by Nicola Marsh
I’ll make sure of it. Protecting my daughter is my number one priority.
Twenty-Seven
Saylor
I stroll into the kitchen, where Lloyd’s fixing an early dinner of fajitas. “Something smells good.”
He doesn’t turn away from the sizzling beef strips giving off a tantalizing aroma. “Who’s that guy you were talking to last night?”
I freeze. Lloyd’s question comes from left field. He isn’t the possessive type and he doesn’t care who I talk to usually…
“I talked to a lot of guys last night,” I say, carefully blanking my expression when he switches off the stove and turns to face me. “Which one?”
“The one who looked like he stepped off a stage after modeling men’s underwear.”
I laugh at his dry response and the very accurate description. Ruston has an excellent body.
“That’s Ruston. He lives across the park, almost directly opposite us. He’s house-sitting for a friend who’s on the road for six months, a campaign manager for a senator. How’s that for a high stress job? It’d be way too much pressure for me.” I’m babbling and feel an incriminating heat creep into my cheeks.
“Why are you nervous? I’m only asking because you two appeared to be chatting like old friends.”
Now’s my chance to tell him everything. How Ruston was my first love, how he took my virginity, how I would’ve done anything he asked to be with him, how he broke my heart time and time again, how Ruston was the reason my parents introduced us, how we crossed paths on a marketing job about five months ago.
But I’ve never heard Lloyd sound like this and telling him the truth now will look like I’m deliberately hiding something. Which I am, and that secret is far worse. I need him to believe in me, because when I tell him the truth I like to think we’ll have a hope of staying together, despite common sense telling me otherwise.
“I’m not nervous. What’s with you? You sound jealous.”
“I am.” Lloyd’s nose crinkles adorably when he’s insecure. “He’s much more your type.”
My husband is absolutely right but he can’t ever know that.
“You’re my type.” I tap his butt. “Want me to show you?”
He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his finger, his bashful grin warming my heart. Just not as much as Ruston once did. “Later. I’m starving.”
“So am I.”
I give a little shimmy and he laughs. I know he likes my larger breasts courtesy of this pregnancy.
“What kind of ridiculous name is Ruston anyway?”
I chuckle and waggle my finger at him. “Jealousy is beneath you.”
“As long as he’s not beneath you,” he mutters, almost as if he knows something.
But he can’t. My parents certainly wouldn’t have told Lloyd how they’d carefully handpicked him like the juiciest, ripest peach and presented him to me knowing I wouldn’t resist. The timing of our meeting had been too coincidental for them to be doing anything other than matchmaking. I’d mentioned moving to Manhattan with Ruston, they’d introduced me to Lloyd a week later. Seven long days during which I discovered Ruston had slept with a woman he’d picked up at a bar and it hadn’t been the first time.
Lloyd may have been my rebound guy but he’s the right guy for me. He’d never hurt me the way Ruston did. I made the right choice. So why does seeing Ruston again make me question that?
Lloyd will make a good father. I want a man who’ll love my child more than himself, who’ll be around all the time, who’ll put my child first.
Lloyd is that man.
No matter how fast my heart beats or my pulse races when Ruston looks at me, I need to forget about him and move forward with my plan. To do that, I need to up the ante.
I never imagined I could stoop this low—to blackmail someone—and every day I regret it. But I have no choice. I’ve been pushed to this. And I need to put the needs of my son above the guilt consuming me.
Besides, they don’t need the money as much as I do. They’ll be okay. I just need them to understand they have no choice but to give in. They’ve been reticent. Ignoring my calls. Avoiding me when we see each other. That’s why I need to confront them in a general setting, to ramp up the pressure so they capitulate to my demands.
Mustering every ounce of nonchalance I can, I say, “I think we should host a dinner party. Invite some of the neighbors. Maybe Frankie and Andre? Celeste?”
“What about your pretty boy Ruston?”
My heart skips a beat. The last thing I want is to sit across the dinner table from the guy I’ve shared countless meals with. “Why would I invite him?”
“So I can see for myself you don’t prefer him over me.”
Maybe I’ve underestimated Lloyd and he has better intuition than I think?
He’s inadvertently backed me into a corner. If I make a fuss and refuse to invite Ruston, he’ll wonder why, so now I’ll have to ask him. “You’re crazy, but I love you. Okay, I’ll ask him.”
He laughs. “Actually, it might be nice getting to know him. Andre mentioned he’s a photographer and the church is on the lookout for someone new to update our promotional material. Though is a dinner party too cozy? Too much too soon when we hardly know these people?”
“Do we intend to move any time soon?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Then doesn’t it pay to become friendly with our closest neighbors, especially Frankie and Celeste who both have kids and could be a big help to me after our baby arrives?”
“I suppose you want me to cook for this dinner party too,” he says, with a rueful grin.
I nod. “Thanks, honey. We’ll keep it simple. Maybe grill some steaks and serve a few salads, with a store-bought cheesecake for dessert?”
“Sounds doable.”
