Trouble Won't Wait (19 page)

When I return and start wrapping the remainder of my sandwich, Aunt Clara starts in about my being too thin. “Look at her, she’s just wastin’ away into nothin’,” she tells Adam.

I scowl from under my brows at her.

He nods. “I noticed she’s been getting pretty thin lately.” He looks at me, seriously concerned. “What do you reckon would fatten her up best, corn or oats?”

Clara gets a kick out of Adam’s joke, then deadpans, “Meals with somebody she loves, I reckon.”

He smiles meaningfully at me, and I pretend to be listening to the guys behind me while sticking my sandwich in the plastic bag it came in, along with my unopened chips.

Aunt Clara goes to the restroom, leaving us alone for a few minutes. As alone as possible in a Subway at lunchtime.

“She likes you,” I tell him.

“She likes you more.”

“She better. She’s
my
surrogate great-aunt!”

“She told me if I didn’t
do right
by you, she’d see me gelded.”

I almost blow soda out my mouth, like they do on sit-coms. “She’s always out to geld some young guy. I think she wants to see some jewels again before she dies.”

“She said you come visit her more than anybody else in her family, and you’re her favorite,” he says, his voice soft.

“I bet she didn’t want you to repeat that. Well, knowing her, she expected you to. She’s God in a ninety-pound body, I swear.” This would be her way of repaying me for telling her I love her. “Of course I’m her favorite,
because
I visit her the most. I love her dearly, I really do. She’s like a life-preserver. No, she’s like a wooden boat, when you’re stranded in the middle of the ocean, with sharks circling. She’s hard, and worn, definitely a little cracked, like an old wooden boat would be. But she’s solid and always a welcome sight.”

He leans forward. “Did you call Art?”

“Not yet.”

“Will you please?”

Why does it matter so much to him? “Okay. I’ll call him when I get back home.”

Aunt Clara is back, so I stand to leave, telling the other guys good-bye.

Adam takes Clara’s elbow and escorts her in gentlemanly fashion out to the Durango, while I carry her remaining nine inches of sub and her drink, plus my own. He helps her into her seat and shuts the door for her, then stands and waves as we drive off.

“There’s a man who’ll make you thank God for creating you a woman, when he takes you to bed.”

“Aunt Clara!” I’m shocked, truly shocked. But the grinning imp in the seat next to me is right.

At Clara’s apartment, I help her inside, carrying her leftovers. Kiln-temp potpourri’d air wafts out, probably fooling the lilac bushes beside her door into thinking it’s July and the roses have beat them to blooming.

I hug her and thank her for lunch. She always insists on paying, since I drive. The trip is all of three miles, but she believes gas prices are just outrageous, so it’s an even trade.

“Only one more week of that counseling foolishness?”

“Yes, ma’am. One more session, next Tuesday. Someday I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Don’t let that Adam get away, just to keep your young ones mushrooms.”

I’ve heard this one from her before, usually in reference to the government. In Clara-speak, this means I’m keeping my kids in the dark and feeding them bullshit.

* * * *

I’m in bed, all set to call Adam.

It’s been a long evening. Mike came home cross about all the work that still needs to be done next week on two of his projects. He realized if he’d taken off to go snowmobiling, the deadlines wouldn’t have been met, and knowing the Aspen folks, he’d have been sued.

He’s going hunting again tomorrow, and almost acts like he resents it. Like it’s my fault, somehow. I know it doesn’t make sense, but maybe he’s angry over the impending divorce.

Divorce is a grieving process, and one step of grieving is anger. I spent some time on the net researching it, since I knew Baldwin was going to be of absolutely no use. I even listened in on some chat groups, until I started feeling depressed. Dealing with my own emotions is a big enough undertaking. I don’t need to shoulder anyone else’s misery now.

Adam answers his phone, “Hey, sexy.”
Sexy
is much better than
baby
.

“Hey. Guess what?”

“You called Art?”

