Читать книгу Out With The Old, In With The New - Nancy Robards Thompson - Страница 12

There was no joke.

Nor a punch line.

Only the slow-dawning realization that Mac and Dave weren’t the culprits. Someone else sent the letter.

Some unknown person, who, for some unknown reason, decided she—or he—and it could very well be a he, let’s not jump to conclusions—wanted to mess with the solidarity of the Hennessey marriage.

So here I stand the morning after, in the kitchen, squeezing orange juice for Corbin’s and Caitlin’s breakfast, pondering who and why and trying to act as if I haven’t a care in the world.

I’ve never been a good actress. I’m tired and cranky because I lay awake most of last night listening to Corbin snore.

The orange slips off the juicer, and my hand lands in the sticky, pulpy mess. Oh for God’s sake. It’s mornings like this I wish I could pull a carton of OJ from the refrigerator. But I won’t. I’ve always taken pride in giving my family the best. I rinse and dry my hand, return to the half-dozen orange halves on the cutting board.

I’m just tired. Everything always seems worse when I’m tired.

“Corbin?”

He’s sitting at the table, a bowl of oatmeal in front of him, engrossed in the newspaper. He doesn’t look up from the business section. A prickle of irritation spirals through my veins, and I’m tempted to throw a spent orange hull at his paper fortress. Instead, I toss the peel into the sink.

“Do you want to hear something funny?” I ask.

“Mmm…” He folds the paper in half then over again. Still reading, he reaches for a piece of toast on a plate next to his cereal. Absently, he takes a bite.

I pick up another orange half. “I thought Dave and Mac were the ones who wrote the letter.”

He lowers the paper and looks at me as if I’m an idiot.

I shrug. “I thought they were playing a joke.”

He frowns. “A damn lousy joke. They wouldn’t do something like that. “He sounds irritated, defensive, as if he’d never considered them suspect. The crease between his brows deepens, and he retreats behind his newspaper. I hate the way he shuts down in the middle of a conversation. Because I always have plenty left to say.

“Yes, Corbin, it is a lousy thing to do. Do you have any idea who did it?”

“Kate.” It’s more of a sigh than a word. He lays the business section on the table, checks his watch, stands. “Just let it go. Bottom line is I love you. I love our family. I’m not going to do anything to screw up what we have.” He walks over and puts his arms around me. “The only way the letter matters is if we let it matter. So let it go.”

I sink into him. His arms feel so right around me. This is my place. But reservation seeps in and rakes its cold, bony fingers over every inch of my body, leaving me breathless and slightly nauseated. He’s right, though. I’m sure whoever did this wants a reaction just like the elementary school bully wanted attention. The question is, whose attention does this bully want?

“You think if we ignore it, it will simply go away?”

“Will who go away, Mommy?” Caitlin walks into the kitchen dressed for school. She hesitates in front of her seat at the table and looks at Corbin and me.

He releases me and returns to the table.

“No one, sweetie. Daddy and I were just talking about—”

“No one of any consequence.” Corbin tickles Caitlin. “So don’t you worry your pretty little head over it.”

Her laughter crescendos into high-pitched screams, and he draws her into a snuggly Daddy-hug that melts my heart because it speaks louder than all the words he could utter to convince me of his dedication.

I shove the orange down on the marble head of the electric appliance. The machine growls as it pulverizes the fruit. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could purge myself of doubt the way the juicer forces the pulp from the orange?

“What’s consequence?” Caitlin asks, a spoonful of oatmeal poised in front of her mouth.

“A person of no consequence is someone of no importance,” says Corbin. “Someone who doesn’t matter.”

I pour the juice into glasses. “A consequence is also the result of your actions. You do something bad, you suffer the consequence.”

The words slip out before I realize the implication. My cheeks burn.

Corbin cuts his gaze to me and hesitates before he scrapes the last bite of oatmeal from his bowl. I carry two glasses of juice to the table and set one in front of Caitlin. I hold the other until my husband looks me in the eye again.

Resolve gleams in his clear azure eyes. A determination that dictates conversation about the letter is over. Okay. If he can still look me in the eye, what else do I need to make myself feel better?

So that’s it.

I can believe him, or I can leave him.

I believe him.

He reaches up, takes the glass, sips it and raises it toward me with a slight nod. “Thank you.”

