A Summer in Sonoma

“Fever?” he asked, running a hand along the back of his neck, trying to get his bearings.

“I’m keeping it down with Tylenol. But she’s sick.”

He reached for Stephie and she went to him, whimpering, “Daddy,” like a sick little pumpkin. “Clint?” he asked.

“So far, so good.”

“Okay, take a break. I’ll do steam room duty,” he said.

She left him sitting on the closed toilet seat, holding his daughter against him, knowing he hadn’t had enough rest and would still try to get in some hours at the shop no matter how late he started. He had to be at the fire department first thing in the morning for his twenty-four-hour shift. She couldn’t let him do night duty with the kids—it would be on her so he could be rested and safe. But she was so tired. Early pregnancy made her want to sleep around the clock, but she couldn’t.

And she thought, I can’t go on like this. I just can’t.

After lunch with the girls, Marty did a little shopping before going home. Joe was with three-year-old Jason; there was no reason to hurry. She tried on clothes, found a couple of nice things on sale and bought them, though she’d have nowhere to wear them. All she really needed in her wardrobe these days were clothes for work and clothes for the lake. But she fell in love with a pair of crepey pants that were snug around the hips and butt, flowing at the hem. Then there was this low-cut top that showed off her cleavage and fit so nice—the perfect ensemble to go out for an evening, maybe dinner, maybe dancing. And she couldn’t resist a fitted dress with a slit up the side that showed off her figure; it was lavender and really drew attention to the light brown of her soft, shoulder-length curls.

Joe didn’t like to dance. For evenings out he liked to get together with the gang from F.D., usually at a sports bar. Vacations were taking the RV up to Tahoe, pulling the boat along with it. Weekends were spent either at the lake or watching sports on TV—at a bar or someone’s house or, most often, at home on his own big screen. They never did the things she’d like to do anymore. He chose all their recreation.

So she bought shoes, too. High-heeled sandals with ankle straps. Very sexy. Marty was small and trim; she could get away with those three-inch heels, and she was agile in them. They’d look great twirling around a dance floor. Sometimes she bought these things while in the fantasy that life could be fun again. There was a time that dressing up like this got Joe all excited, especially the shoes…He’d see her legs in those heels and go crazy. That was before they were married.

When she got home Jason and Joe were in front of the TV playing a video game, sitting cross-legged on the floor like a couple of kids. Joe thought these games were a perfect way to help Jason develop hand-eye coordination, but Marty secretly believed Joe just wanted to play them, himself.

She dropped her packages on the dining room chair and surveyed the kitchen. It looked as if they’d been grazing all day, not bothering to pick up a single dish, rinse out a glass, wipe bread crumbs off the counter. Around them in the family room were more plates, empty chip bags, cellophane from snack cakes, used and balled-up paper towels as opposed to napkins. Joe had gone through the newspaper there, as well, leaving the couch cushions all askew, some on the floor, and the newspaper strewn around on the coffee table and floor, along with his coffee cup and toast plate from breakfast. She had left everything immaculate, having cleaned while he slept in.

And of course Joe was wearing only those navy-blue, rotting gym shorts—his summer day-off uniform—under which he was naked. He had a hairy body, a heavy, scratchy growth of stubble. It would never occur to him to clean up a little, look presentable for her on his day off, though she’d asked him to a thousand times.

“Hey, babe,” he greeted at the sound of her entry, but he didn’t turn around. He was very busy stacking and collapsing colorful blocks on the screen, pretending to compete with his three-year-old son while he helped little Jason develop some competence with the game. “You get the mail?”

“Joe, look at this kitchen! It’s a mess.”

“Yeah, I’ll get it later.”

No, he wouldn’t. He didn’t clean. At least, not inside the house. He didn’t even clean the inside of the RV. Now, the boat or yard or garage, he kept them perfect. This mess would be left for her.

“Joe, can I talk to you a minute?”

“Yeah, sure. Sit tight.” Then after a full minute passed, he shouted, “Whoa! You see that, buddy? You got me! Wanna go one more time?” And he started a new game.

“Joe!”

“What?”

“I want to talk to you!”

“Aw, Jesus,” he said, irritated. He put down his remote game stick and got to his feet. He looked like a monkey, all that black hair covering his legs, chest, belly, his shadowy face, his hair goofy from not being combed. He gave his gym shorts a tug but they slipped right back down, low on his hips. The elastic was giving out and half the time she could see his butt crack; she did not consider it a precious sight. Of course, she’d brought home new gym shorts to at least have decent clean ones on that naked body. They sat on his closet shelf, rejected. “What?” he said, hands on his hips.