“You’re the best.” I wrap my arms around him, grateful to have him in my life.
Once I get through this charade I’m perpetuating and he knows the truth, I’m hoping our lives will be easier. But it’s a foolish, futile wish. This dinner party will be awkward and hiding the truth from my husband difficult.
Who am I trying to kid? Our lives won’t be easier once the truth comes out and in the interim, it’s more than likely to get a lot more complicated.
Twenty-Eight
Frankie
THEN
Walter’s decision to surprise me with the vacation cottage in the small seaside town of Ziebellville, near New Haven, on our wedding day proves to be a godsend during the first few years of our marriage.
It saves me, because I soon learn that what had initially drawn me to Walter—his stability, his calmness, his quiet inner strength—turned to boredom once we married.
At his prompting I joined a local community college and did a marketing degree. The classes were okay but what I really loved was the social interaction with people my own age. Most of them couldn’t believe I was married at nineteen; not without a kid, that is, pregnancy being the reason many youngsters in Hartford married apparently. I hung out with them during lunch and sometimes after classes, but I never quite fitted in.
Not that Walter minded me attending keg parties and staying out until all hours. He trusted me and while I did have a small crush on a long-haired guy who played in a rock band part-time, I never acted on it. I may have escaped Long Island but my parents’ morality—or lack of—ensured I would never cheat.
It surprised me that Walter waited until my twenty-second birthday to bring up the subject of kids. We’d talk about it occasionally, but in that laughing way couples do when they see an ad for diapers or formula on TV. I guess I should’ve expected it, with him now twenty-six and my course finished. It was like he’d given me permission to spread my wings, to get a feel for college life, but was rescinding the offer and wanted me back as a full-time wife with the mom moniker tacked on for good measure. I’d seen him with some of his friends from the bank, older couples who doted on their kids, and had known h
e’d want a family of his own sooner rather than later.
“How do you feel about having a baby?” he asks me.
We’re sitting on the back verandah at our beachside cottage, our wooden chairs perched on the end of the deck so I can dig my toes in the sand. A brisk breeze is blowing off the ocean, the tang of brine strong in my nostrils. I inhale, letting the familiar smell quell the rising panic. I don’t want to be a mother. And I’m increasingly terrified I don’t want to be married.
“I’m not ready,” I say, when I should tell him the truth: “I’m not sure if I’ll ever be ready.”
Because nothing eases my claustrophobia when I’m around him these days, not even regular weekend jaunts to this place. I’m suffocating beneath the weight of his expectations—he wants me to be someone I’m not.
It’s not his fault. I fell for him—and the idea of what he represented for me at the time, freedom—too quickly, and now I’m older I know I want more. Walter is far from controlling but that’s how I feel. I’m tired of being married, though I have no idea what to do.
He’s too good a man and doesn’t deserve to be with someone who’s second-guessing her decisions now. I hoped this weekend at my favorite spot would help clarify things but now he’s asked me this…
I’d loved our escapes here in the beginning, when we’d pack the car with enough groceries for two days and drive the forty minutes to another world away. Walter had been right about that too. I had been missing the ocean and hadn’t known it, so being here revived me. It kept me happy. It distracted me from my doubts.
I’d been foolish, saying yes when Walter popped the question. I should’ve expressed happiness in our relationship and asked for more time. Instead, I’d tied myself to a man who wants more from me than I can give.
And the thought of hurting him now kills me.
“We’ve been married three and a half years, Francesca. Our finances are stable, your course is completed. I think now would be a good time to start trying for a family—”
“I’m sorry, Walt, I’m not ready.” Sadness laces my response, a deep-seated sorrow that I can’t give him what he wants.
He swipes his hand over his face to mask his disappointment, but I see it nonetheless. “This is a good time for us—”
“Please don’t push me on this.”
I’m scared if he does I’ll tell him how I’m feeling and that will devastate him more than my reluctance to have a baby.
“I’m not pushing, but I want us to have this conversation. We need to be open about what we want and I think having a child now is perfect timing—”
“I said no!”
I leap to my feet and run down the path toward the ocean, thankful the roar of the waves crashing against the sand will drown out the rest of what he has to say.
He won’t come after me. He’ll give me time to calm down. This is what we do. How we argue. Me growing increasingly impatient and snapping at the slightest provocation, him annoyingly patient, giving me time to work through my angst before apologizing and him forgiving me.
How much longer can we do this?
It’s not a healthy relationship, me deliberately pushing him away in the hope he’ll end things so I won’t be the bad guy. I’m delusional. That won’t happen. Walter has the patience of a saint and nothing I do will drive him away.
Which means I’m going to have to tell him the truth.
And break his heart.
I stand at the water’s edge for an eternity, letting the waves wash over my ankles. I stare out to sea, scanning the horizon, wishing I’d made smarter choices. Wishing I loved a good man like Walter more.
“You’ve been out here a long time.”
I jump as he lays a hand on my shoulder, surprised he’s followed me down here. Usually, he waits at the house for my funk to dissipate.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say, my throat tightening with the hurtful words I have to say but can’t get out.
