The sting.
Young. Fresh. Desirable. Could practically be her daughter.
“Exactly. Only twenty. A baby. Didn’t that make you feel odd, Tommy, and
old
, to be obsessing about a twenty-year-old? You do realize that she’s a
female,
don’t you? Right now, all she has to worry about is which pair of heels she has to wear, or what make-up, because she’s only
twenty,
for Christ’s sake. If you actually started having a relationship—”
Tommy banged his fist on the table. His empty beer bottle toppled onto its side, rolled to the edge, but he caught it before it smashed to the floor.
It made Sylvia stop herself mid-sentence. She would have continued . . .
She’d be just like me, nagging you, finding fault, being disappointed
. . . but she was glad for the interruption. The sound of her own voice reminded her that she was turning into the kind of woman she swore she’d never be; the nagging, picky, ball-busting wife. She and Tommy had become the type of couple she used to despise, that snipped at each other over inconsequential nothings, who went to bed feeling angry without a kiss to make up for it—the sort that couldn’t be bothered to have sex anymore because it seemed like just too much effort after a long day. Besides, she needed to put on a happy face for Grace. It wasn’t fair on their daughter to be fed her parents’ marital breadcrumbs.
Tommy stood up with a jolt and said, “Look, we’ve
been
through this, Sylvia. I told you I wasn’t going to have contact with her anymore, and I’m not. Please can we drop this whole
Bel Ange
thing? You have to trust me, darling.
Please.”
The please was a begging sort of please.
Tommy laid his arms around her. He was warm—Sylvia loved that about him. His feet were like hot water bottles in bed, his touch generous. Yes, he’d always been that way, even when he’d obviously been fantasizing about other women. Because sniffing about on Facebook, looking at pretty young girls, was as good as looking at porn, wasn’t it? She took a deep breath and counted to three—she needed to dispel that grudge and allow the warmth of her husband’s arms to engulf her. The seesaw of emotions was driving her crazy. She leaned into him and her stomach pooled with longing. It infuriated her that Tommy turned her on so much when she still couldn’t trust him.
Umm, he smells so good,
she thought, inhaling the odor of his neck and remembering just one of the reasons why she had fallen in love with him. Sun. Earth. The faintest smell of sweat; not acrid but masculine. He always smelled of whatever he had eaten or done. Today he must have been outside in the fresh air—he smelled of wood. She loved his natural smell—the beautiful, sensual and masculine man he was, he simply didn’t need any sprucing up to make him more attractive.
“Please promise you won’t put that poison all over yourself again,” she whispered.
He laughed. “Eau de Cologne isn’t poison, Sylvia.”
Despite her disappointment in him, Sylvia couldn’t help herself; she yielded completely to the firm hold of her husband and pressed herself against his strong, hard chest. His solidity made her feel momentarily safe. Perhaps if she held on tight enough her insecurity could melt away. It felt good—
he
felt good.
But her inner-voice reminded her that she mustn’t let her guard down.
It had been that insidious after-shave that started the whole episode six months earlier. She’d always told him how she hated him, and men in general, wearing scent of any kind. Why cover up your natural odor when you smell so incredibly attractive? Like dogs, really, rolling in manure—convinced they smell fabulous when they don’t. After-shave, Eau de Cologne, fragrance, eau de toilette—whatever—it smelled like a cloying lie. When Tommy took that last trip to LA, six months before, he had bought some at the airport. After always having smelt of grass and sun, of . . . Tommyness, he stank of a pungent, sickly TV commercial. He reeked of a lie. A stinkingly-sweet lie. After he returned, Sylvia discovered what that lie was. She’d glanced at his public post on Facebook:
Phew that was a long ride home,
and then a comment from a woman she didn’t know, that read:
It was great to see you
. Then his remark below hers, written in French,
Avec plaisir, bel ange.
Sylvia remembered how her heart felt as if it had, literally, been stabbed. Who the hell was this “
bel ange
?” Tommy wasn’t the type to go round calling people “darling” or “love” or “honey.”
Bel. Freaking. Ange?
Her palms glistened now with sweat—remembering how she felt—as if she would black out, blood rushing to her disbelieving head. He’d never called
her
a
beautiful angel
. At least, not in forever. And yes, “
bel” ange,
not “
belle
” ange, as she had supposed. An angel, Tommy had explained, takes the masculine in French, even when referring to a woman.
