Chapter Thirteen
Years of conditioning take their toll. When Doug died fourteen months ago, relief tempered my sadness. A weight lifted from me, and I told myself I was free. I was no longer subject to his disapproval.
Yet I find myself, even now, bracing against his reactions. No matter how subtle, they left scars. When the Saab’s oil level slips below one-fourth, I still wait for the verbal slap. When the pasta’s not cooked to al dente perfection, I brace against his wince.
To this day, I undress in dimmed lighting. I know Doug isn’t there to see, but I feel his active disinterest, his steeling against an unwanted advance from me. The instinct to hide my naked self away remains strong.
During our marriage, I searched for any advice. Online, in the library, in magazines. I was surprised—and saddened—to learn that many wives face the same rejection from their husbands. And those women experience the same burning shame, the wrenching humiliation of not being wanted by the men we married. We’re unable to fathom why our needs simply don’t matter. We all agonize over the problem, wonder what is wrong with us.
Our husbands’ absolute lack of remorse for causing such suffering should have clued us in. There’s nothing wrong with us. Nothing other than our hesitation to believe in ourselves. To put too much stock in others’ opinions of us.
To put up with listening to someone we trust de-value us.
Worst of all, to stay too long in a marriage with no physical intimacy. One that operates less like a relationship and more like a business, focusing on the budget, the house, the kids.
I didn’t even have a child to fill my empty arms. Doug despised pets, so not even a dog or a cat to give me love.
I told myself others endure worse. I was lucky to live in a nice home. I had no financial worries. I had a job I loved. I wasn’t battered, not physically.
In short, I lied to myself. A loveless marriage is hell. Doug ignored my pain. He showed no emotion when he pushed me away. He treated me like a vagrant begging for crumbs, when he had not a crumb to give.
Conditioning taught me to buy into that belief that I didn’t deserve a crumb. No kisses. No hugs. In the darkness of our bedroom, no warm comfort of spooning bodies. We shared a bed but nothing else.
So when Kip invited me to take a cooking class with him, I almost said no.
Something inside me, some forgotten part of myself screaming to be let out of the prison I’d locked it into, burst through my fears. Demanded recognition and respect.
So I agreed, both with the voice and with Kip.
I tremble as I drive to Wegman’s, my legs turn to jelly walking into the store. I locate the kitchen-turned classroom, already crowded with a dozen people. To my surprise, Kip is already among them. He leans around the others and gestures to an empty space to his right. For me. His smile is all the convincing I need to fill that space.
To think that I’d nearly said no.
Beneath too-bright fluorescent lights, I stand beside him at the wide island counter, our arms brushing against one another as Mrs. Stone, the instructor, leads us through each step of preparing a casserole. A dish for one or two or eight people, a practical everyday type of meal.
Another small part of me suspected Kip of luring me here to stand around and watch while I did all the work. I’m more than happy to admit I’m wrong. He listens intently to Mrs. Stone as she speaks. He chops his own veggies and meat, following her directions to the letter. More intently than me. By the time class has ended and we’re transferring our cooked meals into Styrofoam containers, I’m surprised that his stir fry tastes better than mine, though he claims the opposite.
Mrs. Stone gestures to the dishes we’ve prepared. “Take those home and enjoy them tomorrow. Or freeze it for another night.”
He nudges me. “Hey, a bonus meal.”
I send him a grin. “Niiice. One less night of eating cereal for dinner.”
“Unless you have a hankering for Honey Nut Cheerios.”
“You never know,” I agree, then I’m surprised when he seems disappointed. Did I offend him? Does he interpret it as another rejection? I don’t want him to. “We should practice some of these lessons at home.”
He nods but says nothing. Guess that’s what I get for saying she want to take things slow. He must be waiting for me to make the next move.
So move. “If you’re not busy Friday, would you like to come over and cook with me?” Oo it sounds like a really bad pickup line. But I owe him some kindness. I shouldn’t have freaked out about our night together. And definitely shouldn’t have caused him to suffer for my own insecurities.
