She’s Gone Country (16 page)

I feel the old, cold sinking sensation return. I wish I’d caught one of the first taxis back. Wish I were standing anywhere but here. “What do you mean?” I ask as she places the cigarette between her full lips and lights it.

She takes a puff and then tips her head back and exhales. “He had a thing for the male models, everyone knew it. You had to have known it.”

I didn’t, though. John and I were close, had enough, consistent sex that it never crossed my mind he might be interested in men. “No.”

“Come on, Shey.”

“I didn’t.” My voice is but a whisper. “How were you so sure?”

Ellie uses her cigarette to point to Damon, who’s talking intently to one of the waiters who served us dinner. “Ask him. They had an affair off and on for years. It was apparently quite a torrid little thing.”

I don’t sleep that night. I lie in bed in my beautiful air-conditioned hotel room and hate Ellie.

Far easier to hate Ellie than to hate myself or John. I don’t want to hate John. I loved him for so many years, and even though I’m discovering I never really knew him, it doesn’t change what we once had.

And what we had was good.

And what we had was real. At least, it was real at the time.

But then Ellie’s words return—
He had a thing for the male models, everyone knew it
—and I want to throw up.

I go to the bathroom and sit on the edge of the tub and pray I can be sick so I can get this awful feeling out of my gut.

And my heart.

And my head.

But I can’t throw up and I can’t forget, and after fifteen minutes of rocking back and forth like a madwoman on the edge of the tub, I jump up and grab my phone and call John’s cell. It’s two in the morning here, and New York and Puerto Rico are in the same time zone, so I know I’ll be waking him up. But right now I don’t care.

It takes him five rings, but he answers. “Shey, what’s wrong? Has something happened to one of the boys?”

I hear his voice, and it’s so familiar that it hurts. Hot tears fill my eyes. “Did you really have a long affair with the model Damon Lockwood while we were married?” My voice is thin with pain.

“Shey.”

“Just tell me the truth. Were you sleeping with other men the whole time we were married?”

“Not the whole time.”

Not the whole time
.

Just part of the time.

I close my eyes, press the phone to my ear. “Did you love Damon?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like, then?”

“Don’t do this, sweetheart.”

But a part of me has to. A part of me can’t stop asking the questions, demanding answers, needing to fill in all the gaps in the story. “So you were promiscuous.”

“Not promiscuous.”

“But you had multiple partners.”

“There were a few, but it was over a number of years. And I was always careful.”

“Jesus, John.”

“Shey, we’ve been over this so many times—”

“And you’re so, so very sorry.” I can’t help my bitterness, can’t help that I want to tear him apart limb from limb. “You wish you could take it all back, undo all the hurt, make different decisions.”

He’s silent. I grind my teeth. Impossible. Unbelievable. And yet I don’t hate him. I wish I could. It would make it so much easier. But he’s a good person, a loving person, a fun person, and my best friend for the past seventeen years. “You should have told me sooner, John. You should have ended our marriage sooner.”

“I loved you. I still do.”

Fresh tears rush to my eyes, but I hold them back. “But I wasn’t enough for you.”

“I’m gay, Shey. I’ve probably always been gay, but I thought… hoped… I could live the straight life for you.”

“You hoped.” My voice breaks. “That’s it? You hoped you could? But you didn’t. Which made our marriage nothing but a lie.”

“That’s not true—”

“It is true. Just as for years you’ve hidden the truth about your sexuality from me. But it wasn’t for you to decide. You owed me your fidelity. I deserved honesty. But you gave me neither.”

It’s raining as I land at Dallas/Fort Worth, and the rain just continues as I drive home. Maybe it’s a good thing the boys hadn’t planned on trick-or-treating, since the weather report said the rain would continue through the weekend.

I usually like the rain, but today’s low gray skies just depress me and last night’s conversation with John continues to weigh on me.

It strikes me yet again that it’s easy to like yourself when things are going well.

But things aren’t going well right now and I don’t feel likable.

Don’t feel lovable.

Don’t feel good about myself at all.

I arrive home relieved to be off the wet roads, park the truck in front of the house, and dash inside to avoid getting wet.

