Sophie's Secret

“Becca was less than six months pregnant when Will came to me, discreetly, asking about divorce. Specifically, he’d wanted to know how he could end his marriage with Becca but still provide for her as though they were married—insurance, security, beneficiary of his will, that sort of thing.”

Sophie sat up. Cold to the bone. “Will wanted to divorce Becca?”

Was nothing sacred?

“Under the circumstances, I don’t think Will would mind my telling you. When Becca first found out she was pregnant, the prognosis was pretty scary to her. An overforty pregnancy brought more risk of birth defects, and she’d already had several miscarriages. She had high blood pressure, plus she and Will had their careers, their busy schedules. The first doctor she went to recommended that she terminate the pregnancy.”

“I can see why.”

“So could Becca. She considered having it done.”

“And?”

“Will couldn’t understand. They’d waited their whole lives for this chance. He’d spent years comforting her, pulling her through depression when she’d lose another baby, spending huge amounts of money on tests and fertilization efforts and now, when they were given a miracle, Becca wanted to throw it away.”

“Hardly that.”

“I know.” Duane turned his head on the pillow. Looked at her. “And eventually Will got it, too. But for a while there, he really struggled. He felt like he didn’t know Becca at all. This woman whom he’d always considered the other half of his mind and soul suddenly took on characteristics he didn’t understand. Then he started to question himself for questioning her. Did he love her, or was it only the image they’d built of the high school sweethearts meant for each other—an image that Shelter Valley had helped them build? That he clung to?”

“Wow.” Picturing Will, Sophie could hardly believe what she was hearing. He was Godlike to his students. Always in control. Always had all the answers. Always made the right choices.

“They actually separated for a while.”

She felt like a kid discovering that her parents had sex. Or at least, what she imagined that would feel like for most kids.

“Things were rough for a while, but, in the end, their relationship is far stronger than it ever was. I’ve never seen two people more devoted and dedicated to each other.”

Now that sounded like the Parsonses she knew.

“And the point is that relationships are hard work,” Duane said, pushing himself up to lean against the headboard. “Even the ones that have everything going for them and should be easy.”

Sophie sat up next to him, crossing her arms over her naked breasts.

“I’m not afraid of the work,” she said. “Nothing in my life’s been easy—except maybe knowing what lighting works onstage. But the kind of things we’re facing aren’t things we can change with effort. They’re feelings and instincts and facts.”

“Such as?”

“You’re nervous about tying your life to me.” He hadn’t said so. But he hadn’t had to. “And not in the way that guys get nervous when they’re contemplating marriage. Or, if you are, then that’s in addition to what I’m talking about. You’re nervous about me. Specifically. In ways you wouldn’t be if you were in love with a woman of your social class and age bracket.”

Duane was still, his gaze seemingly focused straight ahead.

After an excruciating minute she asked, “Aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

Sophie tried not to be crushed. Tried not to cry—all the while fighting the familiar feeling of not being good enough. Not being worthy. “What we’re contemplating here is going to change our lives irrevocably, one way or the other, Duane,” she said. “Whether we end up together or not. Let’s at least be completely honest. We’ve got no hope at all if we can’t be straight with each other.”

She was good enough. She was worthy. She didn’t used to believe that, but she did now.

Didn’t she?

The insecurities were old habits.

Nothing more.

Several years ago when Phyllis had still been her counselor, she’d warned Sophie that old habits often resurfaced.

Sophie’s thoughts chased themselves, her stomach rumbled and she waited for Duane to respond.

Waited to take whatever painful thing he had to say, to weather it and move on.

“Okay.” He finally broke the silence and turned toward her. “I do worry.”

Feeling like a masochist, she asked, “About what, specifically?”

“Aside from the fact that when I’m fifty-seven and you’re thirty-nine, you’re going to get turned off by my old man’s body and start yearning for someone younger?”

Had she been of a different nature, Sophie might have slapped his face for that one.

Instead she jutted her chin to stop it from trembling, and tried to accept the facts. Whether she liked them or not.

“So, you’re saying that I’m interested in you, attracted to you, because of your physical attributes.”

“Of course. It’s natural. Physical attraction is as old as the world.”

“And you think your forty-six-year-old body is as sexy as, say, the thirty-year-old dancer I watched onstage for the past two weeks?”

Maybe she was being cruel. Maybe even deliberately, a little bit. He’d hurt her.

She wasn’t a whore who jumped from bed to bed. Who jumped for the male body, period.

Maybe she had been. Once. But Duane hadn’t known that woman. He’d only known this one.

“Is this your way of telling me you’ve spent the past two weeks lusting over some other guy’s body? That when you had sex with me tonight you were thinking about him?”

He thought that poorly of her? That she’d do that? Pain seared through her, taking her to the darkness that had consumed her in her youth.

He’s showing you his insecurities, her rational mind asserted.

She wanted Duane to accept her with all of her issues. Didn’t that gift come with the obligation to do the same for him? To accept all of him, if she was going to commit to any of him?

Sophie took a deep breath. “No, Duane, I’m not telling you that at all. I didn’t feel the slightest twinge for the guy. Couldn’t even, after two weeks of setting lights on him, tell you his name. What I’m telling you is that it isn’t your body that attracts me to you. The fact that it’s gorgeous is a benefit, but I don’t get turned on because you have a nice ass.”

His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

“I get turned on by you. By the way your hands hold the wrench when you tighten the connection under the kitchen sink. By the way you respond with a sigh and collective commiseration for everyone involved when you’re stuck in traffic. Or when someone knocks into you in the grocery store and you tell them they’re all right. I get turned on by your laugh, how it bursts out when something really amuses you. And I like that what makes you laugh most is tongue-incheek humor. I get turned on by your thoughts and theories, and not only by how quickly you think, but also by how your mind wanders off on its own tracks. You don’t automatically buy into what the world is saying, or accept the answers the world accepts. I get turned on by how you look at me…”

Sophie’s words drifted off. She was making it harder for him to walk away. And if he couldn’t stay without convincing, she didn’t want him here.

But then, in spite of admonitions to herself, she added, “All of those things will still be there when you’re eighty.”

“You’re telling me you’re in love with me.”

Was she? She loved him. But was she in love with him? Was she ready for something so consuming? “I’m telling you that I’m not going to turn to some other man when you’re fifty-seven and I’m thirty-nine.”

Still studying her, he nodded. “Okay.”

Okay.

She’d parried. Offered a way out of a conversation that had gotten more personal than either one of them could handle.

And he’d accepted.

Then she remembered the bulimia. She couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep running. If she didn’t face whatever was scaring her back into a physical disease she’d thought gone forever, she could end up dead.

But she wanted to lie back down. To pull Duane down with her. To cuddle up to his chest and know that she’d be safe there forever. Or at least until daylight took the sting of darkness away.

She sucked in as deep a breath as she could manage. “Now, let’s hear worry number two.”

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