seen. The wallpaper had been stripped and stuffed into trash bags that were neatly lined up in the hallway, and when I peered into the guest room across the hall I found the contents of my closet.
Charlie’s belongings had disappeared. Nothing of his remained except for a few of his favorite t-shirts and sweatshirts that Carrie had folded into a box and labeled it for Kevin, Ryan, and Renee. I reached for the faded MSU Dad hoodie that was on top, hugging it to my body, and holding it up to my face to inhale the scent of my husband that still lingered in the fabric. Shivering in the cool air in the house, I slipped into it, enjoying the feel of the soft cotton, the sleeves that fell past my fingertips, and the way it seemed to embrace me.
Sex and the Widow Miles (The Women of Willow Bay) Page 13
