Used-To-Be Lovers. Linda Miller Lael

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      Sharon sniffed as she took silverware from the proper drawer and set three places at the table. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” she said.

      There were assorted vegetables in the refrigerator, and she assuaged her conscience a little by chopping enough of them to constitute a salad.

      After supper, when the plates and silverware had been rinsed and put into the dishwasher and all evidence of canned pasta destroyed in the trash compactor, the subject of school came up. Summer was nearly over; D day was fast approaching.

      Matt would be in the third grade, Briana in the seventh.

      “What do you say we go shopping for school clothes tomorrow?” Sharon said. Helen, the one and only employee Teddy Bares boasted, would be looking after the shop.

      “We already did that with Gramma,” Matt said, even as Bri glared at him.

      Obviously, a secret had been divulged.

      Sharon was wounded. She’d been looking forward to the expedition for weeks; she and the kids always made an event of it, driving to one of the big malls in Seattle, having lunch in a special restaurant and seeing a movie in the evening. She sat down at the trestle table in the middle of the kitchen and demanded, “When was this?”

      Matt looked bewildered. He didn’t understand a lot of what had been going on since the divorce.

      “It was last weekend,” Briana confessed. Her expression was apologetic and entirely too adult. “Gramma said you’d been under a lot of strain lately—”

      “A lot of strain?” Sharon echoed, rising from the bench like a rocket in a slow-motion scene from a movie.

      “With the shop and everything,” Briana hastened to say.

      “Quarterly taxes,” Matt supplied.

      “And credit card billings,” added Briana.

      Sharon sagged back to the bench. “I don’t need you two to list everything I’ve done in the past two months,” she said. Her disappointment was out of proportion to the situation; she realized that. Still, she felt like crying.

      When Matt and Bri went off to watch television, she debated calling Tony for a few moments and then marched over to the wall phone and punched out his home number. He answered on the third ring.

      Relief dulled Sharon’s anger. Tony wasn’t out on a date; that knowledge offered some comfort. Of course, it was early….

      “This is Sharon,” she said firmly. “And before you panic, let me say that this is not an emergency call.”

      “That’s good. What kind of call is it?” Tony sounded distracted; Sharon could visualize his actions so vividly—he was cooking—that she might as well have been standing in the small, efficient kitchen of his condo, watching him. Assuming, that is, that the kitchen was small and efficient. She’d never been there.

      Sharon bit down on her lower lip and tears welled in her eyes. It was a moment before she could speak. “You’re going to think it’s silly,” she said, after drawing a few deep and shaky breaths, “but I don’t care. Tony, I was planning to take the kids shopping for their school clothes myself, like I always do. It was important to me.”

      There was a pause, and then Tony replied “Mama thought she was doing you a favor.”

      Dear Mama, with a forest of photographs growing on top of her television set. Photographs of Tony and Carmen. Sharon dragged a stool over from the breakfast bar with a practiced motion of one foot and slumped onto it. “I am not incompetent,” she said, shoving the fingers of one hand through her hair.

      “Nobody said you were,” Tony immediately replied, and even though there was nothing in either his words or his tone to feed Sharon’s anger, it flared like a fire doused with lighter fluid.

      She was so angry, in fact, that she didn’t trust herself to speak.

      “Talk to me, Sharon,” Tony said gently.

      If she didn’t do as he asked, Tony would get worried and come to the house, and Sharon wasn’t sure she could face him just now. “Maybe I don’t do everything perfectly,” she managed to say, “but I can look after Briana and Matt. Nobody has to step in and take over for me as though I were some kind of idiot.”

      Tony gave a ragged sigh. “Sharon—”

      “Damn you, Tony, don’t patronize me!” Sharon interrupted in a fierce whisper, that might have been a shout if two children hadn’t been in the next room watching television.

      He was the soul of patience. Sharon knew he was being understanding just to make her look bad. “Sweetheart, will you listen to me?”

      Sharon wiped away tears with the heel of her palm. Until then she hadn’t even realized that she was crying. “Don’t call me that,” she protested lamely. “We’re divorced.”

      “God, if you aren’t the stubbornest woman I’ve ever known—”

      Sharon hung up with a polite click and wasn’t at all surprised when the telephone immediately rang.

      “Don’t you ever do that again!” Tony raged.

      He wasn’t so perfect, after all. Sharon smiled. “I’m sorry,” she lied in dulcet tones.

      It was after she’d extracted herself from the conversation and hung up that Sharon decided to take the kids to the island house in the morning. Maybe a few days spent combing the beaches on Vashon would restore her perspective.

      She called Helen, her employee, to explain the change in plans, and then made the announcement.

      The kids loved visiting the A-frame, and they were so pleased at the prospect that they went to bed on time without any arguments.

      Sharon read until she was sleepy, then went upstairs and took a shower in the master bathroom. When she came out, wrapped in a towel, the kiss she and Tony had indulged in earlier replayed itself in her mind. She felt all the attendant sensations and longings and knew that it was going to be one of those nights.

      Glumly, she put on blue silk pajamas, gathered a lightweight comforter and a pillow into her arms and went downstairs. It certainly wasn’t the first night she’d been driven out of the bedroom by memories, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

      In the den Sharon made up the sofa bed, tossed the comforter over the yellow top sheet and plumped her pillow. Then she crawled under the covers, reaching out for the remote control for the TV.

      A channel specializing in old movies filled the screen. There were Joseph Cotten and Ginger Rogers, gazing into each other’s eyes as they danced. “Does Fred Astaire know about this?” Sharon muttered.

      If there was one thing she wasn’t in the mood for, it was romance. She flipped to a shopping network and watched without interest as a glamorous woman in a safari suit offered a complete set of cutlery at a bargain price.

      Sharon turned off the television set, then the lamp on the end table beside her, and shimmied down under the covers. She yawned repeatedly, СКАЧАТЬ