by Lea Santos
“Let me get it all out before you say anything.” Deanne sipped her coffee, then set the cup aside. “I’m going to jump right in. I don’t want us to read too much into what happened, P. That would make things awkward, considering we still have so many issues to deal with. You know?”
Holy— Okay, not what Paloma expected. Stunned. She was stunned. Now she couldn’t even blink, much less process her words through her slow-motion brain. Make things awkward? Too many issues?
“Paloma?”
She startled. Answer! “Uh, y-yes. I agree.”
Dee nodded. “Good.” Her voice lowered to a sultry, private purr. “We needed each other last night, and nothing’s wrong with that. We’re married. We shouldn’t feel guilty for, well”—she cleared her throat and smiled almost bashfully—“for, ah…you get my drift, right?”
Forget blinking, she couldn’t breathe. Had she heard Deanne right? The woman who didn’t want them to feel guilty for making love? Who wasn’t going to push the issue?
Who are you, and what have you done with my wife?
“Paloma?” Dee prompted.
“Huh? Oh. Yes. I…I, um, drift. Got it.” God, did she ever. Her gaze dropped to Deanne’s lips of their own volition and desire swirled in her stomach.
“Anyway, my point.” Deanne swiped her palms together. “While Teddy recuperates, I think it’d be best if I slept in the guest room. That way there is no confusion, no added tension. Okay?”
The…guest room? “What did you say?”
Looking cool and calm in direct contrast to her blathering astonishment, Deanne retrieved and sipped her coffee. After swallowing and brushing the back of her hand—God, that hand—over her lips, she added, “I said, I think it would be best if we stuck to our original agreement. Me in the guest room until Teddy is better. You in our bed.”
Was it her imagination, or had Deanne’s voice sounded like stonewashed velvet when she added the “you in our bed” part? But wait a minute—she was saying exactly what Paloma had planned to tell her. No way! Emie claimed girlfriends/partners/wives weren’t mind readers, but maybe some of them were. Still, Deanne Vargas? Preposterous. Paloma’s hand fluttered up to twist her pendant in her fist, a bad nervous habit she needed to break before she broke the chain instead. “But I…thought—”
“You disagree?” Deanne cocked an eyebrow. “That’s a surprise. But if you think we should share a bed, I guess—”
“No! No. I just—” She clamped off her words and studied Deanne’s face for signs of ulterior motive, but found nothing but sincerity there. This was too good to be true. Maybe there was hope. Paloma released a sigh of tension. “Thank you, Deanne. I worried you’d think…”
“Ah!” Deanne raised a palm and turned her face as if to halt Paloma’s words. When she looked back, a slow, sexy smile cut into her cheeks. “No assumptions from here on out.” Deanne paused, then headed for the fridge. “Deal?”
Paloma laughed softly and shook her head. “Deal.”
*
This was going to be great, Deanne thought, closing the fridge without removing anything from it. Frankly, she’d needed the full-frontal cold blast before she did something stupid with her flushed, sexily rumpled, but strictly off-limits wife. With zing-zang-boing cartoon sounds carrying in from the living room, Deanne settled against the refrigerator door and watched Paloma wash the fruit. She had seen the tension drain from Paloma once she realized Deanne didn’t intend to chain her up as an unwilling—or willing—sexual captive.
An easy smile lifted Deanne’s lips, but then Paloma reached for a chopping knife, and the movement drew Deanne’s gaze to the smooth skin above the back of her gown. Hungry, feminine appreciation replaced her smile, and her willful mind cast Paloma in the role of that oh-so-willing sexual captive.
Just like that, Deanne was propelled back to last night. Desire ripped through her, and the floor beneath her bucked and undulated. Paloma was so effortlessly beautiful, so guilelessly sexy. Dee wanted her. Wanted to squeeze that orange she was peeling over her chest and lick the tangy juice off her nipples. Deanne might have committed herself to the plan, but she couldn’t resist moving up behind and caging Paloma between her arms and the counter.
