I uncorked the red wine then opened the dishwasher to retrieve a wineglass. Who was I going to feed all that sauce to? Not the new neighbors.
“Excuse me, Beckett moved out? He wouldn’t do that.”
Our eyes met through narrowed gazes. She was going to take his side. She always did. “No, I’m pretty sure when he stopped by for the rest of his things today, he said he would call me in a few days from his place.” The swig of red wine danced over my taste buds washing away true words that I didn’t want to repeat. I savored the dark, earthy flavor before swallowing. I held up my naked ring finger.
“Maybe he’ll be back.” Her words faded as she finished the sentence. “New life? That doesn’t make sense.” She shrugged as she peered over the rim of her glasses at me.
My gaze stayed riveted on her as I watched her think silently dissecting my news of Beckett’s choice to leave. My marriage had been over for some time. We’d been successful at going through the motions. “Nothing makes sense anymore. It’s more than irreconcilable differences.” My eyes narrowed. Was she going to acknowledge my hurt? Did my mom understand what I was telling her? I waited. Her insensitivity sparred with the hole in my heart left by Beckett. I finished my wine then refilled the glass. “You don’t have anything to say?”
She put her cup down on the counter. “I am stunned.”
“Yeah, me too,” I mumbled.
Mom got out of the chair and came to me. She smoothed hair away from my face like she had done so many times when I was younger and needed comforting. I relished her cool touch as waves of heat consumed my body all too much lately. I blinked back the hurt and tried to swallow away the burning lump in my throat.
“You poor girl. I am so sorry,” she whispered and held me close.
Mom smelled like summer peaches and vanilla. She was soft and comforting. For the first time since Beckett told me his news, I cried with someone other than myself. I had a better chance surviving my diagnosis of breast cancer than my broken heart. The fact that Beckett, husband, father, and life-long companion was gay suffocated me. The fact that I couldn’t tell my mother hurt even more. I held my breath, denying my own secret.
Chapter 3
The ringing doorbell echoed through my quiet house. I shoved all the information back into the pink tote before scurrying to the door. When I peeked through the peephole, I saw a tall gentleman standing on my porch. His highlighted, short, dishwater-blond hair complemented his tanned skin. I watched him examine the house numbers then knock at the door. His stunning brown eyes gleamed as the sun washed over him. It’d been Beckett’s idea to hire a designer. I wondered how well they knew each other and I questioned why I went along with it.
I cleared my throat and checked myself out in my grandmother’s mirror hanging in the foyer. I turned sideways just to see if my mother was right. I didn’t appear to be that much thinner. She should talk. “She’s the one that needs to eat some cake,” I mumbled.
I turned the handle, opened the door, and tried to seem natural. “Hi there, you must be Paul Mitchell.” I pushed open the screen door. His cologne tickled my nose as I inspected him further. I waited for goose bumps or the hair to bristle at the nape of my neck, but there was no response to his handsome nature.
“Lovely home you have here,” he said.
I took his hand as he reached out to shake mine. His nails were manicured and his touch was warm, friendly. I wondered why Chloe’s father hadn’t displayed such manners. Too bad he wasn’t as pleasant as his appearance. “Please, won’t you come in?”
“I love the porch swing. The landscaping is perfect. The boxwoods accent your stone house beautifully. Love the impatiens.”
I focused on the houses across the street. Much of the landscaping included impatiens, maybe not the same color, but the same flowers. It was not an original idea. It was a way of life in my quaint little town of Grosse Pointe. Every year, I chose the same flowers, the same color, and the choice always pleased me. I smiled as I inspected his gray, sleek trousers when he walked past. He was tall and lean.
I walked to the edge of the porch to take a peek in the bushes. No one lurked today. My toes barely touched the floor as I leaned over a tad more. Being bothered by the neighborhood snoop almost seemed like a fanciful alternative to what I had planned. No part of me even believed that redecorating constituted a new beginning, but it was worth a shot. Paint colors and furnishings may change, but the circumstances remained the same. Beckett was gay, and I was alone.
