He knocked lightly on her door. "Charli?"
Silence.
"You're not asleep, are you? Sweetheart?" Knock knock.
When she still didn't respond, he carefully eased the door open, expecting to see her tucked under the covers in her darkened bedroom. A smile of anticipation stretched his face. He'd wake her gently, and love her until the sun came up.
To his surprise, the room was well lit. Grant's gaze zeroed in on Charli's bed, and the half-filled suitcase lying open on it.
* * *
Chapter 15
«^»
Charli glanced at her husband, standing in the open doorway of her room, as she tossed a pile of underwear in her suitcase and went back to the dresser for more clothes.
Grant came into the room, frowning at the suitcase. His frown deepened as he took in her attire, slacks and a short-sleeved cotton sweater. "What's going on, Charli? What's this about?"
"I'm leaving."
His eyes widened in shock and confusion. He shook his head, as if what he was witnessing defied belief.
Charli pulled a couple of dresses out of her closet at random and crammed them into the suitcase. "I'll send my brother Robby for the rest of my stuff."
Grant reached her in two long strides and seized her shoulders. "What the hell has gotten into you?"
She shook him off and crossed to the dresser, snatching up hairbrushes and her old jewelry box. The jewelry Grant had given her lay on the dresser top; she left it there. "It's called cutting my losses."
"Cutting your losses?" He threw his arms wide. "You're talking about our marriage, not some poker game! Talk to me, Charli. You're not going anywhere till you tell me—"
"I'll go wherever I damn well please," she said, facing him directly, her voice low and determined. "I'm sorry if that doesn't sound very 'accommodating,' or 'undemanding,' but deal with it."
He took a slow, deep breath. She sensed him reining in his tongue, groping for the right words. "Whatever prompted this, let's … sleep on it. Talk it over in the morning."
"Sorry." She slammed the top of the bulging suitcase, ruthlessly stuffing garments into it, finally managing to latch it. "I'm not spending one more night sequestered in this lonely little bedroom."
"Is that what this is about? After this afternoon… Charli, you don't have to sleep alone tonight. I'll stay with you."
"Oh, thank you!" She gestured broadly, dripping sarcasm. "My husband deigns to share my bed. I'm so goddamn grateful!"
He gaped at her, clearly taken aback by the depth of her anger. "Why now?" he asked. "Why tonight? After our party, which was so successful?"
"Your party."
He said nothing.
"I'm surprised to hear you describe it as successful."
"Why?" he asked. "You saw how late everyone stayed, how much they enjoyed the food, the company, everything."
"Then why did you spend the entire evening trying to embarrass me?"
"I— Charli, why do you say that? I wasn't trying to—"
"No? Then I guess it just comes naturally to you. Either way, it was inexcusable." Somehow, she'd managed to comport herself with dignity and grace until the last guest had walked out the door.
"What?" he said. "Is it that remark I made when you spilled the drink on Frank?"
"It wasn't just that one instance. You know what I'm talking about. You turned me into some kind of whipping girl for every minor snafu that occurred, someone to blame and ridicule at every turn."
"Come on. I didn't ridicule you."
He said it without conviction. Charli just stared at him, until his gaze slid away.
"Okay, maybe I was a little… I could've been more…" He sighed. "I was under a lot of pressure."
"And I wasn't?"
"It wasn't the same for you."
"Because it was all about you, about business."
He opened his mouth—to object, she could tell—then seemed to think better of it. Perhaps he remembered their earlier conversation during the party.
"That is what you said, isn't it?" she persisted. "That it's all about business—the party, our marriage, everything."
Last week he'd said something different. My making partner isn't the sole purpose of our marriage. Not anymore. She'd believed him then, because she'd wanted to. Perhaps he'd wanted to believe it as well; perhaps on some level he, too, was uncomfortable with their cold-blooded "arrangement." But his words tonight, and his actions, revealed his true feelings, to both of them.
"If your party was a success," she said, "it's because I bent over backward to make it one. All for the sake of my husband and his precious career!"
