Laura Abbot - Second Honeymoon

Crap. He didn’t want to think about throwing up and the grotty taste afterward. “No, it’s more like a pain.”

His mother sat on his bed looking worried. “Is it on the right side?”

Jeez, he wasn’t angling for an appendectomy. He just wanted to stay home.

“No, it’s kinda all over.” He scrunched up his face, hoping she’d figure he was in agony.

Just when he thought he had her convinced, she put on one of those mother looks, like she could see straight through him. “I’ll tell you what. Get dressed and come downstairs. Try to eat something. Then we’ll see.”

He hated it when she said, “We’ll see.” That almost always meant no.

“You’ve worked so hard on your book report. I don’t want you to miss school today.”

“I’m not supposed to give my report until next week.” She didn’t look convinced. He tried one last ploy. “What if I go to school and puke?”

“I’ll come get you.”

Great. Now he’d have to take the dumb math test and worry about how to fake his book report in a few days. If his dad knew his current grade in English was a D, he’d flip.

But what else was new? Everything in his life was off track. The coach had moved him from goalie to center, his grades were in the toilet, his father was never around and when he was, all he did was criticize him. But Dad wasn’t the Lone Ranger. Both his parents nagged all the time. And argued with each other. He was sick of it. Some days he wondered why they’d gotten married in the first place. If that’s what love was like, no question about it—he’d stay a bachelor his whole life.

He closed his eyes. That might be okay. Yeah, he’d be a big-league pitcher or a pro soccer player and have lots of blond girlfriends with big boobs. But he wouldn’t have to marry any of them. Ever.

“Now, young man. Up.”

His mother ripped off the sheet, leaving him exposed. Thank God he didn’t have an early-morning boner. But that was the only good thing about the day so far.

SATURDAY EVENING Meg sat at the linen-covered table, nursing a gin and tonic, listening to the Earl Hines Orchestra and trying to muster a smile for Ward Jordan seated to her right. He and his inane wife, Melody, were their guests for the country-club dance. More importantly, they were potential clients. Meg bent forward to hear the punch line of Ward’s joke, finding it in questionable taste but managing to keep her mouth shut. Scott had come a long way. The chain of department stores the Jordans owned was well known locally. Now they were expanding throughout the Southwest, and Scott’s firm was bidding for the ad campaign. Meg sighed. More work, more travel for Scott.

His success and their affluence were a mixed blessing. Growing up with her hardworking, widowed mother in a cramped house on the wrong side of town she could never have imagined all the luxuries her marriage provided—stylish clothes, exclusive memberships, a lovely decorator home. She should’ve been satisfied. But something was missing.

She glanced over Ward Jordan’s head to see Scott steering Melody around the dance floor. The petite redhead had flung back her head to laugh up at Scott, who towered above her. They were flirting. Meg felt a pang of jealousy. Scott had that effect on women and he capitalized on his charm. Once, she’d been secure in his love and had found such innocent flirtation amusing. Not anymore.

Back then, there’d been no Brenda Sampson to worry about. Scott claimed his creative director maintained her professional distance, that her easy familiarity was simply a result of their working closely together. Brenda was a knockout—a big-boned Scandinavian blonde, comfortable with her own sexuality. Of course, she and Scott needed to stay late some evenings to work. Or… Meg shook her head impatiently. She didn’t want to think about it. She had enough problems without the disturbing mental picture that had just popped into her head. She paused, considering her choice of words. Disturbing because it highlighted yet another flaw in their marriage? Or because the image left a sudden emptiness in her chest?

Around her she heard a smattering of applause for the band. Scott escorted Melody to the table and helped her into her chair. Then he put a hand on Meg’s shoulder. “Dance?”

The band had segued into a slow number. Scott ushered her onto the floor and took her in his arms. He danced just as he did everything else—smoothly. He held her close, seemingly preoccupied. “How do you think it’s going?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the table.

“I have no idea. I’m doing my part, though.”

“You always do.” He whirled her around, then leaned closer. “I appreciate it. You’re a great asset.”

Wonderful. Just the sweet nothing every woman hopes to hear. Didn’t he understand she wanted to be his beloved, his everything? Not a business asset. Not just his housekeeper and the mother of his children. She ground her teeth in frustration. She ached for love and affirmation, knowing it was asking too much to expect romance. She longed to feel like an interesting, desirable woman again.

She stared, unseeing, over his shoulder at the kaleidoscope of moving colors. Twenty years. Simultaneously, it seemed like forever and a mere blip on the radar screen of her life.

When Scott nuzzled her cheek with his chin, she could hardly hold back the tears. She used to feel special in his arms, used to snuggle closer, teasing him with the pressure of her breasts against his chest. Suddenly, he dropped his hands and moved past her. “Lloyd, you son of a gun, good to see you,” he said, and he was off, schmoozing with a former client. Almost as an afterthought he turned to her and, encircling her waist, included her in the conversation.

Meg surreptitiously consulted the diamond watch Scott had given her last Christmas, a gift that had felt more like a payoff than a sentimental gesture. Another hour and a half to go. Somehow she would survive. But when they got home, it was time for a serious talk.

SCOTT ROLLED UP the sleeves of his dress shirt, fixed himself a brandy, then sat down in the family room, like the proverbial condemned prisoner awaiting his executioner. Meg had gone upstairs to change and check on the kids. On the way home from the country club she’d uttered the words no husband welcomed: We need to talk. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Why now, for God’s sake? He was on the brink of exhaustion.

After midnight there was no one to interrupt them, no phone call to distract her, no reason for him to hurry back to the office. Reluctantly, he acknowledged that they needed to settle some things. They couldn’t live in limbo indefinitely. Yet he couldn’t ignore the fear in the pit of his stomach.

He braced himself when Meg came into the room, her feet bare, her thin nightgown covered by an old chenille bathrobe she’d had since she was pregnant with Hayley. Her security blanket?

He lifted his glass. “Can I get you something?”

She shook her head, then took a seat in the big armchair, tucking her feet under her. She wrapped her arms around her chest and peered around the room as if seeing it for the first time. Or the last. His heart plummeted.

That was exactly where they were in their relationship. “So?” he finally said. “Talk.”

“What are we going to do? I don’t know about you, but I can’t go on like this, just coexisting in the same house. Wearing a phony smile in public.”

“Are you that unhappy?”

She glanced up. “Aren’t you?”

He thought about her question. About his feelings of entrapment and the weight of overwhelming expectations. “What happened to us?”

She shrugged. “We’ve been over everything more times than I care to count. Is there any point in rehashing it?”