I wasn’t sure how much Chloe had already overheard, but I had been successful at keeping the intimate details of my life private for years and I wasn’t going to let a seven-year-old air my secrets. My heart pounded at the thought of her meeting my mother behind my back. Now that made me bristle.
“Problem?” Mr. Mitchell asked cautiously.
I regained my composure. “No, just checking for critters, thought I heard something.” We went inside as he held the door. Beckett used to hold the door for me, too. I always liked that about him.
“This is a fabulous space,” he remarked.
I stood in the archway as he entered the living room, smiling. “Thank you, Mr. Mitchell. I hope you can help me spruce things up a little bit.” I fidgeted then reminded myself I didn’t have to explain my circumstances to him. “New paint, some new furniture, I don’t want to reinvent the wheel, but I need to get things back to normal.” Whatever normal was. Maybe he knew. I felt a twinge of guilt, knowing I was spending Beckett’s money. His offer to help me get the house fixed up was all too generous and a bit abnormal when I compared divorces. A part of me cringed knowing I probably wouldn’t have been so giving. I was being supported by Beckett’s guilt-driven compassion.
“Call me Paul.”
Paul sauntered through the great room. The beamed ceiling that ran over to the stone fireplace drew me in. The memory of making love on lazy Sunday afternoons with Beckett tormented me. I felt the creases of bewilderment line my forehead. He’d been so good at making me believe I was what he wanted.
“Damn it, Beckett, you are making this all too hard.” I seethed, loathing his very existence, hating him like any normal jilted wife would do. He was making it all too damn hard. What man wanted to make sure his ex-wife was taken care of? One filled with guilt, one more loyal to his family than a Golden Retriever, one with more sense of responsibility than I had ever known, besides my dad. Tears rested at the corners of my eyes.
Paul turned in my direction.
I swallowed, forced a smile, then flipped on the light switch so he could see the room better. “Glad you like it, I do.” I more than liked my house. I loved it. It had been my home for twenty-two years. It was the place where Beckett and I brought Bradley home for the first time. Paul ran his fingers over fabric, paint, and leftover furniture in the grand room like Beckett used to caress me. On good days, I wandered through my house, and if I breathed deep enough, I could still smell the scent of the baby we created, Bradley.
Goosebumps covered my arms. Would Beckett haunt me forever? Was it something I did to turn him off?
Paul poked his head around the corner, his eyes curious about the adjacent room. I showed him into the dining room, home to my grandmother’s antique dining set, buffet, silver, and antique china. I ignored the dust, as did he. “This room is okay. I won’t have to do anything here.”
“Beautiful,” he replied with a smile as he ran his fingers over the carved seatbacks.
“Thank you.” I led him into the kitchen not feeling the energy to tell the story of the grand furniture passed down from generation to generation. “I need to focus on the living room, the library, and my bedroom.” I should have insisted on a female designer, someone I chose. “I’ve been looking for pieces to incorporate.”
Paul stopped.
There was something familiar in the way he moved and smiled at me. I’d seen it before in Beckett. My mind reeled. Now I wondered how Beckett really found Paul. My gut twis
ted. I pushed away the thoughts racing through my brain. “So, how do you know Beckett?”
Beckett had said a co-worker recommended Paul, but I wondered about the intimacy of their connection. Were they lovers? A bolt of hot energy surged through me. Beckett wouldn’t have cheated, would he? My knees felt weak. Allowing myself to stumble into the depths of my over-active imagination didn’t bode well for Paul or myself. I leaned back trying to support myself on the kitchen island. I need help, serious help. My cheeks grew hotter with the intensity of my imagination, or maybe the possibility that I had discovered a hidden affair.
“Beckett called me. I decorated a co-worker’s home not too far from here.”
“Oh, would that be Dr. Hilton, on Lewiston Road?” I threw out a fictitious name and address. I felt like a schmuck and bit my lip.
