Holding Hands
Page 5
“A teddy.” She wasn’t mollified, though. When she looked at Scott, she saw him. His dark, soulful eyes. His thin lips. The faint scar above his left eyebrow, a souvenir from a bicycle accident when he’d been a child, in the days before bike helmets were common. He’d hit a pothole and gone flying, and he’d landed on a stick that had sliced into his forehead, requiring a few stitches. Fortunately it hadn’t been worse. But she saw that scar. Even after twenty-seven years of togetherness, twenty-five of those years as husband and wife, she saw it.
And he didn’t see her—at least, not unless she was wearing something tantalizing from Victoria’s Secret.
“Anyway, what was I going to say? ‘You’re looking fat, honey’? You knew how you looked. You didn’t need me to tell you.”
“I need you to see me,” she said quietly, her gaze resting on the light fixture above them, the petals of glass. “I need to know I matter to you. We hardly ever even touch anymore, let alone make love.”
This time he was the one to flinch, and his voice was edged in anger when he responded. “Is that what this is about? Sure, it would be nice to have sex more often. But we get home from work, and we eat dinner, and then you’re on the phone with your mother. And then you’re on the phone with Emily. And then you’re off walking the dog. I suppose I should be grateful the boys don’t call you every day, too.”
“My mother and Emily like to talk to me,” she said, wishing she didn’t sound so defensive. “And they like to listen to me, too. They ask me for my opinions, my advice. They ask how I’m doing.”
“And what do you tell them? Do you say you’re doing fine except that your husband doesn’t make love to you?”
“No, of course not.” A sob swelled in her throat and she swallowed it back down.
“And Skippy? He listens to you and asks for advice, too?”
“He doesn’t always obey me, but yes, he listens. And he’s affectionate.”
“And I’m not,” Scott said, verbalizing her implication.
She wished this conversation had never begun. Finally, she was talking to Scott, finally he was talking to her, but the words hurt. How ironic that she could be a communications manager, yet communicating with her husband had become a painful ordeal.
“At the end of the day, I’m tired,” he said. “You come home from walking the dog, and if I’m not already asleep, I’m halfway there. You’re more interested in what’s going on with your mother and the kids than what’s going on with me, anyway.”
“That’s not true.”
“You’ve never asked me about my book. I’m knocking myself out to get it done, and you don’t even know what it’s about.”
Her pain increased, augmented by a hefty dose of guilt. What he’d said was true; she didn’t ask about his book. Its very existence irked her, because it absorbed all his attention, leaving her neglected. “I talk to my mother and Emily—and Skippy—because you’re, yes, knocking yourself out. You’re buried in work. I don’t want to bother you or distract you.”
“Right.”
“You bring your laptop on a weekend getaway!” This time it was her turn to gesture, not at an alluring lacy undergarment but at his laptop, plugged in and humming on the table next to the chair.
“Because I’ve got a deadline. I’ve got an editor on my back. I’ve got classes to teach and students to meet with, and I don’t have a spare minute, and you went and planned this damned getaway without even checking with me first.”
“If I’d checked with you, you would have said no. You told me that yourself.”
He sighed, subsiding, his head sinking deeper into the pillow and his arm sliding away from her, coming to rest on the mattress. “I would have said no.”
Another tense silence. “I want more, Scott,” she murmured. “I want us to talk to each other. And listen. And...and hold hands.”
He said nothing.
“Tell me about your book,” she said. “It’s about elections, right?”
“Do you really care?”
“I do.” She rolled onto her side and looked at him, saw him. Saw the anger in his gaze, the resentment tensing his jaw. Resentment and anger and something more. Worry. Fear. She gathered his hand in hers, folded her slim fingers around his thick, strong ones, and stared straight into his eyes. “Tell me about it.”
“It’s about how the Electoral College is anti-democratic, and it essentially makes voting for President meaningless if you don’t live in a swing state. It’s about de facto disenfranchisement, and how that’s influenced voting patterns over the years as the country has become more polarized.”
“Interesting,” she said, meaning it. “Tell me more.”
