Marriage Matters

Fourteen

Kristine sat on the floor behind the cash register, sorting receipts. This was one of her favorite tasks. Something about numbers soothed her. When Sudoku became a national craze, she and Kevin competed with each other to solve the puzzles. Competitive to the end, Kevin was always in it to win.

June, on the other hand, was baffled by the game. “Honestly,” she’d said, flipping through a book and casting it aside. “I can’t think of anything more dull than doing math for fun.” Eventually, Kristine found that very same book shoved into a kitchen drawer, each puzzle perfectly solved.

Kevin wasn’t surprised. “Your mother might act like a dingbat most of the time, but nine times out of ten, she’s the smartest person in the room.”

Because June was an intelligent woman, Kristine respected her opinion. However, it was not always welcome. Just that morning, Kristine had found a note waiting at the store.

In pinched handwriting, it read:

Dearest Kristine, I didn’t want to discuss this issue in front of Chloe last night, but please, reconsider Italy. I know that you would never do anything to jeopardize your marriage, but traveling to another country with a man who is not your husband is not a wise thing to do. Circumstance can, on occasion, make us question the choices we’ve made.

Thinking of the note, Kristine wadded up a receipt. What did her mother think? That she was going to fall all over Ethan just because he was there? The whole thing reminded her of the summer travel program days, when June’s well-placed doubt almost kept Kristine from boarding that boat.

The bell on the door jingled, breaking her train of thought. Getting to her feet, she was startled to see Ethan walk in. His hair was damp, as though he’d just stepped out of the shower.

“Hey.” Kristine smiled. “What are you doing here?” Annie was on the schedule that day, not Ethan. In a way, she wished Annie had warned her they’d switched. That way, she’d at least have something intelligent prepared to say about Italy.

Ethan admired her light blue sundress and sandals. “You look nice.”

“Oh.” Kristine’s hair was pulled back in its typical sloppy bun. She hadn’t gotten around to putting on makeup yet, either, so she imagined her freckles were in full bloom. “I was sprawled out on the floor before you got here.” Brushing some imaginary dirt off her legs, she straightened her dress. “It’s a good thing you weren’t a customer.”

“I don’t know that it would have been all that bad for business. I think it would create a very relaxed, no-pressure approach.”

All week, Kristine had felt guilty about the time she’d spent with Ethan on her anniversary. She’d felt equally guilty at the prospect of traveling with him to Rome. But now, that all seemed completely ridiculous. Sure, the man was attractive, but he was also easy to talk to. There was nothing odd about wanting to develop a friendship with someone like that, nothing lascivious like June had implied.

“I’m so excited about Rome, Ethan. Thank you so much.” She shook her head, still amazed. “Customs should put us on a watch list. They’re going to have a hard time getting me to leave.”

Ethan’s dark eyes danced. “I can think of worse things than spending the rest of my life in Italy, eating carpaccio and drinking wine.”

Looking around her store, Kristine considered what she’d have to leave behind to become an expatriate. Books, travel gizmos, cultural posters . . . and Kevin, of course. He would never sacrifice his beloved Chicago microbreweries for a life of red wine. Cheese, maybe. But not the wine.

Ethan headed to the bookshelves. “Come here,” he called. “Have you seen this yet?” Ethan pulled down a photography book.

She walked over to join him. “Of course. I love that book.”

The black-and-white photos captured what she imagined as the very essence of Rome. Opening the book, Ethan flipped through the pages. He did this deliberately, as though willing his eye to capture each and every detail on the page.

“In my work,” Ethan mused, “I try to convey passion, true emotion. It’s such a challenge, but Klein makes it look easy.”

“I thought there was a lot of emotion in your work.” The comical fish from New Caledonia jumped to mind. “That fish photo was . . .” She smiled. “I don’t know. It struck me as funny, in some way.”

Turning the page, he smiled. “Ah. This woman reminds me of you.”

