4

LYING AWAKE IN OUR BED later that night, I heard the whirr of the garage door opener. The digital clock on my nightstand glowed 11:39. Minutes later, the usual jingle of Stephen’s keys, a soft clunk as he set them in a bowl on the side table, then the muted thud of his footfalls on the hardwood stairs. I curled onto my side and closed my eyes as my pulse kicked into overdrive. Conversation was not on my agenda. Not this late. I’d actually been relieved when he’d texted me about his flight delay.

I concentrated on smooth and tranquil breathing—the opposite of what I was feeling.

“Claire?” he whispered. “Honey, are you awake?”

It was an entreaty, an offer of truce. But I didn’t move, certain the clamor of my heart would betray me.

He retreated into his walk-in closet. At the soft click of the latch, I opened my eyes. I knew the ritual. He was meticulous with his clothes. He hung up everything, even a suit going to the cleaners. It was a habit I admired. That was just it. I admired so many things about my husband. I loved him. No, more than loved him. I could not imagine life without him and didn’t want to. But how could we get back to who we once were, after he’d proved he wasn’t who I thought he was?

The light beneath the closet door went black, and the door opened. I closed my eyes again, doubting he’d found the first of two sticky notes I’d left for him. The other I knew he wouldn’t find until morning.

He climbed into bed and scooted close behind me. “Babe,” he whispered against my hair. His hand was warm on my hip, his caresses unexpectedly stirring. “Sorry again about being late. Thunderstorms.”

I found it difficult to breathe. Sex was the furthest thing from my mind. Still, deep inside, I responded to his tenderness. We’d made love only twice since December. Both times had been at the counselor’s encouragement, and it had felt like homework left to the last minute. Perfunctory and rushed.

Stephen had initiated intimacy on other occasions, but as I’d told the counselor privately, I found reciprocating difficult. I couldn’t help but wonder if he would be picturing her while making love to me. After all, why would my husband seek another woman’s attention if he was still satisfied at home?

But now, Stephen’s breath on my cheek, his tenderness, and the warmth from his body made me long for that rush of surrender I used to feel years ago when he touched me like this, instead of the constant internal tug-of-war.

“Can we talk about it?” he whispered.

“I can’t right now.”

He wrapped his arms around me and pressed a kiss against the back of my head. I braced for a dose of lawyerly persuasion. “We’ll wait until morning then,” he said softly, then rose and gently cupped my chin, encouraging me to look at him.

I was reminded of what my mother had said upon meeting him. “Are you sure he’s going to be an attorney, Claire? He looks more like a young Clint Eastwood. He’s got those bedroom eyes, too.” How she and I laughed about that through the years.

He brushed my cheek with his thumb. “No matter what comes, Claire, we’ll get through this.”

Hope stirred within me. No matter what comes. That felt open-ended. As though he hadn’t completely made up his mind yet. As if we would make the decision together.

His lips were soft on mine, gently but unmistakably questioning if there was a way to breach the wall between us. And for the first time in what seemed like forever, my desire for my husband overshadowed my desire to see him pay for what he’d done. I wove my arms around his neck and returned his kiss.

A soft groan rose in his throat. He covered me with his body, and the distant but familiar flame ignited inside me—followed swiftly by uncertainty. Was he imagining her now? Wishing I were her? Or was he really fully present with me? Did he want to move to Atlanta so he wouldn’t be tempted to go back to her? And if that were true, how could I know there wouldn’t be another equally tempting young thing at the new firm?

The flood of doubts doused my passion, but I did my best not to show it. I wanted so badly for us to get back to what we’d had before. Back to us.

Later, my head on his chest, I felt the rapid beat of his heart, my own considerably less so.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” I said, and I meant it. There was so much more I wanted to say. But in that moment, the words didn’t exist. Only the fragile hope I clung to.

He turned over, and within minutes I heard his soft snore. Sleep finally came for me too, but I awoke at 1:21 to the soft beep of the alarm system, then the countdown before Maggie reset it to home mode. Like Stephen’s, I knew her routines by heart. Next came the refrigerator door, a can of La Croix being opened, the soft pad of footsteps into her bedroom, water running in her bathroom. No matter her age, knowing she was safely home would always be a comfort to me.

Minutes later, she knocked softly. “Mom?”

“Come on in,” I whispered back.

She opened the door and tiptoed to my side of the bed. “I see Dad got home all right.”

It was an invitation to talk, not a question. Stephen snored as if on cue, and we both laughed. Oh, how I loved our daughter! Sometimes the force of my love for her frightened me. Not that Maggie wasn’t ready to leave the nest. She was. It was me I worried about.

Since announcing at age twelve that she planned to be an engineer, she would, I knew, never be one of those kids who returned home. That’s what’s kept me holding on tighter than I might have. That and her being our only one left. Not that Stephen and I hadn’t tried to have more children. But God’s plans were apparently different from mine.

“So, did you and Dad talk yet?”

I shook my head. “We decided to save it for the morning. How was the concert?”

She regaled me with whispered details of her evening, and I drank them in. How I would miss our midnight gab sessions when she moved out. Oh God, please take care of my daughter. Let your plans for her life be good ones.

She finally rose and kissed my cheek. “Jamie and I are going for coffee in the morning, then shopping for dorm stuff.”

“I’m excited for you, babe.”

“Me too. Night, Mom. Love you!”

“Love you back. Sleep well.”

More awake now than ever, I turned onto my side. I needed sleep to be sharp for the arguments Stephen would make for Atlanta. But being married to a corporate attorney for twenty-plus years had taught me a little something about negotiation too. The more you wanted something, the more you distanced yourself from it, at least on the surface. Being bullheaded would get me nowhere fast.

I’d rise early and make Denver omelets, a Saturday morning tradition and Stephen’s favorite. I’d read the offer letter Maggie had found on the fax machine. Prestigious didn’t come close to describing the Atlanta firm. To be offered a partnership with them was beyond huge. And the financial package . . .

How far we’d come since our days of pinching pennies. By the third year of our marriage, shortly before Maggie was born, we’d built this house and become the youngest family in the neighborhood by far. Then through the years, Cordell and Hays rewarded Stephen handsomely. I appreciated all we had. Not as much as I probably should, I realized.

But sometimes, in quiet moments like this, I wondered how different our lives—our marriage—might have been if we’d both been less ambitious.