He picks up the paper again. He looks good in his sapphire-blue shirt and yellow tie. The shirt matches his eyes, which are in crisp contrast to his nearly black hair. For a moment I’m transported back to my freshman year at the University of Florida, when we first met. I was working my way through school. He was the carefree frat boy. The cocky rich kid who had the world at his feet. My family is close, but we’re of simple means. Yet out of all the debutantes and sorority girls, the moneyed coeds with deep Southern roots and families with even deeper pockets, Corbin chose me. He used to say, Money can’t buy class, Kate. Either you’re born with it or you’re not. Every single day of our twenty-year marriage, I’ve done my best to make sure he didn’t live to regret his choice.

As I pull out my chair to take my place at the table with my coffee, I spy the paint chips on the windowsill and pick them up.

“I talked to Alex yesterday,” I say as I shuffle through the colors. “It’s time for our annual getaway. But I don’t know….”

He lowers the paper. “This early?”

“Well, that’s just it. She and Rainey have their hearts set on this spa weekend down at the Breakers. It’s in two weeks.” I shake my head.

“What’s the date?”

“February seventh, but it’s too soon. Not enough notice. I’ll tell them to go ahead without me. Maybe the girls and I can plan a trip later this year, closer to our birthdays.”

He shrugs. “It should be fine. I’m on call this weekend. That means Mac or Dave will be on the weekend you’re away. I’m sure your mother will help out if there’s an emergency.”

Emergency? What does he expect to happen?

The words from the letter telegraph in my brain: Ask your husband what he’s been doing all those nights he claimed to be at the hospital.

No.

Stop it. I will not keep going there. Am I really going to let some unknown person control my relationship with my husband? A man I’ve known for twenty years? “I don’t want you to go, Mommy.” Caitlin frowns up at me, her blond brows knit into a single line across her smooth forehead.

Corbin reaches out and takes my hand. The paint chips scatter on the table.

“No, Caitlin, your mommy deserves to do this for herself. Sometimes we forget that she never gets a break.”

He draws my hand to his lips, kisses my knuckles. The gesture is so sweet, so tender. My eyes mist. I close them until I’m able to swallow the lump in my throat.

To keep my mind on the positive, I say, “Take a look at these colors.” I nudge the samples toward him. “I’d like to get the living room painted before I go.”

He picks up the sport section and scrutinizes a photo of an Orlando Magic player scoring the winning point at a recent game. “Whatever you want. You’re the one with good taste.”

I scoot the Scarlett O’Hara chip toward him. “Okay, then this one.”

He peers over the top corner of the paper and laughs. “Not in my house. This belongs in a bordello. Besides, isn’t red supposed to excite people? I need to relax when I get home.”

If he hadn’t been so darn sweet just a short moment ago, I’d argue Scarlett O’Hara’s case. For now, she can wait.

“I’ll be home after the game tonight. Are you sure you and Caitlin don’t want to come?”

I shake my head.

“Awwwwww, Mommy. I want to go.”

“No, you were too hard to wake up this morning and you have school tomorrow. Another time. A weekend game, perhaps.”

Corbin stands, kisses Caitlin on the top of her head. “Come to think of it, I’ll be pretty late. After the game, there’s a reception at Harvey’s Bistro for the new general manager. I need to put in an appearance. New management could decide on a new team physician. I need to stake our claim.”

I steel myself against the queer swirling sensation in my gut. Everything is fine. He will go to his game. I will go to Palm Beach.

Everything is fine.

Alex and Rainey are surveying the loot from our shopping spree and settling into our luxury suite at the Breakers as I punch numbers on my cell phone. It’s only seven-thirty. Our dinner reservation is for eight, and I want to call home and say goodnight to Caitlin before it gets much later.

The phone rings. I settle back against the padded headboard waiting for someone to answer, watching Rainey model a new dress she bought in a shop on Worth Avenue.

Rainey twirls. Alex gives the thumbs-up sign. She doesn’t have kids or a husband—which, she says, is a good thing, given the fact she can’t even hold together a relationship with her mother. They haven’t spoken in ten years. That’s sad. I can’t imagine what I’d do without my mother, but it’s Alex’s life. She says she’s perfectly happy having only to check in with her law office’s answering service.