The house is spotless. The laundry’s done. And dinner is already prepared and waiting in the refrigerator to be reheated tonight. Unfortunately, the boys aren’t there. It’s just Mama to greet me.

“Where are the kids?” I ask her, trying to hide my disappointment. I was so eager to see them, and so in need of their hugs.

“Brick’s got them helping him out at his stable. I think they’re adding a new stall and repairing the others,” she answers, shaking black sprinkles onto oversize frosted cupcakes. “He’s good with them, firm, but patient.” She sees me eyeing the dozen cupcakes, frosting tinted a vivid orange in honor of Halloween. “I promised Cooper,” she adds. “I’ve never met a boy with a bigger sweet tooth.”

I drop into one of the kitchen chairs and let her pour me a glass of sweet tea. She looks tired but satisfied. “You survived all right, Mama?”

“I enjoyed myself. We had a couple incidents in the beginning, but nothing I couldn’t handle. And once the boys realized I wouldn’t tolerate their shenanigans, they settled down.”

“I’m sorry they gave you trouble.”

She wipes a handful of black sprinkles from the counter into her palm and then dumps it all in the sink. “They weren’t trouble. They’re my grandkids.”

I feel a rush of gratitude. My family might make me crazy but they also come through for me time and again. And after the last year, I need them, I need their love and support more than ever. “I’m glad. And I’m glad you came. Thank you.”

She pats me on the shoulder as she crosses back to the stove to turn off the oven light.

My smile turns crooked. That brisk pat was Mama’s way of saying “You’re welcome.”

T
he next three weeks are busy with basketball practice beginning for Bo, and with Coop resuming his lessons with Dane. Hank is the only one with time on his hands, but he doesn’t seem interested in spending any of that free time with me.

Hank isn’t the only one avoiding me. Even though I’m still driving Cooper to Dane’s three times a week, Dane doesn’t always come out to the truck to greet me. In fact, more often than not, he doesn’t come out at all. The first week I put it down to him just being busy, but as the second week melts into the third and I’ve spoken with Dane only a handful of times, I realize Dane is being deliberately distant.

I rack my brain trying to think of a reason why he should suddenly be so aloof, and I come up with nothing. The only thing I can think of is that he regrets being so open with me, and I tell myself to give him time. He’ll eventually forget. We’ll eventually get back to a more comfortable footing. But then on Thursday, one week before Thanksgiving, Coop announces at dinner that Dane’s girlfriend has moved into Dane’s house.

It’s all I can do to keep my jaw from smacking the oak table.

“Who is his girlfriend?” Bo asks, his mouth full of meatball and sauce.

Coop twirls his fork in the spaghetti noodles, wrapping them around the prongs. “Her name’s Lulu. I don’t know her last name. But she’s really nice. And really pretty. She always brings me a snack during training. Dane tells her not to, but she says I’m growing and I need it.”

Bo hoots with laughter. “Maybe she likes you.”

Cooper grins. “Maybe she does.”

I choke on my mouthful of pasta. Lulu is now living with Dane? I had no idea they were so serious.

But an hour later, as I put away the clean dishes and wipe down the counters, I lose my temper and throw the damp sponge across the kitchen, where it bounces off the laminate counter and skids into the sink.
Why?
I want to demand.

Why Lulu?

Why Shellie Ann?

Why not me?

Two days later, I’m in the truck driving the three boys to Dallas to catch their flight to JFK to spend Thanksgiving week with their father.

I haven’t talked to John since I called him from Puerto Rico, but John has phoned the boys a number of times. They’re all looking forward to seeing their dad, although each one seems to have some concerns about staying with Dad now that he’s living with Erik.

Fortunately, the boys are experienced travelers and know how to handle themselves at the airport. I printed off their boarding passes at the house, which means I can just drop them at the curb and say our good-byes there. It seemed like a convenient plan when I booked their tickets and then printed their boarding passes, but now that I’m just leaving them on the sidewalk, I feel like hell.

“Call me when you get through security,” I insist, hugging each one in turn.

“Yes, Mom,” Coop agrees.

“And then once you’re on the plane,” I say, pushing Bo’s hair back from his eyes as I kiss him good-bye. Bo rolls his eyes.

“And once we land and find Dad,” Hank concludes, giving me a brief hug. “Yes, we know. Got it. Gotta go.”

