by Conn, Claudy
That was the ammo I needed to exit this toxic marriage, so I filed for divorce the next day. I vowed from that day forward, I’d never be any man’s fool again.
I’d found a condo to lease until I could get back on my feet, and felt good about making a clean break. Then Dave announced that he had testicular cancer, which put the brakes on everything.
We’d planned on selling the house and dividing up the assets, but he begged me to move back in and take care of him. Against my better judgment, I agreed to stay with him through his chemo treatments, just until things got back to normal. Normal … right? Part of me resents the hell out of him. He cheated on me, after all, which was the reason for our divorce.
My sister, Holly, said that my going back home only meant that he still had control over me. She was right, and I hated it, but I just couldn’t let him go through it alone. I’d like to think he’d do the same for me, if the shoe were on the other foot.
Over the course of his aggressive treatments, he did most of his work from home and only went into the courtroom for the high profile cases. The chemo was treacherous and made him deathly ill. As much as I hated Dave for cheating on me, it was hard to watch this once-strong and confident man go through such agony. I’m not a nurturer, so taking care of him was draining. In addition, I own my own company, so I have a responsibility to the twenty employees who work for me, which in and of itself is stressful. The demands placed on me were so hard to handle at times that I would get in my car on the way home from the office and pull over just to let out a blood curdling scream to relieve the tension.
I was angry because I wasn’t allowed the time to recover from the divorce before I was sucked back into my former life and was feeling trapped.
I casually flip through the day’s mail. The sight of a deep purple, classic linen envelope immediately catches my eye. It is quite different from the run of the mill credit card solicitations and political garbage we usually get. I hold the envelope out and see that the address has been professionally embossed in ecru ink. In my line of work, I’ve pretty much seen all kinds of impressive invitations, but this is breathtaking. I break the silver seal on the back of the envelope and pull out the contents. It’s the wedding invitation that complements the Save The Date magnet gracing the side of my refrigerator. It’s from my client and dear friend, Tony Tolbert, and his fiancée, RaeLynn Rogers. Tony is a former Nascar driver, and I’ve done PR work for him since before Dave and I married.
Dave walks into the kitchen, leans on the bar and remarks, “Pretty snazzy invitation. Who’s it from?”
“Tony Tolbert. The wedding’s in January. The seventh, to be exact.”
Feeling cocky, I then wave it in his face in a fanning motion, knowing full well how he’ll react. I can almost predict, word for word, his response as I taunt him, “If you’re nice, I may take you with me. It’s in California.”
He smirks in his predictable fashion, giving me the exact lack-of-interest response I’m expecting, “Pfft. I have no idea what I’ll have going on then. That’s a whole month away, and you know I don’t like to be pressured into an answer to commit. Besides, I don’t even know the guy.”
I laugh, sarcastically, and wave my hand. “Of course you don’t know the guy. He’s only been a client of mine for over a decade. Besides, you have no interest in my career whatsoever. Never have, and you never will Dave. Why does that not surprise me? You’re so damn predictable.”
I nonchalantly toss the invitation on the counter. “No worries, though. I really didn't want you to go. I was only trying to be nice.”
He tips his head up and says in defense of my remark, “Hey, quit acting like a bitch. I’m not in the best of health, or have you forgotten I have cancer?”
There goes the guilt. Touché, Dave.
He abruptly walks into the family room, which for us is non-existent of family, since we have no kids, and flips on the television. He walks to his overstuffed, leather chair and plops down into it, remote in hand, not paying a bit of attention to me, and I suppose I don’t really care.
Suddenly, my mind starts running rampant, thinking about how exciting it would be if I had someone in my life who actually would have pulled me into his arms, kissed me passionately, and said, “Noel, let’s go out early. We can spend a few days together, held up in a puddle of love, in our room. Whatcha say?” That ain’t happening though. Not with Dave, and not in this lifetime. I have to remind myself that, technically, I’m single.
For me, the bandage to my bleeding heart is my career, which has also become my romantic interest. I love my work. It’s my happiness, and I find that taking care of my clients and having them ogle over me makes up for the lack of sentiment on the home front.
I’m thankful Dave has taken the initiative and ordered dinner from my favorite Mexican restaurant. He sits at one end of the eight-seat dining table, and I’m at the opposite end. Silence dominates our dinner, and once I clear the dishes and clean the kitchen, I walk into my dressing area to change into my nightgown. I walk into Dave’s closet and run my fingers down the row of custom tailored suits and monogrammed shirts, lined up in military fashion. His signature cologne bottle sits on his vanity, nearly full. Lately, he can’t stand the smell of cologne or perfume. It nauseates him, and I’ve obliged by not spraying mine in the house.
He used to be so handsome, confident, and caring, but lately I’m torn by the constant battle of wills we have almost every day. At one time, we were head over heels in love. Hell, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other the first five years of our marriage and talked on the phone at least four times a day. He used to like to “phone sex” me, as he called it. He would call, disguising his voice, and acting like a guy I’d met at some random place, like a bar. I’d play along with him and we would make plans to meet after work. Sometimes, he would send me an email with the address of a hotel and simply type, “Meet me at 7pm in the bar. Room service included.”