Rainey’s only child, Ben, will graduate from high school in May. He probably won’t realize she’s gone for the weekend until she gets back and tries to torture him with photographs.

Rainey’s a pro when it comes to cameras. She’s by far the most creative of the three of us. She’s argued that point with me on more than one occasion, giving me credit for my “decorating flair.” But my panache, as she calls it, does not hold a candle to what Rainey can create with a lump of clay and the artistic equivalent of a funky manicure set. She’s amazing. By default—and because Alex and I didn’t even bother to bring a camera—she’s the official photographer of the tenth annual girls’ getaway.

She snaps a shot of me with the phone pressed to my ear. I’m counting the rings on the other end of the line. Seven…eight… A couple more and the answering machine will kick in, but in the nick of time Caitlin picks up the receiver. Her little voice sings, “Hello, Hennessey residence.”

“Hi, sweetie.”

“Mommy! When are you coming home? I miss you.”

“Pumpkin, I haven’t been gone twenty-four hours. How can you miss me already?”

“I just do. Don’t you miss me?”

“Of course I do, but I’m having fun, too. We went shopping today and had our nails done. We just checked into our room.”

“Did you get me a surprise?”

“I sure did.”

“What color did you get your nails painted?”

“Natural.”

“Just like always. When you get home will you paint my nails pink?”

“I will. Maybe I’ll even find a special bottle of pretty pink polish to bring home to you.”

“Ohhhhhhhh! Don’t forget, okay?”

“All right, sweetie. Can you put Daddy on the phone for a minute?”

“No.”

No? My heart kicks against my breastbone, and I sit up and scoot to the edge of the bed. “Why not?”

“He’s sleeping.”

What? In all the time I’ve known this man, he’s never napped. “What’s wrong? Is he okay?”

“I think so.”

A bad feeling creeps into my veins. Caitlin isn’t a baby, of course, but if he’s sick he should’ve called my mother to come help, rather than leaving her to fend for herself while he slept. I turn toward the window. It’s dark outside.

“How long has he been asleep?”

“I dunno.”

“Have you had dinner?”

“No, and I’m hungry.”

I stand up. It’s nearly bedtime. I knew this trip was a bad idea.

“Take the phone into him and tell him Mommy wants to talk to him.”

Rainey and Alex have stopped their shopping show-and-tell and are staring at me.

“He’ll get mad. Just like you’re mad.”

I take a deep breath and soften my tone. “I’m not mad, honey. I’m concerned about Daddy. And you. I’m sorry if I sounded angry.”

I walk into the living room, away from my audience. “Honey, put him on the phone, and then I’ll talk to you again before I hang up. Okay?”

A few moments later, a groggy voice croaks, “Yeah? Doctor Hennessey.”

“Corbin, it’s me. What’s wrong?”

He grunts. I picture him sitting up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and running his hand over his eyes and through his hair in one motion. “Oh, Kate. It’s you.” His voice is breathy. “I thought it was the hospital. Oh God… I didn’t mean to sleep so long. I just…passed out.”

Passed out? I quell the mother tiger urge to tear into him. You don’t pass out when you’re taking care of a child. Staring at the maroon-velvet-striped wallpaper, I silently count to ten and give him the benefit of the doubt. “Are you sick?”

“No. I was…tired.” His voice tightens on the last word. “I’m entitled to take a nap every once in a while.”

“I’m not saying you aren’t. But it’s seven-thirty, and your daughter hasn’t even eaten dinner. When you’re caring for a six-year-old, entitlement gets put on hold for the weekend.”

He snorts.

The urge to ask if I need to come home wraps around me like a scratchy wool blanket begging me to throw it off my shoulders and onto the table. But I draw it tightly around me and endure the itch.

“It’s only two days. Come on, you can handle it.”

The long, drawn-out silence underscores every mile that stretches between us, until I can’t stand it anymore.

“Corbin, she’s only six. If you have to check out, or pass out or whatever you did, take her to my mother’s house so someone’s looking after her, okay?”

“Oh, for God’s sake—” He draws in a heavy breath. Lets it out. “You’re right. You’re always right, Kate. I’d better get in there and start cooking. Have fun shopping. Goodbye.”

“Don’t forget the—” click “—lasagna in the refrigerator.”

I look at my phone. Call ended.

