The Consequences (12 page)

“Well, yes, of course.”

“You don't sound positive,” Maureen said softly.

“I love Kathy; I do. And I adore my children, you know that. But Stephanie . . . Well, I love her. When I'm with her I feel younger. . . . When I'm with her the world is full of possibilities. I don't get that feeling when I'm with Kathy.” He looked at Maureen, “You don't get it.”

“Bullshit.” Maureen's voice had turned cold and distant. “I get it. But from the other side of the table. I was the mistress. More than once. I had affairs with men like you, men who thought they loved me.” She shook her head quickly, and her eyes turned bright. “They didn't love me. They loved the freedom of being with me; it made them remember their youth, before they were married, had children, mortgages, commitments. For the few hours or days they were with me, they were free, existing in a little selfish bubble.” She stood up, and Robert rose with her. “I want you to think about that. If you leave Kathy and go to Stephanie—that's assuming she'll even have you now—then how long do you think it will take for the gloss to wear off her?”

“I hear what you're saying.”

Maureen came around the table and laid a hand on his arm. “You know, sometimes an affair can be a good thing. It forces a couple to reexamine their lives and see where things went wrong. I've seen marriages survive affairs and come out the other end stronger.” Maureen looked into Robert's troubled eyes. “Is that what you want, Robert?”

“I . . . I don't know what I want. I love Kathy . . . but I love Stephanie too.”

Maureen turned away so he could not see the expression of disgust on her face and began to gather the cups onto the tray. “Time to choose. Though from what you're telling me,” she added with a wry smile, “Stephanie may no longer be available to you.”

CHAPTER 22

R
obert sat in the car outside Maureen's house and cranked up the heat. He was tired of being so cold all the time. He turned on the radio. The traffic report on WBZ NewsRadio 1030 was describing heavy congestion near Logan. Robert suddenly wished he were at the airport, flying away for Christmas, spending it on some warm beach without a trouble in the world. He smiled wryly. Next year maybe. The smile faded. What would the coming year bring? Where would he be this time next year—still with Kathy, still in business? The next couple of hours and days were going to determine the course of his future.

And Stephanie. What about her? There was still so much they needed to talk about. It couldn't just end so abruptly. Only a couple of days ago, he had proposed to this woman. He'd been planning to leave his wife and start again with Stephanie, and she had been happy . . . but that was before she discovered that Kathy still loved him. That revelation had changed everything.

He needed to talk to Stephanie. He pulled out his cell and hit the speed dial that brought up her home number. The phone rang four times before the answering machine kicked in. Maybe she was screening her calls. Stephanie had recorded a new message recently; her voice sounded bright and cheerful, maybe even a little drunk.

“Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas! Leave a message.”

“Stephanie . . .” He paused, waiting for her to pick up. “Stephanie, are you there? It's me.” There was no response. “I want to talk to you; I need to talk to you. . . . Please call me back. I'm in the car.”

Where was she? A sudden thought struck him, chilling him to the bone. My God, what if Kathy was still there with her? His fingers trembled slightly as he hit the speed dial that connected him to his wife's cell. It rang twice before it was answered, and he felt a wash of relief when he heard the background noise of traffic. She was in the car.

“Yes?” she said shortly.

“Hi . . . I was just wondering . . . just wondering how you are.”

“I'm fine.”

“Where are you?”

“Almost home. Where are you?”

“In Mission Hill. I stopped to give Maureen her Christmas bonus.”

“Good.”

“She told me you'd spoken to her.”

“Yes, I have.”

Robert squeezed the steering wheel in frustration. She was deliberately making no contribution to the conversation. “How are you feeling?” he asked lamely.

“How do you think I'm feeling?” Kathy snapped. “I've just been to see my husband's mistress. I've just learned some very ugly truths. We'll talk later.” She hung up.

Robert started the car. He just needed to make a quick stop at EC Florist and pick up a present for Kathy. He'd spent weeks choosing just the right present for Stephanie, but had left his wife's to the very last minute. As always. He was sure there was something symbolic in that.

Where was Stephanie? Surely she hadn't gone out? He hit another speed dial key, this one for her cell phone. The phone rang twice before it was answered.

“Yes?” The voice was muffled, and for a moment, he thought he'd dialed the wrong number.

“Stephanie? Stephanie? Is that you?” He could hear background noise, voices, thumps. Where was she? “Stef . . .”

The call went dead.

Shit! He hit Redial. The phone didn't even ring; it just went straight to her voice mail.

“You have reached Stephanie Burroughs. Leave your name, number, and a brief message, and I will call you back. Thank you.”

“Stephanie? Stephanie, it's Robert. Look, we need to talk. We have to talk. About today. About us. About everything. Please call me back. I'm on my cell.”