"Look." He thrust his hands into the pockets of his robe. "I mishandled some things tonight. I admit it."
His complacent expression told Charli he considered this lukewarm apology sufficient. She hauled the suitcase off the bed onto the floor. He watched it land with a thud. "It was nerves, okay?" he said. "No big deal."
She grabbed her purse, hefted the suitcase and headed for the door, shoving him away as he reached for the handle of the suitcase—not to help carry it, she knew, but to keep her from leaving.
Grant followed her down the hall. "Charli, I said some stupid things. I hurt your feelings—I didn't mean to. It was a one-time thing. It won't happen again."
He stood at the top of the steps and watched her wrestle the heavy suitcase to the front door. "Damn it, Charli! I never thought you'd run away because of some stupid little thing like this."
Dropping the bag in the entry foyer, she swung around to face him. "That's not the whole reason and you know it. This afternoon meant nothing to you, Grant. What we shared."
"That's not true."
"You said it yourself!" she accused. "That just because we slept together didn't mean anything had changed. You said that."
"That's not … I never said it didn't mean anything to me." Slowly he descended the stairs. "I only meant it didn't change the kind of arrange—"
"Don't call it that!" she cried. "It's not an arrangement, Grant, it's a marriage. A marriage! We spoke vows!" Charli pulled her wedding and engagement rings off her finger and set them on the console table with a trembling hand.
Grant stopped halfway down the staircase. His troubled gaze went from the rings to her face.
Charli's voice shook. "You know, it actually occurred to me, during the party, that maybe … maybe you made love to me out of pity."
"Charli…"
"But I know, deep down, it wasn't that. At one time I would've thought so, but no longer. I know you care for me, Grant, though you can't admit it—to either of us. And maybe our lovemaking did mean something to you. I thought so at the time, but that could've been just more wishful thinking."
"Don't run off," he said quietly, coming the rest of the way down the stairs. "You're tired, I'm tired. Tomorrow we'll be fresher, and we'll be able to—"
"No we won't. We can't fix this, because you were right. Nothing has changed. This marriage is still about you, and it always will be. I thought, when we made love … I thought it meant that you value me as highly as you do your career. I was wrong."
Charli hadn't known her husband could look this pained. His eyes closed briefly, but he said nothing. They stood a few feet apart in the entry foyer, neither making a move to close the distance between them.
With an effort, she lifted her chin. "I deserve better. I deserve a husband who values me, who appreciates me—who loves me. And I deserve children. Molto bambini!"
Charli stabbed buttons on the house alarm keypad to deactivate it, lifted her suitcase and swung open the door. A damp night breeze wafted in.
She turned to face her husband one last time. "You're a matrimonial lawyer. I don't want anything from you. Just send the divorce papers. I'll sign them and we'll be rid of each other. Goodbye, Grant."
* * *
Chapter 16
«^»
"Mr. Sterling, there's a Ms. Rossi on line two."
; Something thumped hard inside Grant's chest. He leaned back in his leather office chair and dragged in a deep, calming breath.
Charli.
"I'll take the call, Sandy."
It had been over three weeks since she'd left him, three hellish weeks spent waiting for the phone to ring, for her to show up on his doorstep. He'd known she'd come back to him, but he hadn't expected it to take nearly this long.
Somewhere along the line, his shy, tractable wife had changed. And so had he. He found he liked her with backbone and a healthy measure of self-respect. Of course, it wreaked havoc on his original vision of a dry, practical marriage, but somehow, that particular vision had lost its allure.
The prospect of spending the rest of his life without Charli had done a number on his priorities. If it took a little compromise to get her back, so be it. And since she was the one initiating contact, his lawyerly side reasoned, perhaps he wouldn't have to compromise all that much. Her making the first move put him in a position of strength. He was glad now that he hadn't given in to the often overwhelming urge to jump in the car, drive over to her parents' place and beg her to return.
Grant took another deep breath as he pushed the button to connect to his caller. He forced a casual tone. "Charli. How have you been?"
