Out with the Old, In with the New Read online

  Peg, Joan and I aren’t close enough to share intimate details like that. Even if I don’t like them very much, I have to admit they’re not stupid women. They have to know their husbands. How could they not? I don’t understand how they can stay with men they know are unfaithful—turn the other cheek and jet off to Europe until the latest bimbette has lost her sheen.

  I’ve always appreciated Corbin’s honesty. After seeing Mac—God, it was before Caitlin was born—Corbin opened up to me. I hated hearing the dirty details, but it made me feel closer to my husband that he would share how much Dave’s and Mac’s dalliances bothered him. As close as they are, he said it was the one area in which he couldn’t relate to them, said it disappointed him that they could look their wives in the eyes and lie.

  I cling to that thought and believe in my husband.

  Bring on the joke.

  I can take it.

  CHAPTER 3

  There was no joke.

  Nor a punch line.

  Only the slow-dawning realization that Mac and Dave weren’t the culprits. Someone else sent the letter.

  Some unknown person, who, for some unknown reason, decided she—or he—and it could very well be a he, let’s not jump to conclusions—wanted to mess with the solidarity of the Hennessey marriage.

  So here I stand the morning after, in the kitchen, squeezing orange juice for Corbin’s and Caitlin’s breakfast, pondering who and why and trying to act as if I haven’t a care in the world.

  I’ve never been a good actress. I’m tired and cranky because I lay awake most of last night listening to Corbin snore.

  The orange slips off the juicer, and my hand lands in the sticky, pulpy mess. Oh for God’s sake. It’s mornings like this I wish I could pull a carton of OJ from the refrigerator. But I won’t. I’ve always taken pride in giving my family the best. I rinse and dry my hand, return to the half-dozen orange halves on the cutting board.

  I’m just tired. Everything always seems worse when I’m tired.

  “Corbin?”

  He’s sitting at the table, a bowl of oatmeal in front of him, engrossed in the newspaper. He doesn’t look up from the business section. A prickle of irritation spirals through my veins, and I’m tempted to throw a spent orange hull at his paper fortress. Instead, I toss the peel into the sink.

  “Do you want to hear something funny?” I ask.

  “Mmm…” He folds the paper in half then over again. Still reading, he reaches for a piece of toast on a plate next to his cereal. Absently, he takes a bite.

  I pick up another orange half. “I thought Dave and Mac were the ones who wrote the letter.”

  He lowers the paper and looks at me as if I’m an idiot.

  I shrug. “I thought they were playing a joke.”

  He frowns. “A damn lousy joke. They wouldn’t do something like that. “He sounds irritated, defensive, as if he’d never considered them suspect. The crease between his brows deepens, and he retreats behind his newspaper. I hate the way he shuts down in the middle of a conversation. Because I always have plenty left to say.

  “Yes, Corbin, it is a lousy thing to do. Do you have any idea who did it?”

  “Kate.” It’s more of a sigh than a word. He lays the business section on the table, checks his watch, stands. “Just let it go. Bottom line is I love you. I love our family. I’m not going to do anything to screw up what we have.” He walks over and puts his arms around me. “The only way the letter matters is if we let it matter. So let it go.”

  I sink into him. His arms feel so right around me. This is my place. But reservation seeps in and rakes its cold, bony fingers over every inch of my body, leaving me breathless and slightly nauseated. He’s right, though. I’m sure whoever did this wants a reaction just like the elementary school bully wanted attention. The question is, whose attention does this bully want?

  “You think if we ignore it, it will simply go away?”

  “Will who go away, Mommy?” Caitlin walks into the kitchen dressed for school. She hesitates in front of her seat at the table and looks at Corbin and me.

  He releases me and returns to the table.

  “No one, sweetie. Daddy and I were just talking about—”

  “No one of any consequence.” Corbin tickles Caitlin. “So don’t you worry your pretty little head over it.”

  Her laughter crescendos into high-pitched screams, and he draws her into a snuggly Daddy-hug that melts my heart because it speaks louder than all the words he could utter to convince me of his dedication.

