After four I’m under my host.
Uh-uh, she thought, not tonight. Not under the table, and definitely not under Jay. Three martinis spaced out over an hour and a half weren’t going to get her hammered or make her amorous. Still, she’d better eat something after she finished this one. It had been more than seven hours since the light, late lunch they’d had before leaving home.
Jay had the fire blazing now, the flames painting the darkness with a flickering red-orange glow. He said as he came over to her, “Better go easy. That’s three on an empty stomach.”
“I know how many I’ve had.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. Just making a comment.”
The comment being that she was drinking too much lately. Well, he was right, she was. And until he’d suddenly slacked off before Christmas, so was he. Another indication that the marriage was in trouble—their mutual reliance on alcohol to get them through their evenings alone together. Maybe that was why he’d mostly quit after alclass="underline" subtle pressure to get her to do the same. His noncommunicative way of trying to shore up the crumbling foundation of their relationship.
Sorry, sweetie, she thought, it’s not working.
He said, “Let’s get warm and then I’ll make us something to eat.”
“The good-cold casserole we brought with us?”
“Well, I had to tell them something to get us out of there,” he said defensively. “No way we were going to eat with those people.”
She’d meant the casserole comment as a mild joke, and he’d taken it as a rebuke for lying. As she’d taken his reminder about three martinis on an empty stomach as implied criticism. Each of them guilty of misreading the other, something that hadn’t happened in the days when the foundation had been solid, that happened all too often now.
Was there any real chance of saving the marriage, bringing back the closeness they’d once shared? He might want to save it, but did she? Sometimes she thought yes, sometimes no, and sometimes she wondered if saving it was worth the effort. She still cared for him, but how much of that caring was love and a genuine need to be with him, and how much simple compassion, habit, inertia? She didn’t know, couldn’t make up her mind. One thing she did know: the degrees of separation between them were widening into an unbridgeable chasm. If the marriage did have a chance to survive, something major had to change—direction, communication, something. And soon, very soon.
No question a split would be difficult. She’d miss Jay; you couldn’t love and live with a man for twelve years and not be left with an unfilled hole. But she’d get along all right. With or without Dr. Douglas Booth or any other male. She was resilient, more than capable of taking care of herself. She’d been taking care of people all her life. Mom, after Dad all of a sudden decided he preferred the bosom of somebody else’s family to his own—first because of Mom’s drinking, then full-time when the breast cancer was diagnosed, forcing her to quit school and alter her plans for a career as a health care worker. Jay the past few years. All the victims she’d had brief contact with on her job. And she’d come through all of that without too many scars, too many neuroses. Oh, yes, she was very good at taking care of people, herself included most of the time.
But Jay wasn’t; he had to have somebody to count on, lean on. Somebody strong. Well, if they did go their separate ways, he wouldn’t have too much trouble finding a suitable replacement … Yes, he would, why try to kid herself? A beaten-down man with low self-esteem wasn’t exactly an ideal catch for any woman except a controlling or maternal one, neither of which was the type he needed.
Face it, Shelby, she thought. The woman he needs is you. And the crux of the problem is, you’re tired of the burden and the responsibility.
She sat with her drink in a chair drawn up close to the fire while Jay put together a meal in the kitchen. The spreading heat took away some of the damp mustiness and, along with the effects of the gin, warmed her again. Outside the wind had risen, buffeting the cottage with angry gusts, but in here, with the fire and the candlelight, it was almost cozy. Almost. Three martinis on an empty stomach could make any surroundings seem tolerable, as long as there was enough light to keep the darkness at bay.
They ate sandwiches and stewed tomatoes in front of the fire, neither of them saying much. That had always been one of the good things about their relationship, the ability to sit together in companionable silence. Even when they argued or fought, they seldom raised their voices. Nor had they ever indulged in public bickering and name-calling, like the Lomaxes and the Deckers; that kind of open hostility was foreign to both their natures. A little private sniping now and then, sure, but what couple didn’t do that? Jay had his faults, but basically he was a quiet, gentle man. A good man. If only he wasn’t so infuriatingly introverted. And withdrawing deeper into himself every day. That, too, as much as the string of failures and setbacks, as much as the burden and responsibility of looking out for him, was what was slowly killing the marriage.
Bedtime. She took two lighted candles into the master bedroom, went back to get a third. The fire’s warmth didn’t reach in there, but the bed, at least, was covered with two blankets and a thick down comforter.
The adjoining bathroom was small and chilly. She took one of the candles in there and made short work of changing and of using the toilet. When she came out, Jay was already in bed with the comforter pulled up to his chin. She said as she got in beside him, “Whoever buys the toilet paper for this place has a sadistic streak.”
“Poor quality?”
“Like sandpaper.”
“Probably Ben. He didn’t have much money when we were in college. Thrifty about everything in those days.”
“Nobody should be thrifty when it comes to their asses.”
Jay burst out laughing. She gave him a look, and then realized how indignant she’d sounded and laughed with him. Echo of the good early days, when they’d laughed often together.
There was a sag in the middle of the mattress, so that when she turned on her side he slipped down against her back. The bed was too small to move away; she lay still, feeling the heat from his body, hoping he wouldn’t turn and try to arouse her. He didn’t. Within minutes his breathing told her he was asleep.
But he was restless tonight; his arms and legs kept twitching. Often enough that was a sign that he would have his nightmare. The same nightmare over and over—that was all he’d ever say about it. Whatever it was, it must be terrifying. He’d wake himself and her up with moans, little whimpers, then outcries that were close to screams. And he’d be soaked in sweat, shaky, his pulse rate so accelerated he had trouble catching his breath. She hoped it wouldn’t happen tonight. The pain sounds he made and the sudden wrenching from sleep were bad enough, but the way his heart beat so rapidly for so long afterward was cause for alarm. So was the little hitch every few beats even when he was at rest.
Shelby could hear the hitch now as he slept. It was probably nothing but simple arrhythmia, as his shortness of breath was probably nothing but the result of being out of shape. But they and the too-rapid pulse rate could also be symptoms of angina or some other form of heart disease.
The first time she’d noticed the hitch, she’d suggested he see his doctor for a checkup and an EKG. He’d said he would, but as far as she knew he hadn’t done it. She’d have to prod him again. Abnormalities were nothing to slough off, even in a man of thirty-five. She’d seen and treated too many coronary victims; watched three die on the way to the hospital ER, one of them a man in his late twenties.
One more thing to worry about …
F I V E