by Karen Pullen
Except none of that would happen now. Tonight Jake would not find her here waiting for him. Tonight he would wander alone through an empty, echoing landscape.
Her eyes went to the framed picture on the nightstand. She and Jake on a rented catamaran in the Caymans, the two of them radiating life, glowing in the sunlight, golden. She’d been his mistress not quite a year then. “I don’t know how I ever managed without you,” he’d said as they lay wrapped in silk sheets listening to the water gently lapping the bottom of the boat. “I need you to believe me, Sara. I’ll be working toward the day we can be together.”
She had shown him, then, her willingness to believe, though in reality she’d had no choice. She had been helplessly mad about Jake Douglas from the first moment they met.
She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. Her anniversary present would be their emancipation from bullshit. No more spurious out-of-town conferences or late-night rescues of fictional patients. No more pretending. She’d suspected for months that he was lying to her, from the stories of others—the blonde model, the theatrical redhead—that had come to her on the wind, rumors she’d fought hard not to acknowledge.
In the end, it was Jake’s wife who’d delivered the coup de grâce.
Sara thought back to her chance encounter yesterday with a friend at a local coffee shop.
“I just ran into Jake,” the woman had said quietly when they were seated with their cappuccinos. She caught Sara’s glance and held it. “At Donner’s. He was shopping.”
“Oh?” Sara said, suddenly wary. Jake had told her he would be out of town all day at a medical confab. Somewhere down south. Not here, and certainly not at the town’s leading jewelry emporium.
“It’s not great news, Sara. Should I tell you?”
Sara hesitated a long moment, then gave a mute nod.
“Brenda was with him, trying on diamond necklaces. She said they were planning a trip to Tuscany to renew their vows after fifteen wonderful years of marriage, direct quote. They were holding hands. Hell, Brenda practically cooed while Jake stood there with a guilty grin on his face. It was nauseating.”
She reached across the table and placed her hand over Sara’s.
“I’m sorry, Sara. I’m sure Jake will say it’s all just Brenda’s deluded take on reality, that it means nothing. But I thought you needed to know.”
Sara had sputtered into a napkin as a line of hot coffee snaked down her throat. It was so absurd—it had always been absurd. If it didn’t hurt so much, she would have laughed out loud.
Surely Brenda knew her boast of marital bliss would reach Sara’s ears. Did that mean Brenda knew about her and Jake? Sara was willing to bet the answer was yes. She’d returned her friend’s consoling pat on the hand and managed a weary smile.
She hadn’t bothered to raise a fuss when Jake called later that night, as predicted, to explain away the jewelry store incident.
“Brenda’s crazy,” he’d insisted. “She just can’t believe the marriage is over, that’s all it is, I promise you, Sara. She’s pushing for a trip, nothing more. I wouldn’t lie about a thing like this.”
Sara had kept her tone expressionless. “It’s okay, Jake, don’t worry about it. Yes, of course, I believe you. Don’t I always?”
She’d hung up with the word ‘promise’ hovering like a knife before her eyes.
Now she stood in the doorway of their bedroom and took a long last look around. She’d had enough; it was finished. The apartment, leased in his friend’s name, had been Jake’s idea, a safer alternative than her place or an in-town hotel. The bedroom’s elegant color scheme of champagne and burnt umber had been her gift of love at their beginning. Now it was the perfect chromatic subtext to ruined glory. No more protestations of love, no desperate ecstasy between the sheets. Done.
Right, enough whining, she thought, as she slipped Jake’s copy of Sure into her carry-all alongside the Viagra.
He’d have to do without his book, too.
* * * *
She threw her case into the cramped trunk and slid behind the wheel of her Austin Healey Sprite. The bright May afternoon was clear and cool, full of hope. She half expected to see the sun open an eye and wink, reminding her that all was illusion.
She pointed the car toward her shop, glad that traffic was light. What might she do to pamper herself, she wondered? Psychologically speaking, a trip to hone the spirits seemed in order. An African trek, perhaps. Or an architectural tour of the mountain provinces of China.