Robert hung up, then sighed in exasperation. Five years ago, he wouldn't have panicked if he couldn't reach someone immediately. Now, people were all attached to some form of communicative device that made everyone naturally expect instant communication; they took it for granted. Why couldn't life be simple? There had been a time, a long time ago, when the world seemed to be a much easier place; he'd had no worries, no concerns . . . and of course, no wife, no children, no mortgage. Maybe Maureen was right: Maybe his time with Stephanie reminded him of what he'd once had . . . and lost. He'd been free—free of dependents, of mortgages and debts, free of worries. Then he had married. The mortgage on the first house was crippling; he struggled desperately to keep the business afloat, and then the children arrived. And as time went by the pressures increased, and he felt suffocated by bills and responsibilities. For the last eighteen years, he'd been running very fast just to stand still.

That wasn't to say that it had all been bad. There had been good times, loads of them, but somehow he found it harder to remember those. All that remained was the constant grind, the continual effort to just keep going. And the frustration of doing it alone, of watching Kathy step farther and farther back from the business, leaving him to manage on his own. Oh, he knew she was raising the kids and running the house, but she didn't have to worry about where the next contract was coming from. She didn't have to face the traffic each day; she didn't have payroll to worry about and crews to hire. He couldn't remember the last time she'd asked about the company—she'd even been shocked to discover that Maureen had been out sick. And he knew—just knew—that he'd mentioned it to her, though she claimed he hadn't. So, he'd ended up hiring a temp whose first language wasn't English when really Kathy should have been there to help. . . .

Robert took a deep breath and tried to ease the knot of tension he could feel gathering at the back of his neck. He worked his head from side to side and rolled his shoulders, hearing muscles pop and crack.

Actually, if he was being honest—truly honest—he'd hired the temp before he'd told Kathy that Maureen was sick. The last thing he needed was his wife working in the building where he was conducting his affair.

He stayed on Aspinwall Avenue, turned left on Harvard Street, and raced toward the flower shop. He needed to get there before it closed.

He'd been given a second chance.

He could choose to start again with Kathy. Come clean about his affair—and the reasons behind it—clear the air, and start again. Kathy wanted changes; well, so did he. Kathy said she would take him back, and no doubt there would be conditions, but he'd lay down some conditions of his own too. He might have had an affair, but Kathy had been just as much to blame. Naturally, Kathy wouldn't see it that way, but he'd be sure to remind her that she had first accused him of having an affair six years earlier, when he'd been perfectly innocent. She'd lost her trust in him when all he'd been doing was working every waking hour to care for his family.

Robert turned left onto Washington Street and pulled up to the shop. This late on Christmas Eve, he expected to find it filled to overflowing, but it was surprisingly empty. He pulled into a space, turned off the engine, and then sat, his head resting on the steering wheel. His thoughts were confused, whirling through dozens of permutations, and he felt dizzy.

No, this wasn't Kathy's fault.

He'd had the affair. It had been his choice. His decision. It was cowardly to even suggest that she'd somehow forced him into it. Circumstances, situations, and opportunity had encouraged him to enter into the affair with Stephanie.

And he couldn't deny that it had made him very happy. Happier than he'd been with Kathy in a long time.

CHAPTER 23

B
ile bubbled at the back of Robert's throat as he turned onto the road that led down toward the house. He was frightened—no, terrified might be a better description—of what the next few hours would bring.

The temperature had been falling throughout the afternoon, and with the onset of night, ice had crept in, driven by a chill easterly wind. The roads were sparkling, and the weather guy on the news was forecasting light snowfalls later on, and promising the possibility of a white Christmas across New England.

Every house in the neighborhood was ablaze with lights. Many were decorated to a vulgar extreme with a combination of everything from waving LED rooftop Santas leading gold rattan reindeer to giant nativity scenes on the lawn, further enhanced by winking fairy lights. Most, however, had opted for dangling curtains of icicle lights running under the eaves, or had wrapped lights around trees in the garden.

In contrast the Walker house looked almost somber; there were no lights on the exterior of the house and none in the garden. Just a respectable wreath on the door. But the curtains in the living room had not been drawn, and the Christmas tree, lights winking, tinsel glittering, looked suitably seasonal. Robert slowed, feeling the heavy Audi slip on the icy street. Then he stopped: Kathy's blue Honda was parked in the driveway, while behind it, parked at an awkward angle that took up the rest of the space, was the enormous SUV belonging to Julia, Kathy's older sister.

Was she here by accident or invitation? Surely Kathy would not have asked her sister to come over for some sort of moral support? He shook his head slightly. He straightened the car and pulled it into the curb. No, he didn't think that Kathy would want her sister Julia—with her perfect twenty-seven-year marriage—to know about their problems.

Robert quietly let himself into the house and stood in the hall, head tilted to one side, listening. The TV was blaring in the family room with what sounded like a game show, and he could hear Brendan's and Theresa's voices rise as they shouted out the answers. He peered inside.

“Hi, guys,” he said softly.

“Hi, Dad,” they both said without looking up. Brendan was stretched out on the sofa, while Theresa was sprawled on the floor, chin cupped in her palms.

