Waters Fall

by Becky Doughty

  Nora was weary of the secrecy, the lies, the games, and she was especially unsettled by Jake's appearance at the school this afternoon. She was sure he suspected something, and after today, there was no reason for him not to. Hearing her lover's name on her husband's lips made her stomach flip-flop, and she cringed even now as she remembered. It was almost as if it made things real in a way they hadn’t been before, and she could no longer convince herself she could pull this off, that her new life with Tristan was just a fantasy. She turned to look at him, and wondered again what on earth she was going to do.

  She knew this was wrong. She knew it went against everything she believed was right. She even knew that being here was a choice, that she was allowing her feelings to dictate her actions. But she also knew that feelings of guilt and shame, pride, and obligation had kept her in a disastrous marriage for far too long. So which feeling should she obey? Which one should she let dictate her path?

  She studied Tristan’s profile as he rested his head against the back of the swing, his eyes closed, a half-smile on his full lips. He could always tell when she was looking at him. His shaggy hair fell back away from his face, and she reached over to touch the sandy streaks sweeping over his temples. Chocolate brown eyes in deep sockets were fringed by sooty lashes, and his cheeks were a warm hue. He had single-handedly designed and put in the landscaping in his back yard, and his skin responded well to the sunlight, turning his face and upper body a beautiful, California bronze. Everything about him seemed relaxed, untethered, carefree.

  Tristan opened his eyes and turned to meet her gaze. He grinned, his full features close enough that she could see the pin-pricks of facial hair shaved close around his mouth and jaw. He was always so tender with her, never pushing her for details of what was going on inside her head. He didn't ask about Jake, even though he knew she went home to her husband almost every night. He didn't push her to leave her family, even though he made it clear he wanted her with him. He did ask when he was going to meet her children, but only when she brought them up, and he accepted her reservations, not pushing her in that area either. He seemed to find satisfaction in just being with her, and took full advantage of what little time she did have to offer him; an hour, an afternoon, a weekend, or just a quick phone call across the miles.

  In public, he was very respectful of the fact that she was still married. Not too long ago, they ran into each other at the big home and garden depot near her office. Uncertain of how he'd behave toward her, she'd at first been terrified that someone she knew would see them together. He didn't even try to touch her, though, but gallantly offered to help her load her things into her car. In the parking lot, he'd assaulted her senses with an extremely graphic proposition while standing several feet away from her. She thought she might just melt into a blushing puddle right where she stood. His knowing, smug grin didn't help. But he never touched her.

  It was exciting, and stimulating, and fulfilling in so many ways, but she was exhausted. She hardly slept anymore. She still did everything for the kids, the normal, everyday stuff, as well as attending all the end of the year school functions. She was back working long nights at her office again, not because her clientele was growing, but because she was spending so much time with Tristan.

  She was modeling a lot for him these days. It was a huge hurdle for her to leap, to accept his constant scrutiny, his sudden inspirations, but she was beginning to enjoy sitting for him. Sometimes he’d have her sit for hours in front of a window as the light changed, just so he could capture the effects of the shifting shadows on her face. More often than not, though, he didn’t paint an image of her at all. Much of his work was very surreal, more emotion and color than identifiable images. “This is the feeling I have when I watch you,” he’d say. It was always a little disconcerting to her, but she was growing to love his work, the way he expressed himself, the way he used his art to communicate. She loved the smells that filled his studio: the different paints, the glues and epoxies he used, varnishes and other chemicals. She’d claimed a short counter along one wall, and set up a work space where she had a virtual office, and she loved working there, even when he wasn’t around. Everything about the place was Tristan, and she felt enveloped in his world up there.

  She breathed deeply as Tristan pulled her close to his side and laid his cheek on top of her head. She loved the artist, too, she was certain, but she didn't know how to keep everything together. Something had to change.

  “What was that sigh all about?” His voice rumbled in his chest against her cheek.