Except, she realized even as she considered it, she didn’t need to leave town to hone her spirits. Her sense of well-being didn’t need validation by Jake. She was a successful businesswoman; her spirits would be fine. She would be fine. Maybe a little assistance with forgiveness, or a class on how to forego retribution without remorse—those might be in order. Better yet, a few lessons in Italian vendetta, where the joy of planning revenge could be as filling as a plate of gnocchi. That thought raised a smile as she pulled into her parking space at the rear of the shop.
As always when she approached Sara’s Cove, her soul rippled with pride. The upscale boutique for designer clothing had proved to be the perfect business for this moneyed city by the sea. Jake might be a famous surgeon, head of a renowned cardiac center, but she had Sara’s Cove. She’d never had a child but, as her business grew, she’d come to understand the maternal urge to promote and protect one’s creation like a madwoman.
She stopped in her office to check messages, then made her way down the long hallway to the showroom. Glass mosaic windows ran the full length, drenching the space in kaleidoscopic hues, bringing an otherwise lackluster passage to stunning, quivering life. It had taken her six months to get the mosaics right, six months of painstaking cutting and re-cutting, arranging and rearranging until each color-drenched fragment found its proper place in the whole. But the work had been worth it. Her passion for art glass fit perfectly with her passion for the boutique. Several display pieces already decorated the shop. Now she was ready to launch her new line of mosaic jewelry that would sell exclusively through the Sara’s Cove brand. First, she would extend her reach to all of the U.S. Then she planned to take the enterprise global via the internet.
In the showroom, Mrs. Grayson, her silver-bunned associate of seven years, was showing an important customer—Julia Lawford, the mayor’s wife—the proper way to wear the new teal cape just in from New York. Two well-dressed women in their thirties explored the elegantly spaced rows of new stock and accessories from Italy, France, and Brazil. Their faces were alight with eager determination.
At the far end, a customer perched on a white leather sofa studied a sage green sheath being modeled for her by one of the shop’s young salesgirls. Sara thought the dress would look smashing on the woman, who sported a chic knot of rich auburn hair. From her dreamy smile, Sara fancied the woman thought so too.
The mayor’s wife retreated to the changing room. Mrs. Grayson, momentarily free, headed for the accounts desk.
“Julia will be taking the cape, then?” Sara asked.
Mrs. Grayson smiled. “Of course. The mayor’s annual reception is coming up.”
The black-tie reception was the social event of the year. Sara would be wearing the latest one-shoulder silk chiffon from Gavonni.
She inclined her head toward the two women browsing the stacks. “Those two, do we know them?”
Mrs. Grayson pointed her chin in the opposite direction, toward the customer still studying the model. “They’re all three together. Tourists from Vancouver. They heard about Sara’s Cove and made a point of working us into their itinerary.”
“Word is definitely getting around,” Sara said, smiling.
It was not by accident. She’d worked very hard to establish Sara’s Cove as a must-do shopping destination for visitors to California. She’d sacrificed life, time, and money over the past year to lobby for the head slot on the mayor’s restructured Tourism Board, a powerful role that came with a grand b
udget and the political tools needed to jumpstart a big business. In that position, she could take her label—and her life—to an entirely new level. She would leave the Jake Douglases of this world behind like so many wisps of dandelion blown to the four winds.
She would get the appointment. She’d campaigned vigorously, contacting all the right people, making all the right promises. She was already a well-respected personality in the business community, one known for her marketing skill. And Jake, a major donor to the mayor’s campaign, had called in a favor.
“The mayor owes me big time,” he’d said as he nibbled her neck one passionate night. “I’ll give him a call. Until he’s ready to move on it, you’ll need to keep canvassing for support publically, but, frankly, if I ask him to do it there’s no way he can tell me no.”
Sara had nudged him around so she could look in his eyes. “Why does he owe you?”
He grinned. “I can’t say. You know how it is with politics.”
Yes, she knew how it was—and she knew Jake could deliver this. “There must be something nice I can do for you in return,” she’d whispered.
