by Greta Boris
They fell into an easy discourse about the details of their real estate union. Excitement began to replace unease. He was so easy to talk to, so amenable. If she hesitated on any point, he was quick to ask how she'd like to alter it. She marveled at how much she'd misjudged him. It must have been envy. He'd done so well in such a short time, she'd resented it. She'd been no different than John Gordon. Her small-mindedness made her cringe.
Gwen sipped her wine, and planned her future. The storm raged outside. It was warm and lovely inside. This was good. She and Lance would be good together. She cut into the chocolate ganache cake and handed him a thick slice.
"Delicious," he said, mouth full, then swigged more wine.
The last time she'd had this cake was on one of the last dates she and Art had been out on. After the restaurant, they came home to a sleeping house, and she surprised him with dessert. Art loved chocolate cake. They'd opened a bottle of red wine, fed each other, licked frosting from one another's fingers, and flirted like teenagers. Later they made slow, luxurious love.
Gwen took a bite of her own cake. It tasted like sugar-coated cardboard. She dropped her fork with a clatter that resonated with a clap of thunder so loud it shook the windowpanes. She wondered if it was raining in Big Bear.
"Okay, then. I'll call my guy and have him write up the paperwork." Lance pressed his fork into the last few crumbs on his plate and washed them down with the end of his wine. Gwen rose from the table, picked up their plates and headed toward the kitchen. He grabbed her arm as she walked by.
"Dinner was great." He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her before she realized what was happening. His lips tasted of wine and chocolate.
She pulled back and looked into his eyes. "I don't think I'm ready for this."
"Don't want to seal the deal?" He gave her a half-smile, boyish and hopeful.
"I'm married."
"I respect that. I told you, I'd never try to come between you and Art. You have a family to think about." He picked up her hand, turned it palm up and kissed it. A nest of butterflies stirred to life in her stomach.
"It wouldn't be good for a working relationship. If we... you know... It would be awkward."
"It's awkward now." He rested his head on her shoulder. "I want to know you, Gwen. All of you."
Need opened its petals inside her. It was like a night-blooming cereus, alive only for one glorious night. A thing of beauty that would be dead by morning. Shouldn't she celebrate it? Shouldn't she exalt in its brief but brilliant display? She lifted his face with a fingertip and met his lips with hers.
Lance stood and picked her up in one movement. If Art did that, he'd put his back out. Love you, babe. The clarion call reverberated in her brain, shattering the moment. "Let's take a bath." The words flew out in a nervous rush.
Impatience hardened his features. "Are you getting in there with me?"
"Of course. Just give me a minute to clean up down here. In case someone comes."
"No one's going to come."
"Please. It will help me relax. There's a great tub in the master bathroom. I'll be right up."
He set her on her feet. "Don't be long." He picked up a freshly opened bottle of wine and took three roses from the vase on the table. As he mounted the stairs, he pulled petals from their stems and dropped them behind him. "Breadcrumbs," he said.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Art put Emily in the front seat next to him even though Ryan called shotgun first. She'd finally calmed down, and he wanted to keep it that way. The sounds of the gale were muffled now, but Art was still tense.
The road snaked down the mountain, serpentine and slippery. Rain pelted the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it. He could see the lights of San Bernardino far below where Highway 18 dropped off on his left. He hugged the hillside and hoped he wouldn't be hit by one of the falling rocks the signs warned of.
Despite their bravado, Art could tell the boys were nervous as they broke camp. Their grumbling about leaving grew less and less as the lightning strikes grew closer and the thunder louder. Art glanced into the backseat. Tyler dozed. Jason stared out the window.
Art thought about calling Gwen, but it was late. She was probably in bed. No sense waking her, she'd just worry about them driving in these conditions.
At twenty miles an hour, the descent seemed endless. By the time he hit sea level, he felt like a stork—talons instead of hands, permanently craned neck, children in tow. He stopped at a red light, massaged his fingers and rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder. All three kids were sleeping now. Even Jason had crumpled onto his brother's hip and was snuffling quietly. It was peaceful in the car. A small space of refuge. He missed Gwen more than ever.