As she leaned over his shoulder, the earthy scent of his cologne settled over her. There was something sharp behind the sandalwood, almost exotic.

“What do you think?” Ethan asked.

Kristine studied the photograph. It was a picture of a sexy woman in a cream-colored dress walking down an alley and admiring a painting, while a man in the alley admired her. Did Ethan really think this woman was anything like Kristine? That was impossible. The woman in the photograph was brazen and beautiful, nothing like her. Still, she felt her cheeks turning bright red at the thought.

“It’s her essence,” Ethan said. His dark eyes glanced up at her. “She has an elegance about her. A curiosity.”

“I think you’re giving me too much credit.” Kristine was anything but elegant. After all, her life had been spent chasing after a child. Cooking, cleaning, doing laundry. Wasting time learning about places she would probably never see. She had lived a life that was typical, yes. Elegant? No.

Ethan closed the book and cradled it against his chest like a lover. “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit,” he said, turning to her.

The energy in the room shifted to something soft, intimate. It was like those pauses in between the conversation they’d shared earlier that week, when she got the distinct feeling that, if her husband were there watching, he wouldn’t be pleased.

“You know, I have to admit something,” Ethan said. “Even though I was happy to win the contest, I felt guilty. I thought maybe I should have asked for your permission to enter first. Considering you were part of the equation.”

“Why? I’m thrilled.” Kristine hugged her arms against her chest. “You didn’t have to ask.”

A rowdy group of children chose that moment to rush through the front door. They were followed by their mother, who looked ready to leave them with the first person willing to take them. The kids raced toward the children’s section, and the mother made a beeline for the coffee.

“It looks like we’re under attack,” Ethan said. “I’ll take care of it.” Carefully, he reached up and re-shelved the book. The muscles in his back flexed just slightly. “Keep me posted on what you need today.” He touched her arm as he walked past. “I’m here, so use me for whatever.”





Fifteen

Chloe’s eyes blurred as she stared into the mirror. In preparation for her date with Ben, she’d found a makeup application chart online. It had a section on how to create smoky eyes, which she was following like a paint-by-number.

Considering she rarely wore makeup, it wasn’t going well. So far, Chloe did not look like Angelina Jolie as the website had promised. She looked like a girl with a black eye. Frustrated, she pep-talked her reflection. “Why are you even trying so hard? It’s not like this is a real date. It’s just Ben.”

Still, the date mattered. It was so rare that she took the time to get all dressed up that Chloe wanted to make it count. Maybe to show Ben or even herself that there actually was a girl somewhere in there. Even though the date was just practice, she’d spent the past two hours getting ready.

After a lavender-scented bath, Chloe combed gel through her curly brown hair and let it air-dry as she hunted for an outfit. She dug through her closet until she found a gray pencil skirt and a short-sleeved black sweater that actually made her look like she had curves. Finally, she spritzed on some vanilla and pomegranate perfume.

Chloe was pleased with the results until she’d started in on the whole makeup chart thing. It was so frustrating that she was half tempted to wash her face, take off the fancy outfit and slip back into her normal clothes. But then she thought about Geoff and the fact that she would be seeing him tomorrow. She had to make this work.

Biting her lip, she picked up the makeup brush. “Just keep your hand steady,” she whispered. “Like a surgeon.”

Bang, bang, bang!

Chloe jumped, smearing the liquid eyeliner down to her cheekbone.

“Shit.”

Frantically, she scrubbed at the black smudge. It wouldn’t budge. Grabbing the concealer, she did her best to cover it up as Ben banged away at the door. Whiskers raced down the hall, her tiny paws thundering against the wooden floors.

“Ben, just key in,” she cried. “You’re scaring the cat.”

“Answer the door,” he shouted back. “It’s a date.”

Letting out a huge sigh, Chloe dropped the makeup brush and stomped into the living room. She threw back her shoulders and opened the door.

“Holy shit,” Ben said.

