Rachel Dahlrumple. Shea McMaster
somewhere around my middle and left my heart beating double time, he pointed up the street. Sure it was the heat of the day making me breathless, I nodded, then shoved off my anchoring lamppost to join my neighbors one block up. Surely he couldn’t have been wondering about my underwear. Could he?
Because I had to work at keeping my turmoil from showing, I missed a good portion of the parade. I waved when the Westons waved. I waved to anyone who called out my name, and my face ached from keeping a smile pasted on it. John and Cyndi both found excuses to pat me on the shoulder from time to time and the kids took turns passing me bits of candy tossed from the floats. Mindy took charge of my lap as my special angel while ten-year-old Aggie and eight-year-old J.J. scrambled for the treats. Let them think I was upset over Burt’s absence. Sooner or later they’d learn the true reason, but not here, not now. They didn’t say anything, so I didn’t confess.
As Dan worked crowd control, we got glimpses of him from time to time. I had trouble meeting his eyes the few times he caught me looking, but my gaze kept straying his direction enough that I made my excuses and hurried home as soon as the clean-up clowns started down the street, sweeping up behind the horses. I had other concerns to deal with, and drooling over the deputy wasn’t one of them. It was just the one that kept jumping to the top of my Most Urgent list.
Chapter 4
The walk home took far less time than my walk into town, as I once more focused on my philandering husband. People tried to stop me, but I merely smiled, possibly somewhat grimly, and kept moving. By the time I reached the river, I didn’t care if I got wet and plowed my way through the meandering streams twisting around the sandbars. I even stomped through a few pools, which got my skirt wet and cooled my legs.
Per his phone call the previous night, Burt expected to be home a good hour or two before the beginning of our annual neighborhood party. When the neighbor scheduled to host had to beg off, we’d volunteered, which worked out well, as–until my surprise gift–we had reason to celebrate more than just the holiday. That’s what the neighborhood still thought. Our split would shock them all, unless any of our friends knew something about the nighttime delivery, or knew more about Burt’s cheating.
Hell, it was my life, and I was shocked. And angry. And incredibly hurt. The wound was so deep, I knew for certain I’d never recover from it. It was so cavernous, I could barely breathe around it.
But about our celebration…amazingly enough, we had one. A reason to celebrate, that is. A promotion for Burt. A big one. And his oh-so-convenient excuse for being away the past week. Newly promoted to the position of County CIO–that would be Chief Information Officer–he’d told me the twice-a-year seminar on Business Ethics was mandatory and he was required to attend the first possible session.
Did I have STUPID and GULLIBLE tattooed on my forehead?
All right, all right, after the previous night’s little gift, I supposed I did, but honestly, what if it was merely a prank? I didn’t exactly have proof of his cheating. Plenty of suspicion, but no proof. His phone call could have been on the up and up. Stranger things had happened, which explained why they’d fenced off Area 51.
On the other hand, why schedule a week-long seminar the week before a major holiday? Obviously Burton Earl Bruckmeister considered me too brainless to understand. Of course Burt had to accept the golf invitation, too. Never mind he hadn’t played in five years and his clubs sat in the garage covered with cobwebs. I didn’t even want to address the issue of what other kinds of putts he might be making. The very thought of him, doing that, with someone else…
As soon as I got the back door open, I ran to the bathroom and threw up the sugary junk the Weston children had forced on me during the parade. I wanted to convince myself it was due to the sugar. Unfortunately, I could eat almost as much candy as them without burping.
What really made me sick? I hadn’t questioned him. I’d taken Burt’s words on faith. In the light of day, and after the ominous delivery, I began to think differently. Once I’d brushed my teeth and held a little water down, I contemplated all the ways I’d been monumentally idiotic while I filled the bathroom with rolls of toilet paper and fresh hand towels. Then I paced, stewing and steaming, waiting for him to haul his philandering ass home so I could have the pleasure of kicking it out the door.
After the party, of course.
The party. With a groan I slammed into the kitchen, hauled pitchers from the cabinets, and started making iced tea and lemonade while trying to envision how to go about kicking him out. I didn’t want to have to spend the evening explaining why Burt and his clothes were out in the flower beds, much less cause damage to my daisies and iris. Some things one just doesn’t do in a small town. However, after the delicious deputy had seen to reviving me from my asthma attack-slash-faint, I’d spent the first half of the night hauling clothes out of the closet, then spent the other half putting them back–why should I have to pack for Burt?–all the while plotting evil ways to tell him I’d drag his two timing–Three? Four-timing?–sleazy butt through court.
It would be hard to pinpoint any one emotion I felt, but all raged in competition with the heat of the day. The week leading up to the party I’d been so happy about his promotion, but when celebrating, my reasons, though no less joyous than his, were completely different. It would mean more traveling for him. Training, staying at the leading edge of technology. Long hours on the road. Weeks off at seminars and conventions. Glorious time for me to be alone and for the first time, truly enjoy a vacation my way. At home. Yeah, I had been all for his promotion. The raise was pretty nice, too, but the real reward for me was the time my husband would be away. Bliss.
After the nighttime delivery, bliss would mean the house completely to myself, decorated my way, without his lies and the rules he imposed. And the lovely alimony checks I’d squeeze out of his miserly grasp. See if he had funds for tomcatting around when I got through with him.
In my angry energetic mode, I attacked the last of the party preparations on my list with a vengeance until I had to stop. Hot and sweaty, I finally headed back to the kitchen and the relative coolness of my house. Relative, because eighty-five inside seemed cool in contrast to the ninety-seven outside under the century old trees enclosing three sides of the back yard. Normally, I’d have left on the air conditioning, but in just a few hours the screen doors would be swinging open and slamming shut. The breakable knickknacks were already locked in our library, as they wouldn’t mix well with the young ones who always waited until the last possible moment before racing into the house to use the restroom. So, in the interest of sanity, no AC for the day.
As was common for me, I found solace in the kitchen. Barefoot and chugging down a glass of iced tea poured from a jug in the fridge, I stood near the big box fan. I loved the way the air flowed up under my dress, small runnels of air zooming up the line of my spine and between my breasts before shooting up to whisk away the sheen of sweat coating my neck. Besides cooling me, it also soothed me in an odd way. It felt silly, wicked and naughty, especially on those days when I wore nothing under my dress, which after last night, wasn’t today. And I wouldn’t wear the dress much longer. Soon I’d change into a swimsuit and tie a sarong around my hips. Add a large hat and dark glasses, and I envisioned myself sauntering around the yard doing my best femme fatale impression. If it earned me a single grope, I’d call it a success.
Three o’clock had just passed and I expected Burt at any minute. For the moment, everything on my list had a check mark. As the neighbors arrived, the brawny men folk would gladly heft that ice chest, light those coals, or carry a load of whatever, wherever it needed to go. Families would arrive with their contributions, folding chairs, kids and toys, make themselves at home, and the festivities would ramp up until it came time to line up the blankets and chairs along the river and watch the fireworks. As smoke drifted away from the final barrage, leaving behind the smell of sulfur and a ringing in our ears, the exodus would begin, leaving behind bare tables, full trash barrels and a trail of damp footprints through the house.
As far as the party went, my furious energy had powered me through every task, mine and Burt’s, and all I needed were the guests. Bags of charcoal waited to fill the Texas-sized