Art turned on the radio. A cheerful sounding newscaster said the storm was one of the worst in years. He reported road closures, evacuations and mud slides like they were plays in a cosmic football game.
Art shook his head. Perfect. He felt a kinship with the dry California soil. He'd been unable to absorb the problems he'd been pelted with since September, unable to find terra firma. Life shifted and shook beneath him.
This trip, as ill-fated as it seemed, stopped the mudslide. Family was what mattered, and Art had been neglecting his. Gwen. The kids. The mantle of that responsibility dropped onto his shoulders. The weight of it grounded him.
Emily mumbled, reached out and touched his leg. Art placed his large hand on top of her small one. The contact seemed to comfort her. She smacked her lips a couple of times and settled into sleep again.
Things were going to change. This camping trip was his first attempt to make it right. And it had been a great idea, until the worst storm of the decade decided to make an appearance.
Next month he'd take Gwen to the cottage on Moonstone Beach they'd visited three anniversaries ago. She loved it there. And it would give them a chance to reconnect as man and wife, as lovers, without the kids around. With a shiver, he hoped the San Andreas Fault wouldn't choose that weekend to sever the state.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Gwen heard water running and Lance moving around upstairs while she did the dishes. She imagined him taking off his shirt, his jeans, his boxers. Did he wear boxers? She didn't even know.
She was sure his abdomen would be lean and muscled, his legs strong. She thought about running her hands over his taught back. An ember of anticipation in her belly flickered to life.
Her phone dinged, "Coming?" the text said.
She dried her hands on a towel, "Yes, almost done," she sent back.
"Hurry."
"I'd be there quicker if I didn't have to text," Gwen said to her reflection in the darkened kitchen window, but typed, "Yes." She was hurrying. If she didn't, she might change her mind. A part of her wanted to walk out the front door, leave him alone in the bath until the water cooled, and he realized she wasn't coming up.
"Drinking all the wine." Another text.
Gwen smiled. "Don't!"
"Have to do something."
She put the last of the dishes away, opening and shutting cupboards until she found their mates. It was important to put everything the way it had been.
She had no idea what Mrs. VanVlear was planning to tell the Frobishers about this night. If what she'd done came out, it would be the end of her career. People didn't take kindly to sharing their bath and bed with their Realtor and her boyfriend. Bath and bed. Boyfriend. Her stomach fluttered again. Had she lost her mind?
The phone pinged. "Waiting."
"I know," she answered out loud while she typed the words. She had lost her mind. She'd better find it again before Sunday, before Art and kids came home.
Several shots of adrenaline hit her blood stream like espresso. She shouldn't have thought about Art and the kids. She flicked a dishrag at the counters, hung it over a towel rack under the sink, then stood still in the center of the kitchen.
Although yoga wasn't her favorite form of exercise—she preferred something faster paced—she'
d taken classes at the gym. She practiced the ujjayi breathing she'd learned until her pulse slowed, then walked into the great room.
"What's taking so long?" her phone demanded.
"Hurrying." Her thumbs stabbed at the screen.
She crossed the room extinguishing candles as she went. Dread replaced excitement as darkness replaced the light. When she reached the fireplace, she turned off the gas and was momentarily blinded by the echo of the flames. A streak of lightning pointed like a finger across the black room to the staircase, thunder rolled.
"Do I need to come get you?" her phone glowed.
"Coming," she typed.
She stood at the base of the stairs and looked into the dark cavern at the top. Love you, babe. Art's words rang through her mind. She couldn't go through with this. Maybe she was a fool. Maybe Art had cheated on her. Maybe he hadn't. Either way, it didn't make this right.
She'd lived her whole adult life mourning her mother's death. A death caused by her father's affair. Gwen didn't believe in bending biology, or flexible marriages. It didn't matter how handsome, or dependable or persuasive Lance was. She knew the reality of infidelity.
