Читать книгу Second Honeymoon - Laura Abbot - Страница 10

MEG GAZED OUT THE PLANE WINDOW at the patchwork of farms and open range thousands of feet below. On the aisle, Scott hunched over his laptop, lost in concentration. Between them was the empty middle seat, a symbolic chasm. Never a confident flier, Meg clenched her fingers in her lap and wished away the headache assaulting her temples.

Somehow she’d survived Sunday’s frantic race to wash clothes, pack, write down the kids’ schedules and prepare detailed instructions for Bud and Marie—all while wearing the frozen smile of a painted marionette. Had she fooled anyone? Who knew?

Then this morning, Scott had awakened early, totally preoccupied with the Jordan ad-campaign presentation. While he’d dressed, she’d lain curled in a fetal position in their bed, dreading a trip that months ago might have excited her.

Now Scott’s heavy sigh interrupted her musings. “What?” she said, that one word representing as much conversation as she felt like offering.

Checking his watch, he shrugged with impatience. “I need to call Brenda before the office closes.”

The headache throbbed against Meg’s skull. “There’s no huge hurry, is there?”

“You’ve forgotten the switch to mountain time.” His patronizing tone grated on her nerves.

“Oh, I’m sure Brenda will be standing by for your call.” Standing by? More likely poised like a school-girl waiting for an invitation to the prom.

“She’d better be. We have work to do.”

So much for the idea of a vacation getaway. But what had she expected? While she read and took long, solitary walks, his work would consume his time. That is, whatever time was left after they finished dissecting their marriage.

She rested her aching head against the seat back and closed her eyes. How had they reached this point? When had their relationship started to unravel?

On paper Scott had fit the profile of her dream man perfectly—he was good-looking, smart, ambitious, caring. Great husband material. She could just hear her mother’s nasal twang followed by her embittered laugh: “Meg, honey, it’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man. Shoulda followed my own advice.”

She pictured her childhood home—a two-bedroom house with a sagging front porch in a run-down section of town. Remembered how it had smelled of bacon grease, cats and cloying gardenia air freshener. When she’d been in grade school, she would sit on the front steps in the late-summer afternoons watching fathers come home from work, wondering what it would be like to have a man in the house—a daddy who might hug her and ask about her day and maybe play catch with her out in the yard after dinner. But her father had died when she was three.

In high school, her fantasy had shifted from a daddy to an attentive, loving husband with whom she would live the perfect life. Although she’d never lacked for boyfriends, most fell far short of her ideal, and she saw no point in wasting time on them.

In the spring of Meg’s second year in college, her mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and had lived only until summer’s end, leaving Meg with significant medical bills.

Certainly, no Prince Charming waited in the wings to rescue her.

Given little choice, she’d sold the house, moved into university housing, found an on-campus job and scrimped to fund her final two years of college.

Following graduation, she’d worked as the office manager for a large dental clinic. One day, in a waiting room crowded with mothers and cantankerous children, a construction worker with an excruciating toothache and an old woman nervously awaiting a fitting for new dentures, there appeared a handsome young man with a gorgeous tan and a sexy smile that showed off his white, even teeth—a feature, given her line of work, she couldn’t help noticing.

After introducing himself as Scott Harper, an account executive with a small advertising agency, he’d proceeded to tout the benefits of promoting the clinic. “Dentistry is competitive. A practice can’t survive on word of mouth alone, if you’ll pardon the pun,” he’d explained, before launching into the various promotional services his firm could offer.

Never had a media spot sounded so fascinating.

Later, retelling the story of their meeting, Scott would laugh and say, “I didn’t sell the dentists on my wares, but I sold myself.” Then he would turn that killer grin on her and add, “I got the girl.”

He wasn’t rich, as her mother would’ve preferred, but he was all the other things Meg had wanted in a man. She’d always claimed not to believe in love at first sight, but Scott had changed her mind. Dinner that first night, flowers the next day, a weekend trip to the lake. He’d passed every test with flying colors.

Meg opened her eyes and turned to study her husband, poring over computer files. He was still good-looking, smart and ambitious. Emphasis on the ambitious. Just what she’d always thought she wanted.

But caring? Attentive?

Did the lack of those qualities explain the void inside her? The feeling that she was still sitting on that front porch waiting for her daddy to come home?

STANDING AT HIS LOCKER Monday afternoon, scrounging for some notebook paper, Justin suddenly remembered. In all the excitement of the party and his folks’ big trip, he’d forgotten about the note from his English teacher. He dug a hand into the black hole of his backpack and finally came up with the envelope addressed to his parents in Mrs. Kelly’s perfect cursive. He slumped against the wall. He was totally screwed.