He hung up on me.

Oh! Irritation simmers in the pit of my stomach, threatening to rage into a full boil. I squeeze the phone until my knuckles turn white and stare at it as if it will channel all my anger back to my husband and reach out and slap him. What is his problem?

A vision of my daughter’s face pops into my mind. We didn’t even get to say good-night. I start to call home again—

“Everything all right?” Alex asks.

I jump and turn toward her in one quick, jerky motion, and snap the phone closed. Alex is standing in the middle of the living-room floor, hands on her hips. From the concerned look on her face, I’m certain she heard every word of my conversation. Through the bedroom doorway, I see Rainey seated at the dressing table, touching up her makeup, watching me in the mirror.

Heat floods my cheeks. I feel like an idiot.

“Everything’s fine.” I grab my purse off the coffee table and shove the phone inside. “We’d better go or we’ll miss our reservation.”

Out in the hall the air is cool and carries that old, upscale hotel smell of brass polish and carpet shampoo. Our suite is at the end of the corridor. Three doors down a fortyish man and twenty-something brunette step into the hallway. They don’t see me. Or maybe they do, but they don’t care. He closes the door, draws her to him in a feverish kiss. I watch them shamelessly. His hands skim her slim body, wind their way around to her derriere where they linger, kneading and pulling her into him for the duration of the kiss.

They laugh, kiss again, coo at each other, and finally walk away, arms entwined, past the other rooms that stretch down the passage like twin rows of soldiers standing at attention, guarding tawdry secrets. Shiny knobs and numbered plates glint in the dim light, but betray nothing of the lovers who grace these halls.

A voice deep inside me prods and pokes me in vulnerable places. “You know what’s going on, Kate. You know. Now you have to decide if you’re going to turn the other cheek or start opening some doors.”

We get back to the hotel before midnight. I’m remarkably relaxed. Equalized, you might say. Amazing the miracles worked by good friends, a delicious meal and more than a few glasses of Chardonnay.

Ahh… Medicine to soothe the weary soul.

I fall onto the overstuffed, floral sofa, let my head loll back into the cushion and close my eyes for a minute.

“This is exactly what I needed,” Rainey says as she toes out of her sandals. “It’s good for us to get away. It makes our men miss us. And appreciate us.”

I nod and look at Alex. I see two of her and blink until the images meld into one. My head is spinning. I put my hand on my forehead to make it stop.

I never drink this much. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. It was either anesthe…a—nes—the—tize—phewwww, say that after several glasses of wine. Anyhow, it was either numb myself or cry in my soup and ruin everyone’s dinner. That wouldn’t have been very nice. Especially given that the girls didn’t even ask about my phone call. Wise women. I like that about them. Good friends. They have a sixth sense that tells them when to prod and when to leave it alone.

Instead, we talk about tomorrow’s plans—more shopping, the beach, a massage. Then Rainey goes off on her usual hour-long tirade about how her husband pays no attention to her, which I suspect may have been meant as a segue for me to jump in and talk about my phone spat with Corbin, but I don’t cross the threshold. Uh-uh. Not going there. In fact, that little voice that keeps nagging me saying—“You know what he’s doing, Kate. You know.”—I tell it to shut up.

And then Alex gives Rainey her standard logic against Rainey’s staying with a man who won’t make love to her. “Did you get married to become a nun?” She asked her that.

It’s kinda funny if you think about it.

Well, naaaa, really it’s not. It kinda sucks, actually. At least Corbin and I still do it. Well, we used to. It’s been a while. But I don’t want to talk about it. So anyway, after Alex goes off, Rainey starts with her defense of the ups and downs of holy matrimony.

All this in the span of two bottles of wine. I couldn’t get a word in if I wanted to. All I do is sit, sip and go along for the ride.

Now, we’re back at the hotel, and they’re all talked out. It’s a good thing, because my head hurts.

Alex stands up and stretches. “It’s way past my bedtime. I’m calling it a night.”

“I’m not far behind you,” says Rainey. “Who wants the bathroom first?”

The two disappear into the bedroom to sort it out. Inertia takes hold of me, and tugs me into a prone position on the couch. Maybe closing my eyes will make the dizziness go away.