  I shove the orange down on the marble head of the electric appliance. The machine growls as it pulverizes the fruit. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could purge myself of doubt the way the juicer forces the pulp from the orange?

  “What’s consequence?” Caitlin asks, a spoonful of oatmeal poised in front of her mouth.

  “A person of no consequence is someone of no importance,” says Corbin. “Someone who doesn’t matter.”

  I pour the juice into glasses. “A consequence is also the result of your actions. You do something bad, you suffer the consequence.”

  The words slip out before I realize the implication. My cheeks burn.

  Corbin cuts his gaze to me and hesitates before he scrapes the last bite of oatmeal from his bowl. I carry two glasses of juice to the table and set one in front of Caitlin. I hold the other until my husband looks me in the eye again.

  Resolve gleams in his clear azure eyes. A determination that dictates conversation about the letter is over. Okay. If he can still look me in the eye, what else do I need to make myself feel better?

  So that’s it.

  I can believe him, or I can leave him.

  I believe him.

  He reaches up, takes the glass, sips it and raises it toward me with a slight nod. “Thank you.”

  He picks up the paper again. He looks good in his sapphire-blue shirt and yellow tie. The shirt matches his eyes, which are in crisp contrast to his nearly black hair. For a moment I’m transported back to my freshman year at the University of Florida, when we first met. I was working my way through school. He was the carefree frat boy. The cocky rich kid who had the world at his feet. My family is close, but we’re of simple means. Yet out of all the debutantes and sorority girls, the moneyed coeds with deep Southern roots and families with even deeper pockets, Corbin chose me. He used to say, Money can’t buy class, Kate. Either you’re born with it or you’re not. Every single day of our twenty-year marriage, I’ve done my best to make sure he didn’t live to regret his choice.

  As I pull out my chair to take my place at the table with my coffee, I spy the paint chips on the windowsill and pick them up.

  “I talked to Alex yesterday,” I say as I shuffle through the colors. “It’s time for our annual getaway. But I don’t know….”

  He lowers the paper. “This early?”

  “Well, that’s just it. She and Rainey have their hearts set on this spa weekend down at the Breakers. It’s in two weeks.” I shake my head.

  “What’s the date?”

  “February seventh, but it’s too soon. Not enough notice. I’ll tell them to go ahead without me. Maybe the girls and I can plan a trip later this year, closer to our birthdays.”

  He shrugs. “It should be fine. I’m on call this weekend. That means Mac or Dave will be on the weekend you’re away. I’m sure your mother will help out if there’s an emergency.”

  Emergency? What does he expect to happen?

  The words from the letter telegraph in my brain: Ask your husband what he’s been doing all those nights he claimed to be at the hospital.

  No.

  Stop it. I will not keep going there. Am I really going to let some unknown person control my relationship with my husband? A man I’ve known for twenty years? “I don’t want you to go, Mommy.” Caitlin frowns up at me, her blond brows knit into a single line across her smooth forehead.

  Corbin reaches out and takes my hand. The paint chips scatter on the table.
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  “No, Caitlin, your mommy deserves to do this for herself. Sometimes we forget that she never gets a break.”

  He draws my hand to his lips, kisses my knuckles. The gesture is so sweet, so tender. My eyes mist. I close them until I’m able to swallow the lump in my throat.

  To keep my mind on the positive, I say, “Take a look at these colors.” I nudge the samples toward him. “I’d like to get the living room painted before I go.”

  He picks up the sport section and scrutinizes a photo of an Orlando Magic player scoring the winning point at a recent game. “Whatever you want. You’re the one with good taste.”

  I scoot the Scarlett O’Hara chip toward him. “Okay, then this one.”

  He peers over the top corner of the paper and laughs. “Not in my house. This belongs in a bordello. Besides, isn’t red supposed to excite people? I need to relax when I get home.”

  If he hadn’t been so darn sweet just a short moment ago, I’d argue Scarlett O’Hara’s case. For now, she can wait.