I loved his spontaneity, and I loved that he loved me for the larger-than-life woman that was I. Suddenly, I’m taken back to when we first met, back in college. I was a sheltered, shy, overweight, and very under-confident girl. Dave Calabrese was the polar opposite—tanned, muscular, and exuberant with self-assurance. We met at our freshman orientation. I’d opted to stand at the back of the room, hoping to blend into the creamy, white walls, all by myself. None of my friends were going to University of Texas Arlington, so I felt alone. My close girlfriends had all received acceptance letters to the prestigious University of Texas in Austin, but my grade point average wasn’t high enough to get me in.
I remember feeling someone staring, and when I looked up, there he was—smiling in an encouraging way, with raised eyebrows. I remember it like it was yesterday. He was wearing a navy blue Polo shirt and faded blue jeans that fit him like a glove. He had such a nice body, and I could tell he worked out. He motioned with his finger in a come-hither fashion. Confused, I turned to see if there was someone adjacent he was addressing. He laughed, pointed, and then approached. “You look lost and freaked out. You’re not nervous, are you?”
Heart racing, I reared my head back and looked at him like he was a nothing. “What are you talking about?”
He grinned, rubbing his chin. “Yeah, whatever. You’re scared shitless. It’s actually kinda cute.”
He swears, to this day, that my flippant response turned him on and is what made him relentlessly pursue me. I thwarted his repeated attempts to call. He was gorgeous for God’s sake—a six foot, five inch Adonis, and I was a mere five foot five, homely, and pudgy. They called us the “Over 50 Club” in high school because we were, well, to say the least, tipping the scales to the right of one hundred and forty.
I never shed the pounds after college, and for some reason, Dave claimed he loved me the way I was. Even after Dave and I officially became “an item”, my size didn’t seem to affect our relationship. It bothered me though. When we went out, girls would always flock to him. They regarded me
like I was his best friend or something, and I just wanted to duck into the nearest bathroom or leave altogether. Dave said I needed to ditch the insecurity and tell them to fuck off, but confidence was never one of my assets.
Around my junior year of college, I was finally convinced that Dave loved me. He was my first, sexually, and we were inseparable. Over the Thanksgiving holidays, we went to meet his folks, and it was that weekend when I finally felt worthy. He told his parents of our plans to get married.
After graduation, I’d landed an awesome public relations job with a reputable firm in Dallas, and Dave, while still in law school, was nabbed by one of the top Houston law firms, specializing in litigation. He’s gifted with a tongue of steel, and he can wrangle with the best. I often teased him that he was a mini Racehorse Haynes. He breezed through, always making the dean’s list and graduated from the prestigious South Texas School of Law, with honors. In no time, he made partner in his firm. His cases won are so impressive, and he’s constantly written up as one of the top lawyers in his field.
The good Lord didn’t see fit for us to have children, like we’d planned, and I remember the day we found out. My chronic fibroid tumors and endometriosis finally got the better of me, and when my doctor told us I needed a complete hysterectomy, my world came crashing down.
Dave took me in his arms and swore it didn’t matter, but for God’s sake, we’re both from traditional Catholic families, and I knew this wouldn’t sit well with either side. I felt like a complete failure, and I thought about just packing up and leaving Dave. As much as he said it didn’t matter, it did. We drifted further and further apart, and my way of dealing with it was to immerse myself in my work. The more I worked, the further and further south our marriage went. I saw it slipping away and was powerless.
Chapter 3
Saturday morning at seven, the house phone rings, and rings and rings. I’m in the bathroom, becoming increasingly annoyed that Dave hasn’t answered it. From the toilet, I yell out, “Are you gonna let it ring forever, or could you please do something for once and answer the goddamn phone?”
The ringing stops, and I hear him talking. “Yeah, it is. Um, she’s not available right now. Can I have her call you back?”
Clearing his throat, like he’s being imposed upon, he curtly responds, “Yeah, okay let me get a pen and some paper. No wait, hang on.”
He walks into the bathroom and nudges the door with his head. I look at him, horrified. “What the hell? The door was closed, Dave. A little privacy? Shit!”
Embarrassed by being castigated, he closes his eyes and turns his head in the opposite direction, handing me the phone. “Um, you may wanna take this, Noel. I think it’s one of your clients.”
Why he couldn’t have just taken a message is beyond me, and I’m now even more pissed off. “Hello? Oh, hi Tony. No, it’s okay, I was um, actually just putting away some laundry.” I give Dave a go to hell and stay there look, and he quickly darts out of the room.
Tony’s deep, southern voice makes me smile. “Noel, look, I know it’s the holiday season, but I need for you to make a trip out to California and meet with some people on a new project I’m working on—you know, do your PR stuff and help them. I know it’s not in the normal realm of your duties, but I’ll make sure you’re compensated well. I swear.”
I throw my head back in exasperation. “Tony, geez! I told you I could go out a week before the wedding, and that’s what we planned. Most of what I do can be done by email or over the phone. I don’t see what good I can do by going. I’ll be happy to call or Skype, but actually going there … I don’t know.” I’d made plans to go out a week early, with or without Dave, and I was pretty sure it would be the latter. Solo seems to be my modus operandi, and I’m pretty used to it. I don’t like it, but it is what it is.