I nod, jam my hands into my jeans pockets. “Have a good time.”

“We will.” Coop gives me one more hug, this one even tighter than the last. “Love you, Mom,” he whispers in my ear. “I’ll miss you.”

I squeeze him back, hard. “Love you, I’ll miss you. Travel safe.”

“See you soon.”

“Can’t wait.”

And then they’re gone, walking into the terminal, and I return to my car even as airport police approach to issue me a ticket. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” I say breathlessly, sliding quickly into the driver’s seat and starting the truck to make a speedy getaway.

As I head toward the freeway, my cell phone beeps and I surreptitiously check the text message from Hank:
Thru security. At gate. Flt’s on time.

That’s good. I’m grateful there are no delays. And yet my heart is heavy as I speed up to merge with traffic.

I will miss them.

I already miss them.

I expect Thanksgiving at Blue and Emily’s to be excruciating, especially with Brick and Charlotte away at Carolyn’s, so I bring two bottles of wine—one red and one white—along with the two dishes I was asked to make.

Blue answers the door and while hugging me, he mutters that Emily is feeling a bit tense, which is bound to be a huge understatement. He takes the wine and flowers from me and sets them on the round table in the middle of the marble foyer, and then together we walk to the truck to get the casseroles.

“Is this the sweet onion casserole or corn pudding?” he asks as I hand him one foil-covered dish.

“Baked onion,” I answer, closing the truck door with my hip. “Although I don’t know why I bother. No one ever eats it.”

“But it’s a Callen family tradition.”

I grimace. “Mama already here?”

“She got in Tuesday night, spent yesterday baking pies and making the stuffing, and then woke up early this morning to do the cheese grits and sweet potato casserole.”

“She’s going to be tired,” I say.

“She already is.”

“No one needs this much food.”

“But that’s not the point,” he says, glancing at me. “Is it?”

I follow him through the front door, down the hall, and into the kitchen. Blue and Emily’s kitchen is the size of most people’s living room, the result of an extravagant remodel several years ago. The remodel took six months, and the elegant cream cabinets were built on-site by a carpenter Emily flew in from England. The stone on the counter and floor is a French limestone. The backsplash is made of glass artisan tiles from Italy. It’s a beautiful kitchen, but too grand for me. Even though I’m tall, I always feel a little lost in it.

“Where is everyone?” I ask, opening the refrigerator. I try to make room for the casseroles, but it’s so packed that they end up on the counter.

“Mama’s on the phone with Brick, and Emily’s in the bedroom with her feet up.”

“Why is she tense?” I ask, wondering if tense is a euphemism for tipsy.

He grabs a beer out of the fridge and then a chilled mug from the freezer. “Want one?”

“I’ll wait for dinner.”

He pops the cap off the bottle and fills the mug. “You know Emily. She wants everything just so, which contributes to the stress.”

I lean on the counter. “How are you holding up?”

He takes a long drink, half drains the glass. “Today’s a great day for football.”

I go to the oven to peek inside. The turkey is just starting to turn golden. “And my nieces? Where are they?”

“Megan’s out somewhere, and Andi is probably in her room on the computer.”

“Facebook?”

“Or Twitter. Megan says Andi’s a Twitter addict.”

I’ve heard about Twitter but don’t do it myself. In fact, I don’t do anything online other than check my e-mail a couple of times a week. “What does she Twitter about?”

“Lord knows. But her thumbs are permanently attached to her iPhone. She’s either texting, Twittering, or posting updates on Facebook.” He lifts his chilled mug. “Welcome to adolescence in the twenty-first century.”

Emily emerges from her room a half hour later, appearing in the family room, where I’m watching the Dallas Cowboys get roughed up more than Blue would like. He isn’t exactly hollering at the TV, but he’s coming close.

“Blue, it’s Thanksgiving,” Emily complains from the doorway, a hand to her head. “Must you shout at the TV today?”

“We’re only down by nine, but it might as well be thirty-nine the way the refs are calling the game,” he growls, staring at the huge flat-screen TV that takes up most of the family room’s dark-paneled wall.

“They’re always blowing the calls when it’s your team down,” she answers dryly before glancing at me. “Welcome, Shey.”

