Читать книгу My Favorite Mistake - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 10

KENZIE WAS RIGHT—the dress in Benderlee’s window looked better on me than the average frock, so I bought it despite the breathtaking price. And Lito at Nordstrom’s had hooked me up with a pair of shoes with an equally stunning price tag. If I wore them every day for the rest of my life, I might get my money’s worth out of them. Throwing caution to the wind, I had also bought a chic gray wool coat. I left my hair long and loose, which made me feel a little unkempt, but I have to admit I was feeling rather spiffy when Barry arrived. I opened the door with a coy smile.

He looked polished and professional in a navy suit, striped tie, not a pale blond hair out of place. “Ready to go?” he asked, then pointed to his watch. “Traffic is a nightmare.”

My smile slipped. “I…yes.”

“Good, because I’d hate to be late.”

Barry wasn’t the most attentive man I’d ever known, but tonight he seemed unusually preoccupied. Then I realized he was probably more anxious about the award for which he’d been nominated than he wanted to let on. Indeed, on the drive to the hotel, he checked his watch at least a hundred times, his expression pinched. And he seemed to be coming down with a cold since he sneezed several times. To see my normally calm, collected boyfriend so fidgety moved me. I reached over to squeeze his hand. “Relax. I hope you have a thank-you speech prepared.”

He smiled sheepishly. “I made a few notes…just in case.”

I instantly forgave him for not noticing how fabulous I looked. Besides, I reminded myself, I had dressed for Ellen Brant, and as luck would have it, we were seated at her table for the awards ceremony. In fact, by some bizarre shuffling of bodies and chairs, she wound up sitting between us. The woman was so cosmopolitan, even in my new clothes I felt gauche. I raised my finger for a nervous nibble on my nail, and tasted the bitter tang of fresh nail polish…a do-it-myself manicure was the best I could manage under the circumstances.

“Denise, your dress is divine,” she murmured over her martini glass.

“Thank you,” I said, taking my finger out of my mouth and sitting up straighter.

“She’s smart and fashionable,” Ellen said to Barry for my benefit. “I like this girl.”

“She’s dependable, too,” Barry said. “And loyal.”

I managed to conceal my surprise at his bizarre statement. Until I realized that to Ellen, recently betrayed by her husband, loyalty was essential. So on cue, I nodded like a puppy dog.

Ellen pursed her collagen-plumped lips. “Denise, why don’t you call me next week and we’ll go over the paperwork for that investment account.”

“Okay,” I said in a voice that belied my excitement. If Ellen opened an account at Trayser Brothers, I’d be able to pay off my outfit and buy my apartment. Plus a new bed that didn’t reek of woodsmoke. A closet organization system. Caller ID.

I could scarcely eat I was so wound up. I tried to contribute to the conversation, but Ellen and Barry were soon absorbed in television-speak, and I thought it best not to intrude. Barry was, after all, hoping for a promotion, and Ellen would drive that decision. Instead, I chatted with other people seated at the table, spurred to a higher degree of socialization than usual by the open bar. Happily, the evening was topped off by a slightly tipsy Ellen presenting Barry with the award for excellence in producing that was acknowledged in the industry as a precursor to the Emmy.

For his part, Barry was the most excited I’d ever seen him—which was no compliment to me, I realized suddenly. But I postponed an untimely (and uncomfortable) analysis of our love life by clapping wildly. I told myself it was okay that he didn’t name me personally in his thank-you speech, a fact that he seemed truly distressed over later when we were in the car.

“I forgot my notes and I went completely blank,” he said in the semi-darkness, his hands on the steering wheel at the ten and two positions—he was a fastidious driver. “I’m sorry, Denise. You’re the one who’s had to put up with my long hours and my traveling.”

“It’s fine,” I murmured. “I’m just so proud of you. And I know Ellen is impressed.”

He made a dismissive noise, but was clearly pleased. Then he winced. “Oh, by the way, Ellen asked me tonight to be in L.A. Monday morning.”

My good mood wedged in my throat. His travel to the West Coast had become more frequent in the past couple of months—in the wee hours of the morning, I wondered if something other than work drew him there. After all, if I wasn’t thrilled with our sex life, he probably wasn’t, either. “How long will you be gone?”

“Two weeks, maybe three.”

“That’s almost a month,” I said, hating the way I sounded—horny.

“No, it isn’t,” he said with a practicality that did not put me at ease.

“You’ll miss Valentine’s Day.”

He looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Denise. Right now I have to focus on this promotion. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Want to spend the night?” I asked, not caring that I was being transparent.

He looked over at me and laughed. “Sure.”

I smiled all the way home, determined that tonight Barry and I would have great, boisterous sex. I might even pull out some of the tricks that Redford had taught me that I’d never shared with anyone else. I had shaved my legs to get ready for the dinner, so nothing was holding me back.

Unfortunately, we drove straight into a traffic jam in midtown that left us in gridlock. After thirty minutes had passed with no movement, I began to dwell on Barry’s comment that I was dependable…and loyal. He made me sound like a cocker spaniel.

I studied his profile, noting how preoccupied he was, and realized abruptly that we had fallen into a serious rut. No wonder we’d never talked about marriage—we rarely saw each other and we rarely had sex.

For all intents and purposes, we were already married.

Feeling rebellious, I ran my fingers through my loose hair and whispered, “We could have sex right here.”

Barry looked over at me with a shocked expression, then laughed nervously and gestured to the cars around his silver Lexus. “Are you crazy? We’d be arrested for indecent exposure. A stunt like that would mean my job, Denise.”

I pulled back, humiliated at my own behavior. He was right, of course. The network’s top female anchor had gone out drinking one night and performed a topless dance at a bar where at least one handheld video camera had been rolling, and everyone had been put on notice. Barry couldn’t jeopardize his job just because I was feeling neglected. So we listened to National Public Radio and chatted about the evening.

“You seemed to be having a good time talking to everyone,” Barry said. “Everyone thought you were great. Everyone loves you, Denise.”

Something in his voice made me turn my head to look at him in the semi-darkness. He’d spoken with a sort of wistfulness when he’d said “everyone loves you,” as if everyone else saw something he didn’t. I waited for clarification, but Barry simply scanned the traffic, tapping his finger on the steering wheel to a jazzy song floating from the speakers.

I was imagining things. Barry loved me. He hadn’t changed—I had. More specifically, that stupid wedding dress had made me paranoid.

And reflective.

Because the wedding dress had made me confront the possibility of marrying Barry…was it something I wanted? And if not, then what was the purpose of our being together? Companionship? An occasional sexual release? Were we merely a pit stop for each other on the way to…something else? I was suddenly seized by the feeling that I was looking at someone I’d known for years. Yet…did I really know him?

In hindsight, I’d known little about Redford when I’d married him—beyond his sexual prowess. A sudden stab of desire struck my midsection, but I closed my eyes against it.

During those few days with Redford in Las Vegas, I had been a different person, wanton and hedonistic…a bona fide nymphomaniac. I don’t know what had come over me…okay, admittedly, Redford had come over me a few times, but I digress. My parents—especially my mother—would be appalled if they knew how I had behaved during that time, and my girlfriends would be shocked. I could scarcely think of it myself without being overcome with shame—nice girls didn’t do the things I’d done with Redford. Especially after knowing the man for mere hours.

At the time, I’d thought that Redford DeMoss, with his chiseled good looks, military manners and tantric sex sessions was the most exotic creature I’d ever encountered. I’d only dated city boys who were competitive and frenzied. Redford’s easy confidence and sexual aura had literally knocked me off my feet. Only later, after I’d returned to New York, did I admit to myself that everything that came out of his sensual mouth—words about down-home cookin’, home-grown lovin’ and small-town livin’—came straight out of a country song. He’d been playing a part—hell, we both had. It was a love-at-first-sight fantasy. We’d had no business getting married.

“Denise?”

I blinked myself back to the present and stared at Barry, who was staring at me. “Huh?”

He frowned and rubbed one of his eyes. “I asked if I left any of my allergy medicine at your place. If not, maybe we should backtrack to my apartment.”

While I had been winding down memory lane, the traffic had begun to unravel. I was suddenly eager to get home—to my cozy apartment, not to Barry’s sterile condo. “You left your toiletry bag at my place when you came back from L.A. Are your allergies acting up?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding toward my new coat. “I think it’s the wool.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No problem,” he said. “By the way, I noticed your new outfit. Good job.”

“Thank you,” I said, unsure whether or not he’d just paid me a compliment.

He squinted in my direction. “Did you cut your hair?”

“Um, no…I left it down.”

“Oh. It looks…mussed. It’s a different look for you.”

I laughed. “I guess you’ll feel like you’re making love to a different woman tonight.”

“Yeah.” Except he didn’t laugh.