“The house is a wreck.”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy outside and in the garage. Plus, it’s my day off. Me and the little guy have been hanging out. But I got the yard work caught up.”

“It wouldn’t take you ten minutes to clean up after yourself in here. With another ten minutes you could shower, shave and look decent.”

“It’s my day off! I just want to relax and be comfortable!”

“If I hung around a messy house looking like you look, you’d leave me in a second!”

“I don’t know about that,” he said, a slight sneer to his lips. “Maybe you’d be a little easier to get along with if you loosened up. Jesus, it’s just a couple of plates and glasses! How big a deal is that? Didn’t you just say it would take ten minutes…?”

“We both work,” she said. “I’m getting really tired of coming home to a mess all the time.”

“You work today, Marty?” he asked sarcastically.

“You know I didn’t work today, but I put in my forty hours every week, and I do everything around the house, too. And the only time I see you looking clean and decent is when we have company or you’re on your way to work!”

“Look, I didn’t get home till eight this morning and we had a busy night. I just want to be comfortable,” he said again. “Why don’t you lighten up a little bit, huh?”

“No,” she said, tears coming to her eyes as she shook her head. “No, I’m not lightening up. I’m sick of this. I don’t ask much of you—just pick up after yourself and shower.” She shook her head in total frustration. “I’m leaving for a little while. I’m going to get out of here and cool off. I’ll be back, I’ll bring dinner, and if you heard me at all, clean up this goddamn mess and shower and shave!” She grabbed her purse and headed back out the door.

Marty really wanted to have a good hard cry, but she didn’t want anyone to see her like that, so she sucked it back where it stuck in her throat like a rock. She drove around for about twenty minutes, seething, hurting. He wasn’t like this before she married him! They dated for a year, were engaged for a year, and during that time he always asked her what she wanted to do. Even then, she’d tried to give him balanced time by getting together with his friends for sports and boating things; she happened to like sports and outdoor activities when it didn’t take up a hundred percent of their recreational time. She didn’t even mind if he seemed a little bored at a nice dinner out or fell asleep during a chick flick. Back then, during the premarriage days, she spent as much time at his house as her apartment, and his relaxation mode might involve sweats or jeans, but he was never this smelly, naked monkey in falling-down shorts with his crack peeking out.

Of course, he hadn’t been tidy back then, either. His bathroom was usually carpeted in hair; he left things lying around and didn’t keep the kitchen spotless. But if she offered to help him clean up, he did his part. He’d let her tell him what to do—strip the bed and throw the sheets and towels in the washer, run the vacuum, take out trash, scrub out the shower. Well, he was all done participating now. And back then, if he wanted to make love, he went to a little trouble. He was squeaky clean, smelled nice, was shaved and sweet. He knew how to get her in the mood, worked up and excited. He didn’t bother with that anymore, either. And now he complained if it took her too long to climax. Come on, Marty, come on. What’s the matter? I can’t last all night!

She just couldn’t seem to find anyone to talk to about it. Julie had that kissy-face thing going on with Billy after so many years and, even when she was at her most discontented, it was apparent she still thought she had the best husband in the world. Which maybe she did. Cassie seemed to think if a woman had a warm body in her bed there was nothing to complain about. Beth had much more important things to concentrate on than Marty’s marital gripes; she hadn’t been involved with anyone for almost five years now and was more focused on her medical career than relationships.

Marty ended up at a small Italian restaurant not far from home. There was a quiet little bar and they weren’t too busy on late weekday afternoons. It was just after four o’clock. She decided to have a glass of wine, order some takeout while she sipped it and see if she could cool down.

She sat at the far side of the bar in a dark corner, sipping her wine, staring at a menu, though not reading it.

She’d been prepared for things to change after marriage; she knew he wasn’t the neat freak she was. She’d given the relationship two years before marrying him, just to be sure she knew him, knew his habits, his values. She hadn’t expected him to go into such a complete decline; she never thought he’d relax all his standards, dump all the household responsibility on her. In the past, he had occasional kick-back days of not shaving, but now it was whenever he wasn’t working. He let himself get so disgusting. What kind of a guy refuses to shower and shave when his woman asks him to?

And the thing she really never saw coming—that she’d stop loving him.

