Ransomed Dreams (41 page)

The clock’s pendulum ticked and tocked, back and forth, back and forth. It carried off irretrievable moments. It divided time into a before and an after.

Jill blinked. She cleared her throat. The lump remained. She blinked again. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.”

“Try.”

“I have been trying since I woke up this morning.”

“Since you woke up this morning? So it’s out of the blue, this . . . this . . . this need for space. That can’t be. People don’t wake up and say they want . . . want . . .” He hadn’t said it, had he? Not the D-word. Not really. He didn’t mean it.

“Don’t, Jill, please. Don’t analyze. Don’t stick a label on it. It just is.” His face smoothed, the creases unfolding as if the burden of the prognosis was no longer his to carry. He opened the front door and grabbed hold of her two bags. “I’ll walk you out to the cab.”

“Jack! This is crazy! I can’t leave now.”

“Yes, yes, you can. So many fans are counting on you. Let this go for now and focus on your work. You don’t want to disappoint them.”

Her fans were women who listened to her radio show and planned to read her new book. They were women from across the country who trusted her advice on how to prevent a husband from doing exactly what her husband had just managed to do.

More specifically they were women in Los Angeles who had already paid money to eat lunch with Jill Galloway. They had paid money to hear her speak about how to communicate in marriage. They had scheduled it on their BlackBerries for
tomorrow
.

“We need to talk!”

“We will. When you get home.” He hurried outside, down the porch steps, and along the sidewalk he had scooped snow from before breakfast, knowing the whole entire time, with every shovelful thrown aside, that he wasn’t going with her.

They would talk when she got home. When she got home.

She wouldn’t be home for four weeks.

Jill stood, motionless. Her loving husband of twenty-four years had just announced that he wanted a divorce.

Behind her, the clock chimed a quarter past the hour.