January 2005
I decided January 1—a resolution of sorts—that I would find my own happy. I doted on my children and on Jackson by creating the happiest home I knew how.
Monday through Friday, Jackson and I rose early, had our coffee and breakfast together in the tiny dining room, where I’d painted the walls a warm shade of melon trimmed in creamy white. Then, as he got ready for work in our bathroom, I roused Sara from her slumber by scooping her in my arms and carrying her into the dining room, while planting tiny kisses all over her face as she groaned, “Oh, Mommy . . . five more minutes, please.”
Placing her in her chair, I’d say, “Eat your cereal. If you get ready in time, I’ll let you watch a cartoon before you leave for school.”
By the time Jackson swept out of our bedroom smelling of soap and aftershave and looking too handsome for his own good, I had dressed Sara, helped get her teeth brushed, and placed her little backpack by the front door. Jackson usually found me in the nursery, kissed me and our son goodbye, and then went into the living room to spend time with Sara before leaving for the day.
I kept our home immaculate. Our children, folks said, looked as if I’d “dressed them and then pressed them.” After our morning routine, I often drove up to Morgan’s around noon to take Jackson his lunch and to allow him a little time with Travis. In the afternoons, before Sara returned from school, I busied myself with meal preparations, then dashed out to pick her up.
Evenings were spent as a family. Jackson took over with bedtime rituals while I washed and dried the dishes, making sure the kitchen was tidy before heading to bed myself.
Five days a week we did this. On Saturday Jackson tiptoed around, letting me and the children sleep in a little later than usual, and on Sunday we flew around in a frenzy to get ourselves to church followed by lunch at either Dad’s or Mrs. Morgan’s.
And we remained at this pace through the next three years as Sara grew into a precocious darling and Travis ran at breakneck speed around the house, talking nonstop and giggling at anything that moved. And I thought I couldn’t be happier.
Or that Jackson couldn’t be happier.
But happiness can also be an illusion, and a strange thing happens when a man stops reaching for his wife at night. She doesn’t always notice at first, but—with enough time—she begins to wonder. Her mind begins to stray and question and, eventually, become frantic, and all at the same time.
Add to that the moodiness, the one-line answers to questions that deserved more, and the late work hours, and I felt like the greatest fool on the planet.
That I had somehow been sucker-punched by the love fairy.
But I had a plan. Jackson Morgan wasn’t going to up and leave me defenseless with two small children. Not me. I’d heard stories such as these, but I wouldn’t play the lead role in some tragic Lifetime movie. No, no. I had a plan.
“I want to go back to school,” I repeated the line I’d spoken years before. The day had slipped into late evening. The children and I had eaten, I’d gotten them ready for bed, tucked them in, and read each a book before listening to bedtime prayers and calling for shut-eye. Jackson walked through the front door not ten minutes later holding a manila folder stuffed with papers and a bone-weary expression on his face.
He looked like all he wanted was a shower and a hot meal, but I planted my feet, crossed my arms, and said the rehearsed words before he could even say hello.
My husband blinked at me. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He walked from the living room and into the dining room in three strides, throwing the folder on the table as he passed through on his way to the kitchen. “Leesha, now is not the time.”
I followed behind to find him standing before an open refrigerator, pulling the gallon-sized Rubbermaid pitcher of iced tea from the top shelf. “Jackson, I want to go back to school.”
I’m not sure what I expected, but his slamming the pitcher on the counter before pushing past me on his way to our bedroom wasn’t it. “Kids asleep?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Jackson, please. Listen to me.”
I entered the room as he shrugged out of his Morgan’s tee, back muscles rippling in a way that distracted me even when I didn’t want them to. He placed his hands on his hips, fingers spread wide, and breathed out of his nostrils like a bull about to charge. “Is that what you want?” He dropped the shirt on the bed without turning to face me.
“Yes. Don’t you think I deserve to go back?”
He nodded. “If that’s what you want, Leesha, go ahead. But my kids are not going to suffer for it.”
I crossed the room and snatched up the shirt. “Your kids? Your kids?”
His eyes flashed anger and then, within a modicum of a second, became apologetic. “Our kids. You know what I mean.”
“I would never neglect our children.”
He breathed out again. “Whatever you want to do, Leesha. Just—” He looked toward the door. “Did you save me anything for dinner?”
“Don’t I always?”
“Yeah.” He unbuckled his belt to finish undressing. “I’m going to get a shower, okay?”
I diverted my eyes. “Okay,” I answered quietly. “I’ll have your supper ready for you when you get out.”
I found Jackson later that night, pen in hand, poring over the file at the dining room table. His dinner plate had been pushed toward the middle of the table, its contents only half eaten. “Are you done?” I asked softly.
He glanced up. “Yeah.”
I took the plate, aware of the chill in the room and the chasm between us. Problem was, I couldn’t figure out where it had originated. Or why it had so engulfed us. After rinsing the plate and placing it in the dishwasher, I turned off the kitchen light and stepped toward our bedroom, hoping not to disturb Jackson from whatever had his attention. But I heard him call my name as I flipped on our bedroom light. Gently. Coaxing me to come to where he sat.
Even though unsure as to whether to pretend I’d not heard him or to return to the dining room, I chose the latter. I stood in the doorway between the dining room and kitchen and leaned against the frame, crossing my ankles and folding my hands together. Jackson remained in his chair, forearms pressed against the table’s edge, the papers from the folder spread out around him. A pen in one hand, poised over a legal pad, shook slightly between his fingers. The expression on my husband’s face showed fear and anger, concern and determination. “Can you sit for a minute?”
I pulled the chair directly across from him out from the table and sat, saying nothing. Waiting.
Jackson sighed. “I think someone is stealing from the store.”
My shoulders sagged from the weight of his words. “What? Are you sure?”
“We’ve been losing money for the past few months and none of it makes sense. I’ve gone over these books time and again. I’ve watched everyone. I’ve installed cameras. I don’t—I can’t even begin to imagine any of my guys doing this.”
This explained so much. Not another woman . . . not a heart thief at all. I leaned over, stretching my hand toward his, which he gave freely. “How much is missing?”
“Enough to keep me awake at night. Enough to put us in serious danger if I don’t figure this out sooner rather than later.” His brow furrowed. “Listen, Leesha . . . about earlier.”
“It’s okay. I get it now.”
“No. No, you don’t. I know you want to go back to school. I do. But right now . . . until I figure this out, we just can’t afford it.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. I’ve done this to you three times now.” He hung his head and squeezed his eyes closed. “I’m sorry, Leesha. I really am.”