There was a moment's pause, then a voice said, "Grant, this is Maria Rossi."
His fingers clenched around the receiver. Who? It was a woman's voice, but deeper, a little older sounding than Charli's.
"Charli's cousin," she explained. "I have a law practice out here in Great Neck. I believe you were instructed to send me the separation agreement?"
A vise clamped around Grant's chest. Maria Rossi, Esquire. Charli's brother Robby had given him her card when he'd picked up Charli's belongings the day after she'd left. Grant was expected to draw up the separation agreement and send it to Maria for a legal look-see before Charli signed it. The first step to a quick, painless divorce.
"Are you there?" Maria asked.
"I'm here."
"Grant, I'm still waiting for that agreement. Charli's getting a little impatient. She wants this wrapped up as soon as possible."
"I've … been busy," he said.
"I can draft it here. I'll have it in your hands by the end of the week. All you have to do is look it over and sign it."
"No. I'll get to it." Grant rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll, uh, make it a priority."
He detected a touch of irritation in Maria's tone when she said, "Look, we'll probably save time if I just get the ball rolling from this end. We're not talking any tricky negotiations here. Charli doesn't want a penny from you—against the advice of counsel, I might add—but she's determined to streamline this, and it's my job to help her do that. So what's it going to be?"
He pulled in a ragged breath, and let it out. "I'll work on it today."
"If I don't receive the agreement from you by Friday, I'll generate it from here," she said crisply. "You have my address?"
"Um … I think I may have misplaced your card." He'd misplaced it in his kitchen garbage can, in about a dozen little pieces, as soon as Robby had left.
Maria recited her firm's address. He jotted it down on a yellow legal pad and sat looking at it for several minutes after he hung up the phone.
She really wants out. The cold, unyielding truth of it settled over him like frost.
Grant leaned his elbows on his desk, his chin propped on the knuckles of his linked hands. He ignored the intercom buzzer, ignored the stack of work awaiting his attention. Finally he tore the top sheet off the legal pad and ripped up Maria Rossi's address for the second time. He strode to the door, snatching his suit jacket off a chair on the way. As he passed his secretary's desk he said, "Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day, Sandy. An emergency's come up."
* * *
"You like my bocconcini fritti, eh?" Grandma Rossi gingerly eased her bulk onto the picnic-table bench next to Grant. He leaped up and offered his assistance as she settled herself with a small grunt of exertion.
"It's delicious, Nonni." She'd produced a platter of assorted fried tidbits while Charli's brother Eddie mounded charcoal in the barbecue grill, emptied most of a can of lighter fluid into it and sacrificed the hair on the back of his hand by tossing in a lit match.
Nonni pushed the platter closer to Grant. She pointed to a breaded chunk. "You tried the mortadella and cheese?"
"It's my favorite. I've got to slow down, though, or I won't have room for anything else." For the dozenth time he glanced behind him to the side gate of Joe and Betty Rossi's backyard.
"She'll be here." Nonni patted Grant's hand. "It's her papa's birthday."
Grant had tried calling Charli from the road, only to have her mother inform him that she wasn't living at her parents' house. She'd found a one-bedroom apartment near Courtland High School. For the first time in her life, Charli had her own place.
But she'd be coming over today, Betty had added, in the late afternoon right after work, for a barbecue party in honor of Joe's seventy-fifth birthday. Grant's mother-in-law had been quick to issue him an invitation. He knew that the Rossis had to be distressed by their youngest daughter's separation from her husband. They were conservative, religious people with traditional values. He didn't know what Charli had told them, but he suspected she hadn't run him down too much. Not only was she not the vindictive type, but Betty and Joe had welcomed him warmly today. Obviously they were hoping for a reconciliation.
It was a hot, hazy day in mid-June. Grant had left his jacket and necktie in the car. Now he rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. A bottle of Pete's Wicked Ale materialized in front of him.
"I'll enjoy it vicariously through you," Charli's sister Angie said as she sat down opposite him. She was about seven months pregnant and had to shove the bench back to make room for her belly. Her gaze fixed on a point behind Grant. She gave a little wave. Grant's heart skipped a few beats. He took a deep draft of his beer.
