The View From Alameda Island. Robyn Carr

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       CHAPTER FOUR

      The Delaney family home was in a posh, gated neighborhood in Mill Valley. Guests had to be cleared by the guard at the gate to enter. It was much more house than Lauren wanted or needed, especially with the girls being gone, but Brad found it and contracted the purchase without her involvement six years ago. It was an eight-thousand-square-foot showplace. She had been stunned but helpless. What was she to say? We don’t need all this since I’m not planning to be married to you that much longer? She had two choices—she could sign the purchase agreement and at least be a co-owner of the massive property. Or she could refuse and he’d just buy it himself.

      “Be sure to put your things away,” he instructed before their guests arrived. “I don’t want people thinking we have separate bedrooms.”

      “Even though we do,” she muttered.

      “You sometimes sleep in the guest room down the hall because of your hot flashes,” he said, creating her lie for her.

      “No one is going to be wandering around the bedrooms,” she said. “And I don’t have hot flashes.”

      He touched her cheek. He laughed. “Any second now, Lauren. You’re not as young as you used to be.”

      Feeling a little ancient and emotional with her baby a college graduate on her way to law school, she lashed out. “What do you suppose they’d all think if they knew the truth?”

      “Just what I think,” he said easily. “You’re a half lunatic who imagines ridiculous things all the time.”

      She gritted her teeth and remained silent, picturing that quaint Victorian in Alameda, how quiet and sweet it was. The girls had gone out to pick up a few last-minute items for the party and would be walking in the house any second. Guests would start to arrive in an hour. The caterers were busy; their van was parked in the garage so they had a clear path from the van to the party site, the kitchen, butler’s pantry, dining room and patio. They were expecting about 100 people. Obviously she couldn’t get into an argument with him now. Actually she couldn’t get into an argument with him ever. Disagreeing with Brad was disastrous.

      The last straw should have been when he had given her chlamydia. He denied it, insisted it wasn’t him and his argument was so unflinching and convincing even she began to wonder where she might’ve gotten it. She hadn’t had a lover, not ever. She began to worry about a contaminated tampon or used underwear someone had returned to a store with their germs on them. She knew better, yet her doubts, as ridiculous as they were for a woman who had studied chemistry, persisted. Finally, her gynecologist calmly and firmly said, “You could only get it from a person you had sex with. You can’t even get it from a blood transfusion. Period.”

      Of course it had been Brad. He’d been unfaithful before, hadn’t he? Of course it was him. That’s when she stopped having sex with her husband. Three years later she’d been emptying his pockets for the dry cleaner and there it was—a condom. Of course. Because he didn’t want to get chlamydia again.

      She’d left the condom on the pillow in his room. He told her she was an idiot—he’d picked up the condom in the nurse’s supply station, they sometimes used them for external catheters and he thought he might need it for a patient but didn’t and hadn’t put it back. Why would he leave a condom in his pants pocket if he was screwing around? But she knew it was a lie and she stayed in the guest room. She told the girls she liked to stay up late reading and their father needed his sleep to be alert for early morning surgeries. They neither noticed nor cared—they were both in college and only home for visits. In fact, the girls liked it. On their visits overnight, the girls often gathered in her room, sitting on her bed, gossiping and laughing with her and at those times she was doubly glad she wasn’t in his room.

      She thought maybe they could get through this, weather his anger, but it could be rough and all she wanted was for her daughters to have a positive college experience.

      Yes, they were spoiled and she had been complicit. She hoped it wouldn’t lead to their ruin. Above all, she wanted them to be good people.

      So what would he come up with to threaten her this time? What threat to keep her? Why the hell did he even want her?

      She shook her head and forced her thoughts back to the daughter for whom this over-the-top celebration was planned. Cassidy had made good. She was going to Harvard Law. Tears came to her eyes. Not sentimental tears because of her pride, but sad tears because Cassie’s gramma, her mother, Honey, would not be here. And she missed her so. The last time they were together, they had dinner—just Honey, Lauren and Beth. Lauren and Beth talked about their marriages. Beth’s was usually crazy and dysfunctional in adorable ways and Lauren’s was growing more awful every year. As they embraced to say good-night Honey had touched Lauren’s cheek and said, “You don’t have to give him your entire life, sweetheart. You don’t have to sacrifice your entire life for your daughters, either, for that matter. Maybe you’ve gone as far as you should. And it’s all right.” Three days later Honey was dead and aside from missing her every day, she prayed Honey had not lost all respect for her as she grappled with a bad marriage and indulged two daughters who had already been indulged enough.

      But СКАЧАТЬ