“No, Lois Bennett’s home.” Paul paused. “She’s over on Ridge Road.”
Damn. Now I really felt like a schmuck. “Yes, now that I think about it, I have seen your handiwork. We went to a gathering there last year. She mentioned she had a fabulous designer, and now I know it was you. Lovely home,” I spewed through a toothy smile. My jaw ached as I tired of my own game. My breast hurt. I really just wanted to lie down. I sighed.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Actually, I’m not feeling very well. You are more than welcome to see the library before you go. We can talk about the bedroom next time.” I pointed through the kitchen. “The library is opposite the great room. Follow me.” My lips formed a thin smile. I hoped my fantasies were getting the best of me. Beckett would never hire a lover then send him to the house. Not his style. Or so I hoped. Of course, I would ask him later.
I opened the French doors to the dark room.
“Oh,” escaped Paul’s lips as he stepped over the threshold. “Wow.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty empty now.” Too exhausted to investigate further, I said, “Beckett took everything. This was his study. It needs an overhaul.” I need an overhaul. I watched as Paul moved through the room, running his fingers over the dark oak paneling. What was that?
Beckett’s ghost sat behind an invisible vintage desk scrawling in a tiny book as he peered through his tortoise-shell-rimmed cheaters.
“We can do a lot in here,” Paul said. “Or a little. It’s up to you.”
“I have always loved the oak panels.” I trailed my fingers over the thick chair rail. I could smell Beckett’s Polo cologne in the still air. I’d have to exorcise his spirit before I could make it my own. I sat in the striped wing-backed chair next to the window.
“Here’s my card.”
I took Paul’s business card. “Thanks. I’ll put this with the other one.” I pushed myself out of the chair.
“I know this is hard,” he said.
A bomb ticked within me. How the hell do you know? Paul headed for the front door then turned to face me. I envisioned myself delivering a flying scissor kick to his head, leaving him sprawled on the front lawn. I stayed quiet, like I always did. It was good to be seen and not heard.
“When you feel up to it, why don’t you email me your budget and some expectations then we can go from there. If you have pictures of furniture, you can forward them as well.” He smiled politely and held out his hand.
I shook it, because that’s what people with manners do, not because I wanted to. For all I knew, Paul and Beckett were friends on a whole other level, a level to which I had no insight. I closed the door behind him. My heart ripped open just a little bit more. After twenty-three years of marriage Beckett knew everything about me and I understood nothing about him.
Agreeing to have Paul Mitchell as my decorator may have not been the smartest decision, but I’d get through it just like everything other dilemma I was facing. Keeping the transition to a minimum would insure the least amount of invasion.
I went back into the library, where I sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the room. Tiny flecks of dust danced in the rays of light streaming through the leaded-glass windows. There were a few books scattered on the shelves, books Bradley wanted to keep. I pulled out Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are and flipped through the pages, imagining Bradley’s face in the wolf suit. It had been Bradley’s favorite bedtime story. I returned the book to its respective place trying not to disturb the dusty outline of novels. A small leather notebook caught my eye. Beckett must have forgotten it when he packed and I hadn’t noticed it before now. I slid it across the shelf. On the front, there was a word written in fancy gold letters, Journal. I glanced over to where Beckett’s desk once was and this time I saw him staring over the rim of his scholarly cheaters, a thin smile on his face, and his voice nearly audible. I didn’t forget my journal. I left it for you.
Chapter 4
The idle revolving door swung into motion as I neared the cancer center entrance. I didn’t have a walker. I didn’t need one. I wasn’t being pushed in a wheelchair. I didn’t need one of those either. I was not an invalid. And I wasn’t going to be one. The only thing that paralyzed me was Beckett’s decision to leave our marriage, and the burden of fighting cancer.
Pretending to admire the gift shop display neatly arranged in the built-in glass case of the moving circular entry, my impatient footsteps were hindered by its lagging tempo. Instead of heading to the elevator and up to the Mammogram Center, I took an immediate right, and followed the hallway toward Radiation. My breast ached. I pushed away dread as I inspected the paintings displayed on the cloth walls. I wondered if all the artists were diagnosed with breast cancer, like myself. And if so, were they all still alive?