Talk about taking the wind out of my sails. “How’d you guess that?”

“What did he say?”

This is a happy, excited little secret I’ve been keeping to myself all evening. I feel like I have a ticket with the winning lottery numbers, but I’m not telling anyone in case I’ve made a colossal mistake in reading them, and my ticket is worthless. “Well, he wants my next book, sight unseen. He’s read the two that are in print already, at your suggestion. He thinks with better marketing they could’ve sold many more copies, and he’s thinking of making an offer for a second edition on them. For the next one, he offered me an obscene amount as an advance, or I can go in for a higher royalty rate. I’m not sure which way to go.”

“Don’t you have a lawyer?”

Now I feel stupid. Adam’s tone tells me I
should
feel stupid. I didn’t expect to be successful, so I took what was offered. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth and all.

He blows out a breath. “Didn’t your worthless husband make sure that you weren’t getting hosed on all your hard work?”

“He stepped back and let me handle it.” Truth is, I’m not sure Mike
wanted
me to be successful in my own right, or to make lots of money.

“He doesn’t even know what a goldmine he’s living with, does he? What a moron.”

This isn’t productive. “If you’re finished berating my choice of life partner…”

“I’m sorry Mandy, but when I marry women, I take care of them. I’d never let you get walked on by a fast-talking publisher like that.”

I’m silent, thinking. Did he say
women
, as in plural? Did he mean including me, or not?

He asks, “Are you pissed?”

I’m shaking myself back to the conversation at hand. “Um, no. The kids are helping Aunt Clara with some stage sets tomorrow, and Mike’s hunting. Care if I come over? What time will you be home?”

“He’s hunting,
again
?”

“Yeah, big sportsman.”

“I don’t think there’s any season open right now, Mandy.”

“They can always hunt some kinda birds. Will you be home, or not?”

“Yeah. Sure. I’ll be home all day.”

* * * *

Mark picked up the kids this morning and took them to Clara’s for their little project. I asked him if there was any hunting going on right now, and he looked at me like I was going somewhere I didn’t belong. “You plannin’ to start huntin’, or you just wanta practice shootin’ a gun?”

“Never mind.” I sighed, rolling my eyes. I’m not sure I want the answer yet, anyway.

Today I’m wearing a thick fisherman’s cable-knit sweater, and old jeans. By old, I mean faded 501’s from before I had Ben. Hard to believe I’ve kept them all these years, but I was digging around in my closet this morning and found them stashed on a shelf. I used to think of fitting into them again as my weight-loss goal. I guess I’ve succeeded. Not only do they fit, but I think I look better in them now than I used to.

I’m bringing a bag of marshmallows along to Adam’s. He’ll get a kick out of roasting them in his fireplace.

Adam opens his door and smiles at what I’ve brought. He kisses me hello on my forehead after he’s closed the door. Rascal has developed a habit of running out when the door is opened, so Adam hands him to me when he takes the marshmallow sticks.

I’m kneeling, playing with Rascal on the floor in the living room, when I turn to find Adam staring at my butt. “Hey,” I tease in a voice my kids use, “take a picture, mister. It’ll last longer!”

He tackles me to the floor and starts tickling me. The thick sweater provides some cushion for my ribs, helping me resist his tickling better than I normally can. When Adam figures this out, he slides his hands inside the sweater to torture me. It works. I’m wringing myself this way and that, giggling madly, until the sweater gets worked into a thick bunch under my arms.

Adam pauses in his tickling to pull the sweater down to a respectable position again, making a point to check out my chest first. Judging by the hungry look on his face, he likes what he sees.

For a reason not based in sanity, I clasp his hands and slide them inside my shirt to my breasts. The solitary thought in my mind is how I want his hands on me. I arch my back as his thumbs caress along my cleavage. Today I’m wearing a pretty pink lace bra. From his position seated on my middle, he easily unlatches the bra’s front-fasten under my sweater and begins kneading and rubbing.