While he watched other kids scurrying down the hall, ducking into classrooms, he stood frozen, debating. He could go into English class, march up to Mrs. Kelly’s desk and throw himself on her mercy. Yeah, right. The woman was born without a heart. Or he could hide out in a bathroom stall until the final bell sounded. English was his last class of the day. After that, he could sneak on the bus. If any teachers came into the restroom, he’d tell them he had diarrhea. Yeah, who’d want to question that?

Only a few kids remained in the hall. He glanced at the clock and watched anxiously as the second hand ticked up to the hour. Do something, idiot, he urged himself.

When the tardy bell rang, he grabbed his backpack, slammed his locker shut and, with his heart thudding against his rib cage, fled into the boys’ bathroom.

It was empty. Quiet. Too quiet. It smelled like pee and disinfectant. Gross paper towels overflowed the trash can and the faucets were slimy with liquid soap.

He slipped into a stall, ready in case “Bozo” Harris, the vice principal, or some other kid showed up.

Okay, he was safe for now. But he needed a plan. Eventually he’d have to show the note to one of his grandparents. They’d find out he’d been “prevaricating.” He rolled his eyes. He’d never get used to that word. Maybe Gramma and Grampa would feel sorry for him if they knew he’d been “sick” seventh period and would call the school and excuse his absence. He sure didn’t want to serve detention for cutting class.

His stomach cramped. Would Mrs. Kelly still make him read that stupid book?

Just then somebody entered the bathroom. Somebody big. Somebody with suit trousers and old-man shoes.

Perched on the toilet seat, Justin held his breath.

“Harper, you in here?”

Shit. Bozo. How did he know?

“Usually when a fella takes a crap, he’ll pull his pants down. Why don’t you come out and tell me what you’re doing in there when you’re supposed to be in Mrs. Kelly’s class? She was ticked when you didn’t show up.”

Ticked? He bet she was. He could just picture her grilling every last kid in the class about him. Probably called him a miscreant, another one of her fancy-shmancy words.

“I’m waiting,” Bozo barked.

Slowly, Justin stood up, slung his backpack over his shoulder and opened the stall door.

Bozo glared at him. “Follow me, son. We’re going to my office for a little chat. I just may have to call your parents.”

Jeez, not the chamber of horrors. That was what all the kids called Mr. Harris’s office. Nothing good went down there, that was for sure. Justin grasped at his last straw. “My parents are out of town.”

Bozo stopped and laid a firm hand on Justin’s shoulder. “I doubt they left you all by yourself.” He raised an eyebrow as if he could see straight into Justin’s brain.

Justin tried a new tack. “No, sir.” The “sir” business couldn’t hurt.

“Well?” Bozo increased the pressure on Justin’s shoulder.

“My grandparents are staying with me and my sister.”

Mr. Harris resumed his drill-sergeant march toward the office. “They’ll do.”

Justin’s insides turned to mush. “Do you have to call them?”

Bozo smiled in that smug way of his. “We’ll see about that, Harper. But it’s a distinct possibility.”

BECAUSE OF DENVER TRAFFIC, it was late afternoon by the time Scott and Meg reached the cabin. When Scott stepped out of the rental car, the clean mountain air, redolent of pine, served as a powerful pick-me-up. Overhead, the sun was sinking behind the peaks, and surrounding him was silence, broken only by the gentle tumble of a mountain stream flowing behind the cabin. He drew a deep breath, and for the first time in a long while, felt his muscles relax.

“Are you going to stand there all day?”

He turned toward Meg, who waited by the trunk of the car, her arms folded across her chest. He was inclined to say, “So what if I do?” but thought better of it. Meg had made it abundantly clear that she wasn’t happy to be there. At least not alone with him.

He pressed the button on his key chain to open the trunk, then pulled out their bags.

Meg eyed the log cabin with its deep front porch. “Do you think it’s the same one?”

“Seems familiar.”

“All the cabins look alike. I guess it doesn’t matter.” She grabbed her overnight bag out of his hand. “I’ll take that.”

Toting the two larger suitcases, he followed her onto the porch and fumbled in his pocket for the key. When the door swung open, he winced, recalling his insistence twenty years ago that he carry his bride over the threshold. Then another memory swept through him. That day the bags had been left on the porch, forgotten. He’d taken her directly to the bedroom where he’d hurriedly undressed her, shed his own clothes and made love to her beneath the goose-down comforter, not caring that they hadn’t turned on the heater. They’d created their own warmth with the delicious friction of skin on skin, with kisses hot and passionate and an abandon born of impatience.