by Greta Boris
For dessert, her mother made her famous chocolate layer cake. Gwen bought a pack of candles with her allowance on her way home from school, sneaked into the kitchen during dinner and placed four on its top. Her mother had been so surprised when she'd carried the flaming cake into the dining room singing Happy Birthday at the top of her lungs. It was the last time Gwen could remember seeing her look truly happy.
Later when Gwen got in bed, her parents each came into her room separately to tuck her in. One of the things that stood out most in her memory was how unusually affectionate her father had been. He'd kissed her forehead, smoothed her hair, and told her she was special to him before turning out the light. After he had closed the door, Gwen burrowed under her covers with a flashlight and a book.
She'd only read a chapter when she heard her parents' voices rumbling through the ceiling. Her mother's timbre was what first alerted her something wasn't right. It was louder, more piercing, than her usual peaceful tones. Gwen lay still for several minutes listening to the rise and fall of their discussion before throwing off her covers. She needed to know what they were talking about.
She perched at the top of the stairs where she could hear their words clearly. "Please don't cry. It won't do any good. I've made my decision," her father said.
"How long? How long has this been going on?" Her mother's voice broke with anguish.
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
How long had what been going on? Gwen couldn't imagine what they were talking about, but a stab of fear ran through her.
"We've been seeing each other for several months. Long enough for me to know how I feel about her."
"So, you're just leaving? Abandoning me and Gwen?"
Gwen sucked in a breath. Abandoning? The word belonged in novels and Disney movies. It had nothing to do with her, with her life.
"Certainly not." Her father's voice was chiding. It was the same tone he used with Gwen when she disobeyed. "I'm not the kind of man who shirks his responsibilities. You know that. I'll take care of all your financial needs. You and Gwen will never do without."
"Only without you." Her mother sounded so sad.
Gwen crept to her bed, crawled under the covers and cried herself to sleep. The recurring nightmare she had so often back then visited her that night with renewed intensity. She woke screaming.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The view was stunning—her word, not mine. She stood in front of the large picture window and raised an upturned palm to the sparkling ocean beyond like Vanna White offering a vowel.
"Million dollars, that's what it is." She smiled. The sunlight behind her turned her hair into a halo of gold. I didn't gasp this time, but took it as heavenly confirmation of the decision I'd already made.
"Million dollars, at least," I agreed.
"Would you like to see the rest of the house?"
"Most definitely."
I followed her through the great room into an ocean of granite. She pointed out a breakfast nook, and down a short hall to a laundry room and maid's quarters. “Everybody Ought To Have a Maid”, that old Broadway title played through my head.
She must have assumed cooking was beneath me, because the kitchen only received a flap of her hand. I, however, recently discovered I wasn't too bad at slicing and dicing. An assortment of knives on a butcher's block caught my attention. I just had time to find one with a nice heft and pocket it before she rushed me onward.
The dining room was empty except for a chandelier as big as a freighter that marked where the table should go. The thought crossed my mind that I should take her here, under that showstopper of a lamp. It would be so theatrical, so Hollywood. The setting should fit the crime and ostentatious was the word this wheel was spelling.
If there was ever a town that deserved the moniker, Newport Beach, California, was it. When Ms. White pulled up the paved drive in her powder blue BMW—vanity plate "HERBEEMR"—took her Louis Vuitton bag from the passenger seat, and graced me with her beautiful set of ivories, I almost laughed in her face.
She was another gorgon.
Another grasping chit.
Not even the abundance of makeup she wore could conceal her lust for status, her need for significance. The listing was just what you'd expect her to represent. Ostentation was carved into the little-boy-peeing fountain in the front yard and the ivy scrollwork on the huge front doors. The word echoed through all the empty, cavernous rooms and swam in the infinity pool in the backyard. I hated it almost as much as I hated her.
The click of her heels on the hardwood floor grew softer. I had to hurry to catch up.
"The game room is really the best spot in the house in my humble opinion," she said.
I doubted she considered any of her opinions humble.
She walked to the dead center of the space and spun toward me. Her beige skirt billowed. Her deceitfully pretty face devolved into a scowl when she noticed I had been lagging and almost missed the performance.
It was a fine room. Windows lined both west and north facing walls. You could see up the coast for miles. It reminded me of the living room in my father's house.
She was off, down a hall and halfway up the stairs, her non-stop talk trailing behind her like steam. "The master suite is directly above the game room. It is my second favorite space in the house. It has a fireplace too, and the balcony is to die for."
Interesting choice of words. We toured the guest suites, none of which was very inspiring, then descended another set of stairs into a wide hall. The first door led into a library.
One wall was covered in floor to ceiling bookshelves, another with a heavy, mahogany mantled fireplace. The room was too Agatha Christie for my taste. Who-done-its aren't really about murder. They are about the cleverness of detectives, not something I was interested in thinking about at the moment.
After passing a sunroom and a music room, we walked into a theater. It was all done up in maroons and golds like an old time cinema. There were no windows. The only light came from wall sconces that made long shadows of us as we marched toward the small stage. It was the perfect place to make a dramatic statement.