I’m in another world, a world with only Adam’s hands and my breasts. This place has to be heaven, because I’ve never felt anything like it on Earth. As if rivulets of pleasure trickle from my breasts to a point between my thighs, warm pulses of need spread, making me want him. Suddenly, nothing matters but being with him, having him. Today is the day I’m going to commit adultery. Bucking against him, I beg him to take me, make me his. I want his kisses, and I’m pleading for them, trying to pull him down to me. I’m feverish, crazed with need. I want to have fast, hard, crazy sex, howling-like-animals sex.

Adam resists, and is talking to me in a voice coarse with desire, but I’m not listening. Nothing is going to stop me from having him. My greedy hands are reaching, caressing him, rubbing his crotch, feeling confirmation of his need for me.

“No, Mandy. Not today. Quit!” He grabs my hands and quickly pins them over my head. He’s seated further up me now, more on my stomach, holding me down.

My hips miss his weight. I’m trying to focus. If I can get him to kiss me, he’ll let my hands go, and I can convince him.

“One kiss, Adam. Just one.”

My face must betray my amorous treachery, because he shakes his head no. “Baby, no.”

Baby
works like a sopping-wet blanket on the flames of my desire. I start thinking how one-sided this little encounter has been. He must think I’m a sex maniac, especially after he’s been celibate so long. I’m only at three weeks and begging like a bitch in heat. Misery washes over me in waves peppered with shame. I can’t look in his eyes now, feeling no longer the master of my baser instincts.

“Hey, don’t be mad,” he pleads. “I just know this wasn’t how you wanted it. I shouldn’t have started it. Mandy?”

With Herculean effort, I turn my head back to look at him.

His eyes are still darkly dilated and a lower peek shows me he’s still aroused. At least I wasn’t the only one turned on. Just the only one who couldn’t control it.

“I’m no better than him,” I murmur.

Adam knows what I’m talking about. He’s shaking his head. “You
are
better. He broke your vows, not you. You wouldn’t even be here if he hadn’t.”

“You think so? I think I might be here anyway. Mike’s cheating wasn’t the reason you came out and met me. Something else made you do it.”

Adam looks away.

“Maybe I would’ve been the one to stray.” There’s disdain in my voice, self-loathing. “Look how I’m behaving today, like an animal.”

“Mandy, Christ, that was
passion
. We’re both straining against this waiting.” Passion. Does that mean he doesn’t think I’m a sex-crazed maniac? He looks like he’s okay with it. “It’s called attraction for a reason. We can’t keep away from each other, but we’re close to the end of this waiting game.”

“I really lost it there for awhile.”

“You were so hot like that.”

Oh, don’t get me going again!
He said it with such longing, the way I might talk about caramel cheesecake.

He moves off me and pulls me to my feet. I try not to notice I’m standing so close to him, not to wonder how much further I would have to push to disintegrate Adam’s resolve.

As I reach inside my sweater to fasten my bra, I ask, “Were you planning to feed me or what? You know what Aunt Clara said.”

“She’s right. We need to get you eating again. I think I saw your ribs.” Adam’s moving around the kitchen, putting pasta in water that’s been boiling through my entire wanton display.

“Not you too! You know how long I’ve been working, how
hard
I’ve been working, and how many Hershey bars I took a corner of and gave to my kids, to get where I am now?”

“You better not lose another ounce, or I’ll start sitting on you at your running time. Please don’t turn into one of those weight-obsessed chicks.”

“Was Ms. Old Money weight-obsessed?”

“Yeah, and she was a real kill-joy.”

“What was her name?”

“Tiffany.”

Damn, I was really hoping it was Laura. “Oh.”

He looks up when he hears my disappointment, nose wrinkled as he tries to guess the reason.

Why don’t I just ask him who Laura is? Because I’m afraid of the answer, afraid it’s in the same dimension as what Mike is hunting today. “I’m not weight-obsessed, I just haven’t been eating much lately. I’ll be fine after next week.”