  “Just glad to be here,” she said. “Can't think of anywhere I'd rather be right now.”

  “I'm glad you're here, too. Can't think of anywhere I'd rather you be right now either.”

  Nora closed her eyes. If everything was so perfect, why did she suddenly feel like crying? When one tear escaped down her cheek where it rested against his shoulder, he pulled away.

  “You're crying,” he stated simply, but he was obviously curious. She was a little surprised herself. Something had happened to her the night Jake started drinking again. Except for those rare moments in the middle of the night, it was as though the well of her tears had all but dried up. It was great to not have to carry around a tube of mascara everywhere she went, but she was sure there was some underlying psychological issue that was being ignored. She used to cry over everything. Not anymore.

  She covered her face, embarrassed, commanding herself to stop. He'd never seen how horrible she looked when she cried. “Ignore me. I guess I'm just a little hormonal today.”

  He wrapped one large hand around both her wrists and pulled her hands away from her eyes. “Are you going to tell me what's going on?”

  She shook her head and tried to look away, but he reached up and took her chin in his hand, forcing her to face him. “What's making you cry, my Isolde?” He’d started calling her that around Valentine’s Day after gifting her with a painting of the statue, but with her face, shifting light spilling across her upturned features. They’d hung it in his room over his dresser where he would see her first thing each morning.

  “I'm not crying. It was just one little tear.” She swiped at her cheek. “I can't... I don't....” Why couldn't she get this out? Maybe because you don't know what you really want, she answered herself. “I... I wish I knew.”

  Tristan brought her left hand to his lips. He kissed each finger, then each knuckle, then finally the inside of her wrist before he began toying with the wedding ring she wore. “Does this have anything to do with your one tear?”

  Why did he have to be so nice about everything? It only made it more difficult for her. Oh God, are You there? Do You still listen to me? Help! What am I going to do?

  If he was demanding, or jealous, or petty, or even whiny, things would be so much more cut and dried. But Tristan acted like he would wait forever to make her his, if that's what she asked him to do.

  Suddenly, Nora stiffened as the thought replayed itself. He would wait forever to make her his, if that’s what she asked him to do.

  He would wait forever.

  A veil lifted from before her eyes, and she could suddenly see clearly. Tristan, her tender lover, her gifted artist, her no rules man, would wait forever for her.

  And while waiting, he was willing to share her with another man. No, even worse. He was willing to let another man have the responsibility of her, while he got the good stuff, the fun stuff, the easy stuff.

  “You all right, Baby?” Staggering a little under the impact of her epiphany, his concern seemed somehow false.

  “I... I….” She took a deep breath. “Let me start again. Are... Are you okay with where this is going, with what you're getting out of this relationship? I mean, what do you want from me? What do you want for us, Tristan?”

  “What do I want? Well, what do you think I want from you?” Renee's words about avoiding truth by answering a question with a question ran through her mind.

  “I don’t think I know,
Tristan. That’s why I’m asking. What do you want for our future?”

  “Really? Well,” He hesitated, considering his answer. “I want you.” He flashed a boyish smile at her and wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck, massaging, stroking, soothing.

  “You have me,” she quipped, trying to remain impervious to his touch.

  “Not all of you. I want all of you.”

  “But what does that mean to you?” She wasn't going to let him off that easily.

  “I love you, Isolde. I wish you were my wife. I wish I knew your children. I wish we could make this real, that I didn't have to act like I don't know you when we meet in public.” Obviously, he thought often about their chance meeting in the home and garden shop, too. “I wish for a lot of things, but I fully understand why I can't have things the way I want them.”

  “And all that wishing is okay with you?” She pulled away a little, folding her hands in her lap. “I mean, how long are you willing to wait around for me? Is it really okay with you that I can only give you an hour here and there, a day or two once a month, maybe a weekend now and then?”

