by Sun Chara
History had merely been repeating itself, and she’d fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. Yet, she’d wanted to comfort him from his grueling day at the clinic. Comfort had quickly turned to desire, escalating to fervor of the senses. Heat assaulted her body and her heart missed a beat. She shut her eyes tight and took a deep breath. She refused to play second fiddle to his medical profession any longer. Nor tiptoe around her passion for a singing career. A sharp exhale and she lifted her lashes. Nope. She’d been there, done that. No more.
She cringed. While she contemplated her life, Peter was at the hospital trying to save that little boy. Guilt grazed her conscience and she sent up a prayer for the child.
Blinking moistness from her eyes, she tossed the rose on the dresser and the rumpled sheets aside. She’d change the bed linen and plunk the flower in water later. Getting up, she trudged to the bathroom. His soap scent, fresh as the outdoors, filled every molecule of air. Damp towels hung haphazardly on a chrome bar and another lay crumpled on the floor, evidence of his quick shower and exit. She sighed and, gathering them up, dropped them in the laundry bin in the corner. Then she turned on the shower, checked the temperature with her hand, and stepped beneath the spray. Steam swirled around her, soothing her tense muscles.
Twenty minutes later, Ellie stood in the middle of the foyer, the quietness of the mansion pressing in on her. She rushed outdoors, checked on King, and hurried straight back to the kitchen. A quick glance at the calendar taped to the refrigerator confirmed her calculations.
Three days left.
Ellie nibbled her bottom lip. She and Peter were headed for an explosive confrontation, especially since last night and the Doc conducting business as usual. However, she’d preempt that inevitability by putting her own plan into action. She’d make a last-ditch effort to save their marriage … give to him what she’d been wanting from him. She’d give him herself. Not sex. More than that. She’d give him intimacy.
Her palms became sweaty and her pulse fluttered. Last night, he had it his way. Tonight, she’d do it her way. She’d risk it all by playing her card one final time. Because she deserved it … he was worth it … and the marriage demanded it. A jitter shot through her. She could lose. She dismantled the doubt by setting her plan in motion.
Several hours later, Ellie was clambering out of a taxi.
“Celebrating?” the cabby asked, unloading bags onto the veranda.
“Hope so,” she murmured, trying to shake off the uncanny vibe that someone had been stalking her during her shopping spree.
The man cast her a perplexed look and scratched his head. “Need help with these inside?”
“No, thank you.” She gave him a generous tip. “I can manage.”
Grinning from ear to ear, he jumped into the driver’s seat. “Yes, ma’am.”
After Ellie took the groceries into the kitchen, she took a moment to catch her breath. She giggled at her foolishness … stalker indeed. She watched too much television. That was the problem. She shook off the uneasy feeling and concentrated on the evening ahead.
With a lilting tune upon her lips, she got to work.
By dinner time, and she purposely planned it late to accommodate Peter’s schedule, she was feeling like a kid with a new toy. In anticipation, she twirled around the kitchen, her cherry-red dress swishing about her legs.
“Mmm, smells delish.” She raised the lid from the pot on the stove, peeked inside, and smacked her lips. “The man won’t know what hit him.”
Herbs and garlic, olive oil, and tomato-sauce flavors filled the kitchen.
The grilled chicken breasts were smothered in sauce, waiting to be mounted onto a plate of steaming pasta.
She walked over and patted the place settings on the table. She’d chosen midnight blue, Peter’s favorite color. The plates and silverware glittered. The crystal goblets sparkled. A bottle of Pinot Noir, flanked by two candles, took center stage.
A good meal and an attentive wife worked wonders for a man stumbling in from a hard day’s work. A dash of feminine wiles wouldn’t hurt either. She chuckled and then quickly sobered. Relentless in his pursuit, Peter squeezed double into each work hour compared with the average guy. She wished she understood what drove him so. A wistful sigh filtered from her. About to walk from the kitchen, she glanced at the digital clock on the stove’s panel.