"Amos Johnston, the man who commissioned the house, wanted this theater built for family performances as well as to watch movies—hence the stage," Ms. White informed. "His children were dancers and musicians."
"Do you dance?" I asked. My father's daughter—my half-sister, Fiona—danced in college. Something in the way this woman moved reminded me of her.
She spun toward me in a graceful pirouette. "Not really." Her voice faltered. "Well, that's about it. Only the garden left. We can exit at the end of the hall." She gestured the way we'd come.
"But I'd love to see you dance. Won't you mount the platform for me, Ms. White?"
"White? My name is Purcell, Christina Purcell."
"Yes, of course. It was only a joke."
"The exit is behind you." Her voice lost some of its refinement. A Mid-Western lilt lifted the final words of her statement.
I blocked her way. "The stage is behind you." I detected a whiff of fear hiding in the cloud of perfume floating around her.
"Now, this isn't funny, mister. I'm a married woman and not interested in any shenanigans."
Michigan or maybe Wisconsin? It's odd how people revert to the accents of their youths when they're afraid.
"But I love shenanigans." I took the knife from my jacket pocket and pointed it toward the platform. "Dance."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Art closed his office door behind him. The halls of St. Barnabas were quiet on Saturdays. He didn't like working on weekends, but he had a report due the next morning for the weekly board meeting. Weekends were the only time he was able to focus on big projects without constant interruption. He'd finished just in time. It was 6:02. He'd promised Gwen he'd be home by 6:30 so he could take Jason to church.
He jogged down the central staircase and out the front doors, locking them behind him. When he entered
the parking lot, he slowed. Across the blacktop, he could see the round form of Donald Pratt standing under a street lamp with Amy Partridge, president of the Parent Teacher Association. There had been a basketball game in Santa Ana against a rival school late that afternoon. They both had sons on the team and must be waiting for the bus to return.
Art didn't need this. Not now. He never made it past Donald without being lassoed by a string of questions.
"Speak of the devil," Donald roared when Art stepped into the circle of light. Donald had one volume—loud.
"All good things, I hope." Art walked a little faster.
"We were just talking about the McKibben boy's accident. Terrible thing. We were hoping you didn't feel responsible in any way. His suspension was absolutely necessary. My Dwayne was terrorized. We can't allow bullies to rule the playground."
Donald's praise burned. Art did feel responsible. He’d given that particular punishment all by himself. He should have hauled both boys into the office and dealt with Dwayne as well as Brian. He could have sent them to detention for a week, together. Made them shake hands, try to get along. But, no. He was too anxious to please and appease the board. Condemnation fit him like a tailor-made suit. Art mumbled goodnight and raced home.
He made it into his driveway by 6:28. He stayed in the car for a second of peace. Warm, yellow light poured from the windows of his house. He didn't want to bring bad news into that glow. Not tonight.
He'd never told Gwen about Brian's accident. She'd gotten home late last night and he'd worked all day today. Besides he hadn't wanted to bring it up around Emily. It had taken him an hour to calm her after she heard about the accident at Enzo's.
Besides Gwen always accused him of bringing his work home with him. Her schedule was hectic and unpredictable, but when she was home, she was home. He was beginning to think she was right. He did have a hard time separating St. Barnabas from the rest of his life.
It was all-consuming. It gave him purpose and significance, but it required more from him than anything else he'd ever done. It wasn't just a job; it was a ministry, a family. He even spent more time with his own children at school than he did at home. Tonight, he decided, he'd try to find the separation. He'd try to leave campus concerns on campus.
After he dropped Jason at the church, he returned home for the second time. Strains of French Cafe music met him in the entryway. He dropped his keys and wallet on a side table, petted Rocket, and entered the living room. The lights were low; a fire crackled in the fireplace. A feast of chicken salad sandwiches, strawberries, cheese, and chocolate was spread on the coffee table. A knot formed in his stomach. He was afraid romance was a language he'd forgotten how to speak.
"Hey there," Gwen said in a low voice and patted the couch. She looked beautiful. Her hair was pulled into a loose bun. She wore the blue V-neck sweater that accentuated her eyes. She'd dressed to please him, which made him even more anxious.
Art dropped next to her and accepted the glass of wine she handed him.
"The kids are gone." She smiled.
"Emily?"
"She's at Maricela's." Gwen set her glass down and wrapped her arms around his neck. "For the night." She kissed him.
He ought to be excited. The kids were gone. The air was perfumed with something he'd bought Gwen for Christmas. She was obviously in the mood. But he couldn't shake the weight of guilt he felt over Brian's accident. It rode his back like a jockey bent on a win. He downed half his wine.
Gwen handed him a plate and took one for herself. As they ate, he kept the conversation in safe territory. They talked about Gwen's listings, neighborhood gossip, funny things Emily had said that week.
Art wasn't hungry, but forced himself to eat some food between sips of wine. He poured the last of the bottle into their glasses and took a slow breath. Maybe he could relax and enjoy tonight. His problems were beginning to grow fuzzy around the edges. Gwen opened another bottle of wine.
"So," she said. "What's happening with you? What's the latest at school?"