“Hmmm, yes…” he said. “Now let me see.”
Two weeks later, he’d confirmed it was a done deal. She was glad now that he’d had to spend a big slice of his political capital on her, it was the goddamn least he could do. If she knew him at all, she knew the deal wouldn’t change now that she was leaving. Jake was not a vindictive man, and there were rules between lovers. Take half the heart, leave the other, a minimum in civilized society. Jake would know he’d gotten off easy; he’d be satisfied with that. Besides, the board appointments would be made public at the mayor’s reception on Saturday, so Sara expected to hear any day now. She itched to begin.
The bell over the front door tinkled, and Brenda Douglas stepped into the shop.
A handsome, well-stacked brunette a few years older than Sara, Jake’s wife had an aristocratic face, high cheekbones and piercing green eyes. Her wardrobe reflected her story—money, breeding and taste, the perfect spouse for a man of ambition. Today she wore a doe-colored linen pantsuit of Italian design that she’d bought right here at Sara’s.
Sara sucked in her breath and mustered a smile. “Hello, Brenda. Can I help you?”
Brenda’s smile was a shade too broad, her tone a touch too gay. “Yes, you can, Sara. I’m looking for something very special today. I thought you might help me find a dress to go with this.” She extracted a black velvet box from her purse and laid it on the counter. “Go ahead, please. Open it.”
Sara hesitated, then slowly raised the lid. A string of pear-shaped emeralds alternated with flowers made of marquise-cut diamonds, each stone set in rosy gold. Sara caught her breath. The necklace must have cost Jake a bundle.
“My husband bought it for me yesterday,” Brenda said. “Spectacular, isn’t it? I immediately thought of you. I mean, since I’ll need something simple but fabulous to go with it.”
Sara shifted her gaze to Brenda’s face. Brenda looked back at her with a studied half-smile. No question about it, Sara thought. Brenda knew.
“It’s lovely,” Sara said matter-of-factly. In truth, the casual indifference wasn’t hard. The necklace was beautiful, yes, but finally that’s all it was. Diamonds and emeralds elicited no pain; they were the last thing on earth she cared about. God knows, Brenda had paid for them tenfold.
Julia Lawford brought the teal cape to the counter. Her eyes widened when she spied the necklace. “My God, Brenda, is that yours?”
Brenda’s sardonic smile was like the thin edge of an executioner’s sword. “I’ve got a thoughtful husband.”
“I’ll say. May I?” Julia reached for the necklace and held it up. It shimmered like a summer leaf bathed in morning dew. She caught Brenda’s eye and grinned. “Looks like things are going well at home. Have you done something particularly wonderful to deserve this, or is he simply your devoted slave?”
Brenda inclined her head. “It’s been like a second honeymoon lately. Apparently he heard me when I said I needed to be more than just a shadow.” Her gaze landed on Sara. “And that he owed me something meaningful of my own.”
Julia grinned. “That’s the downside of being married to an important man. You’ve got to carve out your own identity. Believe me, I know. Well, come next Saturday, a new beginning.”
Sara looked from one woman to the other. “Saturday?”
“You need to keep this under your hat, Sara,” Brenda said. She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’m to be appointed head of the Tourism Board for the city. Isn’t that a kick?”
Sara heard the words, then no others. Instead, her ears filled with a whooshing sound, as if a vacuum was sucking the life and energy out of her universe. She had no idea how much time passed before she could speak.
“Tourism…,” was all she managed.
Brenda gave a half-laugh. “I know it sounds crazy. But the mayor felt that with my contacts and civic experience…and, of course, my husband’s strong recommendation…I’ve known for weeks but I was sworn to silence. Very frustrating!”
“Brenda’s perfect for the job,” Julia said. “We’re giving a private dinner for the appointees tonight, before the public announcements.”
“Tonight,” Sara said numbly.
“Last minute, I know,” Brenda said. “I’m so sorry, Sara, but until I saw the necklace I thought I knew what I’d be wearing. Now I want to show it off.” She turned to Julia. “You know Jake’s tied up at the hospital until a little after eight?”