He shrugged modestly. “There’s lots of number-crunching and analysis.”
“Can our democracy be saved?”
“I haven’t written that chapter yet,” he said with a crooked smile.
“It’s an important subject.” She leaned forward and brushed his lips with hers. “I’m glad you’re writing it, because you care so deeply about it. I care, too, Scott. I want to know about your research. Your book. Your work. I want to know.”
She leaned into him for another kiss. He returned this one, soft, tender, his mouth warm, his tongue seeking. This wasn’t like the wild, hungry kisses he’d given her when she’d stepped out of the bathroom clad in the teddy. This was the kiss a husband gave his wife when, at long last, they were connecting. It was the kissing equivalent of holding hands.
And then holding more than hands. Holding her hips, holding her breasts. Lifting her onto him, giving himself to her, letting her take. Sweet and slow.
Chapter Six
THE BREAKFAST CINDY SERVED at the main house was delicious and much too fattening. But after a belated supper of salad and a morning of lovemaking, Meredith was starving. She indulged, savoring every bite of scrambled eggs, every sip of fresh-squeezed orange juice, every last crumb of the warm, buttery corn muffin she’d taken from the linen-lined basket at the center of their cozy table. Scott ate twice as much as she did. But then, he never had to count calories.
The air was cool, the sun was bright when they left the house. Evidence of the previous night’s storm littered the property: fallen twigs, scattered puddles, the carpet of pine needles damp and spongy beneath their feet. But they were on Cape Cod, and Meredith wanted to see the beach.
“It’s a two-block walk straight south,” Cindy had directed them. “I’ve got some beach mats and chairs if you want to take them. The sand’ll probably be wet.”
Scott had accepted a rolled-up straw mat from Cindy, and he carried it tucked beneath his arm. His other hand was free, but as they ambled down the road, avoiding puddles and stepping over downed branches and one massive sycamore limb that jutted out into the street, Meredith didn’t slide her hand into his. She felt closer to Scott now than she had in months, in years...but still, a small voice of doubt nattered inside her head like a buzzing wasp, waiting to sting.
She waited until they’d reached the beach. They pulled off their sneakers and stepped barefoot onto the sand. It was cool and moist, its surface pock-marked from last night’s rain. What little dune grass hadn’t died with the end of summer had been flattened by the storm, lying in long green ribbons across the sand’s surface. Beyond the beach the water spread to the horizon, a peaceful expanse of blue- gray that lapped gently against the beach in a soothing rhythm. The breeze carried the tangy perfume of salt and seaweed. A couple of gulls strutted along the water’s edge, searching for food.
No one else was on the beach. The vacation season was long past, and the air held an autumn chill. Locals who could visit the beach any time they wished were probably spending this Saturday morning at their children’s soccer games, doing their grocery shopping or cleaning up the damage left by the storm.
Still, Meredith considered having this lovely stretch of beach all to themselves more of an indulgence than eating eggs and a corn muffin for breakfast.
Scott
unrolled the mat and she sat. He lowered himself to sit beside her and they stared out at the water, the wind tugging their hair back from their faces, the gulls cawing and mewing as they trotted along the sand. Meredith was glad she’d packed her sweatshirt. She drew her knees to her chest and hugged her arms around her legs.
“I have to confess something,” she said.
Scott tilted his head toward her. A thick tumble of hair blew across his brow, and she reached up to nudge it back behind his ear. Then she withdrew her hand and hugged her legs again.
“I saw one of your emails.”
He continued to watch her, saying nothing.
“It was an accident. You’d headed up to bed, and when I moved your laptop the screen-saver stopped and an email appeared. It was from one of your students. Caitlin.”
He nodded.
“In the email, she said she had to see you, and she was willing to come any time, day or night.”
He exhaled. “She’s willing, all right.”
That didn’t sound promising. “Is she pretty?” Meredith asked anxiously.
Scott laughed. “Meredith. She’s a student.”
“Yes, and you’re surrounded by students. Pretty female students.”