She made a decision. She would climb the stairs, go into the bathroom, and tell him she couldn't do it. If it cost her a partnership, so be it.
The feeling that something was wrong hit her on the third riser. There was no warning creak like in a haunted house movie. Everything was quiet. Too quiet.
She heard no splashing, no running water, no sound at all other than the murmur of rain against the windowpanes. She picked her way carefully around the rose petals that were already beginning to wilt.
When she reached the top of the stairs, she called out to Lance. He didn't answer. She paused for a moment, then fixated on the trail of petals as if she might lose her way without them. The red path led her down the dark hall and into the master suite.
From halfway across the bedroom, she could see the tile floor of the bathroom shining wetly in the candlelight. Lance must have splashed water out of the tub as he got into it. With a soft, nervous laugh she said, "You're so messy. We're going to have to mop."
Lance didn't answer.
A strand of hair tickled her shoulder. She slapped it behind her as if she could slap away the light fingers of anxiety tickling up and down her spine. She stepped over the puddle into the master bath.
Her eyes followed the wet trail to the wide, ceramic tub. Rose petals floated on the surface of the water like drops of blood. Lance's chin rested on his chest as if he was sleeping. "Lance." Her voice broke like a teenage boy's. She cleared her throat and stepped closer.
His knees rose like bone, white islands. She noticed, in an absentminded way, his legs were skinnier than she'd imagined them. Burgundy clouds floated in the sudsy water.
"Lance." Her voice was pleading now.
She willed him to open his eyes, to smile sheepishly and tell her he'd spilled a glass of wine into the tub. But he didn't stir. Only his fine, brown, chest hairs swayed in the water like kelp.
DING. The light of her cell phone shone blue and ghostly in the dim room.
"Finally."
The phone slipped from her fingers and disappeared beneath the maroon bubbles.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Art steered the minivan into the driveway. Relief untangled his shoulder muscles. He almost pulled off the freeway several times to find a hotel, but was propelled forward by a longing to be home, in his own bed, with his own wife.
The windows were dark. He looked at his dashboard clock, 12:17. Gwen must be asleep. He hit the garage opener and watched as the door struggled up then clunked into place with the groan of an arthritic, old man settling into his La-Z-Boy. That would probably wake her, and she'd be irritated. He'd been promising to replace it with one of those roll-up jobs as soon as he got the job and the raise, or when the door broke, whichever came first.
He'd expected to have to maneuver around Gwen's silver Honda. She never would pull it all the way to the left like he asked her to. But it wasn't there. He looked into his rearview mirror to see if he'd passed it on the street and not noticed. Not there either.
Gwen must have gone to Maricela's. They probably watched a movie, had too much wine, and she decided to spend the night. He opened the passenger side door and put a hand on Jason's shoulder. "Hey, buddy, we're home."
Jason mumbled something unintelligible and stumbled from the car. Tyler woke, gave him a sleepy smile, then followed his brother. Art walked around the car to the passenger side and picked up a slumbering Emily. Her eyes never opened. Her head came up, wobbled on her bird-thin neck for a moment, then thudded onto his shoulder.
He walked through the dark house without turning on lights and climbed the stairs. Emily's bedroom smelled like strawberry candy. He deposited her on her bed. After kissing her forehead and tucking the covers around her, he headed to the bedroom the boys shared.
Jason and Ryan were already sprawled atop their Batman quilts, breathing heavily. Art took off their shoes, then covered them with superheroes and arch-enemies. He remembered scooting a Matchbox Batmobile around his bedroom and shouting orders to Robin when he was a kid. Some things were constant. It was comforting. In a world full of change and insecurity, Batman never died.
After a hot shower, he climbed under his own duvet-covered, down comforter, between Egyptian cotton sheets that smelled of Gwen's perfume. He stared at his phone. Should he call or text? He didn't want to wake her if she was sleeping. He decided on a text.