While I pondered my state of mind and general mental health, Barry’s cell phone rang—a crisis at the station—and he remained on the call through parking the car near my apartment, the walk thereto, and the walk therein, rubbing his watery eyes intermittently. Still talking, he headed for the bathroom, presumably in search of his allergy medicine. I scooped up the mail that had been pushed through the door slot and tossed it on the end table, then went to the kitchen to fix coffee for endurance (I was still feeling optimistic).

Listening to the distant murmur of Barry’s voice, I watched the coffee drip and gave myself a stern pep talk (no fantasizing about other men—i.e., Redford—while making love this time), and, to my credit, I’d managed to work up a pretty good lust by the time I carried a tray with two cups of coffee to the bedroom.

Not that it mattered. Barry lay sprawled across the bed, fully dressed except for his shoes, his cell phone closed in his limp hand. His toiletry bag lay open next to him—the allergy medicine had apparently kicked in rather quickly. I retraced my steps to the living room and drowned my disappointment in my coffee, which was a mistake, since it left me wide awake.

I found a grainy old movie on television and settled back with a cushion across my stomach. But my mind, as it is wont to do in the wee hours, spun into isolated corners of my psyche, stirring up depressing questions. Was Barry the one, or was I simply pinning all my expectations on him and our sexual friendship? Was my soul mate still out there somewhere, waiting for me to materialize? And the most depressing question of all: What if Redford DeMoss had been my one true love?

I brought the cushion to my face and exhaled into it. I knew I had hit rock-bottom lonely when I started thinking about Redford. He was a brief, distant episode in my life…a mistake. The speedy annulment only spared us both more grief and circumvented the inevitable split when he returned from the Gulf. And for me, it helped to gloss over the humiliation of having married someone like Redford. We were such polar opposites, and a quickie marriage in Las Vegas was so, so unlike me. At hearing the news, my friends had been, in a word, stunned. No—flabbergasted would be a more apt description. And my sweet, loving parents who lived in Florida…well, I’d never quite gotten around to telling them.

Similarly, there had never been a good time to tell Barry.

My face burned just thinking about it…and Redford. He had been insatiable in bed, with the endurance of a marathoner. I cast a glance toward the bedroom where the sound of Barry’s soft snores escaped, and felt a pang of guilt. It wasn’t fair to him that I compared the two of them in that regard. Redford had been on leave from the Gulf—he probably would’ve humped a picket fence. Although if we hadn’t bumped into each other, he would’ve had no problem finding another willing partner. A compelling figure in his dress blues, Redford had oozed sex appeal—in and out of uniform. I closed my eyes, recalling my first memory of him.

I had been standing in line to check in to the Paradisio hotel in Vegas, fretting over Cindy’s late arrival, when a tall, lone officer had walked in. He must have drawn all the energy from the room, because I remember suddenly having trouble breathing. The manager had offered him expedited service to circumvent the long line, but Redford had refused special treatment. I couldn’t take my eyes off him—his broad shoulders had filled the uniform jacket, his posture proud, but his expression relaxed and friendly. My body had vibrated as if I’d been strummed, every cell had strained toward him. He’d caught me looking and winked. Mortified at my uncharacteristic behavior, I’d looked away. But later, we had found each other again.

And again…and again…and again…

I gave myself a shake to dispel my destructive train of thought. Great sex did not a relationship make—as evidenced by my short-lived marriage.

Forcing my mind elsewhere, I picked up my mail from the end table, hoping the caffeine would wear off soon.

There were lots of credit card offers, which I immediately ripped into small pieces, just as I advised my clients to do. There was an appointment reminder from my OB/GYN for a few weeks from now—yippee. There were bills, of course, and several useless catalogs. There was a thank-you note from Kenzie and Sam for a gift I’d sent for their log cabin in upstate New York. A postcard from my folks from their seniors’ tour in England—they were having a good time, although Dad missed cold beer. And there was a long manila envelope—I squinted—from the Internal Revenue Service?

I studied the address: Mr. and Mrs. Redford DeMoss. My heart lurched crazily, followed by relief. This was obviously some sort of mistake. Redford and I had filed taxes once because our abbreviated marriage had spanned the end of a calendar year. I had filled out the forms myself because I’d wanted to make sure they were done properly (and economically).

Still, my hands were unsteady as I tore open the envelope, and slid out the letter written on heavy bonded paper. I skimmed the words, barely seeing the print. I was familiar with the form letter—in my line of work as a financial planner, I’d seen this same letter dozens of times, only not directed toward me.

Redford and I, it seemed, were being audited.