Six o’clock.
Ellie strolled to the living room, plopped on the sofa, and picked up the remote. Leery of invites to parties and Country Club dos, which would be more for assuaging curiosity regarding her recent absence, she dismissed the idea of calling to chat with her acquaintances. She couldn’t call them friends, since most belonged to Peter’s medical circle. While little bro was at soccer camp, her parents had flown to Washington, D.C. for a weekend getaway, and nixed that line of communication. She flipped channels instead.
A variety show caught her attention and when it ended, the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed the hour.
Eight o’clock.
Humming a tune, Ellie strolled back to the kitchen and filled a pot with water. She set it on the stove to boil, adding a dash of salt and a drop of olive oil. When steam rose, she opened a package and dumped the noodles in the water. While they cooked, she lit the candles and skimmed the table. She wanted it perfect when Peter walked through the door at eight-thirty.
But something was missing. She snapped her fingers. Snatching salt-and pepper-shakers from the cupboard, she set them on the table. What else? She crinkled her brow. Aha! She dashed up the stairs and back again. Since the vase wouldn’t fit, she took the rose and laid it on the tablecloth.
Next, she checked the pasta. Turning off the heat, she strained the noodles and placed them in a large bowl on the counter.
“Five minutes.” She wiped her damp palms on her thighs. “Stop being so nervous,” she chided herself. “It’s just a dinner for your husband.”
Yes, but except for simple fare, like breakfast, she’d never done it before. Marta always had control of the kitchen and shooed her out.
“Suppose it backfired, or she put too much salt in the water or overcooked the vermicelli.” She wasn’t the greatest cook. If anything, her cooking skills were elementary. But she had the enthusiasm, if that counted for anything. She forked a noodle, wrapped it around the tongs, and put it in her mouth. “Just right.” She sighed in relief.
The grandfather clock struck the half hour, startling her.
Eight-thirty.
“There’s more riding on this than a nice meal.” She tossed the fork in the sink, then picked it up and put it in the dishwasher.
Her marriage and her future were on the line. Could she pull it off? Would she win the battle of wills between husband and wife? Male and female? Or would it be a draw? A storm was brewing between them. Could she accept his terms? Could he accept hers? And if he didn’t?
“Lighten up, Ellie.” Nervous laughter mingled with her words. “A rollicking good time with her sexy hubby was in the works.” Her laughter turned into a guffaw. “If only that’s all there was to marriage.” She tapped the counter with her fingers. If it fell flat, she’d be no worse off than three months ago when she walked out. Taming her laughter into a smile, she determined to make the most of their evening.
Minutes ticked by. She puttered around the kitchen, straightening canned goods, rearranging packages in the pantry, then the canisters all in a row on the counter. She inspected everything on the table for the third time.
Glancing up, she caught her reflection in the windowpane and patted her hair in place. Once again, she peeked in the pan and picked up the shakers. She changed her mind and slammed them back on the table. “Stop it.”
The clock struck the hour.
Nine o’clock.
Her heart plummeted. Maybe he was running late. She ought to know his modus operandi by now.
She poked the pasta with her forefinger. “Yech!” She dumped it in the sink and washed it down the garbage disposal. Next,
she rinsed the bowl and placed it on the drain-board. She’d make a fresh batch when he got home. Yeah, right. Like at midnight. Or two a.m.
She blew out the candles and plodded to the living room to watch more TV. She couldn’t handle a novel right now. Too restless. One day, she’d pen these experiences into a ballad, but not tonight. A sitcom, though, might help chase away her disappointment.
The clock ding-donged the next hour.
Ten o’clock.
Ellie watched Comedy One.
The clock struck again.
Eleven o’clock.
Ellie tuned in to Detectives. Big mistake. It didn’t do anything for her mood.
The clock chimed another hour.
Midnight.
Ellie viewed a romantic comedy. Another miss. She laughed, but then she cried, even though it had a happy ending. What of her?
The clock sounded again.
One a.m.