  “I'm not exactly sure what you're getting at, but all I can tell you is that I understand your situation, and I'm glad for any part of you that you can give me.” He was frowning now, his broad forehead furrowed above his eyes. “I'm willing to wait, if that's what I have to do. It's not like I'm going anywhere. You know where to find me.” He leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose. “If this is working for you, well, I'm not going to rock the boat. I know a good thing when I find it, and believe me, Baby, you're a good thing.”

  Nora shook her head. That was not what she wanted to hear. “Wait. Stop placating me with clichés.” She pushed him away as he tried to move in for another kiss. “This isn't working for me, Jake. I have to—”

  “Tristan. My name is Tristan. Not Jake.”

  She brought her hand up to cover her mouth. “I'm so sorry. It just slipped out. I'm sorry.” Nora was mortified. Nothing about this conversation was going well.

  “It's okay, Nor. I understand.” He intentionally used Jake’s name for her.

  “No, it's not okay. And this is exactly what I’m talking about.” She waved her hand between them, indicating the uncomfortable name exchange. “None of this is. I guess that's what I’ve been trying to say all along. I can't keep this up. I can't do this to you. To Jake. I can't do this to my children. I have to make some decisions, Tristan.” She took a deep breath and hurried on before she lost her courage. “I'm leaving him.”

  Tristan was quiet for so long she wondered if he'd even heard her. Finally, he spoke. “What are you going to do?”

  Now it was Nora's turn to be silent. He had just said 'you,' not 'we.'

  “I mean, do you have some place to go? To live?”

  “I guess I, um, thought that you… that you and I... well, we'd be together.” She couldn't believe she was stuttering.

  “Do you think that's a good idea?” He was still lounging in the seat beside her, but she sensed a tension in his body, the muscles in his forearm bulging slightly, his artist’s hands making slow, sweeping motions on his thighs. “I mean, your kids are going to need time to adjust to you being in love with someone else, you know? I don't know that it would be the healthiest thing to force feed them to me so quickly after you bail on your marriage, do you?”

  Nora almost laughed. Now he was telling her what was healthy for her kids? “Wow. You're singing a different tune all of a sudden. I thought you were dying to meet them, to make them a part of your life.”

  “I am. I really am. I just know how tough this kind of transition can be. My folks were divorced when I was eight, and my dad moved right in with his girlfriend. It wasn't cool, you know? It really screwed me up for a long time.” Tristan stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned his head on the back of the swing again, staring at the outdoor ceiling fan spinning lazily above their heads.

  “I don't think Dad ever knew what he wanted. He moved from one woman to another his whole life, leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake. A few broken bones along the way, too. He got drunker and higher and meaner as he got older.” He smiled ruefully, his eyes still closed. “I swore I'd never be like him. That's probably why I'm almost forty and still not married. Holding out for the perfect woman.” He turned his head toward her and winked, his impish grin turning lecherous. “Can I help it if she happens to be someone else's wife?”

  Nora stood up quickly, something akin to panic beginning to rise up inside of her.

  “Isolde?” He sat forward, watching her. “What's up?” He reached for her hand, but she shoved it in her jeans pocket. “Hey. Don’t be like that. Come here, Baby.”

  Nora couldn't look at him. If she did, she'd never be able to resist him. His timbered voice, the coaxing hunger in his eyes; he was like the pied piper to her heart, and right now, she needed to use all her untried defenses with him.

  He pushed up off the swing and swept her up against him, nuzzling the side of her face with his mouth, whispering gruffly in her ear. “Let’s go inside. I’ll turn down the air conditioner and we can light a fire.”

  “Stop it, Tristan.” She put both hands on his chest and shoved, hard. “Stop it!” What on earth am I doing here?

  “Isolde, baby. Calm down. You’re hot enough to light a fire yourself. And I think I like it.” He smoothed her hair back, then he cupped her face in his hands. “We're good together, you and I, and that's all that matters. We'll figure the whole kid thing out when it happens. For now, we've got this weekend. Let's not blow it with all this talk about the future.”

