Out With The Old, In With The New. Nancy Thompson Robards
marriage.
So here I stand the morning after, in the kitchen, squeezing orange juice for Corbin’s and Caitlin’s breakfast, pondering who and why and trying to act as if I haven’t a care in the world.
I’ve never been a good actress. I’m tired and cranky because I lay awake most of last night listening to Corbin snore.
The orange slips off the juicer, and my hand lands in the sticky, pulpy mess. Oh for God’s sake. It’s mornings like this I wish I could pull a carton of OJ from the refrigerator. But I won’t. I’ve always taken pride in giving my family the best. I rinse and dry my hand, return to the half-dozen orange halves on the cutting board.
I’m just tired. Everything always seems worse when I’m tired.
“Corbin?”
He’s sitting at the table, a bowl of oatmeal in front of him, engrossed in the newspaper. He doesn’t look up from the business section. A prickle of irritation spirals through my veins, and I’m tempted to throw a spent orange hull at his paper fortress. Instead, I toss the peel into the sink.
“Do you want to hear something funny?” I ask.
“Mmm…” He folds the paper in half then over again. Still reading, he reaches for a piece of toast on a plate next to his cereal. Absently, he takes a bite.
I pick up another orange half. “I thought Dave and Mac were the ones who wrote the letter.”
He lowers the paper and looks at me as if I’m an idiot.
I shrug. “I thought they were playing a joke.”
He frowns. “A damn lousy joke. They wouldn’t do something like that. “He sounds irritated, defensive, as if he’d never considered them suspect. The crease between his brows deepens, and he retreats behind his newspaper. I hate the way he shuts down in the middle of a conversation. Because I always have plenty left to say.
“Yes, Corbin, it is a lousy thing to do. Do you have any idea who did it?”
“Kate.” It’s more of a sigh than a word. He lays the business section on the table, checks his watch, stands. “Just let it go. Bottom line is I love you. I love our family. I’m not going to do anything to screw up what we have.” He walks over and puts his arms around me. “The only way the letter matters is if we let it matter. So let it go.”
I sink into him. His arms feel so right around me. This is my place. But reservation seeps in and rakes its cold, bony fingers over every inch of my body, leaving me breathless and slightly nauseated. He’s right, though. I’m sure whoever did this wants a reaction just like the elementary school bully wanted attention. The question is, whose attention does this bully want?
“You think if we ignore it, it will simply go away?”
“Will who go away, Mommy?” Caitlin walks into the kitchen dressed for school. She hesitates in front of her seat at the table and looks at Corbin and me.
He releases me and returns to the table.
“No one, sweetie. Daddy and I were just talking about—”
“No one of any consequence.” Corbin tickles Caitlin. “So don’t you worry your pretty little head over it.”
Her laughter crescendos into high-pitched screams, and he draws her into a snuggly Daddy-hug that melts my heart because it speaks louder than all the words he could utter to convince me of his dedication.
I shove the orange down on the marble head of the electric appliance. The machine growls as it pulverizes the fruit. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could purge myself of doubt the way the juicer forces the pulp from the orange?
“What’s consequence?” Caitlin asks, a spoonful of oatmeal poised in front of her mouth.
“A person of no consequence is someone of no importance,” says Corbin. “Someone who doesn’t matter.”
I pour the juice into glasses. “A consequence is also the result of your actions. You do something bad, you suffer the consequence.”
The words slip out before I realize the implication. My cheeks burn.
Corbin cuts his gaze to me and hesitates before he scrapes the last bite of oatmeal from his bowl. I carry two glasses of juice to the table and set one in front of Caitlin. I hold the other until my husband looks me in the eye again.
Resolve gleams in his clear azure eyes. A determination that dictates conversation about the letter is over. Okay. If he can still look me in the eye, what else do I need to make myself feel better?
So that’s it.
I can believe him, or I can leave him.
I believe him.
He reaches up, takes the glass, sips it and raises it toward me with a slight nod. “Thank you.”
He picks up the paper again. He looks good in his sapphire-blue shirt and yellow tie. The shirt matches his eyes, which are in crisp contrast to his nearly black hair. For a moment I’m transported back to my freshman year at the University of Florida, when we first met. I was working my way through school. He was the carefree frat boy. The cocky rich kid who had the world at his feet. My family is close, but we’re of simple means. Yet out of all the debutantes and sorority girls, the moneyed coeds with deep Southern roots and families with even deeper pockets, Corbin chose me. He used to say, Money can’t buy class, Kate. Either you’re born with it or you’re not. Every single day of our twenty-year marriage, I’ve done my best to make sure he didn’t live to regret his choice.
As I pull out my chair to take my place at the table with my coffee, I spy the paint chips on the windowsill and pick them up.
“I talked to Alex yesterday,” I say as I shuffle through the colors. “It’s time for our annual getaway. But I don’t know….”
He lowers the paper. “This early?”
“Well, that’s just it. She and Rainey have their hearts set on this spa weekend down at the Breakers. It’s in two weeks.” I shake my head.
“What’s the date?”
“February seventh, but it’s too soon. Not enough notice. I’ll tell them to go ahead without me. Maybe the girls and I can plan a trip later this year, closer to our birthdays.”
He shrugs. “It should be fine. I’m on call this weekend. That means Mac or Dave will be on the weekend you’re away. I’m sure your mother will help out if there’s an emergency.”
Emergency? What does he expect to happen?
The words from the letter telegraph in my brain: Ask your husband what he’s been doing all those nights he claimed to be at the hospital.
No.
Stop it. I will not keep going there. Am I really going to let some unknown person control my relationship with my husband? A man I’ve known for twenty years? “I don’t want you to go, Mommy.” Caitlin frowns up at me, her blond brows knit into a single line across her smooth forehead.
Corbin reaches out and takes my hand. The paint chips scatter on the table.
“No, Caitlin, your mommy deserves to do this for herself. Sometimes we forget that she never gets a break.”
He draws my hand to his lips, kisses my knuckles. The gesture is so sweet, so tender. My eyes mist. I close them until I’m able to swallow the lump in my throat.
To keep my mind on the positive, I say, “Take a look at these colors.” I nudge the samples toward him. “I’d like to get the living room painted before I go.”
He picks up the sport section and scrutinizes a photo of an Orlando Magic player scoring the winning point at a recent game. “Whatever you want. You’re the one with good taste.”
I scoot the Scarlett O’Hara chip toward him. “Okay, then this