Chloe’s heart skipped a beat. “Holy shit, yourself. You look great.”

Ben, who was normally dressed in a ratty T-shirt and a pair of jeans, looked hot. He was wearing a pair of fitted charcoal slacks and a short-sleeve button-up shirt. His skin was brighter than usual, as though he’d taken a washcloth to his face and scrubbed hard. His typically unruly curls were neatly gelled into place and there was one persistent straggler hanging over his forehead, giving him that slightly rumpled “I care but I don’t” look.

“Uh . . .” Ben studied her with concern. “I kind of meant, holy shit, what happened to your face?”

Chloe’s heart sunk. “Makeup. I was going for smoky eyes.”

Immediately, he said, “Oh, I see. Yeah, looks good.”

That was one thing she loved about Ben. He might tease her or give her a hard time, but the moment he saw she was serious about something, he was quick to be kind. “Thank you,” she said. “But no, it doesn’t.”

Marching into the bathroom, Chloe snatched up the makeup application guide and brought it back out to him. “Look at this thing. It’s like a blueprint to launch a spaceship or something.”

Ben studied the chart and shook his head. “You followed a diagram. Who does that?”

“A girl who has no clue what she’s doing,” she said. “Here and now, I would like to apologize for calling the girls that you date dumb. Considering the amount of makeup they manage to slather on, I’d have to say that most of them are actually pretty bright.”

Ben nodded. “Rocket scientists. For sure.”

“It tried to be helpful. Look. In addition to smoky eyes, it showed me how to define my cheekbones and my lips. I think I did okay.”

Ben considered the chart, then her. “Yup. Very precise.” He squinted. “In fact, you’re kinda like a work of art therapy. We could probably analyze you. That blush definitely represents a fear of clowns.”

Chloe raced over to the mirror hanging over the white brick mantel and peered at her reflection. “Totally.” She started to laugh. “See the sharp point of the eyeliner? An intense desire to succeed.”

“And that horrific pink lip gloss . . .” Ben was laughing now, too. “That obviously represents a deep-rooted hatred for Barbie.”

“Oh, my gosh,” she said, wiping her eyes. A streak of black smeared against her hand like an oil slick. “This is why I love you.”

“You love me?” Ben’s face split into a grin. “A little forward for a first date, but I’ll take it.” He held out a tiny flower. “On that note . . . Chloe, would you accept this rose?”

Oh, how perfect. They’d spent so many nights together watching The Bachelor, trying to guess who would get picked during the rose ceremony. Chloe was terrible at guessing who would walk away with the rose. Ben was right almost every time.

“Yes,” she said. “I would.” Reaching for the flower, she stopped. It was not a red rose, but a dried pink one with a white ribbon attached. It seemed awfully familiar. Chloe studied it for a moment and turned to her refrigerator.

The flower from the bouquet was suspiciously absent.

“You stole my rose! When did you do that?”

“Yesterday. When I pretended I was out of milk.” Ben flopped down on the couch, clearly proud of himself. “I was going to get you some real flowers but this one felt much more appropriate.”

Chloe was confused. “In what way?”

“Oh . . .” Ben fidgeted for a moment. “It’s from that wedding bouquet, right? So, I just thought that . . .” His voice trailed off. Clearing his throat, he reached for a magazine.

Chloe still didn’t get it. “Thought that . . . what?”

Ben put the magazine back down and reached for the remote control. Then, he set that down, too. Finally, he looked back up at her, his blue eyes bright. “You know.”

“No. What?”

He tapped his fingers against the edge of the table but didn’t say anything. She hated it when he was cagey. He wasn’t going to tell her what he meant, no matter how long she stood there.

“Okay.” Chloe shook her head, looking down at the rose. “Let me go wash this gunk off my face, then we can go.”

“Yup.” He pulled out his cell phone and started to play a game at full volume.