Ellie clicked the remote off and grabbed the magazine from the coffee table. It was Family Time and she leafed through it. Wouldn’t you know? They were doing a story on how to survive divorce. She hurled it across the room. Groaning, she kicked off her pumps, stretched out on the couch, and flung her arm across her eyes.
The opening and closing of the front door awoke her. She froze, breath suspended in her throat. Exhaling, she took a moment to balance her feelings. She glanced at the gold-framed clock on the mantel above the fireplace. She winced.
Two a.m.
Ellie swung her legs onto the floor, stood still for a second and trudged out to the foyer. “Good evening… er… should I say good morning, Doc?”
He swung around. “Ellie, what’re you doing up so late?”
“I thought you might be hungry.”
A grin split his tired mouth. “You might say that.” He tossed his briefcase on the stand beneath the mirror, shrugged from his overcoat, and draped it on a hook in the alcove. He scooped her up in his arms and took the stairs two at a time.
“I’ve made—”
“Mmm, you smell good.” He nuzzled the nape of her neck, his chin bumping her bead necklace. “Is it that rose thing-a-majig?”
“Actually, it’s tomato basil.”
He didn’t catch it. “And you taste good.” He nibbled her earlobe.
“Peter we have to—”
He shoved the bedroom door open with his shoulder. “I know.”
“Talk.”
He plopped her on the bed then, with his dark gaze never leaving her face, he unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged out of it, and collapsed beside her. He flung his arm around her and hauled her close to his heart. “Boy,” he said, his words slurred from exhaustion. “Made it.”
“Oh Peter, I’m so glad.” She sprang up and kissed him smack on the mouth.
“Me, too.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back down beside him. “Can I have another one of those?”
“What?”
“Kiss.”
She obliged with a peck on his lips.
He groaned. Bunching her hair in his hands, he pulled her head down and plundered her mouth with his. The kiss was so thorough that when she came up for air, her emotions were tossing.
“Miracles happen,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes and pressed her head back against his heart. “Yes, they do.” He stroked her shoulders.
“I’m wanting to—” she began.
He pushed at the jersey wool of her dress, groping for her breasts.
“I want to tell—” she tried again.
He brought his head to rest in that warm, safe haven of her bosom.
“I’m listening.” His words seemed to be low and far away. He snuggled into her even more. “Heaven.”
“I wanted to let you know …” She paused, searching for the right words. Her breath came in quick puffs. “I have to …” She wiped a tear rolling down her cheek. “As much as I want to, I-I need to—” She stopped.
His steady breathing tickled her cheek. He hadn’t heard a word she said. Beat, he’d fallen asleep in her arms.
Another repeat from history.
She traced the grooves of strain from his nose to his jaw, his stubble rough beneath her fingertips. “I do love you, Peter.” She shuffled from the bed and stood, watching him. Then, she pulled the light cover over him. “Too much.” Her heart cracked. “I-I can’t postpone my life any longer.” She pressed her fist against her mouth and smothering a sob, fled the room.
Chapter 14
Peter shifted under the sheets. Rain shot against the window and penetrated through his drowsiness. He reached to pull Ellie close to his side and clutched empty space. A groan grated from his mouth. He cracked an eye open and seeing her side of the bed hadn’t been slept in, he bolted upright, fully awake.
“Ellie, you in there?” He glanced at the adjoining bathroom, but a sliver of fear pricked his heart. Muttering an oath, he leaped from bed. “Probably in the kitchen, brewing coffee.” He forced a smile on his lips as the image played on his mind. He’d walk in, place his hands around her waist and pull her back against his chest. Gradually, he’d slide his hands upward, across her abdomen and higher still, until he cupped her breasts.
While he fondled the prizes in his hands, he’d nuzzle the smooth dip of her collarbone. What if she wasn’t there? Doubt pierced his gut. What if she was? He shut up the nemesis in his brain.
After a quick shower, he pulled on jeans and a navy sweater, socks and sneakers, and bounded down the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Ellie!”