Paloma’s motions stilled, and for a moment Deanne just watched her breath hitch and her hands quiver. Unwilling to push her luck too far, Dee nuzzled through Paloma’s tangle of hair until her lips grazed that luscious ear. Paloma’s sharp intake of breath seemed to move through her into Deanne, settling low and heavy and hot. “However…just so there’s no doubt in your mind…I meant every word I said last night. But all in due time, baby girl. All in due time.”
Paloma’s lips parted as though she planned to speak, but before she had mustered a response—
“Got milk?” Pep cried out, apparently ready for someone to fix his cereal. Deanne laughed, but Paloma whirled in her arms, eyes searching for escape.
“Let me—I need to—” The telltale hot flush rose on her chest. “I should—”
“I’ll get him.” Deanne used the front of her body to push off Paloma’s, then sauntered lazily away. With calm motions that belied the inner roar, Dee retrieved the milk. Thank God Pep had intervened, Deanne thought with the precious few blood cells that hadn’t left her brain for the quick vacation south. Her actions had been just about ready to contradict her promises, which wouldn’t do much for the grand plan. Deanne swaggered out of the kitchen, but couldn’t resist tossing an innuendo-laden parting shot over her shoulder from the archway. “Hey, I’m glad we talked, Punkybean.”
Chapter Eight
From Paloma Vargas’s journal, Monday October 1
I can’t believe it’s October already, or that a week has passed since Teddy’s accident. Thank God he’s a resilient little bugger. He’s doing great. It’s getting harder keeping him still, though, and he can’t roughhouse for at least another week. I never thought that boy would grow tired of TV and computer games, but miracles do exist, I’ve learned.
Speaking of miracles…Deanne, aka the Merry Maid formerly known as my absentee wife. What is up with her? In addition to taking more than her share of turns watch-dogging Teddy every day, she has mysteriously morphed into Ms. Clean. No exaggeration. She’s been going like the Energizer Bunny since last Tuesday, and I just can’t figure it out. I’m not referring to the regular stuff, like caulking the bathtub or replacing lightbulbs. Deanne has been doing some major cleaning. She not only organized all the closets, scoured the garage, and rearranged the basement, but right now she’s up cleaning out the attic, of all things. The attic! It’s like the more she digs through fourteen years of accumulated crap, the more she wants to. Freaky. At first I thought she had lost something important, but she said she’s just straightening up. Weird. Not that I’m complaining.
It’s been so nice having her home. Really home, not like before. I only wish it could be like this all the time, but I know that’s a pipe dream. This week’s been a false honeymoon.
Blech. Bad choice of words.
Me <———— skeptic.
I want to believe. But, if history is any indication, sooner or later, reality’s gonna send me that check. And I’m just not ready.
Standing next to the hanging ladder, Paloma peered up into the sharply angled, wood-beamed attic. Dust motes floated in the wan glow from the portable work light Deanne had carried up, its thick orange cord dangling through the hole like a long lizard’s tail. Muffled scratches wafting down from some back corner Paloma couldn’t see told her she either had big rats—God forbid—or Deanne was, once again, hard at work. Since rats didn’t generally use work lights, Paloma chose to go with option number two. “Dee?”
She winced at the ensuing sounds of items being dropped and Deanne’s muffled swear words. Oops. Gray dust rained down on her when Deanne’s denim-clad legs moved into her line of sight through the square opening. Paloma backed up and waved her hand in front of her, coughing, then glanced up again, shading her eyes. The clo
set light succeeded in illuminating the bottom half of Deanne, but her face remained in the shadows. Paloma craned her neck. “I can’t see you.”
Deanne squatted at the opening, worry lining her dirt-smeared face. “Sorry.” She grimaced as more debris tumbled down. “What’s up? Teddy okay?”
“He’s fine. Restless, though.” Paloma brushed a cobweb from her arm, then propped her foot on the bottom rung. “You’ve been up there forever. How much longer do you think?” Man, did her words have to come out sounding so freaking co-dependent? She hadn’t meant it that way at all.
“Oh, uh…”
Deanne shot a glance over her shoulder—at what, Paloma couldn’t guess. It had been years since she’d ventured into the attic.