After hanging the flower back in its rightful spot on the fridge, Chloe headed toward the hallway. For some reason, she glanced back at Ben. His eyes were following her every movement. Immediately, he went back to his game.

Chloe put her hand on the wall, baffled. “Were you just checking me out?”

He gave a slight smile. “Oh, just go get ready.” Chloe lowered her hand from the wall. Straightening her skirt, she started to walk back to the bathroom. “But I don’t know why you had to dress so hot,” he mumbled.

Delighted, Chloe turned back to him. “Really? You think I look hot?” She did a quick twirl, pleased to note that his eyes followed her every movement. “That kinda makes up for the ‘holy shit, what happened to your face’ remark.”

Ben’s eyes were intent. “Dating tip number two: If a guy likes you, he’s going to play hard to get. It’s just safer that way.”

Chloe chewed on her upper lip. If her first two meetings with Geoff were any indication, that was the truth. Until he’d asked her out, she had no idea he was interested in her. None at all.

But when Chloe was in the bathroom, scrubbing her face with a wet washcloth, it suddenly hit her. When Ben said that thing about playing hard to get, he was talking about something he’d said to her. Did that mean . . . ?

She looked at herself in the mirror, her gray eyes wide. No. It was impossible. Ben couldn’t possibly . . .

“Chloe, come on,” he bellowed. “We’ve got reservations!”

Ruefully, Chloe hung up the washcloth and towel-dried her face.

Nope.

Clearly, Ben didn’t think of her that way at all.

* * *

Friday evening, June was curled up in an armchair drinking a cup of hot cocoa and wrapped in a red afghan. The air-conditioning was on full blast, so the room had a nice chill. Sometimes there were benefits to being the only person rattling around this big old house.

Back when Eugene was alive, they had massive fights over the thermostat. June liked it to be cold as she slept, while Eugene wanted it warm. At night, she would pretend to need a glass of water, then sneak off and lower the temperature. He would pretend to want a snack, then go down and turn it up. So it went, until the two finally had no choice but to come to a “happy compromise.”

That’s what Eugene had always called it.

June smiled at the memory of her husband. It brought her joy to finally be able to think of him without getting depressed. Losing him had been so hard. His heart attack was completely unexpected. One morning he was there, the next . . . gone.

It was a terrible time. June needed medication to sleep, to wake, to do anything. There were times where she’d lie in bed, trying to make a deal with God to take her instead, as though that were still an option. Some nights, she even tricked her mind into thinking Eugene was still alive. She’d listen for the sound of his key in the door.

Anytime now, June would think, listening hard. Anytime . . .

Once she’d finally accepted the fact that he was gone, June forced herself to get back on her feet. She got out of bed and tackled the basic problems associated with losing a loved one. Should she throw away Eugene’s clothing, donate it or store it? (Donate.) Read through his personal papers or respect his privacy as she’d done when he was alive? (Read them.) Contact the old friends who had not yet heard of his death or allow the Christmas cards to come addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Eugene Thornill one last time? (She waited. What could one brief season of pretending hurt?)

Time worked like a salve. Each new day, it became that much easier to wake up in an empty bed. Each new moment, the tears that were so close to spilling over started to dry up. It was a shock to June when her friends decided it was time for her to move on.

About eighteen months after Eugene’s death, June’s friends ambushed her with a setup. This had happened at the house of Marigold Mattox, and June was still working to forgive the woman. It was too soon and completely unexpected.

The night of the party, June arrived dressed in a simple black dress and a strand of pearls. It was the fall and the house had smelled like freshly baked pumpkin pie and roasted turkey.

“You look lovely.” Marigold beamed, smoothing down a few stray strands of hair. “Follow me.”

A slight hush fell over the well-dressed crowd when June entered the room. This was not unusual, as this type of hush had followed her like a ghost since Eugene had passed. Nonetheless, June straightened her shoulders and gave a bright smile.