“Thank you, Emily.” I rise from the couch. “How are you feeling?”

“Blue told you I was feeling poorly.”

“He said you were putting your feet up. Is there something I can do? Toss the salad? Set the table?”

“Table’s set. Salad’s made. Mother’s making the gravy once the turkey comes out.”

“Girls,” Blue says from his leather armchair, “can you take this to another room? I’m trying to watch the game.”

I smile at the pain in Blue’s voice, but my smile fades as I catch sight of Emily’s face. She’s livid. Her lips are compressed, her jaw set.

“You know, Blue,” she says, “you might be more successful if you cared about your job as much as you cared about football.” And then she walks out.

I slowly sit back down, ball my hands in my lap.

Blue glances at me, shrugs. “I told you she was a little tense.”

It’s hard to hear my older brother take a tongue-lashing, and I gulp a breath. “That’s tense?”

Blue laughs wearily. “Shey, hon, that’s nothing.”

I’d expected a rough Thanksgiving at Blue and Emily’s, and it doesn’t disappoint. The girls don’t appear until dinner is on the table, and then it’s a fight to get Megan to eat—she’s borderline anorexic, Emily tells me with pride—and to get Andi off her phone. Blue pockets the phone when Mama catches her texting under the table after she’s been told to wait until dinner is over. Andi’s then mad at Mama, and Emily’s angry at Blue. I just sip my wine and keep my head down so I can finish eating and run.

I’m back home by seven forty-five and totally content to stretch out on the couch with a blanket, a pillow, and the remote control. I flip through the channels until I find an HBO movie that I haven’t yet seen.

I watch the movie, pausing it partway using our DVR to get a slice of the pumpkin pie I bought at the store yesterday and put in the fridge just for this occasion. Mama makes a better pie, but it was easier to buy my own than try to ask for a slice or two to bring home.

Movie finished, pie consumed, I head to bed. It’s after eleven, and I know tonight I’ll have no trouble sleeping. And I’m right. The moment my head hits the pillow, I’m out, dead to the world.

And then sometime in the night, a thud wakes me.

It’s such a loud sound that even asleep I feel it all the way through me, jolting me awake with a vibration that hums from the floor, through my bed, and into my breastbone.

My first thought is that one of the boys must have fallen from bed, and I groggily push back the covers and struggle to my feet.

Then my second thought is, The boys aren’t home.

They’re in New York with their dad. There’s no one here. I’m home alone.

Then I hear another bang and the sound of wood splitting. It’s my door. My kitchen door. Someone’s breaking in.

And just like that, I realize I’m not alone anymore. Someone’s in the house.

A chill rushes through me. I freeze, rooted to the spot.

I’ve always thought in a moment of danger I’d be strong. Fierce. Quick on my feet. Instead, I’m made of cement. I can’t even think clearly enough to move.

I need the phone. Where’s the phone? The cell is in my purse. The only other phone hangs on the kitchen wall.

I long for a gun, not that I know how to shoot. But I feel so helpless, suddenly aware of how isolated I am on the ranch, how vulnerable I am if threatened. And with Brick and Charlotte at Carolyn’s in San Antonio, our nearest neighbor is a good ten-minute drive away.

Glass shatters in the kitchen. The sound of splintering glass is followed by thuds as drawers are upended.

My knees go weak, and nausea rushes through me. I’ve got to get help. Have to get away.

And then I remember Coop’s phone. He left it behind by accident, and his room is next to mine. I have to leave my room to go to his, but my legs are impossibly heavy and walking is a herculean task. Finally I reach his room and feel around his desk in the dark, careful not to make a sound.

Binder. Notepad. Pens. Stapler. Pencil sharpener. Phone.

Phone. Thank God. Trembling, I punch in 911.

“Nine one one. What is the emergency?”

I nearly cry with relief. “There’s someone in my house.” I whisper the words, terrified of being heard. “And I’m alone.” The fear rises up, bigger, blacker, colder than before. “Help me.”

The female dispatcher verifies my address and promises that the sheriff has a car on the way. In the meantime, she tells me to find a secure location, lock the door, and stay low. I’m not to open the door until the sheriff instructs me to.