  “I’ll be home after the game tonight. Are you sure you and Caitlin don’t want to come?”

  I shake my head.

  “Awwwwww, Mommy. I want to go.”

  “No, you were too hard to wake up this morning and you have school tomorrow. Another time. A weekend game, perhaps.”

  Corbin stands, kisses Caitlin on the top of her head. “Come to think of it, I’ll be pretty late. After the game, there’s a reception at Harvey’s Bistro for the new general manager. I need to put in an appearance. New management could decide on a new team physician. I need to stake our claim.”

  I steel myself against the queer swirling sensation in my gut. Everything is fine. He will go to his game. I will go to Palm Beach.

  Everything is fine.

  Alex and Rainey are surveying the loot from our shopping spree and settling into our luxury suite at the Breakers as I punch numbers on my cell phone. It’s only seven-thirty. Our dinner reservation is for eight, and I want to call home and say goodnight to Caitlin before it gets much later.

  The phone rings. I settle back against the padded headboard waiting for someone to answer, watching Rainey model a new dress she bought in a shop on Worth Avenue.

  Rainey twirls. Alex gives the thumbs-up sign. She doesn’t have kids or a husband—which, she says, is a good thing, given the fact she can’t even hold together a relationship with her mother. They haven’t spoken in ten years. That’s sad. I can’t imagine what I’d do without my mother, but it’s Alex’s life. She says she’s perfectly happy having only to check in with her law office’s answering service.

  Rainey’s only child, Ben, will graduate from high school in May. He probably won’t realize she’s gone for the weekend until she gets back and tries to torture him with photographs.

  Rainey’s a pro when it comes to cameras. She’s by far the most creative of the three of us. She’s argued that point with me on more than one occasion, giving me credit for my “decorating flair.” But my panache, as she calls it, does not hold a candle to what Rainey can create with a lump of clay and the artistic equivalent of a funky manicure set. She’s amazing. By default—and because Alex and I didn’t even bother to bring a camera—she’s the official photographer of the tenth annual girls’ getaway.

  She snaps a shot of me with the phone pressed to my ear. I’m counting the rings on the other end of the line. Seven…eight… A couple more and the answering machine will kick in, but in the nick of time Caitlin picks up the receiver. Her little voice sings, “Hello, Hennessey residence.”

  “Hi, sweetie.”

  “Mommy! When are you coming home? I miss you.”

  “Pumpkin, I haven’t been gone twenty-four hours. How can you miss me already?”

  “I just do. Don’t you miss me?”

  “Of course I do, but I’m having fun, too. We went shopping today and had our nails done. We just checked into our room.”

  “Did you get me a surprise?”

  “I sure did.”

  “What color did you get your nails painted?”

  “Natural.”

  “Just like always. When you get home will you paint my nails pink?”

  “I will. Maybe I’ll even find a special bottle of pretty pink polish to bring home to you.”

  “Ohhhhhhhh! Don’t forget, okay?”

  “All right, sweetie. Can you put Daddy on the phone for a minute?”

  “No.”

  No? My heart kicks against my breastbone, and I sit up and scoot to the edge of the bed. “Why not?”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  What? In all the time I’ve known this man, he’s never napped. “What’s wrong? Is he okay?”

  “I think so.”

  A bad feeling creeps into my veins. Caitlin isn’t a baby, of course, but if he’s sick he should’ve called my mother to come help, rather than leaving her to fend for herself while he slept. I turn toward the window. It’s dark outside.

  “How long has he been asleep?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Have you had dinner?”

  “No, and I’m hungry.”

  I stand up. It’s nearly bedtime. I knew this trip was a bad idea.

  “Take the phone into him and tell him Mommy wants to talk to him.”

  Rainey and Alex have stopped their shopping show-and-tell and are staring at me.

  “He’ll get mad. Just like you’re mad.”

  I take a deep breath and soften my tone. “I’m not mad, honey. I’m concerned about Daddy. And you. I’m sorry if I sounded angry.”

