Independence Day. Amy Frazier
color were my toenails?”
He glanced quickly at her feet. She wore sneakers. “Red, white and blue?”
“Have you ever seen me paint my nails? Ever? The girls, yes, but me? I don’t think so.” With an unexpected snort of laughter, she picked up a pillow from the window seat and threw it at him. “Red, white and blue. I’ll give you C+ for creativity.”
The fact that she didn’t appear angry seemed to augur the return of the old, familiar Chessie, mischievous but sweet. His exact opposite. Perhaps that’s why he’d been drawn to her back in high school—
Another pillow hit him in the head. “No daydreaming in class.”
“Then can we cut to the chase? My day off is almost gone. I’d like to spend the rest of it with my family. With you.”
“About this morning—”
“You’re forgiven.” He grinned, then immediately regretted his ill-timed humor as another pillow whizzed by his head.
“You and the girls mustn’t take me for granted any longer.” The renewed rebellion in her eyes told him this was no joke. “There are times I feel invisible.”
“Sweetheart.” He opened his arms to her. “You are the most colorful, least invisible woman I know. The girls and I love every quirky bone in your body.” Okay, so it wasn’t Robert Browning. He was a high-school principal—a weary high-school principal—not a poet.
“Do you understand how important my work is to me?” she asked.
“If there were a Maine Mom-and-Wife-of-the-Year Award, I’d nominate you in a heartbeat.”
“And my pottery?”
“I love your pots.” Better keep it simple. Talk of arts and crafts dragged him out of his league.
“Do you know how much money I put away from my teaching and sales last year?”
“I never asked because that’s your mad money.”
“Mad money? After taxes last year I added twelve thousand dollars to the girls’ college fund.”
Twelve thousand dollars? He nearly choked. He had no idea a hobby could be so lucrative.
“Mad money, indeed,” Chessie muttered as she closed in on him. “The negotiating price for this new piece alone is fifteen hundred dollars. This is art, Nick, not Play-Doh.”
“Fifteen—” He did choke. And sputtered. Chessie whacked him on the back. A little too hard, if you asked him. “We need to have a talk with our tax man. Have we declared your earnings?”
She sighed. “I filed separate forms as a self-employed businesswoman. I’ve kept my own books. I’ve joined the Better Business Bureau. Taken an Internet workshop on finances and investments.”
He seemed to recall their tax man mentioning the separate filing, but the news had been overshadowed at the time by the threat of a sports-injury lawsuit at school.
“When did you do all this?” Her secret life astounded him.
“While the girls were in school. Any night you worked late.”
That could’ve been any night of the week.
“And you didn’t think I’d be interested?”
“I tried to tell you a dozen times,” she insisted, “but you weren’t listening.”
With a sinking heart, he took her point.
“Aha!” she exclaimed when she saw he understood. “And did you know I’m very close to opening that gallery I’ve always wanted? In the barn on the ground floor.”
He looked hard at this woman he’d underestimated. What else had she been up to in his absence? The possibilities racing though his mind made Nick feel—for the first time in his life—blown off course.
“How do you expect me to take you seriously when we haven’t talked about any of this?”
She seemed taken aback by his question, but only briefly. “So much of our ever-shrinking time together is spent discussing your job and how it affects our future. The rest of the time it’s the girls—”
“That’s a cop-out, Chessie, and you know it. You want recognition, but you’re not communicating.”
Her nostrils widened as she inhaled sharply. “Maybe you’re right…but today I woke up. I won’t ever be satisfied if I don’t tell you why I’m dissatisfied.”
“And how.” Smiling ruefully, he rubbed the back of his neck. “So…your pots can bring in that much?” Here he thought she’d been having a few friends over for coffee and crafts. “I’m impressed, Chessie.”
“Impressed with the idea of a real business, are you? But do you appreciate the woman behind the work?”
“Of course we do,” he replied.
“Let’s leave the girls out of this. I’ll deal with them separately. Do you appreciate me? All of me.”
Hell, yes. He gazed at her as she strode across the bedroom to stand in front of the window. She was tall and still had a great figure after two children. Her long unruly auburn hair was partially held back by a ribbon. Her skin seemed otherworldly. Creamy. Smooth. Cool, most likely. She was always blessedly cool to the touch on even the hottest summer day. There was nothing cool about her eyes, though. Fire and ice. That was his Chessie. And ever since high school she’d had the power to excite him. He felt himself grow hard.
“If wanting you can be construed as appreciation,” he ventured, “I’d say I recognize what a lucky man I am.”
“So you want to make love to me?”
“Now that’s a fact.”
“Perhaps because we always make love on nights before you start your workweek?”
He didn’t like this detour. “You make it sound like a routine.”
“That’s what I haven’t quite figured out.” Crossing her arms again, she began to tap her fingers restlessly on her elbows. “I’m not sure if you really want to make love to me…or whether you’re simply after a bit of release from tension.”
“You’ve been spoiling for a fight all day. It has to be hormones.”
Low blow. And one he instantly regretted.
She glared at him.
He pulled his frustration in line. “Is it so awful I want to make love to my wife?”
“What about foreplay? What about romance? What about extending these concepts beyond the bedroom door?”
She was losing him again.
“I want to feel newly and thoroughly wooed,” she explained. “No more school functions that do double duty as dates. No more chaste pecks on the forehead. No more checking your watch when I begin to talk.”
“I had no idea—”
“Well, now you do. For a change, I want pizzazz instead of Friday night pizza. I want my toes to tingle and not because the Volvo needs a tune-up.”
“Sounds good to me.” He moved to embrace her, but she stepped aside.
“Seriously, Nick. Is it so awful I want to bring our relationship in for an inspection and tune-up?”
“I never thought there were two people who agreed more on how they wanted their life together to unfold. I promised to provide for you. You said you wanted to be a wife and mother.”
“I did. Do.” She seemed to search for words. “But I was nineteen when we married. I couldn’t have anticipated how I’d grow. I love being a wife and mother, but I want to be other things as well. We need to rearrange our