“Aunt Julia's here?” he asked, addressing no one in particular.

“In the kitchen with Mom,” Theresa said. “Mom asked me to leave, so I think there's a problem.”

Robert felt his stomach twist. Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe Kathy had called on her sister for support. If she had, then he knew he was in deep trouble: Julia didn't like him and had made no secret of it.

“Keep the sound down, will you,” he said, stepping out of the room. Then, taking a deep breath and twisting his lips into an approximation of a smile, he stepped into the kitchen. “Hello, Julia,” he said pleasantly, though his eyes were fixed on his wife's face.

“Julia was just about to tell me about Sheila,” Kathy said immediately, her eyes flat and expressionless, but at least letting him know that Julia's presence had nothing to do with their personal situation. Sheila was the youngest of the three sisters.

Robert felt a wash of relief surge through him. “Is she okay?” he asked, stepping around the table to lean against the sink.

“She's having an affair with a married man,” Julia said in hushed, appalled tones and then stopped, waiting for a response.

“So?” Robert frowned. “What's that got to do with us?” He looked from Julia to Kathy and then back to his sister-in-law.

Julia Taylor was five years older than Kathy and looked five years older than that. Short and unprepossessing, she dressed in the same sensible skirts and cardigans that her late mother had favored and, since their mother's death, had assumed the role of the matriarch of the sisters.

“Oh, I should have known you would never understand,” Julia said peevishly. “Men never do.” Julia turned to look across the table at Kathy. “I called her today, just to confirm that she was coming on the 26th for dinner. Well, she said she would—on one condition : that she could bring her current boyfriend with her. I was thrilled, of course. Sheila's thirty-six; it's about time she thought about settling down, and if she's going to have children, then she'd better start soon. . . . Her eggs are drying up.” Julia took a deep breath and pursed her lips. Glancing briefly at Robert, she turned back to Kathy. “Turns out her boyfriend is not such a boy; he's actually ten years older than she is. Ten years!”

Robert turned back to the sink. He knew what Kathy was thinking : Stephanie was sixteen years younger than him.

“And then she told me his name,” Julia persisted. “Alan Gallagher. And I thought: I know that name. So I said to her, ‘I know an Alan Gallagher—he's a chiropractor in Brookline who plays golf with my Ben.' ” Julia nodded triumphantly. “And that was when she said that she didn't think she was going to be able to make it on Thursday after all.”

Staring at Julia's reflection in the kitchen window, Robert asked, “So how do you know he's married?”

Julia sighed. “The Alan Gallagher who Ben knows has boasted about his little bit on the side. I put two and two together: The ‘bit' is Sheila.”

“Brookline is so small,” Kathy murmured. “Everyone knows someone who knows someone.”

Robert poured himself a glass of scotch, unsure if Kathy was talking to him or not.

“So I thought about it,” Julia continued, “and I called her back.”

“Julia, you didn't!” Kathy protested.

“I did.”

“But it's got nothing to do with you!”

“Well, you may not think so, but I do, and I certainly didn't want an adulterer sitting at my table.”

“Are you going to insist she stitches an
A
on all of her clothing?” Robert said evenly.

Julia looked at him coldly. “I called her. Asked her straight out. And do you know what she had the audacity to tell me?”

“That it was none of your business,” Robert snapped, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.

Kathy glanced at him, frowned, and shook her head slightly.

“No,” Julia said, not hearing the tone. “She admitted it: Alan Gallagher is married. So I told her straight out that she would not be welcome in my house.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Kathy asked.

Julia looked at her blankly. “Because . . . because . . .”

“This is Sheila's business. Hers alone,” Kathy continued, surprising Robert. “Who she's seeing has got nothing to do with you or me.”

“But he's married!” Julia protested. “She's breaking up a happy marriage.”

“How do we know that?” Kathy asked. “How do we know the marriage is happy? Do you have some kind of psychic power that enables you to know what goes on behind closed doors?”

For one of the few times in her life, Julia was stunned to silence.

“There are three people in an affair,” Kathy said. “The mistress, the husband, and the wife. Takes all of them to make it happen.”

Julia pushed back her chair and stood up. “Well, this is not the attitude I expected from you. The wives are always the innocents in these situations, always the last to know. I don't know why these women—these mistresses—are attracted to married men; I really don't!” She lifted her coat off the back of the chair and pulled it on. Then glancing at Robert, she was unable to resist adding, “I just hope you never have to go through what poor Alan Gallagher's wife is going through right now.” Then, obviously misinterpreting the looks on Kathy's and Robert's faces as anger, she continued hastily, “Well, I don't think that came out the way I meant it to. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply . . .” Looking embarrassed now, she turned to leave. “I'll let myself out.” She paused before she stepped out of the kitchen. “You will come over the day after tomorrow for dinner, won't you?”

“We'll let you know,” Robert said firmly, before Kathy could respond.

Julia looked from Robert to her sister.

Kathy's smile was ice. “We'll let you know,” she said.