The Elevator. Angela Hunt
tips and sly smiles. Despite the camaraderie Gina and Francis have shared within the walls of the restaurant, the man is a servant, not a friend.
Only a close friend would be honest and courageous enough to reveal that your husband has a mistress, a sad truth that underscores an unexpected revelation: Gina has no close friends. No one told her about Sonny’s affair; no one at the office, the country club or the church they faithfully attend at Christmas and Easter.
Surely someone has seen him with that woman. Gina can’t shop at any mall for more than an hour without encountering someone she knows through the business or the club. Sonny is far more extroverted than she is, so people have to have seen him with his little chit.
Perhaps people have seen him…and traded knowing looks, clucking in sympathy for the deceived wife and the poor children. Maybe they’ve wondered aloud how long the marriage will last…and what she’s done to make Sonny wander.
What has she done? Nothing but give him the best years of her life, raise his children, decorate his house and stand by his side through dozens of boring conventions, holiday parties and client dinners. She’s reined in her instincts and bitten her tongue so many times it’s a wonder she can still speak, and for what? A man who would betray her and squander his children’s future on a tramp.
Sonny hasn’t mentioned a divorce, but his girlfriend won’t wait forever. She’ll press for marriage one of these days, but before he hits Gina with the news, he’ll make sure his assets are hidden and his business protected…just as he’s already doing.
Gina will be ambushed.
Her children are being bankrupted.
She places the bankbook back in the safe and returns the jewelry to the drawer. She folds the investigator’s report and slides it back into the manila envelope. The man has written a note on his business card—If you’d like me to spend a few more hours on the case, I could identify the woman in question.
Gina snorts softly. She’s not spending another penny on Sonny. He can exchange his fortysomething wife for two twenties, for all she cares. But he cannot steal from his children.
Ending this marriage will crush the kids, of course. They will be loyal to her, but they love their father and won’t want to hurt him. She could tell them everything, let them see the proof of his infidelity, but teenagers don’t always accept the truth. Most of the time they end up resenting the messenger who brings bad news.
She won’t let them resent her because she’s done nothing wrong. Sonny is the guilty party, he’s the gangrene. And like an infected limb, he deserves to be chopped off.
Being teenagers, the kids have been so wrapped up in their individual worlds they haven’t noticed Sonny’s absences, his odd lapses into silence or his indifference on the rare occasions he’s come home for dinner. He has already impoverished them emotionally; he will not ruin them financially, too.
If Gina says nothing and keeps Sonny’s failings private, the kids will split their loyalties and try to make the best of a bad situation. They might even accept the other woman, whomever she is. Like characters in one of those Lifetime movies, every weekend they’ll kiss Gina goodbye and head off for picnics and football games with Sonny’s replacement wife.
That would be altogether unacceptable.
Michelle crouches on the tile floor and opens the cabinet beneath the sink, searching among bottles of hair spray, lotion and nail polish remover until she spies the blue box. How many years has it been sitting there—one or two? Has it expired?
She pushes aside a bag of cotton balls, then pulls out the box and searches for the expiration date—the kit is still good, so she skims the instructions. The test kit promises quick results and ninety-nine percent accuracy. After five seconds in the urine stream, the stick will turn pink; after two more minutes the result window will reveal an easy-to-read plus or minus.
Pregnant or not?
She sinks to the cold tile as the significance of the question hits home. She’s tried to be responsible, but life is like a baseball game; you can’t score every time you step up to the plate. Some homes aren’t happy, some girls don’t go to the prom, and sometimes your birth control fails.
But nobody should have to strike out on all three counts.
Pregnant. Or not.
She presses her hand to her forehead and tries to picture herself as a parent. Parker already has three kids, so she doesn’t have to worry about his ability to cope with children. Matt, Amanda and Sam are practically grown, but their father adores them. He’ll adore this new baby, too—if her nausea isn’t the result of a virus or pasta gone bad.
On the other hand—she swallows as the gall of envy burns the back of her throat—Parker has been surprisingly protective of his children. Though she’s boldly hinted that she’d like to get to know them, she’s never met his sons and daughter. She’s shopped for their birthday presents, dispensed advice about Christmas gifts and helped him understand the emotional complexities of teenage girlhood. But when she mentions meeting his kids, he insists they are not ready to accept another woman in his life. They’re still torn up about losing their mother….
After five years, shouldn’t those children be ready to move on?
She straightens to relieve the ache in her shoulders, then shakes her head. Technically, Parker’s opinion doesn’t matter. She could have a baby and raise it alone. But a child deserves a father’s love, and Parker would want to know if he has created a new life.
He’d be surprised, of course, maybe even stunned, but she’d assure him she didn’t intend to get pregnant. Their relationship has been stable for over a year and until now she’s felt no need to change things. She hasn’t pressed for marriage and isn’t even sure she believes in it. Matrimony might be fine for women who need to belong to a man, but Michelle has always valued her independence too much to surrender it.
Yet perhaps it’s time to reconsider. Greg Owens’s name keeps slipping through her thoughts, reminding her that investigation is only days away. If she can’t convince Owens that her agency fulfills its promises, he may start digging into her past.
How nice it would be to surrender her responsibilities and walk away. To wake up in the morning and have no appointments. How liberating, to trade the support of a dozen employees for the care of one child. Parker wouldn’t need her income. And he’s so protective of his kids—if she had a baby, he’d probably want her to stay home and spoil the kid rotten.
She’s never visualized herself as a parent, but she could learn to appreciate motherhood. Hard not to think about having a child when her employees are reproducing like rabbits and every other month some celebrity is showing off an infant Apple, Coco or Kumquat….
Since her thirtieth birthday she’s become increasingly aware that every menstrual cycle represents an irreversible loss of fertility. She’s thirty-three, old enough to know herself and settled enough to sacrifice for a child.
Michelle stands on wobbly legs and opens the test kit. Inside the box, a sheaf of printed instructions and a white plastic stick nestle in a molded shell. She plucks the stick from its resting place and holds it up to the light. This little gadget will tell her if she’s pregnant or not. If today will be just another day or the start of a new life. If her next strong emotion will be alarm or relief.
No…not relief. Maybe happiness.
Staring at the stick, for the first time Michelle realizes how much she’d like to be pregnant. If not now, then next month or next year.
She wants a baby…a cooing bundle of hope for which she could correct life’s mistakes and build the home she’s always wanted. Most people do live in happy homes; most girls do go to the prom; most women do want to be mothers.
She’s tired of pretending otherwise.
Pregnant or not, she’s going to tell Parker she wants a family. If he won’t