“Absolutely. I’ll bring the chicken.” He looks like he’s trying very hard to hold back his grin.
I love that he’s failing at it. “I’ll pick up the other ingredients. How does six o’clock sound?”
“Perfect.”
And it is. I have just enough time to stop by the grocery store after school, then run home and shower.
A few minutes before six, Kip appears on my doorstep with a plastic container of chicken. “I got a head start on the marinade.”
“Great.”
He holds up a brown bottle-shaped bag. “And here’s another way to cook with wine.”
“I like the way you think.” And he looks pretty great, too. Beneath his tweed jacket, the navy tee shirt hugs his chest, and worn jeans and boots lend a more casual effect.
After setting the bottle on the island, he tosses his jacket over the back of a bar stool. “Are you ready to get to work?”
“I am, but are you?” I still can’t help being a little skeptical, not having shared the kitchen with a man before.
“Oh, you doubt me? When this night is through, you shall doubt no more, milady.” He tweaks an invisible villain-mustache.
“How Shakespearean.” I grin.
He bows his head. “And when this night is through, you might also wonder if we’ve found ourselves in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Now that’s a fun fantasy. “Is that a veiled warning about the type of mushrooms we’re using in the recipe?”
“Hopefully not. But being in the kitchen feels a bit weird and fantastical. I make no promises about the outcome.”
I tap my chin. “I seem to recall you once asking how badly a cook could ruin chicken.” He might find out after I put my skills to the test.
He wags a finger at me. “Don’t jinx us before we even begin.”
“Banish the thought,” I joke, but then a shiver hits me. The last thing I want to do is jinx this night. “I’ll open the wine. I think we need to calm our nerves before picking up knives.”
“Good point. And if we drink enough, then we won’t care if we ruin the chicken.” After circling behind me, he catches me off guard when he rests his hands lightly on my shoulders and kisses my cheek.
Then he moves to my side and begins chopping the onion and pepper, efficiently scraping them from the cutting board into the pan. Apparently he remembers more about what the instructor told them than I do. Rather than having to ask him to hand me a utensil to use, I find myself assisting him.
After tasting what he’s prepared, I’m glad I let him take the lead. “You are an excellent chef. Are you sure you didn’t already know how to cook?”
I set two plates at the end of the island, a more casual place to dine.
He washes his hands and then eases onto the stool beside me. “Before this class, I tried making things on my own. Awful stuff. If I had a dog, he probably would’ve charged me with cruelty to animals and then run away.” He spears a chunk of meat and as he chews, appears pleasantly surprised.
Between bites, I ask, “Have you checked YouTube? I’ve found some helpful cooking videos there. Not only for Martha Stewart dishes either.”
“I’d need more than a video to teach me gourmet cooking. I’m not much for squid anyway.” His shoulder grazes mine and he smiles.
I’m so grateful he’s making an effort to honor my wish to take thin
gs slow. “What’s your favorite seafood?”
He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t believe in favorites.”
Intriguing. “Why not?”
“Naming a favorite is too limiting. And family uses it against you on birthdays and Christmas.” He waves his fork in emphasis. “You end up with a year’s supply of whatever it is you proclaim as your favorite.”
“Must be nice.” A wave of sadness hits me. I haven’t had such an experience.
From the way he studies me, he understands. “Yeah, they mean well.”
And he doesn’t push the point. Another brownie point in his favor.
He lifts his glass. “More wine? We should celebrate our culinary triumph.”
“Yes, please.” I hate the way I always counter his happy memories with my negative ones. My resolution to leave the past behind hasn’t worked so well. As he carries the glasses to the fridge, I say, “I can’t wait for next week’s lesson.”
He closes the fridge door with his boot and returns with the wine. “Ah yes, quiche. I’m looking forward to it, too.”