Julia nodded. “His secretary called. Dinner will be at eight-forty five. It’ll be fine.”
“Excellent.” Brenda turned back to Sara. “Now we just need to find something to flatter this jewelry.” She raised her arm as if holding a sword. “So lay on, MacDuff, and damned be she who first cries ‘Hold, enough!’”
Within an hour, they found the right dress, a shimmering empire gown in soft taupe, with clean, elegant lines and the perfect rounded neckline to display the necklace.
The women from Vancouver had left happily with the modeled sheath, new belts and purses. At five-thirty, Sara said goodnight to Mrs. Grayson and the young model and snapped the front door latch behind them.
She walked to the leather couch and sat down stiffly, her hands gripping her knees to keep them from shaking as she forced herself to face Jake’s betrayal. How and when did he plan to tell her he’d sold her future to his wife? She was sure his explanation would have been brilliant, just as she knew with steel certainty that it would have been a lie—an ultimatum from Brenda perhaps? Brenda who knew nothing about business but who knew about Sara and who would have it in for Sara’s Cove from day one. Forgiveness? No, Sara thought, not this time. This time he had gone too far. This time he had taken the other half of her heart, the one all decent lovers left behind.
Her blood ran cold. Ultimately, infidelity wasn’t about who was sleeping with whom. Infidelity was about the cold brutality of power. Infidelity was betrayal, and betrayal was annihilation. She remembered her high school history, learning about times when disembowelment was a punishment for treason. The idea had horrified her then. Now it seemed to perfectly fit the crime—that is, once you grasped the true nature of the offense.
She went into the dressing room and took her time, slinking into new underwear, and then the blue cocktail dress, a gossamer beauty that she’d set aside for herself from the new stock. New silver earrings, then silver shoes, delicate and strappy. She spent a long time before the mirror getting her hair and makeup just the way Jake liked them.
When she was done, Sara stared at herself—the confident, attractive, self-made woman. A cold calm settled over her as she reached for the phone and called Charlie’s.
“I’d like to place an order to go, please. Five dozen of your premier mix of oysters and littlenecks, well iced, extra lemon and sauce, a large loaf of garlic French, and a double Roman salad.” All would be ready in twenty minutes. Excellent.
&nbs
p; She’d just hung up when the phone rang.
“Happy Anniversary, babe,” Jake crooned. “Two years, can you believe it? I hope you know how much I love you.”
“I love you too. And I’m really looking forward to tonight.”
An awkward silence. Sara imagined she could actually hear him girding his loins.
“Um…Sara…sweetheart…I hate to tell you this but…something has come up. I’ve spent all day trying to get out of it, that’s why I hadn’t called yet, but it looks like I’m going to have to do it. I’m the one with the most experience with this kind of surgery.”
“What are you saying, Jake?” She draped a multicolored Bernitti scarf around her neck and preened before the mirror as she listened, almost with admiration, to his lies.
“It’s a difficult procedure, emergency basis, very tricky. I’m so sorry, Sara, I feel terrible, but I have to be at the hospital no later than eight fifteen. It can’t be helped.”
Yes, it would have to be a matter of life and death to cancel their anniversary plans and live to tell about it, Sara thought dryly. But that was Jake, always the right excuse for every occasion. She’d often wondered if there was a career in something like that.
“It’s all right, Jake, you can exhale now,” she said, forcing an even tone. “I mean, heart surgery is a trump card, isn’t it—it pretty much leaves a girl with nothing to say.”
She heard him let out his breath.
“You’re simply the best, Sara. You’re better than the best. How can I make this up to you?”
“Stay tuned, I’ll let you know.”
His tone went syrupy. “You just name it, sweetheart. Whatever you want. An anniversary present squared.”
“We have until eight tonight anyway,” she said. “I’ll get some things from Charlie’s, it’ll be faster, and I’ll make sure you get to your surgery on time. I’ll meet you at the apartment.”
