It never occurred to me not to trust Lora. Sure, I wasn't self- confident, never did feel good enough for her, and definitely never understood what she saw in me. But I was confident in my lover. True-blue as they come, my Lora was. A lot of women hit on her. Pretty women, women with plenty of cash, women with style to spare. She brushed each one of them off with a firm smile. For some crazy reason, I was her choice.

It didn't happen all at oncethe paranoia, the suspicion. It crept up on me, like a cold, where first you get a tickle in your throat, then your nose stops up, and before you know it, you're miserable. But with a cold, you know you'll get over it. My mistrust was incurable. It stayed with me constantly, draining my energy and making me short-tempered.

By the end, I'd turned into a pure b.i.t.c.h.

I didn't handle it well, right from the beginning. Things might have turned out okay if I'd talked to her. Maybe we could've avoided the catastrophe if I'd confronted her and given her a chance to come clean.

But I hid my fears and let them fester into resentment and eventually tear me apart.

I wasn't trying to snoop through her purse the first time, but that's what I ended up doing. After that, it became an obsession. I looked for anything that might be evidence of her betrayala long lunch hour, an odd phone call, a strange expressionand I found just enough.

It started when we'd been in the new house, the one I live in now, for about two years. I'd turned my sales territory over to Bob Carlisle, and other than the occasional out-of-town meeting or trade show, I spent most nights at home. Lora's practice had grown to the point where she was turning new patients away. We were where I thought we wanted to be.

It was late spring. Lora and I had spent all day that Sat.u.r.day working in the backyard. We'd fashioned a rambling flower bed along the back fence, edged it with clay bricks from an old farmhouse, and planted it full of purple coneflower, hosta, Dutch iris, and at least ten 174 175.

other types of flowering perennials. I'd even agreed to put a concrete statue of a naked Greek lady square in the middle of the bed. Lora had promised to put clothes on it when my parents came over.

We'd gotten up early that day, grabbed bowls of Cheerios for breakfast, and started working by seven. By noon, we must have carted a hundred wheelbarrow loads of supplies from the driveway to the back fence. The day was hot, and a hazy dampness lingered in the air, making our sweat cling to us like sticky cobwebs. Between the dirt and the sweat, we looked like two mud pies with legs.

When we finished up around five, Lora swore we'd dug up enough dirt to sod the Astrodome. I mentioned that the Astrodome didn't have real dirt and gra.s.snot a good point to make at the time. She'd shot me a don't-be-a-smart-a.s.s look.

All in all, it had been a good day. We'd worked well together, as we always did. We'd been planning the landscaping project since Christmas, so getting into it was kind of a relief and gave us a real sense of accomplishment.

When we'd cleaned and put away our tools and staggered into the house, exhausted and filthy, Lora headed straight for the shower.

"Shotgun," she shouted on her way down the hall, already peeling her T-shirt over her head and using it to mop the sweat from under her arms.

I went back outside. Who knew what I might drop on the carpet or furniture? Jitterbug, just a puppy and not weighing more than five pounds, was scampering around the yard like a fuzz ball in the wind.

She was a sight, checking out the freshly turned earth and trying to paw the plants. Tired of scolding her, I picked her up, tucked her under my arm, and went inside.

The shower was still running, so I got a bottle of water from the refrigerator, sat down at the kitchen table, and lifted Jitterbug into my lap. Lora's Claiborne handbag lay half-spilled on the table, and I noticed a lipstick had rolled out and ended up behind the napkin holder. I picked up the tube, set the purse upright, and as I tossed its scattered contents inside, I noticed a credit card receipt.

Thinking it might be important, I straightened out the crumpled sc.r.a.p of paper. It was a Visa receipt, which struck me as odd because Lora didn't have a Visa. I looked closerforty-three dollars from Damron's Pub. Also odd. Damron's was a dark, cozy place where people went when they didn't want to be seen. Why would Lora go there? I put Jitterbug down and she scampered to her water bowl.