Ugh!
Thanks for that tidbit of information—because if the bel ange isn’t me, why the hell would I care?
Reminding herself about all this made a rush of adrenaline surge through her. She pulled away from his embrace.
“You promised you’d fix the faucet,” she said coldly. “It’s still dripping and it’s really bugging me.” She turned her back on him and stared out of the window again, back to the safety of her loneliness.
For the past year and a half Sylvia felt the ache of Tommy’s distance. He’d cuddle her or put his arm around her but he’d stopped saying, “I love you.” Compliments were saved for rare occasions. Sylvia realized that he had fallen out of love with her like a man bored with his out-of-date computer or car. Yet she found herself making excuses, putting it down to the monotony of their life, living in the deep Wyoming countryside, the tough winters, the stress of having a five-year-old without the paychecks to support their daughter with ease. Yet Sylvia’s gut told her something was pecking away at their marriage and the Bel Ange was the cause.
No, the Bel Ange was not the cause. Tommy was.
Sylvia shifted her stare away from the view, leaving the moose to his foraging, and she looked back at her husband.
Damn, he’s so annoyingly handsome.
He must have felt her gaze boring into him because he stopped what he was doing and looked at her. She noticed hope dancing in his beautiful, sable-brown eyes. They still glittered with warmth, despite her frost. She heard herself sigh again, and she wondered how long she would keep this up. Punishing Tommy with her barriers.
Punishing herself.
The telephone rang, jarring her from her inner monologue. She glanced at the caller ID. It was her father.
She broke into a smile and picked up. “Hi Dad.” She hadn’t realized that the Bel Ange pitter-patter of negativity in her head had been making her mouth turn downwards. She wanted her father to believe everything was perfect with her world—didn’t want to pile him with her burden. Every time she spoke to him, she sensed his fragility. “How are you doing? Is Melinda still with you?”
“Yes she is, and it’s been such a treat to have her here. When are you coming to stay, sweetheart?” he said down the phone. “I know, I know, it’s not the right moment—Grace is still in school—but soon, I hope. Make it soon, honey. I miss you.”
“I promise. Or you could come here.”
I miss you,
her dad just said. He rarely spoke those words. Sylvia’s heart pinched.
“Michigan to Wyoming is a long way for an old man, honey.”
She laughed nervously. He was right. He was getting older—he wouldn’t last forever. It still made her sick to her stomach that she hadn’t seen her mom before she died. Grace had come down with a fever so Sylvia wasn’t at her mother’s deathbed. Guilt lapped at Sylvia daily like a gentle wave—never too rough to unbalance her, but a constant reminder. She felt a twist in her chest but said gaily, “Oh please, so not old. Your aim is still the best out of all your golf friends.”
“What friends I have left.” He chuckled. “The pickings are slim.”
“Yeah, sorry about Jim—that’s so sad. I sent flowers. I wanted to call Susan but−”
“How’s little Gracie?”
“Bigger every day. You’d be amazed. So grown up and frighteningly smart. She plays with Tommy’s iPad, you know. Records her voice, draws pictures, makes paintings—well, virtual ones. She’s even learned to download books for her library of animal stories.”
“Well she’s a smart kid, like her mom. And beautiful, too.”
Sylvia laughed. “Grace is the opposite from me—she must take after Tommy. She’s so techy, Dad. So precocious for a five-year-old. She’s showing signs of a brilliant mind. But maybe that’s just because I’m her mom I think that.”
Sylvia wondered if it was because of Tommy’s influence or because of her daughter’s genes. She half listened to her dad chat on about his day, and remembered how united she and Tommy had been during the whole Grace adoption process. The trips to India, the research they’d done about her origins. Grace was originally from Kashmir—hence her startling, golden-colored eyes and soft, gentle features—her little nose and her heart-shaped face that melted Sylvia every time Grace looked at her.
Sylvia remembered how picky the agencies and countries had been with prospective parents, but how she and Tommy weathered the storm together, always a team, vying for the same goal: happiness. Creating a family unit. Finally, she had accepted the fact that a biological child just wasn’t their path in life. Tommy swore he didn’t care and championed the adoption all the way. The Indians had insisted upon the couple having been married five years. She and Tommy qualified, but the paperwork, the traveling, and all that twisting scarlet tape had been arduous, but the second they set eyes on Grace, they knew it had been worth every minute of the ordeal.