“Do you like quiche?” I won’t tease him about real men eating it.
“I’m a huge fan. Very versatile dish, you can add a variety of ingredients for a widely different result. A little like tofu. But so much better.”
“Glad you agree, Professor Baldwin.”
He mock-frowns. “So formal, Ms. Sims.”
“Thank you for being so understanding.” Other men would have given up on me after the first date.
Something flickers across his face. He makes a visible effort to suppress it, then bows his head. “No need to thank me, dear lady.” When he raises his chin, his eyes hold mischief. “I brought another celebratory delight. Dessert.”
I hide my smile behind my hand. “I was going to surprise you. I made cheesecake.”
He grabs his stomach. “How did you know I love cheesecake?”
“What did you bring?” I ask.
“Peach cobbler and vanilla ice cream.”
“Perfectly complementary to cheesecake, if you ask me.” I dab the napkin to my mouth and rise.
He clambers up and stands in front of me. “We can experiment with a new recipe.”
“Like Mrs. Stone said, it’s always good to experiment.” My face flashes hot at hearing his double entendre.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Eyes full of longing, his voice turns husky.
As I reach for my plate, he intercepts. He draws me against him and nibbles down my neck.
So much more delicious than dessert. And possibly carries equal the regret. “Kip.”
Kissing his way upward, he murmurs, “I’ll behave, I promise.”
Do I want him to? “It’s not that I’m a prude.” Am I trying to convince him, or myself? At this point, I’m not sure. His touch titillates my senses.
He drags his lips across my cheek. “I remember very well. In vivid detail.”
I remember, too, and shiver. “I do, too. Every night.”
“Really? I’m happy to help you refresh those memories.” He whips off his glasses and tosses them on the counter.
Before he can pull me close again, I brace my arms to hold him back. “I want to. But I can’t. Not tonight.” Why can’t I? Thank goodness he doesn’t ask, because I couldn’t explain.
He bends his head into my shoulder, groans, and inhales deeply.
My brain begins to disconnect from my body as my hands run along his back. His skin’s warm and smells freshly showered. My fingers itch to feel more of him.
I reach for one last shred of self-control. “Can we please keep it at a slower pace?”
“I can go veerrry sloooww.” His deep, soft, drawn-out words mesmerize me. “Tantric slow.”
Tantric sex. I close my eyes and see his body moving in an undulating, controlled rhythm against mine. Inside me. Deeper, deeper.... I shudder all over, and a small moan escapes. I snap my eyes open. “I bet. You have no idea how much I would like to try tantric slowness with you.”
“But?” He eases back to squint at me.
I’m relieved he can’t see me clearly at this moment. I’m as embarrassed and uncertain of myself as a teenager. “It’s afterward that freaks me out a little. Like I stood too close to the super express train, all the wind rushing past, nearly sweeping me away, too. Like I almost fell onto the tracks.” And lost myself in the wake of it. Yet when I’m with him, I want to stand on that platform all over again. Feel that same exhilaration.
“That’s what it’s all about, Claire. The rush. The overwhelming tide of emotion. It reminds us we’re alive.”
I cup his cheek. “I need to build up to that. Can we start with the old steam train first?”
He heaves a long breath. “We can sit on the trestle and dangle our legs over for awhile, if that’s what you want.”
A sudden rush of tears surprises me. I sob, and tighten my arms around his neck.
“Hey, it’s okay. Shh.” He cradles me against him and gently rocks.
Between sniffs, his fresh scent comforts me. “I don’t know why I’m crying. Sorry.”
“Never be sorry. Unless it’s about dinner, then…” He shrugs.
Such a wonderful man, making light of my ridiculous dramatization. A laugh bursts out. “Then I’d better take more classes.”
He gropes the counter, finds his glasses and slips them on. “Hey.”
“What?” I pout, silently begging him not to say he’s just remembered he has to be somewhere else. I wouldn’t blame him in the least, though.