The smile fell away rather quickly when she realized the group dinner consisted solely of couples. June was seated next to Johnson Bueller, a wealthy but bloated widower. He pulled out the chair next to him and patted it with enthusiasm.

“It looks like it’s you and me.” Mr. Bueller’s cheeks were flush with drink.

Dinner began. Mr. Bueller leaned in close and probed her with questions, everything from if she liked to dance (not at this moment in time) and if she was still in the market for more children, which she did not dignify with a response. The entire situation left June aching for the familiarity of her husband. Why, oh why, did he have to leave her like this?

When Marigold picked up a crystal flute and tapped it with a small fork, June felt great relief to look somewhere other than Mr. Bueller’s beady brown eyes.

“Tonight, we celebrate the magic of friendship, love and . . .” Marigold gave June a meaningful look. “New beginnings.”

Since everyone was staring, June raised her glass and gave a tight smile.

The moment the guests put their attention somewhere else, June told Mr. Bueller exactly how it was. That she was unaware that this evening was a setup or she would not have come. That she did not intend to date or remarry anyone, ever. And, since the man seemed so incredibly put-out, that he was more than welcome to the rest of her wine.

June gave a little sigh at the memory and pulled the cashmere afghan closer to her. Living without companionship for all of these years had been lonely, but it had turned out just fine. Besides, June liked her life exactly the way it was. If being alone meant spending her evenings reading mystery novels, then that was fine by her.

Turning the page of her book, June focused on the story, trying to piece together the clues. Typically, she spotted the killer by page fifty but this book still had her in suspense. Rodney, an electrician with a fascination for taxidermy, was a suspect but she didn’t have enough evidence to hang him.

He and a close group of friends were stranded at a cottage in the woods. A lightning storm had taken out the power. There was a loud thunk and . . . yes, a scream! June turned the page, eager to see who had been killed.

It was Rodney.

Well, who on earth was the killer, then?

Taking a deep breath, June kept reading, her physical grip on the book getting tighter with each deliciously frightening word. The heroine fumbled through the dark for a kitchen knife, then started to run. She rounded the corner, the sound of her heart in her ears and . . .

Knock knock knock.

“Ack!” June shrieked, dropping the book.

Heart pounding, she stared in the direction of the front door. From where she was sitting, she could only see the very edge of the wood and the doorknob. Was it her imagination or had the doorknob started to turn?

June held perfectly still, waiting. Then . . .

Knock knock knock.

For heaven’s sake, it was as though someone intended to break down the door! Leaping to her feet, she darted into the hallway. With two hands, she grabbed a heavy candlestick off the entryway table. Creeping toward the door, she pulled back the door of the peephole.

It was Charley Montgomery.

His white hair was neatly combed and he was wearing a yellow button-up polo shirt with a white sweater vest. And he was holding a bouquet of yellow roses, which must have been picked fresh from his garden.

Flushing in confusion, June gripped the candlestick even tighter. The man wasn’t . . . He wasn’t bringing her flowers, was he? Impossible!

He squinted at the door as though trying to get a glimpse of the Great Oz.

Drat. He must have heard the scrape of the peephole.

“You can stand there all night,” June called. “But I am not opening up this door.” Even though she was not truly afraid of her neighbor, one could never be too careful.

“June?” he called again. “Is that you?”

June eyed the door in confusion. “Whose house did you think you just walked up to?”

Maybe Charley Montgomery was a bit more senile than she had given him credit for. Then, realizing that perhaps he had gone to the wrong house and those roses were not intended for her, June threw open the door and practically snatched them out of his hand.

“I assume these are your apology flowers.” June gave them a dainty sniff. They smelled as fresh as the outdoors, their perfume as sweet as the nectar of a peach. If the gift had been from anyone else, June would have said thank you. Since they were from Charley Montgomery, she did not.

Charley’s cheeks colored, and suddenly June realized she was only wearing a dressing gown. Well, so what? If she wanted to wear her pajamas on a Friday night, that was her business.