“Let me straighten up. Half an hour or so. You going somewhere?”
“No, but your mom’s stopping by, and…” Paloma shrugged, not wanting to admit the terror she felt at the prospect of sitting in that uncomfortable place with Rosario, knowing everything. She dreaded thinking of her mother-in-law’s probable opinion of their situation. They’d missed the annual Broncos vs. Raiders family football party, and though Teddy’s accident had served as the perfect excuse for their absence, Paloma was sure the whole family knew what was up by now. She could just imagine the smoking phone lines between her curious sisters-in-law. The thought of being grist for the Vargas gossip mill turned her stomach.
The familiar war of mixed feelings waged within her heart. Things were so off-kilter. Since they’d made love—a wildly understated term for what they’d actually done—she and Deanne had slipped into a warily comfortable routine of living like polite strangers. It wasn’t a marriage, but it was better than it had been just before Paloma had asked Deanne to leave. Having her here was comforting, though, and every so often she had an urge to tell Dee to stay. She wasn’t sure if she had the strength to disrupt the family again.
But that was settling, wasn’t it?
Could she live with herself if she settled?
Then again, could she live with the guilt if she didn’t?
“…down in a sec,” she heard Deanne say. Her eyelids fluttered as she redirected her attention. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I said, I’ll be down in a sec.” Deanne cocked her head and frowned with concern. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just…I don’t know.” Paloma’s eyes drifted toward the semidarkness behind Deanne. Though wary of the future, truth was she’d been missing Dee all morning. And ever since Paloma had taken a certain phone message earlier, the deceptively safe cocoon they’d spun seemed on the brink of disintegration. She wanted to hang on.
Unable to think of anything meatier, Paloma cleared her throat and nodded toward the dusty abyss. “Making progress?”
“Well, uh”—unexplained wry humor danced in Deanne’s eyes—“not as much as I’d hoped. It’s a mess up here.”
“So I see. Find any treasures amongst cobwebs?”
A rather sick little smile curved Dee’s lips. “Not yet, but I haven’t given up hope.” She clapped her palms together, sending another warren of dust bunnies hopping. “Well, the sooner I can get through this, the sooner I’ll be down.”
“Okay. Um…” Paloma ran her fingers through her hair and stared at the wall, thinking of the phone call. Now or never. It wasn’t fair or reasonable to hide it. She couldn’t keep reality at bay forever, and wasn’t reality the true litmus test of whether or not she and Deanne would survive this, anyway?
Tilting her head back, she met Deanne’s gaze directly. “Nora Obermeyer called. She said she was returning your call.”
Realization flickered then faded in Deanne’s eyes. “Oh, good.”
Paloma waited for Dee to elaborate. Naturally, she didn’t. Instead, she averted her gaze. “I’ll call her when I’m done. Thanks.”
That old, familiar bitterness surged. So Deanne wasn’t gonna tell her squat, was that it? She should’ve known. Let it drop, Paloma. She really should. The woman had responsibilities, after all. But why the furtiveness? Why couldn’t they discuss things like a couple? She huffed. Just another barb-edged reminder that they still weren’t back to being a couple in some ways that really counted.
That all-too-familiar pain of abandonment clouded Paloma’s common sense. She didn’t even try to keep the wounded tone from her cutting words. “Itching to get back to work, now that you’re stuck here with me and the boys?”
“It’s not that, P.” Deanne sounded defeated, as if she’d both expected—and dreaded—this very reaction from Paloma.
The fact that she was so predictable bothered Paloma. “What, then?”
Deanne studied Paloma, lines of worry bracketing her mouth. “Listen to yourself. It’s all there.”
She frowned, confused. “What is?”
“Doubt. Resentment. Anger. Bottom line is, things will never heal between us until you trust that I can be less of a…a workaholic. My word means nothing to you”—she held up a hand when Paloma opened her mouth to protest—“and I understand that. I do. But I can’t regain your trust until I go back to work and prove myself, P, so why prolong the agony, to use your words.”
