Marie Ferrarella - Finding Home

“Brad, I can buy myself anything I want. That’s not the point.” When he made no response, she knew that he had no idea what the point was. So she spelled it out for him. “The point is you actually taking the time to buy something for me.”

He blew out a breath in disgust. “I’m not any good at that. You’re hard to shop for.”

Her eyes widened in complete mystification. She’d never made a secret of anything she liked. And she liked a broad spectrum of things. It was hard to find something she didn’t like.

“Hard to shop for?” Stacey echoed, stunned. “I’d accept anything you bought—as long as you thought I might like it.”

“That’s just it,” he declared as if she’d made his point for him. “I have no idea what you’d like.”

Sadness swiped through her like a rusted sword. “You used to.” Her mouth curved as a cherished memory whispered to her from across the pages of time. “I still have the trivia book you bought me for no reason that time we were browsing in the used bookstore.”

She saw by his expression that he had absolutely no recollection of what she was referring to. She took a stab at rousing his memory. “We’d just started going together. You were looking for used textbooks to buy for your anatomy class and the trivia book was misplaced. You didn’t have much money to spare, but you bought it for me. Because you knew I loved trivia.” He was nodding. Was that just to put her off or because he finally remembered? “I cried when you gave it to me.”

And then the light really did dawn on him. “Oh. Right.” He was nodding with feeling now. “I remember you crying.” Remembered because it had embarrassed him and he didn’t know how to get her to stop. “I thought I did something wrong.”

She laughed softly. She supposed in some ways he had always been clueless.

“No, you did something right. Something very right.” She searched Brad’s face for a sign that she’d managed to get through to him and finally asked, “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He took a shot at it. “That you want another trivia book?”

Men had to be the most frustrating creatures on the face of the earth. “No, I want you to stop and think. About me. About us.”

In a general way, he knew what she was after. And it was foolish. “Stacey, you’re not a twenty-year-old girl anymore, you’re forty-seven, and I’m not a twenty-one-year-old premed student doing his damnedest to score points with you—”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” she cut in. “Maybe you should be.”

She’d lost him. “Be what? A twenty-one-year-old premed student?”

“No, doing your damnedest to score points with me.”

“Why?” he demanded, looking at her as if she’d lost her mind. “We’re married.” And then he sighed. “That didn’t come out right.”

“No,” she agreed. “It didn’t. Did you ever consider that maybe I’d like to feel special? That I still mattered to you?”

“Of course you still matter,” he retorted, his temper fraying. “I’m still here, aren’t I? Do you have any idea how many of the doctors who I work with have gotten a divorce?”

Was that supposed to make her feel better? That he hadn’t divorced her? Why did he always focus on the negative instead of the positive? Was it his profession that made him this way, or had he always been like this? She no longer knew. She just knew that she was unhappy and she didn’t want to be.

She shook her head, fighting another wave of sadness. “You wouldn’t be able to find the time to get a divorce,” she replied quietly.

He gave it one last try. “Stacey, we’ve been married for twenty-five years.”

“Twenty-six,” she corrected again, her teeth clenched to keep from shouting. “We’ve been married twenty-six years.”

He huffed impatiently. “Twenty-six, twenty-five, the point is, we’ve been married for a long time. I’m not about to start pretending that we’re still dating. That’s juvenile.”

It felt as if he’d just slapped her. “I’m being juvenile?”

He neither denied nor verified. He just built on what he’d said. “Maybe that’s why you related so well to Jim. He refuses to grow up, too.”

The phone rang, the sound wedging its way between them. Stacey ignored it. She was in the middle of an argument and all that mattered to her was getting Brad to understand how much his words, his actions, or lack thereof, hurt her. “Don’t drag Jim into this, Brad. This is between you and me.”

He looked toward the telephone. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

“No,” she said flatly. “Not until you answer me.”

Brad threw up his hands. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,” he snapped, rising. The phone rang again as he crossed to it.

They weren’t through yet. For once, she wanted a resolution instead of letting things just remain tangled until they faded away. “Whoever it is can leave a message.”

“It might be a patient, trying to reach me.”

Stacey got up, following him. “I’m trying to reach you,” she insisted.

But Brad was already picking up the receiver.

“Hello? What? Yes, this is Dr. Sommers. Could you repeat that, please?”

She sighed. Work had pulled him away from her again. Crossing back to the table, she picked up her mug and carried it to the sink. She was about to turn on the water to rinse the mug out when Brad held out the receiver to her. She looked at him quizzically.

“It’s for you.” His expression was grim.

Stacey suddenly felt very cold. She was aware of the hairs rising along her arms and the back of her neck. Her fingertips were damp as she wrapped them around the receiver. Her imagination hit the ground running.

The neighborhood her son had moved to was considered unsavory and dangerous.

“Is it about Jim?” she asked hoarsely. When he didn’t answer immediately, she made a second guess. “Is it Julie?”

Brad merely shook his head. But his expression remained grim. Was that pity she saw in his eyes? Sympathy? A sense of panic mounted in her chest as she brought the receiver to her ear.

“Hello?”

A deep, resonant voice with a hint of a British accent asked, “Is this Mrs. Stacey Sommers?”

With lightning speed, her brain attempted to make an instant voice match. And failed. She didn’t know anyone with a British accent, slight or otherwise.

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Sommers, this is Ian Bryanne. I am—I was Titus Radkin’s attorney.” He paused, as if to allow the words to sink in. Her grip on the receiver tightened. Instinctively, Stacey knew what was coming. A sadness pooled through her. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to have to tell you this, but your uncle died last night. He went peacefully in his sleep.”

“Uncle Titus?” She said the name numbly.

The image of a tall, thin, gaunt-faced man with flowing, shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair materialized in her mind’s eye. Titus Radkin wasn’t actually her uncle, he was her great-uncle.

By last count, he’d been ninety-four and still going strong. Last Christmas she’d gotten a card from him. He’d included a picture of himself and his newest mistress, a woman of thirty-eight. “She’s a little old for me, but she has some very fine redeeming qualities,” he’d written across the back of the photograph.

Eternally young, that was the way she’d thought of her father’s uncle. He’d embraced a completely different generation, one in which people wore flowers in their hair, rioted in the name of peace and drove around in air-polluting VW buses while preaching about saving the environment and doing their damnedest to procreate and perpetuate the species one lovefest at a time.