But now their perfect family unit was fragmented. They’d have to fight equally hard to win it back again.
“She’ll do well at school, mark my words,” Sylvia’s father went on. “You lucked out, honey.”
Sylvia snapped back to attention. “We sure did. She’s my moon, my stars, and my sun.”
“That’s how I feel about you sweetheart,” her dad told her. “I love you, honey.”
“I love you too, Daddy.”
“I’m putting Melinda on, she’s right here. Bye, Sylvie, honey.”
“Bye, Dad.” She rolled her father’s loving words around her tongue.
I love you. I miss you.
Those words rang sweetly in her ear. He had taken her by surprise and Sylvia could feel her eyes well up. She’d managed not to even hint about Tommy. She watched her husband out of the corner of her eye. He was still fiddling with the faucet.
Melinda’s voice had its usual upbeat, bouncy ball tone. “Hey cuz.”
“Hi Melinda,” Sylvia said into the receiver. “So glad you’re there. Thanks for making the effort. I feel so guilty living this far away. Wish we could visit Dad more often.”
“Well don’t feel badly. Uncle Wilbur’s doing just great. It’s just a short plane ride from Chicago for me. No big deal.”
“Well thanks, anyway, for taking time off work. How long are you staying?”
“I have to get back tomorrow. Deadlines. There’s this report I have to do.”
“He’s lonely without Mom, isn’t he?” Sylvia felt guilt gather like thick molasses in her throat.
“Yes. But, hey, that’s life. He has the country club, he has his friends. How about you, Sylvia—everything okay now with Tommy?”
Tommy was still there in the kitchen, his ears pricked up, probably. That was, if he truly gave a damn. “Well, you know,” Sylvia answered, twirling a lock of her thick blond hair.
“Still pissed? Sylvia, it’s been over six months, hasn’t it? And remember, he never actually
did
anything.”
Sylvia cradled the telephone to her ear and slipped out of the kitchen. She made her way through the large hallway of their log-lined house, and into the guest bathroom. She sat on the lid of the toilet seat and contemplated her reflection, sidelong in the mirror. Those telltale lines. She plucked a lone gray hair from her temple, while still hugging the telephone between her ear and shoulder.
Getting older was no picnic.
Melinda went on, “You can’t milk this grudge forever. Marriage is about forgiveness. All he did was flirt, give the guy a break.”
Trust Melinda to tell it how it is,
Sylvia mused.
No bullshit; straight to the point.
“It’s . . . just . . . he’s going off to LA so the whole thing is coming up all over again, you know . . . feelings. I’ve been so insecure about myself lately.”
“Oh please, with your looks?”
“I guess I’d never dwelled on our age difference before and . . . well . . . I just don’t—
trust
him.”
Sylvia relayed to her cousin the ramblings in her head that were still eating away at her, but admitted that it hadn’t even been the young girl’s fault (the “Bel Ange”). Sylvia—her mind working like a detective at the time—remembered how she had clicked on this Mystery Woman’s Facebook page, after she had made her discovery that Tommy was in contact with her—this beautiful doe-eyed stranger. Sylvia sent the girl a friend request. To her surprise, the Bel Ange complied. Sylvia was in. They were Facebook “friends” (“Keep your enemies closer.”)
Her stomach churned again, recalling how it made her feel at the time. She remembered drawing her hands up to the edges of her eyes and feeling the faint ridges of her thirty-six year-old crow’s feet, as she perused the girl’s online photos.
Marie, she was called.
She was breathtakingly beautiful. Worse, she seemed aware of her power. Sylvia had pored over dozens and dozens of her profile pictures: the young woman looking off into the distance, her bedroom lids half-hidden by the sweep of thick, maney hair. Full lips slightly parted, a hint of sexual innuendo, coupled with a schoolgirl, “but you can’t have me” innocence. Provocatively sweet.
Lolita.
Tommy hadn’t been the only one to drool over her photos; she had reams of male fans. Beneath the lovely pictures there were comments—Tommy’s the keenest of them all. Accompanied by hearts, his read: