Independence Day

“Sure,” Chessie replied as Nick said, “No.”

If anyone would understand her mission, it was Kit. At twenty-five, her sister-in-law had been on her own for nine years—nine unconventional years—until Sean convinced her that loving him and Alex didn’t mean she had to give up her individuality.

Nick looked at his watch. “The tide…”

“You know McCabe parties go on forever,” Sean said. “Stop by when you get in.”

“Thanks.” Nick smiled, but he didn’t say they’d be there.

Chessie wondered about that as they made their way home. Nick had told her that moving this last time was a good idea because they’d settle into a ready-made family. She and the girls had done the settling, but Nick remained strangely aloof.

“Are you and your family okay?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

She didn’t pursue the issue. Nick’s relationship with his family had always been…special. His mother had died when he was twelve and Jonas, his youngest brother, just one. Nick had been old enough at the time to shoulder some of the responsibility of looking after the kids. She could see where the experience had honed his deeply ingrained provider instinct. But when he’d left for college nineteen years ago, he’d left for a future away from Pritchard’s Neck. And when they’d returned last year, Nick had never seemed completely at ease with either his father or his siblings.

He seemed as emotionally AWOL with them as he was with her.

Chessie couldn’t control his relationships with others, but if her strike woke her husband up, she might not be the only one whose needs were met.

CHAPTER TWO

“CHESSIE?” Nick glanced at his watch. Seven-thirty. “We’re home!”

“I’m up in the bedroom.”

She sounded rational. With some sense of relief that she hadn’t ambushed him with more laundry, he climbed the stairs. Yet today’s explosion—having gone beyond anything she’d ever pulled on them before—still worried him. He was tired from exploring the islands with the girls, but he needed to get to the bottom of this before the situation escalated.

But what was the situation? What did she really want from them? From him? She’d spoken in riddles.

Chessie had mentioned a project that was important to her. He’d always liked her interest in ceramics because it seemed to relax her, but maybe the self-imposed pressure to excel had gotten out of hand. Maybe she actually needed to lay off the pottery for a while.

Maybe he could engineer a short break for the two of them, since he’d chosen not to take his scheduled vacation this year. The AP science teacher had promised his spring term students a bus trip to Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire next week. A reward for passing their Advanced Placement exams. Maybe he and Chessie could hook up as chaperones. It wouldn’t be a real vacation, it wasn’t an overnight trip, but it would be a change of scene. Maybe he could afford one more day off work. If he could only get next fall’s hiring completed this week.

There were far too many ifs and maybes.

He found himself stalled in the upstairs hallway.

“Do you plan to step over the threshold?” Chessie leaned against the bedroom door frame, looking up at him. Lost in thought, he hadn’t even noticed her. “I won’t bite,” she added.

“I wasn’t sure.”

“I said we’d talk later. Now’s good.”

“The fireworks start at nine.”

“Oh, we have plenty of time before the fireworks start.” With a gleam in her eye that could itself be described as pyrotechnic, she pulled him into their bedroom and closed the door firmly behind them.

Things were looking up.

He moved to take her in his arms.

“Talk,” she said, pushing him down to sit on the bed while she remained standing. “So…what did you learn today?”

He was in treacherous, uncharted territory. “Chessie—”

“Maaaa!” The adolescent shriek careened up the stairwell and through the closed door. “Are there any strawberries and whipped cream left over from breakfast?” Gabriella.

With a shudder, Chessie opened the door. “Miss McCabe, unless you broke both legs and at least one arm on your trip to the islands, you can open the refrigerator door and check for yourself.” Her shoulders seemed to droop. “Please don’t interrupt. Your father and I are in the middle of an important conversation.”

“It won’t interfere with us watching the fireworks, will it?”

“If you don’t give us ten minutes, the fireworks will begin early, I promise.”

Even from upstairs, Nick could hear Gabriella stomping off to the kitchen. He’d always admired Chessie’s infinite patience with their daughters, especially Gabby, who was proving a handful. This evening, however, that patience showed signs of wear and tear.

Breathing deeply, Chessie turned back into the room. “Where was I?”

“You wanted to know what I’d learned today.” He chose his words carefully. “I think perhaps you want more time to yourself.”

“Not quite. It’s more that I don’t believe you and the girls see me as being a self. I’m your wife, their mom. Outside of that, I think I’m a bit of a blur.”

“How can you say that?”

“Okay. What was I wearing this morning?”

A trick question. Was she wearing the shorts and T-shirt she had on now?

“Besides a sandwich board?” he asked, stalling.

Clearly impatient now, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Underneath the sandwich board.”

He frowned. Before she’d surprised him with her strike sign, she’d shown every intention of working on her pots. He hazarded a guess. “Shorts. A smock.”

“What color were my toenails?”

He glanced quickly at her feet. She wore sneakers. “Red, white and blue?”

“Have you ever seen me paint my nails? Ever? The girls, yes, but me? I don’t think so.” With an unexpected snort of laughter, she picked up a pillow from the window seat and threw it at him. “Red, white and blue. I’ll give you C+ for creativity.”

The fact that she didn’t appear angry seemed to augur the return of the old, familiar Chessie, mischievous but sweet. His exact opposite. Perhaps that’s why he’d been drawn to her back in high school—

Another pillow hit him in the head. “No daydreaming in class.”

“Then can we cut to the chase? My day off is almost gone. I’d like to spend the rest of it with my family. With you.”

“About this morning—”

“You’re forgiven.” He grinned, then immediately regretted his ill-timed humor as another pillow whizzed by his head.

“You and the girls mustn’t take me for granted any longer.” The renewed rebellion in her eyes told him this was no joke. “There are times I feel invisible.”

“Sweetheart.” He opened his arms to her. “You are the most colorful, least invisible woman I know. The girls and I love every quirky bone in your body.” Okay, so it wasn’t Robert Browning. He was a high-school principal—a weary high-school principal—not a poet.

“Do you understand how important my work is to me?” she asked.

“If there were a Maine Mom-and-Wife-of-the-Year Award, I’d nominate you in a heartbeat.”

“And my pottery?”

“I love your pots.” Better keep it simple. Talk of arts and crafts dragged him out of his league.

“Do you know how much money I put away from my teaching and sales last year?”

“I never asked because that’s your mad money.”

“Mad money? After taxes last year I added twelve thousand dollars to the girls’ college fund.”

Twelve thousand dollars? He nearly choked. He had no idea a hobby could be so lucrative.

“Mad money, indeed,” Chessie muttered as she closed in on him. “The negotiating price for this new piece alone is fifteen hundred dollars. This is art, Nick, not Play-Doh.”

“Fifteen—” He did choke. And sputtered. Chessie whacked him on the back. A little too hard, if you asked him. “We need to have a talk with our tax man. Have we declared your earnings?”

She sighed. “I filed separate forms as a self-employed businesswoman. I’ve kept my own books. I’ve joined the Better Business Bureau. Taken an Internet workshop on finances and investments.”

He seemed to recall their tax man mentioning the separate filing, but the news had been overshadowed at the time by the threat of a sports-injury lawsuit at school.

“When did you do all this?” Her secret life astounded him.

“While the girls were in school. Any night you worked late.”

That could’ve been any night of the week.

“And you didn’t think I’d be interested?”

“I tried to tell you a dozen times,” she insisted, “but you weren’t listening.”

With a sinking heart, he took her point.

“Aha!” she exclaimed when she saw he understood. “And did you know I’m very close to opening that gallery I’ve always wanted? In the barn on the ground floor.”

He looked hard at this woman he’d underestimated. What else had she been up to in his absence? The possibilities racing though his mind made Nick feel—for the first time in his life—blown off course.

“How do you expect me to take you seriously when we haven’t talked about any of this?”

She seemed taken aback by his question, but only briefly. “So much of our ever-shrinking time together is spent discussing your job and how it affects our future. The rest of the time it’s the girls—”

“That’s a cop-out, Chessie, and you know it. You want recognition, but you’re not communicating.”

Her nostrils widened as she inhaled sharply. “Maybe you’re right…but today I woke up. I won’t ever be satisfied if I don’t tell you why I’m dissatisfied.”

“And how.” Smiling ruefully, he rubbed the back of his neck. “So…your pots can bring in that much?” Here he thought she’d been having a few friends over for coffee and crafts. “I’m impressed, Chessie.”

“Impressed with the idea of a real business, are you? But do you appreciate the woman behind the work?”

“Of course we do,” he replied.

“Let’s leave the girls out of this. I’ll deal with them separately. Do you appreciate me? All of me.”

Hell, yes. He gazed at her as she strode across the bedroom to stand in front of the window. She was tall and still had a great figure after two children. Her long unruly auburn hair was partially held back by a ribbon. Her skin seemed otherworldly. Creamy. Smooth. Cool, most likely. She was always blessedly cool to the touch on even the hottest summer day. There was nothing cool about her eyes, though. Fire and ice. That was his Chessie. And ever since high school she’d had the power to excite him. He felt himself grow hard.

“If wanting you can be construed as appreciation,” he ventured, “I’d say I recognize what a lucky man I am.”

“So you want to make love to me?”

“Now that’s a fact.”

“Perhaps because we always make love on nights before you start your workweek?”

He didn’t like this detour. “You make it sound like a routine.”

“That’s what I haven’t quite figured out.” Crossing her arms again, she began to tap her fingers restlessly on her elbows. “I’m not sure if you really want to make love to me…or whether you’re simply after a bit of release from tension.”

“You’ve been spoiling for a fight all day. It has to be hormones.”

Low blow. And one he instantly regretted.

She glared at him.

He pulled his frustration in line. “Is it so awful I want to make love to my wife?”

“What about foreplay? What about romance? What about extending these concepts beyond the bedroom door?”

She was losing him again.

“I want to feel newly and thoroughly wooed,” she explained. “No more school functions that do double duty as dates. No more chaste pecks on the forehead. No more checking your watch when I begin to talk.”

“I had no idea—”

“Well, now you do. For a change, I want pizzazz instead of Friday night pizza. I want my toes to tingle and not because the Volvo needs a tune-up.”

“Sounds good to me.” He moved to embrace her, but she stepped aside.

“Seriously, Nick. Is it so awful I want to bring our relationship in for an inspection and tune-up?”

“I never thought there were two people who agreed more on how they wanted their life together to unfold. I promised to provide for you. You said you wanted to be a wife and mother.”

“I did. Do.” She seemed to search for words. “But I was nineteen when we married. I couldn’t have anticipated how I’d grow. I love being a wife and mother, but I want to be other things as well. We need to rearrange our relationship a little bit to make room for all of me.”

“But why today?” He made the mistake of glancing at his watch.

“Ooh!” She grabbed two fistfuls of her hair. “Some day I’m going to flush that watch down the toilet.”

“Guys!” Isabel stood in the doorway. “I gotta use your bathroom. Gabriella’s hogging ours.”

Nick bristled. “Your mother and I are trying to have a conversation here.”

“Go right ahead.” Isabel whisked by them into the master bath, then slammed the door, making the pictures on the walls rattle in their frames. Behind the closed door the teenager broke into a caterwauling song of love lost.

Nick suddenly felt ambushed by females. His office at school, even with the attendant troubles, now seemed like a haven. Even the boys’ locker room would be a better hideout. An estrogen-free zone. Quelling his disloyal thoughts and mustering what little patience remained at his disposal, he stood. “Is it too much to ask for a little peace and quiet on my one day off?

Her husband’s intransigence fueled Chessie’s determination. He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t selfish. He was maddeningly preoccupied. But he’d been right about her needing to communicate if she wanted to be recognized—to be seen—and not simply as some competent mother of his children, some unobtrusive window dressing for his career.

“Some people are afraid of being fat and forty,” she said, persevering. “Do you know what I’m afraid of? I’m afraid I’m headed straight toward faded and forty.”

“It’ll never happen.” With obvious weariness Nick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fear of fading? After today? You’re going to have to think of some other excuse to pick a fight.”

“I’m not trying to pick a fight.” She began to pace. “I’m trying to start a dialogue.”

“I’m sensing lovemaking is fast becoming a long shot,” Nick said, making sure Isabel couldn’t hear him over her hurting song.

“I’ll tell you what. Let’s get kinky. Tonight let’s perform that over-the-top sex act, listening. How about it?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Chess.”

A sudden overwhelming sadness sapped her energy. “I feel as if you’re slipping away from me.”

“Maybe that’s because I’m tired and I have a full day tomorrow. Trying to provide for my family.” His words sounded raw.

She knew this was how he showed love. By being responsible.

Crossing the room, she stood in front of him. “You are a wonderful provider, Nick.”

“Then where have I failed you?”

“It’s not a matter of failure.” She placed her hands on his cheeks, felt his warmth. Gazed into dark eyes that had always mesmerized her with their depth and intelligence. “We’ve drifted into a relationship that’s convenient. I want to rediscover the romance we shared when we were—”

“Hey, no time for gooey, guys.” Gabriella burst into the room. “Mom, I need your hooded sweatshirt. It’s getting chilly.”

“Excuse me.” Irritated, Chessie faced her daughter. “This is our bedroom. Please, knock. And you may borrow my hooded sweatshirt when you return the two tees you took last week.”

“They’re dirty…and out on the lawn.”

“Then I guess you have yard work and laundry to do before the fireworks.”

“Dad?”

“Your mother’s asked you to do two things.” Nick stood firm. “You have time before dark to start both. I suggest you get busy.”

The bathroom door swung open. “Are you guys fighting?” Isabel stood wide-eyed in the doorway. Chessie knew this was her seventeen-year-old’s biggest fear, that something would separate her family as it had too many of her friends.

“We’re not fighting, love,” Chessie denied. “We’re having a discussion.” Seizing the moment, she reached for the sheet of paper on her nightstand. “And I’ll take this opportunity to explain our new cooking schedule.”

Gabriella stepped to her father’s side. “Dad, she’s got that look in her eyes again.”

Chessie ignored the perplexed expressions on her family’s faces. “For a year now I’ve wanted to take the Art Guild’s figure drawing class. Call it career advancement.” She shot Nick a pointed glance. “But it’s Wednesday right while I’m preparing dinner. So I need help. To that end, I’ve made up a meal schedule.” She extended the paper to them, but the other three recoiled. “Each member of the family will be responsible for dinner on two assigned days of the week. Izzy and Gabby, you count as one person. I’ll take the extra day, but never Wednesday. That should free me up to attend class, starting tomorrow. Girls, you begin the rotation.”

“You expect us to cook?” Gabriella, her mouth working, looked like a beached fish gasping its last.

“You can start simple. Peanut butter sandwiches and milk. Carrot sticks. I’m not fussy.”

“Honey…” Nick assumed his official negotiator voice. “They’re just kids.”

“And they’ll remain children indefinitely if they don’t begin to take on some responsibility.”

“Tomorrow Mrs. Weiss promised to take Izzy and Keri and me to the mall.” Keri was the neighbors’— George and Martha’s—daughter and Gabriella’s best friend. “Dad, switch days with us.”

Nick’s eyes widened in dawning recognition. He spread his hands, palms up to Chessie in a conciliatory gesture. “You can’t expect me to—”

“Takeout. As I said, I’m not fussy. Now, I’ll post this schedule on the refrigerator and then I’m assuming fireworks position on the terrace while you girls take care of the laundry in the yard.” Amazed at how light she felt after this first transfer of duties, she smiled broadly. “Dibs on the hammock. But I’ll share with a like-minded romantic.” She could only hope.

Not waiting for further reaction from her shell-shocked family, she made her way downstairs, hoping she would draw Nick to her, not push him away.

“Maaaa!” Gabriella wailed behind her. “You’ve ruined the Fourth of July!”

“Oh, no, my dear,” Chessie called from below. “I hope I’ve honored the spirit of the day.”

“Well, I’m not watching any stupid fireworks now.” Her younger daughter’s grousing wafted down the stairwell, followed by an indistinguishable response from Nick.

Second thoughts stabbed her as she rummaged in the living room for her John Philip Sousa CD. Had she ruined a holiday with unreasonable demands? Had she mistaken wants for needs?

No, dammit.

She hadn’t behaved selfishly today. She’d merely issued a wake-up call for Nick and the girls’ own good, as well as her own. Growing up, she’d observed her workaholic father drive himself to an early grave. As an adult, she’d watched as too many of her friends had spoiled their children to the obnoxious stage. She’d seen husbands and wives grow to be strangers. If she lay down and became a doormat, what kind of a match was she for Nick? What kind of a role model for Izzy and Gabby?

