Out With The Old, In With The New

I glance in the rearview mirror. The line of cars stretches back to infinity.

I’m gridlocked.

Even if I wanted to get out of this line, I couldn’t. If I were in a better mood I might make a wry comparison about how gridlock reminds me of marriage.

I can’t leave him. I mean, my God, we’ve been married for twenty years.

Half my life.

Whoa. I will not waste my energy by contemplating divorce. Corbin’s not having an affair. Period.

Last night he caved in over the note, as if someone punched him in the stomach. He held his head in his hands and said, “What the hell…? This is bullshit. Kate? You don’t think—?”

“I don’t know what to think, Corbin.”

I stood there with my hands on my hips acting like such a bitch—for about thirty seconds. Then all I wanted to do was beg him, Tell me it isn’t true, Corbin. Make me believe this isn’t true.

But I couldn’t say it because I knew I should either believe in him…or leave him. Asking him to tell me it isn’t true is like admitting I don’t trust him.

Feeling the sinkhole rumble underneath me, I sit in the midst of pickup line gridlock, stuck in my own personal gridlock because I can’t write off the letter as a hoax. I won’t let myself slide down into the what-ifs of extramarital affair investigation.

You know—A plus B plus C equals Corbin’s opportunity to cheat. Oh, and remember that time that he should have been home at six, but didn’t get in until eleven-thirty—

La! La! La! La! La! La! La! I can’t hear me! Don’t want to hear me because my husband is not having an affair.

That’s better. I lean my head against the cool window. Try on the words for size: I believe him.

I want to believe in the way he reached out last night, took my arm and pulled me down next to him on the bed.

“Kate, look at me.”

He tried to lace his fingers through mine, but I jerked away and traced the burnished gold-on-gold woven into the raw silk of our duvet cover. Until he pounded the bed. “Goddamn it, Kate. Come on. This is fucking bullshit.”

I pounded the bed, too. “Don’t yell at me, Corbin! This is not my fault.”

Tell me it isn’t true. Make me believe this isn’t true.

He held up a hand. Squeezed his eyes shut. Drew in a deep breath through flaring nostrils. “I’m sorry, let’s just start over. From the beginning. Where’s the envelope?”

The plain white rectangle lay kitty-corner, half on the hardwood floor, half on the Persian rug next to the bed. The white stood out like a surrender flag against a blood-orange sunset.

Corbin picked up the envelope. Flipped it from one side to the other. Snorted. “Nothing.”

A quick flick of his wrist, sent the envelope skimming across the polished wood until it dead-ended into the baseboard.

Then we sat side-by-side in silence. Him—crumpling the letter as if the words would disappear into the black hole of his fist. Me—needing him to say, “I love you. I haven’t been unfaithful.”

He never said it. When I finally summoned the strength to ask, big, fat, hot tears—bottled up all day—slipped from my eyes, slid down my face and washed away the words.

He held me until I stopped crying, until I murmured, “Who would do this to us?”

“I don’t know, Kate, but I’ll sure as hell get to the bottom of it.”

The Ford Excursion behind me beep-beep-beeps, and I realize the line has moved ahead at least five car lengths. I’m still sitting in the same spot. I give a little wave and pull up. I have to get a hold of myself.

To keep my mind from falling backward into the sinkhole of doubt and fear, I focus on my breathing, the way they teach us in yoga class.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Believe him. Or leave him. Believe him. Or leave him.

No! Stay present.

I drum my nails on the steering wheel. Outside my window the sun is shining through barren trees; the Volvo is still in front of me, the Ford Excursion still behind. Bundled-up children cling to their parents’ hands as they dash between cars toward the sidewalk ready for a brisk walk home; the faint warble of the three-fifteen school bell sounds, dismissing the bus riders—car riders leave at first bell.

The bell sounds remarkably similar to “Ode to Joy.” Oh. No, wait—that’s my cell phone. Caitlin probably changed the ring again. It’s one of her favorite pranks.

I grab my purse from the passenger seat. Fumble for the phone. Press Talk just before it switches to voice mail.

“Hello?”

“Are your bags packed?”

It’s Alex.

“Noooooo—”

“Well get ready, I’ve booked us a room at The Breakers for the weekend of February seventh.”

“That’s only two weeks from now.”

“Right. One of the weekends we all agreed on.”

Breath in. Breath out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Kate? Are you there?”

“Yes. I—I just thought you’d choose one of the other options we agreed on.”

“The Breakers is offering a fabulous spa package that weekend—you know, so close to Valentine’s Day. We’d be crazy not to take advantage of it.”

A knot the size of Texas moves into my stomach.

“You’re still going, right?” she asks.

If I believe in my husband—if I trust him—I should have no reservations whatsoever. Just as I never had any doubt about going away with Rainey and Alex the nine previous years we’ve carried on this tradition.

“Of course I’m going. I have to let Corbin know.” I hear myself saying the words, but they sound foreign. My heart’s instinct is to protest, but I won’t let it.

“This is going to be so much fun,” says Alex.

More awkward silence crackles over the phone waves. I sense Alex searching for the words to ask what my problem is. But there is no problem. No siree. Not with my marriage. So I say, “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Good. Me, too. I’m going to call Rainey now.”

I hang up. Slide up two more spaces in the queue. Perform another rapid-fire cadence of steering wheel nail drumming, but it threatens to set my nerves on edge. So I turn on the radio to drown out the silence and pull from my purse the paint chips I selected today for the living room.

Five shades of beige for Corbin. One perfect blood-red sample called Scarlett O’Hara for me. He’ll never go for it, but I like it. I fan them out as if I’m ready for a hand of six-card draw, study the subtle differences of the beiges, and absently sing along with the radio until it registers that Toni Braxton is wailing about the sadness of the word goodbye and having no joy in her life after her man walked out the door.

