Olivia Goldsmith - Young Wives

“Why? I love you more now than I did when I married you,” Reid protested. “I want everyone to know that.”

Angie felt tears of total happiness rising. The hell with the mascara. “And I love you more, too,” she agreed. “It’s just that people might think that it’s … well, you know, greedy. Like we expect presents or something.”

“Angie, will you do this for me?” Reid asked earnestly. “Your eyes are so beautiful now, so warm and wet.” He lowered his voice. “I want you this minute. I want to kiss you on your eyelids and make love to you, right here on the floor. But instead, just say yes to the ceremony.”

She couldn’t, not ever, say no to that level of desire in him. She was ready to nod her assent when he continued. “Look. You know my parents didn’t want us to marry. And you didn’t like most of my friends. Plus, let’s face it, they didn’t like you. People said you wouldn’t fit in. Hey, even I had some doubts.”

Angie nodded, still smiling though he’d never mentioned his doubts before and the news surprised her. Of course, she’d had plenty of doubts—about him. His fear of commitment, his family’s coldness, his lack of … well, depth. She’d thought he might back out of the wedding right up until the moment when he turned to the rabbi and said, “I do.”

“Anyway,” Reid continued, “it wasn’t an easy year. I admit we’ve had to take some time to adjust. And then, five months ago, I started this affair. I thought things between you and me weren’t … well, I thought maybe my parents had been right.”

Back up! Angela wasn’t certain she’d heard him. “What! I mean, who …?”

Reid made a gesture with his hand, a sort of flutter that matched the one her heart was making in her chest. “An older woman. From work. But she meant nothing. The affair … I don’t know. It just showed me—after the first gloss of lust wore off—it showed me just how much I really love you .” He leaned forward. The setting sun gleamed behind him. “I want to show that I’d choose you over any woman in the world, Angela. It was a mistake, but my affair taught me something. And I just want to make that knowledge public. I want to—”

His affair? Angela couldn’t really hear anymore. She saw Reid’s lips moving, but she couldn’t hear him. Deafness wasn’t the issue. She was afraid she might die right there at the table. But her pride wouldn’t let her. Her heart was beating so loud that Reid must have heard the noise. She certainly couldn’t hear anything else. She sat, frozen in shock, and watched her husband’s lips move. Lips she’d just kissed. Lips that had lied to her and kissed another woman’s mouth, another woman’s….

“I have to go to the toilet,” Angie said. Then she stood up abruptly and almost ran across the dining room.

In which we meet Michelle Russo, Pookie the dog is walked

Michelle got Frankie into bed, which wasn’t easy now that he was six. She shrugged into her jacket and told Jenna she was going out to walk Pookie, their cocker spaniel. In the driveway she looked around guiltily. Frank always yelled at her when he caught her walking the dog. “It’s the kids’ job. You spoil ’em,” he said. It was just that it was easier for Michelle to do it herself than nagging at Jenna. And she could use the air.

As Michelle walked the dog through drifts of leaves she took a moment to look up at the stars. It was chilly and Michelle took her hair out of the scrunchie that bound it up. It fell down below her shoulders in an unmanageable cascade of blond curls that would keep her warm and make Frank hot. She shivered. Elm Street was dark, and despite the cold, this was a time Michelle really enjoyed. It was perhaps the only moment of the day that she spent alone—if you didn’t count Pookie as a companion. The dog pulled on the lead a little bit and Michelle stepped along the sidewalkless curb.

Pookie paused. Uh-oh. Her neighbors, the Shribers and the Joyces, went ballistic if Pookie even lifted a leg anywhere near their property, so she discreetly tried to tug him in the opposite direction. But then she noticed the Joyces’ windows were dark. Maybe they were traveling. Since Mr. Joyce had retired, they had been doing a lot of that. They had lived on this block longer than anybody else. They were pleasant, but never really warm.

Still, Michelle loved them, just the way she loved the entire street and every house on it. This was where she and Frank had chosen to live. The place she had brought both of her children home from the hospital. Frank had taught Jenna to ride without training wheels right here, and one winter afternoon Frankie Junior had gotten his tongue frozen stuck to the lamppost that Pookie was now sniffing. This street was filled with, if not friends exactly, then friendly acquaintances; it was the place they all called home, where their children and their cats and their dogs ran in the grass and fought and played.

Michelle hadn’t had a home growing up. Her mother usually worked as a waitress and came home with some take-out and a six-pack of beer. Her father was always involved in some scheme or other, none of which ever made any money, but did require hours spent in bars.

For a moment Michelle shivered, as if someone had walked on her grave. There was no reason for her to wind up so lucky, unless it was a payback for a really rocky start. Michelle had been born in the Bronx, which was only twenty or thirty miles south of here, but a whole other world. Her mother was Irish, straight from County Cork. Her father was Irish-American, the son of a fireman and a fireman himself—until he reported to work one night so drunk that he walked into a burning building and, feeling invincible, fell six stories when it collapsed.

Michelle hadn’t missed her loud, frightening father. But Michelle was that rare Irish entity, an only child, and she’d been left with her depressed, unreliable mother. And when her mom’s mom got sick “back home,” Sheila returned to Ireland to help. Michelle, only a little older than her own daughter was right now, had waited and waited for her mother’s return. A month seemed a long time to a child; half a year seemed a lifetime. The two years it took before Sheila came back had been enough to do a job on Michelle, dumped as she was with her paternal grandparents, lonely and suspecting that her mother stayed away because she couldn’t face coming back. Michelle had decided then that nothing was as important as loving your husband and your children. She would never be a Sheila.

If Michelle could do it all over again, every bit of her hard, sad early life, she would live through it all as long as she could be assured that she would wind up with Frank Russo, her two kids, and her dog in the safety of this clean suburban harbor in Westchester County; no crime, no grime, no horrors. Healthy food on the table. Clean sheets on the bed. Clothes folded in neat piles in dresser drawers. A yard full of flowers, and two nice cars which never broke down. In the first couple of years of their marriage, Michelle had watched every glass of dago red that her husband drank, expecting him to get drunk and for the picture to fall apart. But he never had. Not once.

Michelle walked the dog up and down the street and, as she did nearly every night, couldn’t help feeling grateful for the fact that her family, her marriage, and her friendships were going so well. She knew that just five houses down the street, Jada was having to deal with her unemployed husband sitting on his butt while Jada worked hers off all day at the bank. Michelle also couldn’t get over the fact that Clinton, Jada’s husband, was “acting up” again. How did Jada put up with it? Michelle was only a little sorry the partnership that Frank had tried to put together with Clinton had never worked out.