“Awhile back, you promised to lend me some movies.”
Oh, thank goodness. I’d break down all over again if he’d abandoned me after my confession. Instead, he’s granted me a reprieve. “I’d forgotten. We could watch one tonight, if you’d like.”
“Game of Thrones? Or do you recommend Pride and Prejudice instead?”
“I’m thinking Game of Thrones. You’re already way behind on the seasons.” And with its happy ending, Pride and Prejudice is a definite date night movie.
He nods. “Good point. I could start catching up on some episodes.”
“As many as you’d like.”
He holds me close in a long hug, its warmth melting my fears. Yes, the express is great for getting from point A to point B. Dangling our feet over the trestle is pretty nice, too.
I relax into him, and we hold each other for almost the length of one show.
Chapter Fourteen
In the theater, we settle into our seats. I no longer need to sit in the front row. I like the distance from the screen, preferring the nearness of Kip. For the past week, we’d spent every other night watching DVDs. But I needed a break from the violence and gore of the series, and he’d agreed we needed a night out.
In the dim glow of the house lights, he wordlessly holds the popcorn bucket toward me. I dip into it. “Everything okay? You’ve been quiet.”
He gives a disgruntled grunt. “Ella called today.”
The nightmarish quality of that night still haunts me. “Is she all right?”
He stretches out his legs, then pulls them back again, a classic nervous parent. “I think it’s hitting her that, after graduation next year, the real world everyone’s been talking about will be a little too real.”
The lights dim further into darkness, and previews begin to roll on the screen.
I tilt my head toward his to murmur, “It can be a tough time. She’ll adjust.”
He doesn’t move his gaze from the screen. “She’s thinking of applying for a job at the hospital.”
I freeze. “Oh.” A fireball whooshes onscreen, and an explosion erupts. How apropos for the looming disaster I face, all the progress I made with Kip going up in smoke. “Would she move home, then?”
His jaw moves as he chews popcorn. “Possibly. It would be a big change for us all.” He glances over then, his eyes large behind the glasses.
I attempt a smile. “Only until she got on her feet.” I hope I sound
reassuring. And that it’s true.
“You’re right. Thanks.” He turns back to the movie opening.
Why so evasive? He’s holding something back. Of course. I angle toward him. “She’s still unhappy about our relationship, isn’t she?”
Dumbstruck, he gapes at me. The lights of the screen flicker across his face. “I didn’t… how did you…”
I knew it. I settle back into my seat. “I had a feeling. Which your reaction confirmed.” I wish he’d told me outright.
“It’s not you. She’s out of sorts in general. It’s a phase.”
I sigh. Parents love such catch phrases, I’ve learned from school conference meetings. They tend to use them most often when presented with a problem they can’t quite handle. “Maybe.”
“It is.” His expression shifts to a more pleasant one. “Nothing to worry about.” He holds out the popcorn bucket.
I reach in, but enjoy the buttery treat less than before. Trying to get lost in the movie doesn’t work, not like it used to. What happens on the screen has nothing to do with me. I’m very much grounded in the here and now, and care too much about the outcome.
And I’m definitely not ready for the end credits.
****
The movie was a no-brainer. An action flick with heart and a little comedy, something for both of them. Maybe the humor would help them lighten up. Help Kip resist coming on hot and heavy. Every time they’re alone all he wants to do is feel her against him. Even in the dark theater, it drives him a little crazy to sit beside her and not be able to hold her.
So, crowds—another no-brainer. When the credits roll, he takes his time putting on his jacket. “Want to go for coffee?”
“Not tonight. I’m a little tired.”
“Ah.” Of getting groped? He wishes he can promise he won’t, if she’ll come home with him instead. “Okay, I’ll drive you home.”
“Oh.” She reaches down for her bag, then remains focused on some point on the floor. “All right.”
He bends to peer at her. “Isn’t that what you want?”
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