“Unbreak My Heart.”

Ugggggggh. I used to love that song.

I swat at the radio as if it’s a hornet about to sting me. The paint chips fly, but the scan button lands on a classic rock station playing a gritty guitar riff. A song I don’t recognize.

Perfect.

I ease the car forward. Now, I can see the children waiting on the covered walkway. I bend down and retrieve the color chips.

Beige.

Beige.

Beige.

Scarlett O’Hara. Nope. He’ll never go for it, despite how he always says, “You’re the designer. Work your magic.”

He always comes back to beige. And I say, “If you want it to remain the same, then why are we bothering?”

He says, “No, go ahead. We need a change.”

I end up giving him the same old same old we’ve had since I began decorating our house twenty years ago.

Twenty years of beige.

Oh, dear God, I thought it was what he wanted.

Armed with a cocktail, Corbin’s partner, Dave Sanders, answers his front door and greets us with a hearty, “Heeeeeeey. It’s the Hennesseys. Come in.”

He takes our coats, slaps Corbin on the back, then pulls me into a tight bear hug, pressing his short, chubby body to mine in a way that makes me squirm. “Kate, you’re gorgeous, as always.”

His breath reeks of Scotch. Before I can break away, his free hand slithers down my back until he cups my bottom and gives it a little squeeze.

I draw in a sharp breath. What the—? I try to pull away, but he holds on to me, staring down at my breasts.

“What are you—about a B cup? My brother can give you a nice set of Ds and then you’d be just about the perfect woman.”

I can’t believe he just said that.

“Stop it.” I push away from him, and a wave of Scotch splashes down the back of my silk blouse.

He laughs.

I dart a quick glance at his wife, Peg, and Corbin, who are finishing an air-kiss greeting, oblivious to Dave’s unconscionable antics.

Dave’s moved on into the high-ceilinged living room. I’m left pondering that surely he didn’t mean it the way I’m imagining he did. In all the years I’ve known him, he’s had a certain reputation as a ladies’ man that’s escalated to cheating louse as the practice became more successful, but that’s between him and Peg. Except for a few off-color remarks about my inadequate boobs, he’s never made a pass at me.

Tonight, he’s obviously soused. Short of causing a scene, I can do nothing but stand there with the sick feeling of having been violated, and greet Peg, who offers me the same glassy-eyed air kiss she gave my husband.

“Haaaaaai, huuuuuun,” she slurs, the unmistakable smell of gin on her breath, the dregs of a drink in the glass she holds. The ice cubes clink as she steps back, a little unsteady on her feet, and brushes a wisp of short red hair off her pale forehead.

All this and it’s only six-thirty.

It could be a very long night, except that I’ve got a theory. One of Corbin’s partners, Mac or Dave, sent the letter. They have to be the culprits. The timing is just too coincidental: The envelope arrived yesterday. The dinner party’s tonight. Hello?

These forty-something men who play doctor have never outgrown their hazing, frat-boy mentality. My husband is the worst. He had Mac’s brand-new Cadillac towed out of the parking lot to make him think it was stolen. Last year, when Dave turned forty-five, Corbin hired a stripper to come into the office and pose as a patient—feeding Dave’s obsession with big boobs.

Tonight, I sense my otherwise upright, straitlaced husband, with his Jaguar and season subscription to the opera, is about to get the mother of all paybacks.

They’re going to laugh about it at dinner. Make a big joke out of it.

Gotcha, Corb!

Well, I can take a joke as well as the next person. I don’t know if Corbin’s going to be so forgiving because this really pushes the bounds of bad taste. Will it be enough to curtail these monthly dinner parties?

Oh, wouldn’t that be a shame.

I’d much rather it be a joke than to go on worrying and wondering….

We follow Peg into the living room where Dave holds out a Scotch on the rocks for Corbin and a glass of Chardonnay for me. I can’t meet Dave’s gaze. So I’m glad when the doorbell rings again.

Dave and Peg answer the door together. A moment later they usher in Joan and Mac McCracken. I wonder if Dave gave Joan the same heinie-fondling, boob-assessing welcome he gave me?

If he did, it would make it less personal, but I’m certainly not going to say, “Hi, Joan. Did Dave grab your ass, too?”

What I’m going to do later is tell Corbin. Let him take care of it. I’m not getting breast implants. So Corbin can tell Dave not to mention it again. Not funny the first fifteen times he said it. Now, he’s just running it into the ground.

Let’s see if Corbin thinks this is as funny as his buddy’s other misdeeds.

Actually, I need to give Corbin some credit. Funny is not the appropriate word. When he’s regaled me with tales of his partners’ libidinous exploits it’s been more out of a sense of horror than amusement. It started after we bumped into Mac out with a woman-child who looked barely legal. Obviously a date. Joan was in Tuscany for the month. Alone. Well, presumably alone—who knows?

Peg, Joan and I aren’t close enough to share intimate details like that. Even if I don’t like them very much, I have to admit they’re not stupid women. They have to know their husbands. How could they not? I don’t understand how they can stay with men they know are unfaithful—turn the other cheek and jet off to Europe until the latest bimbette has lost her sheen.

I’ve always appreciated Corbin’s honesty. After seeing Mac—God, it was before Caitlin was born—Corbin opened up to me. I hated hearing the dirty details, but it made me feel closer to my husband that he would share how much Dave’s and Mac’s dalliances bothered him. As close as they are, he said it was the one area in which he couldn’t relate to them, said it disappointed him that they could look their wives in the eyes and lie.

I cling to that thought and believe in my husband.

Bring on the joke.

I can take it.

CHAPTER 3

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.”