No answer.
Maybe she didn’t hear him.
“Ellie!” He hurried to the kitchen and his heart sank. He’d known, of course. The unsettling feeling in his gut had tipped him off, but he denied it.
He collapsed on a chair, folded his arms across the table and plunked his head down. The motion rocked the place setting, but he barely noticed. Where had he gone wrong? In a little over three months, she’d left him three times. What’s the plan, Doc? Shut up!
During these couple of weeks, he thought things had improved between them. Heck, after their dinner date and what followed by the fireside in the den … a heavy groan erupted from deep within him … and later in their bedroom … He couldn’t be faulted for thinking things were back to normal.
What had he missed? He worked hard day and night to give her every material thing anyone could want. And she’d never gone hungry—
His thoughts halted and his head shot up.
Tomato basil aroma lingered in the air. He sniffed. A hint of cherry scent from the half-melted candles on the table. A bottle of Pinot Noir, crystal goblets, shiny silverware, a midnight-blue color scheme … his favorite. He shoved the chair back with such force that it toppled. He stood and glanced around. Had she done all this for him? For them?
He pounded his fist on the table and dishes rattled. What had he done for her? “Loved her, that’s what.” He pushed his hands through his hair. “And saved a life,” he whispered to the stillness in the room. “I chose to save a life instead of partaking in this domestic dinner scene she planned.” Air whirled inside his chest to near-explosive proportions. Slowly, he defused the pent-up pressure by exhaling several consecutive breaths.
The magnetic calendar on the refrigerator caught his attention. He narrowed his eyes. They’d agreed on three weeks. He calculated. She owed him two more days. And, by gosh, he was going to collect.
*
The storm that had threatened all day, unleashed its vendetta upon the City of the Angels.
Ellie lay curled on the frayed sofa, listening to the wind and rain lash against the window of her little apartment. Chill in the air was beginning to numb her fingers and she wrapped her coat closer about her.
A moan slipped from deep inside her. She blinked several times to accustom her eyes to the shadows. Although every muscle in her body resisted, she managed to drag herself off the couch and slog across the room. She flicked on the light
switch by the door. It flickered but stayed on. She breathed a sigh of relief.
A rumble of thunder made her jump. She slapped her hands over her ears, her heart pummeling her chest. “No!”
An uncanny stillness followed. She swallowed her scream on a trembling breath. She was about to take another when the heavens burst open. Thunder detonated. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating her standing frozen to the spot in the middle of the floor.
The light flickered and went out.
“Stop! Stop!”
At that moment, the door was flung open and someone hurled through it. “What’s the matter?”
Peter’s voice shot straight through her fear and into her heart. She swayed, the dark void spinning around her. She groped for anything that would break her fall. Something landed with a thud on the floor, and Peter caught her in his arms. She clung to him and sucked in a mouthful of air.
“Shh, it’s all right.” Peter brushed hair off her brow, his tone soothing. “I’ve got you.” He drew her closer and she curled in the haven of his arms.
“It’s quirky weather,” he said, his words seeming to come from miles away. “When did you last eat?”
“I-I-I don’t remember.” She shivered. “Ye-e-sterday, I think.”
“Hmm, didn’t we go through this not long ago in this same place?”
She nodded, and her hair fell, shielding her face. “You came here with that giant chocolate Christmas tree.”
He chuckled. “You do remember.”
“A huh.”
“Ellie, I could shake you for not eating.” He stroked her shoulders, the small of her back, a half-smile playing on his mouth. “But then, you’d blame my red-blooded Italian heritage again.”
An explosion of elements resounded and she leaped against him.
“Hey, it’s okay.” He lifted her up in his arms, groped his way to the sofa, and sat down, cradling her on his lap.
Tremors shook her body. A tense moment and she wrapped her arms around his neck, locking her hands together. She burrowed her head in his shoulder, his heart thudding against her mouth.
“You’ve got to eat something.” The doctor took over and pried her hands loose.