"Hi, honey. Came home because of the storm. Everyone in bed. You OK?"
He dozed off with the phone on his chest waiting for a response. An hour later, his bed heaved under him. He reached his hand over the side, and a wet muzzle acknowledged it. A few more bumps and Rocket, the fair-weather guard dog, burrowed deeper under the bed.
Art checked his phone. Gwen hadn't answered his text. He hadn't expected her to, but disappointment seeped from the blank screen just the same. Exhausted, he rolled over and fell into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Gwen looked at Lance's bloated fingers bobbing, white and lifeless, in the scarlet water and pressed her hand to her mouth. He hadn't sent the text. She stumbled and turned toward the bedroom. Who then?
The only illumination came from watery moonlight shining through the uncovered windows. Her eyes ran across the expanse of carpet to the doorway leading into the hall. Dark, indistinct mounds loomed between her and the exit. She stepped forward, wary and alert—a deer sidling toward a salt lick.
A shape on the bed rippled in the blackness. Gwen stared. Was it a trick of moonlight? She strained her ears for a rustle of bed sheets. All she heard was the pounding of her pulse.
Lightning flashed. In that split second, Gwen saw an arm cradling a head. Another flash. She saw feet crossed in a relaxed, picnic-in-the-park pose.
"I've been enjoying the Ravish," a deep voice said. The shape rose onto an elbow. An ebony arm hoisted a toast.
Incredulity almost extinguished Gwen's fear. The voice was familiar. The man put his glass on the bedside table and turned on a low lamp. She knew him—knew, but couldn't comprehend. It was absurd. It was as if a Martian, or Abraham Lincoln, or the Ghost of Christmas Past was lying in that bed.
His eyes gleamed, feral in the low light. How had she not noticed those eyes before? He patted the bed. "You look as ravishing as the wine. Come have a glass."
"What are you doing here?" As soon as she asked the question, she wished she wouldn't have. Its answer lurked in the empty house.
"We have things to discuss."
It must be shock. She couldn't fit the pieces together. The events of the day swam in meaningless circles through the squall in her mind. He was here. In her client's home. In her client's bed, where she'd planned to...
Lance, oh God, Lance.
The fact that he was lying dead in the next room burst through the unreality of the scene and struck her like a cold wave. She bega
n to shiver.
Mo sat up. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Heartbeats scampered around her chest, but she was unable to move. Like a mouse mesmerized by a cobra, she watched as he crossed the room. He came between her and the door to the hall, between her and her family.
A primal instinct took hold of her unresponsive limbs. She broke into a run and launched herself at him. It was like slamming into Mount Vesuvius. She fell back, stunned.
"No need to be hasty. I was coming to you." He grinned.
Gwen dodged right; he blocked her. She feinted left. He spread his arms wide and sidestepped.
"Calm down. I only want to talk," he said.
Gwen tasted the sour bile of panic. She opened her mouth to reason with him, plead if she had to, but all that came was a guttural moan. She retreated up. He followed.
"You're a wheeler dealer. I've been watching you," he said.
Gwen stepped farther away. She inhaled and exhaled slowly, willing herself to control the fear crawling over her skin. If she could humor him, distract him, maybe she could reach the wall switch by the closet behind her. It controlled the bedside table lamp he'd turned on. She had no further plan, just hide in the dark, away from those feral eyes.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Gwen said.
"Oh, you know. You were willing to..." He spread his hands, jerked his head toward the bed and raised his eyebrows. "Just to get ahead."
"It wasn't..." Her words trailed off. She wouldn't defend herself. She had to focus on the light switch. That small piece of plastic became her talisman. It was the only thing standing between her and complete panic, and the only thing in the world that mattered at this moment was diverting his attention away from it. "What do you want from me?"
"Not as much as Lance did, I can assure you. I have a simple favor to ask."
"Favor? You killed Lance because you want a favor?" A hysterical laugh burbled from Gwen's lips. She bit it off. "What kind of favor could you possibly want from me?"
"A small one."