Yeahhhhh…that’s better… Except that all I can see in my mind’s eye is the long double row of doors outside in the hotel hallway and that damned kissing couple a few rooms down. And this time when the man draws back from the embrace, it’s…Corbin who’s grinding himself into the brunette.

I sit up too fast, which causes my already pounding head to split. I swallow against a wave of nausea.

My purse is on the coffee table, and I fish out my cell phone, letting my PDA, lipsticks and receipts fall where they may.

Dialing my home number, I pay no attention to the little voice that warns me that it’s after midnight. Shut up! Weren’t you just saying, “You know. You know.” Well, I’ve had enough of you. Shut up.

The line rings twice before a young woman answers.

“Hennessey residence.”

I’m jolted sober. A coppery taste fills my already dry mouth and bile burns the back of my throat.

“This is Kate Hennessey. May I speak to Corbin, please?”

My words are short and enunciated. Much too polite for this woman who’s in my house, answering my phone. I should call her a home-wrecking bitch-slut. Because that’s what she is—

“Hi, Mrs. Hennessey. This is Jenny Long. Dr. Hennessey had an emergency at the hospital and called me about an hour ago to come in and stay with Caitlin.”

“Oh.”

My hand flies to my mouth in an automatic reflex. This young woman, whom I nearly called a home-wrecking bitch-slut, is, in fact, the college girl we call when we need an overnight sitter and my mother’s not available. Why did Corbin call her and not my mother? What about Dave and Mac? One of the moron twins was supposed to be on call this weekend. Why is Corbin at the hospital instead of them?

Ask your husband what he’s been doing all those nights he claimed to be at the hospital.

A scream blooms low in my belly and expands, threatening to overpower me. Somehow I manage to ask in a civilized tone, “Hi, Jenny, when did Corbin say he’d be home?”

“He wasn’t sure. He said he might be late—or early, depending on how you look at it. He said if he wasn’t home by the time Caitlin woke up, I should feed her.”

I can’t breathe and the walls start to close in on me.

Not only is the room spinning, but now the floor is dropping out from under me. “Thanks, Jenny.” I don’t know where my voice comes from, but it catches me like a safety net, and I’m grateful for it.

“Sure, Mrs. Hennessey. If it’s urgent, you can always page him or phone him at the hospital.”

“Yes, thanks, I’ll do that.”

I hang up the phone, sick with dread, knowing what I have to do. The longer I put off the call, the harder it’ll be to place. I’m not going to call his cell phone because if he’s not where he’s supposed to be, he’ll know he’s caught. But if I call the hospital and he’s there, I can tell him I felt bad about the way we left things when we spoke earlier, tell him I love him and want to end the night on a better note.

Yes, that’s it.

I pull up the numbers stored in my phone and page through the list until I come to Winter Park Hospital. I hit the automatic dial key. My heart pounds so hard I feel faint.

The automated attendant picks up, and I press O. “Operator, how may I direct your call?”

I can barely speak, but I manage. “This is Kate Hennessey, Dr. Hennessey’s wife. Would you page him, please?”

I suck in a breath.

“Sure. Hold please.”

A moment later she comes back on the line. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hennessey, Dr. Hennessey isn’t here this evening.”

Her words are a white-hot jolt, an arrow shot straight through the bull’s-eye of my heart, confirming every inkling of doubt I’ve had for the past three weeks.

Ask your husband what he’s been doing all those nights he claimed to be at the hospital.

No!

Believe him or leave him.

“I believe he was called in on an emergency. Could you check one more time, please? It’s urgent.”

I’m shaking. Not a little quiver, but huge quaking shudders racking my entire body. I hold on the line, feeling small and sure that the operator knows how pathetically insecure I am. Yet, I have the mental clarity to wonder what I’m going to say to him if somehow, miraculously, Corbin’s voice comes on the line.

But deep down I know my husband’s not at the hospital. I have no idea where he is or who he’s with.

“Mrs. Hennessey, I spoke with the charge nurse and she says Dr. Hennessey hasn’t been in all evening. Have you tried paging him?”

No. I don’t want to talk to him. I want to know if he’s where he told the sitter he’d be. “That’s a great idea.”

“May I take a message in case he comes in?”

I’m slipping, melting from the inside out.

“No, thank you. I’m out of town. I must have misunderstood his schedule for this evening.”

“Well then, have a good night.”