Chapter 30

“Of course I wanted to phone,” Carolyn said for the third time. “But we were in no-man’s-land. There was no phone around.”

He was confronting her in the living room, standing with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his sweatpants and balled into fists—she could see the outline of his knuckles in the fabric.

He stated, “I told you that rattletrap of hers would break down.”

His comment of this morning had been the genesis of her concocted story. She said wearily, wanting this to be over, wanting to retreat into her own thoughts again, “Yes, you did.”

“You could have called afterward.” His voice was grating, his lips stiff on his pale face.

“We came home without stopping. It’s only a little after eight. I’m two hours later than I said I’d be.”

His stare impaled her. “You said you’d be home this afternoon.”

“I said I’d be home around dinnertime,” she replied without conviction; she could not remember.

“No, Carolyn. I started expecting you around three.” His voice rose. “Things happen to women, even if what’s her name does look like Queen of the Amazons.”

Ire worked its way into her weariness. “I don’t think that way, Paul.”

“Someday you’ll learn the world’s a fucking jungle and then it’ll be too late.”

She was offended as well as irked; he knew she detested that word. “I didn’t mean to have you worry. I didn’t,” she insisted guiltily, knowing she had scarcely given him a thought. “Did you eat?”

“No,” he sulked. “How could I? I was too upset even to watch Reagan debate Mondale.”

She toasted bread and fried ham for sandwiches. Tantalized by the smells, ravenous, she forced herself to eat slowly under his alert gaze.

“Did you have any luck?” he asked. He added impatiently as she looked at him in bewilderment, “With the art gallery.”

“Oh. Yes, they’re taking her work.”

With a smothered snort he bit into his sandwich. His voice was surly: “Why didn’t you take your car like I wanted?”

“Her paintings were packed. It’s best to move them as little as possible.”

He did not reply. In the silence of the house there was only the sound of their eating. She knew he was still angry and looking for another opening to attack. “Paul,” she said, “why don’t we make peace?”

“Okay by me.” His face was suddenly eager, his voice vibrant. Her choice of words had been unfortunate; he had read extra meaning into them. In sharp annoyance she rose from the table.

“Why don’t I turn on the TV? Angela Lansbury’s new show is on—you really like her.” She felt his eyes burn into her as she switched on the set. He said, “This guest room stuff—it’s all over, then.”

“No,” she said shortly, feeling whipsawed by her guilt and her compelling need to have this night to herself. She could not bear the thought of his touch.

“Princess, why not?” His voice had softened to persuasiveness. “Princess, we’re not getting divorced over any of this, are we? Right or wrong, what’s done is done. If we’re to have a marriage we’ve got to go on from here.”

She gave him the concession of a nod. “For now I’m not ready for…the sex part of our marriage. My feeling right now about that isn’t…right.”

“You don’t love me anymore, is that what you’re trying to say?” She knew the question was rhetorical, but she answered soberly,

“No, I do love you. I just don’t feel terribly loving.” I need tonight. God, just give me tonight—I’ll never ask for another thing.

For long moments his gaze was on her. Then, as if he had seen something in her face that satisfied him, his eyes moved to the television screen. At ten o’clock she went gratefully toward the guest room. He got up from his armchair to intercept her, gripping her shoulders.

She could not prevent her reaction: she twisted away to throw his hands from her. As he stood gaping she said hastily, in distress, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, honey, I—I’m just so very tired—”

The shock on his face was replaced by rage. He raised a hand, and for an unbelieving instant she thought he would strike her.

He lowered the hand. “For God’s sake, Carolyn.” He turned away from her. “I only wanted our good-night kiss.” His voice dropped to a whisper: “Like always.” He stalked toward the bedroom.

As she lay in her bed his angry presence seemed to radiate through the walls of the house. But he had every right to be angry, she reflected…and she would make it up to him tomorrow, somehow.

She turned her thoughts from him, but her mind retreated again, from analysis of what had happened today, from its meaning. There was one distilled fact—that she longed to be in Val’s arms now, against her softness.

Images of Val’s body, memories of her surrender to that powerful nudity coursed through her. Her body aching with want, she rolled over onto her stomach and buried her face in her pillow.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 532