  Nora stepped back. Her heart was pounding so hard it almost hurt inside her chest. “I can't do this, Tristan. Suddenly, I can’t do this. I... I need to go.”

  He grabbed her hand. “You always say those words to me, Isolde. Don’t go. Not this time.” He brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss into her palm.

  22

  What if she wasn't here? What if she was? What did he plan on doing either way?

  He pulled into the secured parking structure next door to her building, using the numerical code she'd given him when she first began renting the office there. He was almost surprised when the bar rose, allowing him in, having considered the possibility that she might change her pass code without telling him. He drove slowly through the nearly empty lot, looking for her car.

  There it was. Parked right up against the wall, her silver Nissan was nestled in, safe and sound, present and accounted for. Then he saw her, in the front seat, looking over her shoulder, watching him as he drove past the back of her car.

  Jake said a few choice words, things his family would be appalled to hear come out of his mouth. He considered looping around again, just to see if she was okay, then thought better of it.

  Caught. How would he explain this? He'd seen the look on her face. He knew how she'd interpret his checking up on her. He could already imagine the argument they'd have about this, the accusations, the anger, and it eliminated any relief he had in finding her there.

  Go home, man. Just go home. You've done enough.

  Jake drove slowly, taking the side streets instead of the shorter route via the freeway. He needed time to think, to process things before defending himself to her. Even though he hadn't admitted it to himself before, he’d believed, deep down, that she had somewhere else to be. Finding her car, and then seeing her in it, had significantly altered the way he was dealing with this night.

  When he finally pulled into the driveway, she still was not home. He wasn't surprised, but then, he didn’t think he’d be surprised at anything anymore. None of it made sense to him. He'd seen the suitcase in her trunk. He understood the convenience of having her mother take the kids overnight without consulting him first. He even thought she'd cleverly taken advantage of his surprise appearance at school in order to orchestrate a fight with him, so she would have an excuse for not coming home tonight.

  So why was sh
e where she said she was going to be?

  He wanted a drink. He needed a drink.

  The house was dark, silent, and a little unsettling to come home to after his excursion. He'd eaten out, not wanting to dine alone in the empty silence of their home, went to see the latest spy movie in theaters just to take up time, then drove around in circles, until making the decision to go to her workplace. Now he wished he could rewind things. Why didn't he just go home after the movie? She was probably just getting ready to come home herself when he'd pulled his stupid stunt. Now who knew where she’d go?

  Going through the garage, he schlepped into the family room, dropped down on the oh-so-familiar sofa, and sat there, toying with his keys, for what seemed like ages before he heard the sound of her own key in the lock at the front door. He stayed where he was, sitting there in the shadows, watching as she came in and turned on the entryway light.

  Oh yeah. She was angry. Then he took into account the things she was carrying. The strap of the overnight case pulled heavily against her shoulder, and her garment bag was sloppily draped over one arm. She dropped her boots just inside the door, obviously not at all concerned that there might be questions about why she’d had them in her car. They hadn't gone hiking or camping in ages, and they didn’t have any plans to do so in the near future. At least none that he knew of.

  He must have made a sound. She glanced up at him, narrowed her eyes, and proceeded to drop the rest of her things in the entry right where she stood.

  “Good. I see you've already figured out the sleeping arrangements for the night.” She headed down the hall, slammed their bedroom door behind her, and he could have sworn he heard her drag something heavy up against it.

  After several minutes of silence, he got up and crossed over to the heap of her things. She'd obviously had plans of some kind this weekend. He bent over and picked up the garment bag, unzipped it, and peeked inside.

  A blazer, a long skirt. His favorite black dress, the one she'd worn when she took him out to tell him she'd landed the Heritage Center contract several few months ago. She'd looked so classy and elegant, so proud of herself, and he'd never thought she looked more beautiful. She'd been distant, even in her obvious happiness, but he'd chalked it up to nerves in anticipation of the job. Now, he wasn't so sure.