"I would've been here sooner," he heard Charli call, "but I had to go home to—"
She stopped abruptly, and he knew she'd spotted him. He turned in his seat. She stood on the lawn about twenty feet away, holding a huge glass bowl covered with plastic wrap. Her stony expression did not inspire hope.
Charli turned to her mother, bustling out of the back door with a pan full of raw, marinated chicken pieces. "You shouldn't have asked him here, Mama. It's not right to interfere."
"He called us!" Betty screeched, giving her daughter a wide berth as she scurried to the grill. "Are the coals ready yet? No? Eddie, put more lighter fluid on it."
Charli's father bestirred himself from the lawn chair where he'd been nursing a beer. "You'll put out the fire if you add more fluid! Leave it alone! It'll get hot!"
"When?" Betty cried. "Everyone's hungry!"
Charli hadn't moved. Grant rose and approached her. He peeked through the plastic wrap to see what she'd brought: a colorful pasta salad laden with small chunks of salami, cheese and vegetables.
"Looks good."
"You shouldn't have come here, Grant."
"Let me help you with this." He took the bowl from her and brought it to the picnic table. When he returned to Charli, her expression hadn't softened. He got the feeling she was deciding whether to stay or leave.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked
He kept his voice low, mindful of all the eager ears nearby. "Charli, I'm not trying to cause trouble, I don't want to disrupt your father's birthday, I just want to talk to you."
"We talked. I've been waiting three weeks for that separation agreement."
"I know. Let's go inside, find a quiet place to discuss this."
God, how he'd missed her. He stared at her, drinking in every detail. She'd kept her new hairstyle, soft and wispy around her face, the rest pulled back in a low ponytail. She'd paired a snug, sleeveless, fire-engine red T-shirt with a black denim skirt that fell to a few inches above her knees. Her legs were bare and
ended in strappy, black patent sandals. It was a flattering, youthful outfit, one she'd never have considered wearing just two months earlier.
"There's no point to this, Grant. Please. This whole thing, the divorce, could go so much more smoothly if we just—"
"I don't want it to go smoothly. I just want it to go away." The backyard chatter had died down; Grant felt several pairs of eyes burning into his back. "Now, we can find someplace private or we can discuss this here, in front of your family. But I have a few things to say, and I'm not leaving till I say them."
Charli responded with a flat, hard stare. Two months ago she would have been cowed, would have done anything to avoid a scene. Two months ago she probably would have seen this whole mess as her own fault.
"Okay." He raised his palms. "I know how overbearing that sounded. It's just that … I'm losing you and it's my own damn fault and I don't know how to stop it."
"You're afraid a divorce will tarnish your chances of making partner."
"No. That's not—"
"Just blame it on me. Tell them you found out I'm, I don't know, a drug addict or a bigamist or— I don't care what you say about me, Grant. I hope you make partner, I really do. But I'm not interested in being your PR manager. I already have a job. What I could use is a husband."
"You have one." Before she could object, he added, "I'll quit the firm."
Whatever Charli had been about to say died on her tongue. She blinked at him, mute. Finally her gaze flicked around the busy backyard. Grudgingly she said, "Come on," and led him inside the house.
Grant followed her up the stairs and into a small, stuffy bedroom with a sloping ceiling and faded floral wallpaper. The narrow twin bed was neatly made, covered with a pink chenille bedspread. An antique mirror hung over the small dressing table. The dark oak flooring was partially concealed by an oval braided rug.
"This was your room?" Grant asked.
Charli nodded. She closed the door for privacy and raised the gingham-draped window, which looked out on the backyard. A desultory breeze carried the scent of smoldering charcoal and the muted sounds of conversation. "I shared it with Donna and Angie until they got married. There was a bunk bed over there." She pointed to the wall opposite the bed, now occupied by three mismatched bookcases crammed with paperbacks.
I DO, BUT HERE'S THE CATCH Page 15
