On the Line (20 page)

“Starved.”

“I'll fix us something to eat.”

“Cool, I'll keep digging.”

I leave Macy to the task at hand and head out to the kitchen. While I'm grilling some turkey burgers and fixing a salad, a letter that I'd dubbed Desperate Housewife, from about a year ago, pops into my head. I smile at the memory. Naughty girl….

T
wenty-one meals a week. Twenty-one damn meals a week. That's what I'm responsible for. Twenty-one times that I stand in front of that mammoth refrigerator and wonder what the hell I'm going to make. I wonder how the hell I got into this, when the hell the refrigerator began to feel like Goliath to me, why the hell my whole life revolves around food. I have a graduate degree, damn it. I'm smart, talented, and obviously beautiful enough to have gotten trapped in this marriage. And now, here I stand, looking at the empty space between the soy milk and the bottles of lime-flavored Perrier on the top shelf.

“Mommy, I want to eat,” a tiny voice said, breaking into my lamentations. It was my daughter, Tatiana. At two and a half, she spoke more clearly than most of the three-and four-year-olds in her playgroups. She was the reason I took a step away from my job, a very lucrative job, mind you, in advertising. I hadn't regretted my decision. But when one year at home, away from my career, turned into two, which unfortunately, despite the politically correct reports flooding the media, is professional suicide in corporate America. I hunkered down, preparing myself to reenter the game years later, once Tat was old enough to enter school full-time.

But being solely responsible for a child twenty-four hours a day was taking its toll. I needed adult conversation and companionship, and I thought that if I had some help with her, I could have some free time to reconnect with old friends and reclaim me. So I broached the subject one night when Clay, my husband, got home early at nine o'clock.

“Honey, I was thinking about looking for some help,” I began gently. I was holding his drink in my hand, a tumbler containing two fingers of Scotch.

With his cigar clinched between his teeth and his gaze turned upward at the stars as we stood on the deck of our Bucks County, Pennsylvania, home, he looked like he was in a decent mood. Removing his cigar from his mouth and taking the drink from me with a nod of acknowledgment, he said, “We already have a housekeeper. You can't have her every day while you're sitting at home playing with Tat.”

I took a deep breath. Conversations with Clay were more like cross-examinations than exchanges of ideas. I often wondered why I was ever drawn to him in the first place. But then I remembered that his drive and ambition were key in my initial attraction to him. His status came in second, and placing in third were the numerous zeros in his financial portfolio. He was twenty-five years my senior and bad habits had settled into him, working their way into the grooves so now they were cemented into unsightly stains. It was no wonder his first and second wives left him, the latter refusing alimony, saying she just wanted to get away from him with no ties at all.

“Chelsea, you sound lazy and selfish. What do you want to do? Be her mother or abandon her? Take your pick, dear,” he said, quaffing down the Scotch before turning to look at me.

I stared at him, wishing that I'd poisoned his drink. Truthfully, as little as he was at home, I could have hired someone without consulting him, but as he was my husband and Tatiana's father, I wanted to include him in any decisions that I made concerning her. I wouldn't be so considerate, polite, or partner-like next time.

“Good night, Clay,” I'd said, walking away from the interrogation. I'd blown out a defeated sigh as I'd headed back into the house, through the foyer and up the staircase to my bedroom. Clay, a creature of habit, would finish his drink and cigar, retire to his room and be out of the house by eight in the morning.

That had been a year ago. To ease some of the loneliness I'd felt, I'd joined a few moms' clubs and signed up for a few playdates. If needed, one of the other members would babysit Tatiana while I ran a few quick errands or desperately needed a couple of hours of hands-free time. For longer periods like doctor's visits or hair appointments, I leaned on my mother for support.

Selecting the day-care center behind Clay's back had been relatively easy. Some members of the moms' club had given me suggestions, and I had called three of them right away, scheduling tours for the next day. Tatiana had accompanied me to all three, and I'd gone through a checklist that I'd found online of things to look for in a day-care center. I'd added my own criteria, and from there, the choice had been simple. I took a few more days for observation and transition for Tat, and by the second week in October, Tatiana was officially enrolled in school.

Tatiana had been in school for four days, and for the fourth day in a row, I found myself sitting in the library enjoying the quiet while I reread one of the old classics I had enjoyed as an undergrad. The librarian smiled with recognition at me, and I waved in response. I read nonstop for three hours, finishing the book and setting back with a sigh and a smile as I reflected on it.

“I guess you enjoyed it,” the librarian whispered as she walked past me.

“Not nearly as much as I enjoyed having the opportunity to read.”

Her face wore a smile, but her eyebrows wore a question mark. “My daughter just started day care, so now I have a little free time.”

“Well, you've been spending it in a great place.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “I've always loved the library.”

“Really?”

“Mmm-hmm. Ever since I was a little girl.”

“We are a little understaffed and could use some help a few times a week,” she hinted.

“I'd love to,” I piped up, needing no other prompting.

“When could you—”

“Tomorrow,” I interrupted, happy to reenter the land of adults once again.

The next day, after dropping Tatiana off, I did a quick workout before showering at the gym and heading to the library. The head librarian gave me a tour before pointing me toward a cart that I would use for reshelving books. As she spoke I was thinking, I have an MBA, and I've won awards for some of my ads, but here I am pushing a cart of books around. The thought vanished just as quickly when I remember that this was a way for me to spend my time usefully before my brain turned to mush from watching another kids' television show.