Slowly, gently, he spins me to face him and as I drag my gaze from his chest to meet his, my lungs seize.
He knows.
His eyes are filled with tears and the ache in my chest spreads.
“You want a divorce.”
A statement, not a question, and I can’t believe that even now, at a time like this when I’m cleaving us in two, he’s so calm.
I’m unhappy, but I haven’t thought that far ahead. Divorce is so final, so complete. I thought maybe some time apart will help clarify my feelings, but as he looks at me with more understanding than I deserve, I realize he’s right. There’s no other outcome for us. If I stay, I’ll continue to feel stifled and take it out on him, and this kind man doesn’t deserve that.
I nod, biting down on my bottom lip to stop the sobs from spilling out.
“I don’t make you happy?”
He almost whispers the question and something inside me cracks. I’ve hurt this man so much and he’s done nothing wrong. I’m a bad person. The worst.
I know nothing I say will help him understand but I have to try. I owe him that much.
I place my palms flat against his chest and feel his heart pounding erratically. “You’re an amazing man and I’ve loved being married to you—”
“But you don’t love me.”
His tone is flat, broken, and I hate myself for hurting him.
“I do love you,” I say, and refrain from adding “but I’m not in love with you.” “To be honest, I fell for you so quickly when we first met and allowed myself to be swept away into a fantasy that I secretly craved. I wanted to escape and you gave me that. You were everything to me at the time. But eighteen isn’t a great age to be making decisions that impact a lifelong commitment and—”
“We’ve been happy,” he mutters, sounding hurt and a tad resentful.
“For the most part, yes. But lately…” I shake my head. “I’m starting to take my discontent out on you and you don’t deserve it.” I clutch at his shirt, almost shaking him, trying to make him understand. “You haven’t done anything wrong. This is all on me. And I wish I didn’t have to hurt you this way.”
“Your mind is made up.”
Once again a statement rather than a question from this man who knows me better than I know myself.
“Yes,” I whisper, a second before he hauls me into his arms, our sobs mingling, our hearts breaking.
Twenty-Nine
Frankie
NOW
I’m setting up for a live stream when Andre wanders into the kitchen and tries to snaffle a scone from a batch I made earlier.
“Hey, wait until I’m done.” I slap his wrist playfully, and he sends me his doleful puppy look, the one that never fails to make me laugh.
“Jeez you’re bossy, but I love you.” He pecks me on the lips because he knows I’ve got my “game face” on for the camera and won’t want my make-up messed up. “Even if you are a crackpot for obsessing over a coincidence.”
I poke my tongue out at him. Before Luna had called him upstairs a few minutes ago, I’d told him about Celeste and Violette showing up at Luna’s dance class. Not that I suspect Celeste of enrolling Violette in Luna’s class deliberately—and even if she did, what’s the harm? She wants to facilitate their friendship—but I’ve been ruminating over our conversations and the distressing snippets she keeps dropping about Roland.
If Celeste has fled an abusive relationship—and it’s sounding increasingly likely that she has—is it wise for me to foster Luna’s friendship with Violette? What if her ex locates Celeste and is hell-bent on taking back Violette? I don’t want my daughter exposed to any potential danger and it’s something I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since our outing at the café.
Articulating my fears to Andre will reinforce that I’m overthinking this, so I say, “I’m not obsessing but come on, out of all the studios, what are the odds?”
“Did you ask her about it?”
I nod. “She said she enrolled at Mayberry’s first but they calle
d her back saying they’d overbooked, so she chose Madame’s instead.”
“Sounds plausible.”
“Yeah, it’s just… she’s everywhere, you know? She’s barely moved in and she’s pushing the girls together every chance she gets.”
“She’s probably lonely.”
I jab him in the chest with a flour-covered finger. “You were the one who told me to be careful, now you’re defending her?”
His mouth eases into a bashful smile. “I may have bumped into her while taking out the trash earlier.”
“And?”
“She’s actually really nice and I feel bad for getting my hackles up at the party.”
“She is nice…” I place the last of the scones in the tray and slide them into the oven before dusting off my hands. “You made me wary of her, mister.” I poke him again and this time he snags my hand and pulls me flush against him. “I’m blaming you.”
“You’re a lunatic, you know that, right? First you were jealous of her, thinking she was coming on to me, then when I say be careful you agree, now I’m taking back my preconceptions and you still think there’s something wrong.”
“Yes to all of the above, except the lunatic part.” We kiss, lipstick smudges be damned, and I snuggle into him, loving that after all these years I feel good in his arms. “Though I might’ve been mad for ever agreeing to marry you.”
“Hey.” He swats my butt and we play wrestle, until his cell rings.
“A job I’m waiting to hear on.” He frowns as he glances at the screen, before picking up his phone and leaving the kitchen.
It reminds me. I never heard back from Walter. With all the parties and socializing and worrying about Celeste, I’ve forgotten about it. It’s unusual because he’s a stickler for manners and would always call back.