Paloma set her jaw. Jackass! Deanne had a point. Paloma didn’t want her to have a point, especially not in this case, because it made Paloma come off as a total shrew. She really wanted to be the reasonable adult in all this—start to finish. Not as the snippy, bitter wife.
And she was doing so well.
Not.
“We’ve made progress, Paloma, but nothing’s settled. We both need to know where we’re headed.” Deanne paused, the silence yawning between them. Her earnest look dared Paloma to deny it. “Am I right?”
Paloma wrapped her arm through the rungs and leaned her face against the ladder. At least Deanne had admitted she was a workaholic. That was something. “I guess.” Paloma couldn’t help but fear that their tentative connection would unravel the minute Deanne donned that uniform and returned to her first love—the job. The thought of being hurt again terrified Paloma. An immature part of her wanted to lash out now just to protect her heart from the inevitable pain.
“I have to work, P.” Deanne’s voice was a patient purr. “We need money to live.”
“I know,” she said, on a wave of guilt. Damn. If she wanted Dee to communicate with her, she should extend the same courtesy. Checking the attitude in her voice, she sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just, things are improving, like you said. I worry you’ll revert—”
“Paloma,” Dee interrupted, her tone laced with gentle skepticism. “This week’s been nice, yes. But you have to admit, it hasn’t been a marriage.” She spread her arms. “We’re not even sleeping together. Is that how you want forever to look?”
Paloma’s stomach cramped. “I…want to work things out. I’m just scared.”
“I know you are. Still, I can’t just be your roommate. I want to be your partner, and…God, I want to be your lover. But not until you accept me completely.” A pause. “That won’t happen until you’re no longer scared. Until you trust me. And none of that will happen until I go back to work. You’ve got to give me a fighting chance.”
Paloma chewed the inside of her cheek, grudgingly admiring Deanne’s thoughtfulness about the topic, her effort. Offering an olive branch of sorts, Paloma said, “You sound pretty convinced that you can.”
“I am.” Her expression segued from frustration to guarded playfulness with a single wink. “Now I just have to convince you.”
Hope bubbles floated inside her, but—pop! pop! pop!—disappeared just as quickly. The path of least resistance would be sucking it up and letting Deanne stay. The easiest path, however, often led to the deepest dissatisfaction, and Paloma couldn’t bear to settle for less than she deserved any longer. Not with Deanne. She was trying—Paloma would give her that. But did Dee have it in her to change for the long haul? She supposed Deanne was right—she would never know unless she let go.
So, fine.
She would.
But fear made her lift her chin and drill Deanne with a stare. “Whether you go back right away or not, I can’t make you any promises.”
“I’m not asking for promises. All I want is a chance.” Deanne stilled then, waiting for Paloma’s acquiescence. When she remained silent, Deanne added, “You and the boys are the most important part of my life, but work is a part of it, too. I won’t let it get in the way again, but I have to put at least some of my energy there.” Deanne sat on the edge of the attic entryway and reached her hand down.
After a moment of staring at it, remembering it touching her body, admiring the subtle shine of the worn wedding band against Deanne’s brown skin, Paloma stepped up a rung and slid their palms together. Deanne rubbed her knuckles with a thumb and smiled.
Paloma’s heart beat so hard, she couldn’t do more than stare back.
“I love you so fucking much, P, and I don’t want to settle any more than you do. If you find you can’t trust me one hundred percent, can’t believe in me—” Deanne pressed her lips together for a moment, unable or unwilling to complete the thought. “Please try, baby girl.”
“I am trying. It’s not that easy.”
Deanne squeezed her fingers gently. “I’m not asking for favors. I need you to trust me because you do, not just because I want you to.”
Damn. Did Paloma dare believe? She ached to, with every fiber of her soul. In a moment of weakness, she blurted, “You know, you don’t have to leave again.” She cleared her throat, feeling faint. “We can…figure something out.”
“No, babe,” Deanne whispered. “I can’t stay. Not until you can welcome me back as your partner. You ready for that?”
Paloma’s silence was a clear answer.
The corner of Deanne’s lip twitched. “When you’re ready, not before. Ruben doesn’t mind me staying there.”
