Three months later
THE DAY WAS PERFECT, AS PERFECT AS THE CITY could get, and I chose to have lunch on the café sidewalk instead of being cooped up inside. I was to meet a friend who’d just returned from Saint-Tropez. I was dying to go there myself. I could stand to soak up a little sun and sea air. Maybe I’d approach Paul about a quick trip, or maybe he’d allow me to go alone.
I took a sip of my mimosa and pondered the thought. No, it was doubtful he’d let me out of his sight for that long.
It had been a while since the Italian fling. Paul had grown increasingly quiet, often skulking around the house and spending more time in the main computer center he so loved.
I let him have his fun. After all, what more could I offer him than his deepest desires? Affection had been a stranger in our marriage ever since the accident. He hated me to mother him; he said it made him feel less of a man. I obliged his request, but at the same time began to notice his possessive streak strengthening with each day.
Before I left for lunch today he’d insisted that Jenkins drive me and wait while I had lunch. When I expressed the thought that I might do a little shopping, he went into a tirade, and I finally succumbed to having the driver park discreetly down the block and wait for me.
I was beginning to feel more like a prisoner than his wife, and I wasn’t sure who I could talk to about it.
“Hey, Charlie.”
Misty Vancouver plopped into the café chair across from me. At thirty, she was married to Jeff Vancouver, president and CEO of the up-and-coming Vancouver International. Suffice it to say, Misty lived the charmed life.
“Ooh,” she squealed with delight, “I need one of those. Waiter?” She waved her dainty French-tipped nails at him and grinned widely when he smiled at her. “Could I please have one of these? And heavy on the juice.”
He bowed, but his eyes never left Misty’s face.
I eyed her youthful figure wrapped in a designer sundress. She wore her frosted blond hair straight, where it fell in abandon to her bronzed, slim shoulders. Her smile turned to me as she shoved her sunglasses atop her head. She was exquisitely tanned, looked happy—dazzling, to be exact—and I hated her instantly.
“You two have got to get away to the beach.” She shut her eyes and tipped her head back, reveling in her memory. “The white sand, the water, the sultry nights, God, it’s pure paradise. Oh, and they have this massive yacht you can charter now—”
She stopped short, her eyes round with her horrified expression. “Oh, God, Charlie, I’m sorry. I forgot that Paul doesn’t like the water anymore.”
I smiled and shrugged, pretending my ambivalence to her remark. “He does stay at home a lot more now.”
“Really, I’m sorry.”
The waiter brought Misty’s drink and, I noted, eyed her with the same admiration. She returned his approval with a sweet smile. I waited as she watched him walk away in his tight-fitting black dress pants. At least if they had a fling, it would be discreet, and likely because they both wanted it.
“So you had a good time, then?” I swallowed a good half of my mimosa and held it up to our waiter across the way. He came as quickly to my rescue, but without the same attention he paid Misty.
“It was very nice. But we had to cut the week a day short so Jeff could get back to some bigwig meeting.”
“Don’t you hate that?” I smirked, wondering if Jeff had a disgruntled mistress demanding his attention. Maybe not; maybe I was becoming too cynical. I laughed to myself and caught Misty’s curious gaze.
“I suppose you’re used to that sort of thing. I mean used to be.” Her tiny catlike claws came out of her diamond-clad, manicured, perfect fingers.
I raised my brow and my drink. “It’s a part of the territory, my dear, and the sooner you learn to accept it the better.”
She eased back in her chair and crossed her long, tanned legs. Our waiter took note of that, too.
“What can I get for you two special ladies today?” He spoke directly to Misty, who had the decency to blush.
“I’ll have the baked salmon, with wild rice and a salad—no onions, please. Oh, and dressing on the side,” I offered, not shifting my relaxed stance in my chair. I watched with pleasant satisfaction how the splash of grenadine filtered through the drink.
He nodded and scribbled on his notepad, not once looking at me. Misty perused the selections more than a dozen times, it seemed, before finally smacking the menu down. She offered the waiter a sweet, dazzling smile. Pure innocence, no doubt not wearing panties at all.
“What do you recommend?”
Good Lord.
“That depends on what you’re in the mood for,” he countered, shifting to focus on her with his body language. I considered shoving everything off the table so they could just have a go of it right then and there.
“Well, maybe you could surprise me with your favorite dish?”
She was openly flirting with him. This was getting hard to stomach.
I sipped my drink and let my mind wander from the vocal seduction going on between the two of them. I supposed it was one thing to have a choice who you had an affair with, rather than who your husband handpicked to have an affair with you.
I spied a men’s clothing shop on the corner across the street from the restaurant, and made a mental note to stop in quickly and pick up a nice tie or perhaps a new sweater for Paul. His birthday was coming up and a tie might come in handy—if not for him, perhaps for me.
“So what’s new with you and Paul?”
The waiter was gone and Misty turned her attention back to the fact that someone was seated across from her. “Nothing much, really. We pretty much have our daily routine down now.”
She sighed as though I’d just told her I was the Queen of England.
“I wish Jeff and I were as comfortable with each other as you and Paul. You two have been through so much and yet have managed to remain so strong. I wish I knew your secret. Some days, I wonder if our marriage could survive anything so serious.”
The poor girl would faint dead away if I told her the secret of our marital success. Then again, maybe she wouldn’t. Misty impressed me as the type that could ease into the role I played without much discomfiture. Still, she wasn’t the one I could talk to frankly about my situation. She loved to talk too much, and she and Jeff were heavy into the social scene.
“Well—” I lifted my second mimosa to her “—you never really know what you’re capable of until it happens.”
“Boy, that’s true.” Her gaze wandered off and I knew she was searching for her handsome young waiter friend.
“Jeff working late tonight?” Yeah, it was a baited question.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, but I have a million things to do. All that laundry from the trip, catching up on bills, you know the menial stuff.”
“Right.” I smiled. I guessed what Jeff didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and perhaps even if he did, it wouldn’t faze him. The craze of open marriage seemed to be an up-and-coming lifestyle for the very well-to-do. I figured by suppertime, Misty would be ushering our waiter into her bedroom to help her with a few menial tasks.
Our food was set before us and, sure enough, Misty didn’t think I saw when she slipped a folded bill into our waiter’s hand. What denomination I wasn’t sure, but I knew it contained a phone number.
I guess pleasure is a marketable commodity.