I'd been at the counter, checking out some materials for a patron, and I went over to the front desk to answer the ringing phone. I was transferring the call to the circulation desk when I felt someone standing in front of me. When I looked up, I saw a man with skin like carob standing before me. His slanted, almond-shaped eyes were reminiscent of Tyson Beckford, and looking at his succulent lips made my own twitch. The goatee framing his mouth was etched with precision, and when he smiled at me, I felt myself flush. He wore faded jeans whose waist kissed the top of his hipbones. The neckline of his cream thermal undershirt peeked over the top of his red flannel shirt. His ears were tucked under the sides of his red-and-black baseball cap.

“I'm looking for some books on starting a business,” he said, responding to my standard greeting.

“Okay. Is there any specific book that you're looking for?”

“Not one in particular, but I'm starting from the ground floor, so any books that you could recommend would help.”

“So what kind of business is it?” I asked.

“Huh, oh, it's a coffee shop slash bookstore,” he said with an uncertain smile.

“Okay. What are some of your marketing strategies?”

“I hadn't thought that far in advance. Hey, can I pick your brain over coffee?”

“Sure. I finish working at noon. That's a half hour.”

He looked at his watch. “I'll be finished getting books by then.”

I sauntered away smiling.

A half hour later I was sitting in my truck with my shades on watching him walk down the sidewalk to his car. His walk was smooth and sexy, like he had someplace to be, but he was confident that whoever he was meeting would wait. I backed out of my space when I saw that he was in his car behind me, and I exited the parking lot heading toward Panera. Inside, he sat with a small notepad open and his pen poised, ready to take notes.

“I just realized that I don't know your name,” I said, then sipped my weak tea.

“It's Marcus.”

“Marcus, I'm Chelsea.”

“It's a real pleasure meeting you.”

“Enchanté,”
I replied with a smile.

He laughed. “I certainly would love to have you around as a consultant. I can't afford to pay you anything now, though.”

“I'd give you my services for free,” I said with a wink. “In my past life I was in advertising before I got married and had a child.”

Marcus smiled and rubbed his goatee.

I'd finished my tea and, after checking my watch, I saw that it was time to pick Tatiana up from school. I usually picked her up before nap time so that we could go home and sleep together, and it was nearing one, when all of the other kids were getting ready to pull their sleeping mats out.

“I have to go get my daughter,” I said, gathering my purse and taking out my keys.

“Would it be out of line if I asked you if I could see you again?”

“I'm a married woman,” I said with a sad smile.

“I'm sorry, I didn't…”

“I'm just making sure that you know what you're doing.”

Marcus nodded. “I think I know.”

“Okay.”

I picked up his pen and leaned in close enough to write on his notepad. I scribbled my cell phone number down.

“You smell good, too. What is that?”

“It's my natural scent.
It
smells like strawberries,” I ventured further.

Grinning broadly, he said, “It's my favorite fruit. I suddenly got a taste for them.”

I stood up and walked away, not bothering to look over my shoulder. I could feel the heat of his eyes as he watched me walk away.

 

Each time that I'd seen Marcus it had been in the safety of a small crowd, in a restaurant, a coffee shop and along the exercise path called Kelly Drive in Philadelphia. I'd been saved by those other people. Rather, he'd been saved, because I had so much pent-up passion I probably would have broken him in two.

But today when he called at nine o'clock, asking simply, “Are you available?” I did something I didn't I think I'd ever do. I invited him to my house.

It was ten o'clock when he called from the entrance of our gated community, and I buzzed him in, readying myself to meet him at the front door.

I opened the door when I heard him knock, ushering him into the spacious foyer. I smiled nervously as he looked around.

“This is nice,” he commented. “No wonder you stopped working.”

I flinched, hearing his last comment.

“Do you want to see it?” I asked.

“Sure. It'll be a long time before I can live like this.”

I walked him around the first floor, opening doors to offices, dens, sitting rooms and the other rooms that went virtually unused. I took him to the basement where he checked out Clay's weight room, home movie theater and wine cellar, gaping at them in awe. Then we toured the second floor, where I walked past Clay's room with no explanation. I paused in Tatiana's doorway, breathing in the smell of the baby lotion that I still used on her over the expensive cream that was all the rage among the moms in our circle. I didn't care what the jet set was using. I liked my baby to smell like a baby.

“This is my angel's room,” I said, nodding at the black-and-white photos of her on the wall over her mini table and chairs. The table was still set from the tea party we'd had that morning before I took her to school.

I backed out of the room, nodding in the direction of the spare bedroom. It was supposed to be for another child, but I certainly wasn't about to let that happen again. I was already the married single mom of one. I wasn't going to double the fun.

The last room on the tour was my bedroom, and as I opened the door to it, I shuddered involuntarily. Marcus stood behind me with his hand on the small of my back.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I nodded, not wanting to verbalize a lie. The truth was, as I opened the door, I visualized myself spinning around the retractable pole that came out of the ceiling. It was one of the many tools that Clay had outfitted my room with. There was also a swing that hooked into the ceiling over the bed. It was in the closet now, but I still could see the place where the hooks went. The feather boas, diamond-studded and lacy undergarments were packed away in the closet, but as long as they were in that room, they were with me.

So when Marcus turned me around and kissed me, I couldn't respond. Instead, I collapsed in his arms and wept. He led me out of the bedroom and toward the steps to go downstairs.

Downstairs, I didn't explain anything. Wiping my tear-streaked face, I said simply, “Not in there. Clay's heading for Tokyo on Friday. He'll be gone for two weeks. Let's connect then.”

“Okay,” he said gently.

I called my mother and asked her to keep Tatiana for a few days. She agreed without hesitation.