Having found the desired CD, she headed for the furnace room where she tripped over the cat litter box, out of place and full to overflowing. Normally, she would stop what she was doing to clean it for the sake of the cats her daughters had begged to bring home from the shelter. (“We’ll take care of them. Promise.” Right.)

The new Chessie found a scrap of paper, a marker and a broken tomato stick. Skewering the paper with the stick, she wrote, “Yo! This ain’t no toxic waste dump. Clean it up! The Cats.” She jammed the stick in the corner of the litter and left the box in the middle of the floor.

Highly satisfied with no-holds-barred Chessie, she hunted up sparklers, the beach boombox and bug repellent, then forged ahead to the darkening terrace where she immediately began slathering on lotion. Despite the fact that the mosquito seemed to be the Maine state bird, she wondered if her family—should they choose to join her—would think to lather up without a motherly nag.

Ah, but she’d washed her hands of nagging, negotiating, coercing, reminding. She’d now moved into the fluid rinse cycle of mature communication. In the future, she would treat her family as individuals—as she wished them to treat her. She only hoped she hadn’t hung herself out to dry.

Content that she’d protected every exposed inch of skin, she flipped on the Sousa CD. Perhaps if she seemed happy, her family would be lured to join her. She hadn’t meant to drive them away. On the contrary, she was searching for a way to draw them closer. In a more equitable fashion.

She struck a match to a sparkler. The slender wand sprang to life, adding its cheery glow to that of the myriad fireflies dancing in the dusky gardens. Chessie raised her little torch to the heavens.

“Huzzah,” she said softly, not sure whether she felt the proper revolutionary or one rather isolated wife and mother. An exile by her own design.

Footsteps crunched against the stones on the terrace. She turned to see Nick standing behind her.

“Truce?” he asked, his voice weary.

At the sight of him, her heart beat faster. “Care to join me in the hammock?”

“Sure.” He smacked the side of his neck with the flat of his hand, a clear sign he hadn’t put on bug lotion. Oh, well, he was a big boy.

As Chessie sat in the hammock, Isabel called from the kitchen window. “Mom, what did you do with my Zinc Noze Boyz CD? It was in my portable player.”

The sharp pain in Chessie’s backside told her exactly what someone had done with the player and headphones. “Isabel, you left it in the hammock. I hope it wasn’t here overnight when it rained.”

“Criminies!” The teenager’s footsteps echoed through the house.

“Zinc Noze Boyz.” Carefully sitting next to her in the hammock, Nick chuckled. “Now there’s a recording I wouldn’t want ruined.”

Isabel burst onto the terrace, her arms outstretched. “Thanks,” she mumbled, grasping the player and jamming the headphones over her ears. Leaning against the house, she quickly became lost in the music, with only occasional swats to various body parts. No bug lotion. Like father, like daughter.

Nick draped his arm over Chessie’s shoulder, then lay back in the hammock, pulling her with him. “Nice perfume,” he murmured.

Perfume? She never wore perfume. Oh, yeah, the bug lotion. If this was all the romance today’s demonstration had gotten her, she needed to up the ante. Might even have to implement Plan B…

“This is nice,” he added. His muffled words told her he’d be asleep before the fireworks started.

Plan B it was.

“Yes, this is nice,” she agreed. “Emerging starlight. The scent of flowers. A cricket serenade. The closeness of two bodies.” She stroked his thigh. “It’s quite romantic.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” He was fading fast.

“We need more romance in our marriage.”

“Anything…you…say.” He held to consciousness by a tenuous thread.

“And I have a plan.” She walked her fingers up his chest. “I read in your Sports Illustrated that athletes try to imprint positive behavior. Good golf swing. Great slap shot. Terrific slam dunk.”

“Soun’s great.”

“They try to memorize how the positive feels and then block out the negative or the extraneous, both mentally and physically.” She stroked the stubble along his jaw.

“Mmmm…”

“So I thought, since we both agree this romantic feeling is nice, we could work on replicating it. Kind of like the athletes. We’d be in training, so to speak, in our relationship.” She laid her cheek on his shoulder with her mouth close to his ear. “More romance. It could become our mantra.”

His deep intake of breath sounded suspiciously like a snore.

“We need to recognize the difference between real romance and a convenient physical release.” She ran her tongue along the rim of his ear. “Nick, while we’re concentrating on the romance, I think we’re going to have to can the sex.”