Not good. The events of the yesterday thudded onto his shoulders. His happy buzz began to sound like the droning of bees.
"Oh," he dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. "Boring." He topped off his glass and drank deeply.
Gwen sat up straighter. He knew that posture. The droning bees became the distant ring of alarm bells. She had a sixth sense when it came to him and the kids. They could never hide things from her. "Nothing?" she said, doubt tinged her tone.
Art shook his head.
Gwen picked up one of his hands in both of hers and toyed with his fingers. "I'm worried," she said after a long, silent minute.
"About what?"
"About us."
He couldn't do this. He didn't have the emotional reserves to joist about their marriage. "There's nothing wrong with us time won't solve."
"I don't know about that." Her lips tightened.
Art removed his hand from hers, slugged the rest of his wine and poured more. He didn't want to bring up the accident, didn't want to think about it, but it slammed around in his mind. "Something happened on Friday—"
Gwen put a hand on his mouth and stopped his words. "I'm sorry I brought it up. I don't want you to stress out about work. I want tonight to be about us." She leaned over and kissed him long and deep. He responded mechanically, hoping that his body would cooperate. Hoping love or lust would kick in and override the guilt and self-recriminations that had held him hostage all weekend.
"I have a surprise for you." She pulled away, slid off the couch and left the room.
Art stared at the red liquid in his glass for several seconds, then drained it. He loved Gwen. That was something he knew to be true. He knew it like he knew the earth was round. He knew it like he knew there were craters on the moon. It was a solid fact. Factual.
His love was factual. It was academic. Not emotional. It hadn't always been that way. It might not have been that way yesterday, but tonight that's the way it was.
It was academic, and he was an academic. Maybe that was his problem. He did have a problem. That was a fact. But he couldn't quite remember what it was. His head felt heavy and full. Much too full to unravel puzzles about love and facts and problems. He leaned it against the back of the couch, closed his eyes and in moments entered a disturbed dream world.
#
Thwack. Art's foot made contact with the heavy bag. Thud, thud. Two right jabs to the ribs. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades and down his back. Front kick to the gut. Pivot, back kick to the knee. Pivot, uppercut—chin. Left cross—cheekbone.
He could feel his tension and anger transfer to the boxing bag every time he made contact. He danced around it on light feet and volleyed six or seven surprise hits to imaginary kidneys. He'd been pummeling the sand for thirty-five minutes. Ten minutes longer than most mornings.
He welcomed the weariness that settled over his shoulders like a robe. He shook himself, grabbed a towel from his gym bag and mopped his face. He had time for two sets of reps in the weight room before heading to the office for the board meeting.
Art had never fought an actual opponent. He'd dreamed about it when he was a teenager, but understood even then it was a fantasy that would never be realized. He was a pastor's kid. Pastor's kids don't fight, not even the bullies. Pastor's kids turn the other cheek, give away jackets along with their shirts, and eat every bite of their humble pie. But kickboxing was a great workout.
He lay on the bench after pushing one-forty-five, staring at the acoustic-panel ceiling and wondered how he'd make things right with Gwen. Falling asleep on Valentine's Day when she'd tried so hard to make the evening special was probably the worst marital crime he'd ever committed.
She'd only spoken to him in monosyllables on Sunday. He'd attempted an apology at breakfast. She'd nodded, like she was only half-interested in what he was saying, then locked herself in the bathroom. This would take more than flowers and dinner dates. Those things were bandages.
This rift needed stitches.
Art racked his barbell, picked up his gym bag and headed for the locker room. The hot water sluiced over him washing away the acrid smell of his sweat. Yes, they'd been having problems, but the other night wasn't about that. He wasn't punishing her for not jumping on his political bandwagon at school, regardless of what she thought.
He wasn't ready to talk to her about the real issue until he worked it out for himself, because he might have to admit she was right. Maybe the job was too important to him. Maybe it was so important it almost cost Brian McKibben his life.
While he toweled his hair and ran a comb through it, he made a decision. He'd face the problem head on. Visit Brian in the hospital. Ask his mother for forgiveness. See what he could do to make things right. Maybe then he'd know how to make things right with Gwen.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After the Monday morning cattle drive to St. Barnabas, Gwen drove to the office. She threw her purse into her desk and grabbed her usual spot on the conference room wall between the potted rubber tree and Maricela. "How's it going?" she said in a hushed tone.
"Same old," Maricela said. "We're heading out to preview everyone's listings as soon as Taryn is done yelling at us for leaving the kitchen a mess."
"Not your mother, right?" Taryn said, nodding her highlighted brown head and looking around the room. "On to happier things, agent of the month. Once more it's Lance." Taryn clapped and all the female agents, except Maricela and Gwen, joined in the enthusiasm.
Lance gave a small bow. John Gordon scowled, and Eric Woo discovered something fascinating in the papers on the table in front of him.
"How does he do it?" Gwen whispered to Maricela. "He's only been here, what, eight or nine months?"
"He's got the bait, chica. You and me, we can't compete. Those housewives, they love his big brown eyes, his little dimples, his—"
