Maybe tonight, she kept thinking.
For years, she’d listened to daytime television talk shows. The shrinks agreed that passion could be rekindled, that a love lost along the busy highway of raising a family could be regenerated.
She hoped it was true, because she and Jack were in trouble. After twenty-four years of marriage, they’d forgotten how to love each other; now, only the barest strand of their bond remained.
Their marriage was like an old blanket that had been fraying for years. If repairs weren’t made—and quickly—they’d each be left holding a handful of colored thread. She couldn’t keep pretending that things would get better on their own.
She had to make it happen. That was another thing the shrinks agreed on: You had to act to get results.
Tonight, she’d give them a new beginning.
She kept that goal in mind all day as she went about her chores. Finally, she came home and made his favorite dinner: coq au vin.
The tantalizing aroma of chicken and wine and spices filled the house. It took her almost an hour to get a fire going in the living room hearth (flammable materials were Jack’s job, always, like taking out the trash and paying the bills). When she finished, she lit the cinnamon-scented candles that were her favorite. Then she dimmed the lights. By candlelight, the yellow walls seemed to be as soft as melted butter. On either side of the pale blue and yellow toile sofa, two dark mahogany end tables glimmered with streaks of red and gold.
The whole house looked like a movie set. Seduction Central.
When everything was perfect, she raced into her bathroom and showered, shaved her legs twice, and smoothed almond-scented lotion all over her body.
At last, she went to her lingerie drawer and burrowed through the serviceable Jockey For Her underwear and Calvin Klein cotton bras until she found the lacy white silk camisole and tap pants Jack had bought her for Valentine’s Day a few years ago. Maybe more than a few. She’d never worn them.
Then, she’d dismissed them as a gift for him. Now she saw the romance in it. How long had it been since he’d wanted to see her in sexy clothes?
She frowned.
It looked awfully small.
And her ass was awfully big.
“Don’t do this to yourself,” she said, starting to put it back.
Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror. A forty-five-year-old woman stared back at her, wrinkles and all. Once, people had told her that she looked like Michelle Pfeiffer. Of course, that had been ten years and twenty pounds ago.
She looked down at the lingerie in her hands. Size ten. A size too small. Not so much, really …
If only she could surgically remove the memory of once being a size six.
Very slowly, she slipped the camisole over her head. There was only the slightest pull of fabric across the breasts.
Maybe it was even sexy.
Besides, it was dark in the house. Hopefully, she’d get naked quickly.
Not that that was a particularly comforting thought.
She stepped gingerly into the lace-trimmed tap pants and breathed a sigh of relief. Tight, but wearable.
She looked into the mirror.
Almost pretty.
Maybe it could happen. Maybe a few little changes in habit could turn it all around …
She went to her closet, found the vibrant blue silk robe that had been another long-ago gift and slipped into it. The fabric caressed her smooth, perfumed skin, and suddenly she felt sexy.
She applied her makeup with exquisite care, adding a little Cleopatra-tilt of eyeliner and a shining layer of lip gloss.
By the time she’d taken all those years off her face, it was six-thirty, and she realized that Jack was late.
She poured herself a glass of wine and went into the living room to wait. By the time she’d drunk a second glass, she was worried. A quick phone call to his cell phone didn’t help; no one answered.
It was a long drive from here to Seattle—at least three and a half hours. But if he’d gotten a late start, he would have called …
By eight, dinner was ruined. The chicken had fallen off the bone, and the onions had cooked down to nothing. There wasn’t enough sauce left to taste.
“Perfect.”
Then she heard his key in the front door.
Her first reaction was a flash of anger. You’re late were the words that filled her mouth, but she took a deep, calming breath and released the air slowly, evenly. So what if he should have called.
For this one night, she wanted to be his mistress, not his wife. She poured him a glass of wine, and headed toward the door.
He stood in the doorway, staring at her.
And she knew.
“Hey, honey,” he said without smiling. “Sorry I’m late.” He didn’t comment on anything—not the fire, the candles, her outfit.
She moved toward him, feeling suddenly self-conscious in her silk robe.
“I didn’t get the job.”