My chest felt heavy as I wondered if the doctor mistakenly read the films. Maybe the clusters she saw were residue from my broken heart. Maybe they were chocolate cake crumbs from the technician’s lunch. Maybe it was just a misreading. Big, fat mistakes happen all the time.
I rounded the corner, dug my identification card out of my bag, and swiped the barcode through the infrared light underneath the computer wand on the receptionist’s counter. I surveyed the empty waiting room. Was I the only one with cancer today? I remembered the social worker’s words as she tried to comfort me during the initial appointment. She reassured me I’d make many friends at the cancer center by the time the radiation treatment was completed. This time I whispered into the air, “I’m not really sure this is the place I want to make new friends.” I put my card away and followed the signs to the changing room where my faded, blue hospital gown awaited me.
The hallway was empty.
I felt thinner. I promised myself I would eat something when I got home.
The doors opened, and I saw the offices were empty. The place felt vacant, abandon. If I left, would anyone come get me? I coerced myself further down the hallway and pushed the big, metal square button on the wall. Another door opened and I navigated my way back to the dressing room. Today, I was scheduled for tattoos. Dr. Akin, my surgeon, assured me it was no big deal, but it was to me. The soon to be permanent speckles, the color of schmutz would always remind me I was a victim of cancer. I grimaced at the thought of having six black dots mar my freckled Scottish skin that I adored.
The changing room was abandoned, too. As I followed the instructions given to me by the perky young nurse from the previous visit, I studied the overflowing hamper of used gowns and wondered about the women who’d worn them. I changed, hung my things in a locker, and waited outside the room in my unflattering, drab gown that hung like a rag. And right on cue, Nurse Rita came around the corner smiling and ready for me. This must be my first friend. I silently told myself to shut up. I smiled back.
“Hello there. Nice to see you again.”
I couldn’t think of anything nice about it, but I complied with a nod as I followed Rita to the room where my radiation oncologist, Dr. Masterson, would do the CAT scan, take pictures, and give me those foreboding tattoos.
Somewhere between the directions to lay still and the flash of the camera, I drifted
off to a place that everyone knows when they’re afraid. It was dark and doubtful. I thought about my choices. I thought about my mother. I thought about my decision to keep my diagnosis to myself. I figured Mom couldn’t handle two blows at one time. I questioned my very existence. Surely, God was sending me a cryptic message. The message blurred, the translation fuzzy, unclear. The camera flashed and I blinked. The hard board beneath my back was cold and unforgiving, the band around my feet tight and suffocating.
“We have to keep you still. The pictures ensure proper placement while having the radiation. Now we’re going to take another set of pictures to make sure your heart is not in the path of the radiation.”
With a click of a button my hard bed slid into the machine. Whirring roared all around. My heart. My heart? It was already scarred. No one had mentioned this before. I hadn’t even thought about it. Please, God, get me through this. I should have brought somebody, damn it. My eyes welled. My throat burned. The board slid out of the large tumbler. I felt helpless.
“When the doctor reads this, she will decide if you have to curl up on your side or hold your breath during radiation.”
Panic filled me. “What?” I stiffened as the ache in my back felt like my spine was snapping in half.
“Depending on where your heart is in the picture, you may have to lie on your side or hold your breath for the treatment.”
I hadn’t held my breath since I was twelve and we would pass a cemetery. “For how long?”
“For about a minute and a half. If you can’t, we have a breathing mechanism that we’ll teach you to use.”
What was about to happen to me became clearer. It was bigger than I intended and I wasn’t in control. All I could do was lay still and pray like hell that everything would be fine.
“Everything looks good,” Dr. Masterson said as she entered the room. “You are the perfect size for this treatment. Your heart is in the clear.”
Maggie's Way (Montana Bound Series Book 1) Page 3