It was hard to love an insensitive slob. Of course, not many people saw him that way. He was a real man’s man—a scruffy, masculine Italian with some old-world views, like the woman is there to bear the children and take care of the house and kids while the man does the mechanical stuff, the physical stuff, the yard and all that. The men at F.D. thought he was a kick; in a way they sympathized with her, telling her she was a saint for putting up with him. They didn’t know the half—he wouldn’t dare go to work stinky, with his face unshaved and his thick, black hair greasy and sticking up in spikes everywhere—so all they were really aware of was his inability to pick up dishes, wash and dry. He was a hell of an Italian cook—his spaghetti and sausage and lasagna were legendary in the department—but they joked at F.D. that while they loved his food, he destroyed the kitchen. She would always say, Welcome to my world.

At work, he went the extra mile in other ways—ways the guys could appreciate. He kept the equipment spotless and organized; he was powerfully strong and the first one up the ladder, to the rescue.

The sexy man she’d fallen in love with was gone, replaced by this Neanderthal who couldn’t care less about her feelings. He’d been so great when he was trying to get her into bed, then trying to get her to stay in bed, then trying to get her to the altar—because he was an Italian Catholic and needed a wife to take care of his household, to have his kids. When they were engaged, they talked about having two or three kids, but she quit after Jason. She just didn’t have the energy to work, keep the house civilized and take care of a bunch of kids, Joe being one of them.

She didn’t think she loved him anymore…and she was beginning to wonder how she could stay with him…

“Marty!”

She lifted her head to see Ryan Chambers grinning at her. He picked up his beer and wandered over to her. Oh, God, she thought. This is the last thing I need right now.

“How you doing, baby?”

“Fine, Ryan. How are you?”

“Great. You meeting someone? Having dinner here?”

“No, I’m just going to pick up some takeout. I’ve had a long day, so I thought I’d have a glass of wine. How about you?”

“I thought about a pizza, but I don’t know. I’ll just have a beer, then decide.”

“How’s Jill?”

“Jill?” he laughed. “Marty, Jill and I are over…”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, that’s okay—you’re not expected to keep up with the love life of an old boyfriend. It happened about a year ago.”

“A year, huh? So, who is it now?”

“No one, as a matter of fact,” he said, sitting on the stool next to hers. “I thought I could use a breather.”

“You’re not dating anyone?” she asked, stunned. He usually dated several women at a time.

“Oh, I’ve been out a couple of times, but it didn’t amount to much. I’m getting a little old for all that playing around—kind of tired of the whole bachelor scene. I think I finally worked through it. I’m looking for something different now. Something a little more stable. Reliable.”

“Really?” she said, leaning on her hand, not believing him for a second.

He looked into his beer and shook his head with a little silent laughter. “Really. I might finally be growing up.” He lifted his eyes. “At thirty-one, I don’t think it’s premature. Do you?”

“Hardly. Still, it’s the last thing I expected to hear out of you.”

“I deserved that. Did I ever apologize for that? Because if I didn’t, I should…”

“Don’t bother,” she said. “Long ago and far away.”

“How’s the family?” he asked.

She immediately looked away before she said, “Great. They’re great.”

When she looked back at him, he said, “Oh, yeah, sounds great. What’s the matter? Having some trouble?”

“Nah,” she said, “it’s nothing. Definitely nothing I feel like talking about.”

“Okay, let’s change the subject. Who have you seen lately?” he asked, and she knew he meant from their old gang.

So she told him about who was at the party she and Joe had hosted and lunch that day with the girls, but all the while she was thinking about their past. Ryan was her first love. He was a couple of years older, the big jock at school. Good-looking, flirtatious, funny, smart. He was also unpredictable, had a short attention span and a roving eye. She fell for him at fifteen and they were on and off for about five years with long breaks while he stole other virginities. He’d always come creeping back after four or six or eight months—sorry, repentant, seductive—and she couldn’t resist him. They’d have another few months of bliss, then he’d do it again—get sidetracked by another girl. By the time she was about twenty, maybe twenty-one, she had finally had enough and wouldn’t let him back. But of course, she never really got over him.

Funny, Ryan and Joe didn’t have any of the same flaws. Joe was incredibly married; he didn’t even flirt. In the looks department, they were pretty equal, though completely different. Ryan had a dimpled smile and twinkling eyes that could just make a girl wet herself. Joe was a damn fine-looking man when he was cleaned up, but Ryan took impeccable and fashionable to the next level; he could be a model. Joe had an incredible, strong, toned body—pecs, biceps, a narrow waist and six-pack such that when he wore that F.D. T-shirt pulled tight across his chest and shoulders, women went weak in the knees. Ryan was so adorable and good-natured; of course, he could look you in the eye, smile that heart-splitting smile and lie through his beautiful, straight, white teeth. Joe had darker good looks, almost black eyes, a shorter fuse, but he was the most honest man she knew.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.