  I walk into the living room, away from my audience. “Honey, put him on the phone, and then I’ll talk to you again before I hang up. Okay?”

  A few moments later, a groggy voice croaks, “Yeah? Doctor Hennessey.”

  “Corbin, it’s me. What’s wrong?”

  He grunts. I picture him sitting up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and running his hand over his eyes and through his hair in one motion. “Oh, Kate. It’s you.” His voice is breathy. “I thought it was the hospital. Oh God… I didn’t mean to sleep so long. I just…passed out.”

  Passed out? I quell the mother tiger urge to tear into him. You don’t pass out when you’re taking care of a child. Staring at the maroon-velvet-striped wallpaper, I silently count to ten and give him the benefit of the doubt. “Are you sick?”

  “No. I was…tired.” His voice tightens on the last word. “I’m entitled to take a nap every once in a while.”

  “I’m not saying you aren’t. But it’s seven-thirty, and your daughter hasn’t even eaten dinner. When you’re caring for a six-year-old, entitlement gets put on hold for the weekend.”

  He snorts.

  The urge to ask if I need to come home wraps around me like a scratchy wool blanket begging me to throw it off my shoulders and onto the table. But I draw it tightly around me and endure the itch.

  “It’s only two days. Come on, you can handle it.”

  The long, drawn-out silence underscores every mile that stretches between us, until I can’t stand it anymore.

  “Corbin, she’s only six. If you have to check out, or pass out or whatever you did, take her to my mother’s house so someone’s looking after her, okay?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake—” He draws in a heavy breath. Lets it out. “You’re right. You’re always right, Kate. I’d better get in there and start cooking. Have fun shopping. Goodbye.”

  “Don’t forget the—” click “—lasagna in the refrigerator.”

  I look at my phone. Call ended.

  He hung up on me.

  Oh! Irritation simmers in the pit of my stomach, threatening to rage into a full boil. I squeeze the phone until my knuckles turn white and stare at it as if it will channel all my anger back to my husband and reach out and slap him. What is his problem?

  A vision of my daughter’s face pops into my mind. We didn’t even get to say good-night. I start to call home again—

  “Everything all ri
ght?” Alex asks.

  I jump and turn toward her in one quick, jerky motion, and snap the phone closed. Alex is standing in the middle of the living-room floor, hands on her hips. From the concerned look on her face, I’m certain she heard every word of my conversation. Through the bedroom doorway, I see Rainey seated at the dressing table, touching up her makeup, watching me in the mirror.

  Heat floods my cheeks. I feel like an idiot.

  “Everything’s fine.” I grab my purse off the coffee table and shove the phone inside. “We’d better go or we’ll miss our reservation.”

  Out in the hall the air is cool and carries that old, upscale hotel smell of brass polish and carpet shampoo. Our suite is at the end of the corridor. Three doors down a fortyish man and twenty-something brunette step into the hallway. They don’t see me. Or maybe they do, but they don’t care. He closes the door, draws her to him in a feverish kiss. I watch them shamelessly. His hands skim her slim body, wind their way around to her derriere where they linger, kneading and pulling her into him for the duration of the kiss.

  They laugh, kiss again, coo at each other, and finally walk away, arms entwined, past the other rooms that stretch down the passage like twin rows of soldiers standing at attention, guarding tawdry secrets. Shiny knobs and numbered plates glint in the dim light, but betray nothing of the lovers who grace these halls.

  A voice deep inside me prods and pokes me in vulnerable places. “You know what’s going on, Kate. You know. Now you have to decide if you’re going to turn the other cheek or start opening some doors.”

  We get back to the hotel before midnight. I’m remarkably relaxed. Equalized, you might say. Amazing the miracles worked by good friends, a delicious meal and more than a few glasses of Chardonnay.

  Ahh… Medicine to soothe the weary soul.

  I fall onto the overstuffed, floral sofa, let my head loll back into the cushion and close my eyes for a minute.