The Other Man. Karen Van Der Zee
wiped his forehead with a blue-and-white striped sweatband wound around his wrist. “Here we meet again,” he said, and his deep voice stroked her nerves and tingled through her blood.
Her throat went dry. She swallowed, unable to produce a sound, knowing she was staring at him wide-eyed, looking stupid, her hair wild and wind-blown. She must look like a madwoman. She felt like a madwoman.
His eyes swept over her red convertible, his face faintly mocking. “Nice car,” he said, his voice carefully bland.
Nice car was an understatement, of course. It was a luxurious, expensive vehicle, a dream come true for many people. Marc had given it to her for her birthday two years ago. She hadn’t asked for it. It had never occurred to her to want a luxury sports car. And she’d never wanted the expensive jewelry and beautiful presents Marc was always giving her. “Please,” she’d say time and time again, “you don’t need to give me all these expensive things. It’s not me, Marc. You already give me everything I need.” Once, he’d looked at her with eyes full of dark emotion. “Really?” he’d asked, and her heart had constricted at the anguished tone in his voice. Even now the memory made her heart ache.
He had not stopped giving her gifts.
“Have some fun,” he had said when he’d pre-sented her with the Porsche. “Live a little.”
She remembered the words, but she couldn’t re-member his face. Panic surged through her. She couldn’t remember his face! How could she not re-member the face of the man to whom she’d been married for more than ten years? All she saw was Aidan—the light eyes in the dark face, the square, stubbled chin, the hard chest. All she was aware of was the disastrous effect he was having on her nervous system and the terrible hunger deep inside her.
“Something wrong?” Aidan asked.
She swallowed again, glancing away at her hands, trembling in her lap, her tongue paralyzed. She shook her head.
“I need something to drink,” he went on when she remained silent. “Come on up and join me.” Matter of fact. Casual. As if she were a friend, a neighbor. Yet behind the calm words she sensed a subtle command. He was used to having his way, to be obeyed. There was a sense of authority about him that seemed more pronounced than she re-membered. It was there in the way he held his body, the enigmatic face, the cool look in his eyes.
She nodded, not sure why. One part of her wanted to run, the other part wanted to do as he suggested. Her hand trembled as she put the car into drive and turned into the path, following Aidan as he jogged up to the house. Powerful legs, broad shoulders. He was a well-constructed running ma-chine, well-proportioned. She watched the smooth movement of his muscles beneath the tanned skin of his back and legs and felt her mouth go dry. Why couldn’t she have found him wearing baggy sweats?
She parked the car by the side of the house. Aidan opened the door for her and with a sweeping gesture indicated the back door of the house that led into the kitchen. The front door was never used, she remembered, only when strangers rang the bell.
The big, eat-in kitchen had changed little. It was light and bright with casual but expensive wooden furniture and was updated with the latest appli-ances. Not your average summer cottage this was, furnished with castoffs and attic furniture. Only the best for the Carmichaels. How awed and impressed she’d been by the family’s wealth when she’d been younger. How young and unsophisticated she had been…Sometimes, looking back, it amazed her how much she had changed, how much she had matured.
The windows had a view of wooded, rugged rocks jutting out into the wide expanse of ocean. She heard the call of sea gulls and the roaring of the waves.
He stood by the sink and splashed water on his face and neck, then dried off with a flowered kitchen towel he pulled out of a drawer.
“You look different,” she said, knowing she sounded inane, saying it just to break the awkward silence.
He shrugged as he filled two tall glasses with ice and water. “So do you.”
Of course she did. She was twelve years older. And a lifetime wiser. She searched her mind to think of something else to say. “Where were you working, before coming here? Bangladesh, still?”
“No, Ecuador. I left Bangladesh three years ago.” He handed her one of the glasses.
He gulped down the entire glass of water, then refilled it. She watched his hands work the tap. Big hands capable of gentle touch. Swiftly, she forced the thought away.
He turned back to her, regarding her with un-fathomable eyes. “Why did you come here?” he asked casually, tipping back his glass and drinking more water.
The question she dreaded. “I…” She gestured helplessly, scrambling for words, for a light touch. “I suppose just out of ordinary curiosity.” She managed a breezy smile. “To see how you’d fared after all these years.”
He cocked one dark eyebrow. “Really?” A single word, a thousand hidden meanings.
She sipped at her water. “Why are you staying here?” she asked. “Vacation?”
He pushed his damp hair away from his forehead. “No. I’m here to finish a book about my research project. Then I’m going back to Ecuador.” He placed his empty glass back on the counter.
“Are you ever planning to come back home for good?”
He leaned lazily against the counter, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “Not a great need for tropical pediatrics in the temperate Northwest, is there?” Faint amusement in his voice.
She shrugged lightly. “No. But I suppose you could teach or write, or both.”
“I’d rather practice medicine, with a little writing on the side for a change of pace.”
They were having a calm, simple conversation, yet she felt shaky with tension. There was so much she wanted to say, so much to explain, but she could not find the words. Her mind seemed to have shut off, as if overloaded with emotion and stress. Then again, why would it matter to him at this point? He had the life he wanted and a wife who shared it, and the past did no longer matter. She wondered where his wife was.
“And what are you doing with yourself these days?” he asked politely.
She moistened her lips. “I’m a teacher. Kinder-garten. Five-year-olds.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Really?”
Had she seen a glimpse of surprise in his eyes? She nodded. “I…I love it. It’s vacation now, though, so I’m not working,” she went on, feeling ridiculously nervous, as if she were making an un-comfortable confession. “Usually I volunteer in the summer and work with special programs for mi-grant kids, but…eh, not this time.”
Why was she saying all this? Because she wanted his approval, to show him she was not merely a lady of leisure, driving a Porsche and living off her deceased husband’s money. She was a person in her own right, a person who had matured and made something of herself.
He studied her. “You look good,” he said bluntly. “You lost that scrawny look.”
To her mortification, heat rushed to her cheeks. She’d been thin at eighteen, working too many hours, eating too little food. She’d filled out a little in the past twelve years, she knew. She’d gained some weight and rounded out in all the right places.
“I’m not a teenager anymore,” she said, as if he didn’t know. Why did she have to sound so stupid?
The years of separation yawned between them. How did she bridge that gap of time—all the events and changes that had taken place in the years stretching between then and now? Was it even possible? Did she want to?
“You’re a woman now,” he agreed, his gaze sliding over her body with seeming clinical as-sessment. Hidden behind the cool gray something stirred that set off a tingling in her body.
Her heart throbbed in her throat. She swallowed