June pulled the white cotton tightly around her thin frame. “Was there something you wanted?”

“I haven’t seen you in the garden,” he said. “I was concerned you were ill.”

Dusk was settling and the lights had slowly started to come on in the houses up and down the block. It was a nice night, which meant it had been a nice day. It was truly a shame that, thanks to this man, June had been trapped inside. She crossed her arms, holding the roses tightly against her chest. “The copper on the top of your gazebo is blinding,” she said. “As I already told you, if that gazebo is there, you will not see me out in my garden again.”

Charley looked disappointed. “June, I’m not taking that gazebo down. To be frank, it’s awfully nice to have a place to sit in the shade.”

“Wonderful! Sit in the shade. Have a drink with a tiny umbrella in it. As long as you’re comfortable.” June gripped the edge of the door. “I suppose it doesn’t matter to you in the slightest that I will be forced to stay inside or go blind in my very own backyard?”

“I know, June. It’s a tough one.” Charley’s eyes twinkled, which was rather infuriating. After rubbing a hand over a full head of silver hair, he said, “Well, I came over here to tell you that I’ve decided to get the roof oxidized. That will turn the copper green. I thought that might be a happy compromise.”

“A what?” June whispered. “What did you just say?”

Charley’s face seemed to soften. “I said I know how to compromise.”

“Yes, but . . .” She stared at the collar of his shirt. It was sticking up, just slightly, and she had the oddest urge to smooth it back down. “Won’t that ruin the copper?”

“I have to do something. You’ve made that perfectly clear.” Charley’s forehead wrinkled. “I don’t want you to sneak over there and paint it.”

A smile tugged at the corner of June’s mouth. “Well, that’s a shame, as I am actually quite handy with a brush.” Then, because there was nothing else to say, she said, “Have a nice night.”

He gave a slight nod. “You, too.”

June watched as Charley walked down the steps. The man was in good shape, which June couldn’t help but envy. Maybe she should talk to her son-in-law about a few strength-building exercises. It couldn’t hurt.

At the bottom step, Charley turned. “I have plans this evening,” he said, squinting up at her through the sunlight, “with one of your friends.”

“Whoever would that be?” June asked, as if she couldn’t take a wild guess.

“Rose. Rose Weston,” he said. “She’s planning to bring dessert. A strudel.”

June sighed. She did not have the slightest interest in Rose’s strudel.

“Now that you and I are putting this silly war behind us . . .” Charley watched her closely. “Perhaps you’d like to join us.”

Join them?

“No, thank you. I would rather . . .” June waited for inspiration. “I would rather eat bugs.”

A cloud passed over Charley’s face. “I see.” He regarded her for a long moment.

June fiddled with the lace on her sleeve, suddenly uncomfortable. Why was he looking at her like that? Did he . . . want her to come over?

“Then, I just have one request,” he said. “I would appreciate it if she doesn’t add anything funny to that dessert.”

June blinked in surprise. “Like what?”

“Like poison.”

“Poison?” June was baffled. “Rose’s cooking is just awful but . . .”

“Let me be clear.” Charley narrowed his eyes. “Now that we’ve made our peace, tell your friend that you’ve called off the hit.”

The conversation suddenly clicked. “Charley Montgomery,” June said, shocked. “Do you mean to tell me that you did not bring me flowers to apologize, but because you think I’m sending my friend over to kill you? With a strudel? That is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I read a lot of mysteries, June.” He shook his head. “I hate to say it, but on occasion, you do remind me of some of the more . . . memorable lead characters.”

June flushed. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

The smile that Charley gave her might, in any other circumstance, be considered charming. “I don’t know that I’d put anything past you.”

For once in her life, June did not know what to say.

He gave her a neighborly wave. “I’ll tell Rose you said hi. I’m not particularly interested in sharing a strudel with her, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. I have a feeling your friend is quite persistent.”

June blinked. “Yes. Quite persistent indeed.”