“And I look at them and think of my daughter, who’s also a pretty female student. Honestly, Meredith—do you think I could look at those students and think of them as anything other than someone’s daughter?”
“Even if they’re willing?”
“There are always some willing girls. They get crushes. Or they think they can seduce a professor into raising their grade. So I meet with them in the lounge or one of the dining halls, surrounded by lots of witnesses, and I explain that if they want to raise their grades they should work harder on their essays, or participate more in class. And I work in a mention or two of my wife. They take the hint.” He arched arm around her. “I’m fifty years old, Mer. What the hell would I do with a twenty-year-old girl?”
“I think you know what you would do,” she said, feeling reassured enough to tease a little.
“Yeah. I’d tell her about my book. I’d bore her to death explicating the shifts in voter participation as states became more identified with one party or the other. And she’d have to sit there and pretend to be interested so I’d give her a good grade.” He kissed the crown of her head. “I’m too old and dull to keep up with some hot-to-trot undergrad.”
“Even if she’s beautiful?”
“I love the way you look these days. But you were always beautiful to me. Thin, plump, waddling around like a walrus when you were pregnant... You’re it, babe.”
She’d never loved him more than she did right then. Not when they’d first met, not when they’d been young and infatuated, not just a couple of hours ago when they’d been locked rapturously together on the bed in their cabin. She was about to tell him that—but then she heard a chirping sound coming from her purse. Her cell phone.
She pulled it out, recognized the phone number, took a deep breath and lifted the phone to her ear, wondering if this fragile new closeness blossoming between her and Scott was about to disappear.
***
A FEW MINUTES LATER, she closed her phone. “That wasn’t your mother,” Scott guessed.
“It was Lucy at the veterinary clinic.” She studied his face as she spoke, trying to read his thoughts. “The dog made it through the night fine. He’s ready to be discharged.”
Scott nodded slowly, his eyes searching her face as hers searched his. “Did the animal control officer find his owner?”
“No.” She took a deep breath for fortitude. “The dog is neutered, Scott. He’s had his shots. He obviously belonged to someone, but no one has reported him missing. According to Lucy, some people abandon pets that way. It’s always possible that the owner will step forward eventually, but it’s not likely. Without an owner, Lucy said the clinic will have to send the dog to a shelter.”
Scott said nothing.
“Remember how we felt the day the doctor told us I was carrying twins?”
Scott closed his eyes and chuckled. “Complete panic.”
“Yes. We panicked. And then we said, ‘Well, we’ll just buy more diapers.’” She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. “We can just buy more kibble.”
He sighed.
“Please?” When he didn’t say yes, she said, “Last night I had a vision of you and me walking that dog and Skippy, side by side. We could take walks together with the dogs every evening, and you can tell me about your book and your research and your students while we walk.”
Another sigh, and a slight, barely visible curve of his lips. Almost a smile. “What are we going to call him? Gimpy? Limpy?”
Joy swept through her in a warm rush. “Lucky,” she said. “We’re going to call him Lucky.”
“Okay.” She heard not just resignation in his voice, not just acquiescence, but acceptance. Affection. Maybe even a hint of enthusiasm.
He rose to his feet, helped her to hers, and together they shook out the beach mat and rolled it up. “We can pick him up later,” he said, capturing her hand in his. “First, I want you to model that lacy thing for me. The teddy.”
Another rush of joy. Her hand felt so good in his, so secure. So right, as they walked up the beach, heading back to the cabin. Heading back to each other.
###
About the Author
Judith Arnold is the award-winning, bestselling author of more than eighty-five published novels. A New York native, she currently lives in New England, where she indulges in her passions for jogging, dark chocolate, good music, good wine and good books. She is married and the mother of two sons.
For more information about Judith, or to contact her, please visit her website.
Here’s a list Judith’s e-book reissues, all available for sale:
A> Loverboy
Barefoot in the Grass
Change of Life
Chocolate Kisses
Cry Uncle
Father Christmas
Father of Two
Follow the Sun
Found: One Wife
One Good Turn
One Whiff of Scandal
Safe Harbor
Somebody’s Dad
Survivors
Trust Me