Rachel Dahlrumple. Shea McMaster

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      “I’m not coming home.”

      My husband’s declaration dropped my stomach right down to my toes. Despite the oven-intense heat of the day, cold chills raced down my spine.

      “Burt?”

      “At least not tonight.”

      My poor ticker, which had stalled, started beating again at double time.

      Dizzy from the brief panic, I closed my eyes and tilted my head against the headrest. In my heart, I knew one of these days he wouldn’t add the last qualifier. I feared that day almost as much as I dreaded him coming home.

      When my cellphone had started ringing a few moments earlier, I’d been engaged in backing my husband’s pickup into the ancient barn-like structure we called the garage. Somehow, half blinded from the sun reflecting off the pool, I’d gotten the truck into the bay without hitting anything, found my phone, and caught the call one ring before voice mail picked up.

      “I tried the house. Where are you?”

      So much for, Hello, sweetheart, I miss you and can hardly wait to be home. But after nearly twenty years of togetherness with Burton Earl Bruckmeister, I really didn’t expect anything else. The romance in my life pretty much lived only between the pages of the books I read. Leaving the windows down, I killed the engine and silence descended for the space of a breath.

      “Just pulled in. Had to stop for the ice and drinks, remember? Fourth of July party tomorrow? At our house? Ring a bell? What do you mean you won’t be home tonight?”

      “Of course I remember.” Ah, I’d managed to irritate him. His tone hit the exact edge that cut into me, not that I’d ever tell him how deep. Even on the phone, I’d learned to control my flinches, showing just enough for him to be satisfied I heard and obeyed.

      As hot as it was outside, over ninety last I’d heard, I had a little irritation going as well. The AC in his truck refused to work and he’d taken my car, the one with the working AC, for his week-long business trip. I’d let it go because I needed the truck for our order of drinks for the party–a checklist item I’d taken care of, at the expense of adding to my irritation. The liquor store had been unusually busy, involving a forty-five minute wait for the clerk to load the supplies into the truck.

      “You got everything?”

      “All eight of the coolers are stuffed with ice, beer and soda, and in the truck. How long until you’re home?” Last time I’d tried to get the coolers out by myself, a hundred-quart ice chest had dropped me on my backside and landed on my ankle, putting me in a cast. That had happened six years before, and he never let me forget how stupid I’d been. “I can’t do this alone. You promised to be home no later than seven tonight.”

      We’d been married seventeen years–had just celebrated our anniversary, also my thirty-ninth birthday, a few weeks prior. Nothing special. Dinner with my father and the neighbors followed by lukewarm, obligation sex. Some amethyst jewelry made by a local artist Burt patronized and a sack of iris bulbs to add to the flower beds because he couldn’t find anything more exotic. Seventeen years just didn’t trip the old romance meter, anymore, I’d thought. Then again, flowers were better than furniture, or his taste in lingerie. He got a painting I’d found at a local gallery.

      “It can’t be helped, Rachel, so stop whining. You know how important these conferences are for networking. A couple of the guys from L.A. County asked me to fill out their golf party in the morning. One of their usual players can’t make it.”

      “So? Why do you have to be their fourth?”

      Burt heaved a sigh I could almost feel through the phone. “Rachel, they’ve had this time reserved for a year. You can’t just waltz in and out of this course. They’ve booked four, and one of their usual party went to jail last week, so they got caught short.”

      “Jail!” What kind of people were these? “What did he go to jail for?”

      “What does it matter? I didn’t call you for a third degree. This is business. You like the nice cushy lifestyle you live because I provide the bulk of our income, don’t you? Well, this is part of the game.” I couldn’t fight the flinch his angry bite produced. “Dammit, Rachel, we’ve been married long enough I shouldn’t have to explain myself. I’m not coming home. Deal with it.”

      Not ready to let go protesting the inconvenience of his absence, I pushed a little more. “So if you back out now, can you make it home by eight?” I tried to remember exactly where he’d gone this week. With the advent of cellphones, location had become unimportant, especially if he drove to the seminars or conferences. We lived more or less between L.A. and San Francisco, so most of the large conference centers were within a three- to four-hour drive and rarely rated a plane ticket.

      “You СКАЧАТЬ