Second Honeymoon. Laura Abbot
About his feelings of entrapment and the weight of overwhelming expectations. “What happened to us?”
She shrugged. “We’ve been over everything more times than I care to count. Is there any point in rehashing it?”
“Do you want us to go back to Dr. Jacobs?” Scott knew he was clutching at straws. The marriage counselor had identified some of their problems, but had been of little real help. Whose fault that was, Scott didn’t want to think about. “Or find someone else?”
“We’re far beyond that.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
Her eyes held sadness. “A trial separation.”
Before, he’d always sensed that their discussions about separating had been rhetorical. The brandy warming his stomach turned to acid. “You’re serious?”
“I need some space.”
She needed space? Terrific.
“I’d hate to move the kids. Maybe you could rent an apartment.”
So he was supposed to pack his things and go merrily off into the night? Anger radiated through his body. Why him? Why not her? Oh, right, moving out was what spurned husbands did. One last measure of gallantry. He stood up and paced to the hearth, then turned to face her. “You expect me to make other living arrangements, just like that? And what are you proposing we tell the kids?”
“What we’ve already talked about. That we need some time to step back and figure out where we’re going.” She lifted her chin. “You don’t imagine they’re oblivious to the tension between us, do you?”
“No.” His gut curled in on itself. “When?”
“As soon as your parents leave.”
He groaned. He’d all but forgotten their upcoming visit, meant to coincide with his and Meg’s twentieth anniversary the very next weekend. Tulsa was one of his parents’ first stops on what they were calling their “big adventure.” They’d sold their house in Nashville and bought a huge motor home and were embarking on a two-year odyssey across the country.
“Are you suggesting we put on the happy-family front while they’re here?” He knew his parents better than that. They’d spot the act from a hundred feet away. His mother, who had been cool to Meg early in their relationship, might even utter the dreaded words I told you so.
“We could try. At least until we talk with the kids. Then I guess we’ll need to tell your folks, too.”
Scott felt his control slipping. This conversation bordered on the surreal. “Why not cut to the chase? Do you want a divorce?”
Her cheeks reddened and she ducked her head. “I don’t know.”
Scott waved his hands helplessly. “Hell, Meg, I don’t think you have a clue what you want. But I’ll tell you one thing. I can’t handle any more stress in my life. One way or the other, we need to decide this, once and for all. I’m not interested in putting the kids through any more suffering than necessary.”
She frowned at him. “You think I am?”
Weariness overwhelmed him. “I’m tired of arguing. I’m tired of accusations. This hasn’t been a marriage for quite a while.”
“No, it’s been a business arrangement.”
He couldn’t help raising his voice. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
He felt them moving perilously close to words they might regret. “Okay. You win.” He slumped back on the sofa. “After Mom and Pops leave, I’ll find an apartment.”
“Fine.” She gathered her robe around her. “We can work out the details later. Right now, I’m going to bed.” She started toward their bedroom, then turned back. “Maybe if you struggle really hard you can remember Justin’s soccer game tomorrow. Five-thirty at the south fields.”
He didn’t even bother to reply. He might not win any Father of the Year Award, but he cared about his son. Last week, he’d entered the game in his Palm Pilot. After Meg was gone, he reached for the brandy, swirling it in the snifter as he stared into space.
Fear—and an overpowering sense of failure—slowly drove out his anger. He was facing the big unknown, financially and emotionally. Yet there was no denying he and Meg were both miserable.
But what good could come of a separation?
He downed the contents of the snifter, knowing the liquor couldn’t begin to touch the emptiness growing inside.
CHAPTER TWO
“DO YOU THINK Meg and Scott will be surprised?”
Bud Harper took his eyes off the road momentarily to glance at his wife, who was dwarfed by the leather passenger seat of their new motor home. “They will be if our grandkids have kept their mouths shut.”
“Oh, I don’t think they’d spoil it for anything. I’m so excited.” Marie practically squirmed with satisfaction. “Twenty years. Why, it seems like only yesterday that Scotty brought Meg home to meet us.”
“Remember how you thought no one would ever be good enough for your baby?”
“Scott was—and is—pretty special. But so is Meg. Even if she did take some getting used to.”
Bud let the remark pass. Over the years, the arrival of grandchildren—and geographic distance—had mellowed the relationship between the two women. “Scott works too hard,” he said, remembering their last visit to Tulsa, when his son had been frantically trying to meet a client’s unrealistic deadline.
Marie raised an eyebrow. “Hmm, I wonder where he learned that work ethic?”
“Guilty as charged,” Bud admitted, recalling the strains in their marriage when he’d been putting in eighteen-hour days to get his plumbing business up and running. “But look here.” He waved his arm expansively to indicate the interior of their rig and the open road before them. “If you wait long enough, there are compensations.”
“There always were,” his wife said, smiling fondly.
“Even as busy as I was, we had some good times. Maybe I’m an old fogy, but back then, families didn’t have the added frustration of learning how to operate all these doodads. Computers, Palm Pilots, cell phones, DVD players—it’s enough to boggle the mind.” Simply figuring out all the intricacies of the motor home had been enough to tax his ingenuity and patience.
But now there were months of camping by rushing mountain streams to look forward to. No schedules. No obligations. Time for the two of them at last. He and Marie had dreamed of this trip for years. She had boxes filled with articles and photos she’d clipped from travel magazines. Lulled by the hum of the powerful engine, he mentally ticked off some of their destinations: Yellowstone Park, Bryce and Zion canyons, Crater Lake, Vancouver Island. And that was only the first leg of the journey.
Hearing the comforting click of Marie’s knitting needles, he thought back to the first time he’d ever seen her at his marine buddy’s wedding. A little bit of a thing in a picture hat and flouncy bridesmaid gown. Summer of 1957. He’d taken one look and made an instant decision. Sidling up to the groom, he’d asked Marie’s name and then announced, “That’s the girl I’m going to marry.” And, by God, he had. From that day on, he’d never had a single regret.
They’d spent last night in Memphis and done the Graceland tour. He wasn’t a big fan of the King, but he’d never let on. Marie still listened to Elvis CDs, and he had to admit the songs restored an era for him.
West of Little Rock, Highway 40 ran in gentle ups and downs along the Arkansas River. Soon they’d roll into Oklahoma and catch the turnpike to Tulsa.
“Only two more days. I hope our little surprise