After clearing his throat, he chuckles. “Baby girl, actually, this isn’t wedding stuff. I’ll explain everything when you get here. Come on, sweet cheeks. I’m asking you as a friend, as well as your best client. Pretty please?”
I hesitate and groan into the phone, “Tony, damn you. I hope you’re not trying to put a big ass guilt trip on me.”
He laughs, and I can just picture him characteristically turning a quarter through his fingers while talking to me. “As a matter of fact, I am. Come on. You’re gonna love this one, I swear.” His voice is upbeat, and he actually sounds better than I’ve heard him sound in a long time. He’s had a rough go these past few years, and we’ve talked endlessly about him finding a passion (besides RaeLynn, of course) and ditching his pity party. I’ve tried to assure him that he has so much to offer the world, aside from racecar driving.
I smile at the thought of this handsome, manly-man asking me “pretty please” to do something and calling me sweet cheeks. His pet name for me only makes the decision to go that much easier. We actually have been together for a long time, and he’s like a brother to me. When we met, I had just started at Lang & Long, an international PR firm in Houston, fresh out of college, with my dream job. I was hired on and given the “dregs of the pot” for clients, and I guess they thought Tony Tolbert was just that. Little did they know that Tony would become a world famous, Nascar driver. From the day we met, we formed a lasting, professional relationship that evolved into a cherished friendship. He knew the staunch and pompous Larry Lang wasn’t gonna give him the time of day because he was a newbie, which made me more determined than ever to show Tony what a great team we could be.
Two years later, after much anguish, I made the decision to chase my dream and start my own company. Lang & Long was a male-dominated firm, and I saw no opportunity for advancement. Dave and I moved back to our hometown of Houston, and to my surprise, Tony Tolbert left Lang & Long and followed me. Larry was not a happy camper the day he found out. He realized, much too late, that he had screwed up, big time, by not gaining an exclusive contract with Tony.
The year Tony won the Daytona 500 we both remarked how we could just picture Larry beating his fists on the table with regret. Tony was all over the place in notoriety—national television appearances, big name endorsements, magazine interviews—you name it, Tony was doing it, and he was represented by me.
Hell, I had a hard time keeping up with it. My little business, NCPR, was flourishing just by nature of the fact I represented Tony Tolbert. Together, Tony and I, the new kids on the block, took the world by storm. He put every bit of trust in me, and to this day, I owe him everything.
Chapter 4
Tony Tolbert is a Nascar legend and icon. He was at the top of his game when an accident at the Daytona 500, four years ago, nearly killed him and left him partially paralyzed. I remember that day well—February 15, 2009. Tony had sent Dave and I tickets to watch the race. Dave, of course, couldn’t go, so I took my sister, Holly. We joked about how this was our Valentine present. From our business class plane tickets to our luxury room at the Hammock Beach Spa & Resort, Tony made sure we were treated like royalty, right down to our Mercedes rental car.
That was the weekend Tony formally introduced me to his girlfriend, RaeLynn, a ravishing redhead who had won his heart. He talked incessantly to me about her from the night they met in a bar. He said he’d met the girl of his dreams. I laughed, wondering how long this would last.
Until I’d met her, I was convinced Tony would never find anyone. I always teased him about how picky he was. His taste in women was very simple. They had to be “drop dead gorgeous with a brain, a sense of humor, and a helluva personality.” Not many women on the Nascar circuit fit that bill - until RaeLynn Rogers came along, that is.
Her larger-than-life personality and petite body complemented Tony’s suave, but under the radar, presence. He always shied away from the press, as he wasn’t comfortable doing interviews and talking about himself. He was so humble and always put everyone first.
RaeLynn took the pressure of the media off of Tony. He always said that with her on his arm, he could talk to anyone and conquer the world. They had thi
s beautiful love affair that everyone envied. They were invincible—that is until the last lap of the 2009 Daytona 500.
It all happened so fast that I really can’t remember much. We saw Tony’s car coming around a corner when all of a sudden a tire blew. He was in the lead, and the car spun and crashed, head first, into the concrete wall, causing the two cars behind him to collide. There were car parts, smoke, and fire everywhere. The other cars just raced past the debris, and being a Nascar virgin, I couldn’t fathom why everyone didn’t stop the race. I felt relief when I saw the drivers in the accident lower their window nets, which the guy next to us said indicated they were okay. He told us that the crew would be there to help them get out of their cars. Looking towards Tony’s car, the guy nodded and said that if a driver did not lower his net, it’s a bad situation. We waited and waited anxiously, but Tony’s net didn’t lower.
Paramedics arrived, and it was then that I realized this was not good. Panic set in, and all I could do at this point was pray. I saw the look of panic on RaeLynn’s face as she ran to the steps of the pit stand, looking helplessly for someone to tell her what was going on. My heart ached for her. “God, please let him be okay,” I kept repeating. “Please, let him be alive.” Holly and I asked the guy next to us what was happening, and he said they would most likely take RaeLynn to the infield care center, thus avoiding the media.