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I took a closer look at the receipt. It was for four b.l.o.o.d.y Marys, which was Lora's drink of choice, two gin Collinses, and an order of breadsticks. The cardholder's name had been ripped off, and the remaining partial signature was illegible. The receipt was three days old.

That would've been Wednesday, the night I worked late with Reggie to troubleshoot the bugs in our new rail system. But I'd been home by eight, and Lora had been stretched out on the couch watching CNN. She hadn't mentioned anything about going out after work, and nothing in her demeanor had indicated she'd been drinking. I'd been tired, though, and might have missed it.

Lora sauntered into the den, wearing her pastel blue bathrobe and towel-drying her hair. She groaned and stretched her arms above her head.

"What's this?" I asked and held up the receipt.

"What?" She s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper from my hand but didn't look at it.

"Oh, I forgot. I went out with June the other night. Her husband isn't doing much better, and she needed to get some things off her chest." She tossed the receipt in the trash and twirled toward the refrigerator for a bottle of water.

The excuse didn't make sense. I'd known June, the counseling center's secretary, for over five years and had never seen her drink anything other than white wine. True, her husband was very ill, probably terminal, but she wasn't the kind of woman to go out for drinks while he was suffering in the hospital.

Once I thought about it, Lora had been a little distant all day. She'd wandered off to the garage, only to return a half hour later without whatever tool she'd gone after in the first place. Then she had stopped for a drink of water and ended up sitting on the patio for fifteen minutes, looking at nothing. Something was distracting her, and I hoped it didn't have anything to do with the person who drank gin Collinses, so when I mentioned the gin on the bar tab, it didn't surprise me when she said, "What?" Still off in her own little world.

I stood in the doorway between the kitchen and den trying to act nonchalant, but red flags were popping up in my head. "The bill. I've never known June to drink gin."

"What? Oh yeah, surprised me, too." Lora walked past me into the den and fell on the sofa, still in a muddle. Only when Jitterbug followed along and jumped into her lap did she notice she wasn't alone. She gave the puppy a loving pat on the head.

"How's he doing, anyway?"

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"Who?" Lora picked up the TV remote and punched the power b.u.t.ton.

I hadn't lived with her for almost eighteen years without learning a thing or two. This wasn't one of her I-can't-give-details-about-a-client routines. Lora was avoiding the subject.

"Carter. You know, June's husband. We were talking about him," I shouted. I wasn't going to be drowned out by a re-run of Alice, no matter how high Lora turned the volume. She would acknowledge my presence or else.

Or else, what? She might have asked, if I'd said those words aloud.

But I kept my barbs to myself. I wasn't interested in a confrontation, just her attention.

Lora muted the television and dropped the remote beside her on the sofa as she cuddled Jitterbug to her chest. "It's a sad situation. His chances of survival are almost none. She can't bear the thought of letting him go, but watching him suffer is killing her right along with him.

What's she supposed to do?"

I imagined Lora lying in a hospital bed, death looming in the shadows, and an unspeakable horror coursed through me. "I don't know."

"What would you do?"

Looking up, I caught her eye. "Why? Are you sick?"

"Don't be silly." She paused as if not sure what to say, but after a moment, she went on. "What would you do if you thought you were losing me after all these years?"

I shivered in the heat. "I know what I wouldn't do. If it were you, I'd never give up hope. I'd never quit believing in you."

Her lower lip trembled. Tears spilled over her lashes and down her cheeks. She moved Jitterbug from her lap and reached out to me. "I know you wouldn't give up on me, honey."

I went to her and, dirty as I was, got down on my knees and hugged her. When she wrapped her arms around me, she said the strangest thing.

She said, "I really do love you." As if there was a reason to doubt, as if somewhere along the line, she'd started to re-examine her feelings and had found them lacking. But I refused to believe her love would ever waver, and I dismissed the idea as a result of her concern for June and Carter. After all, her compa.s.sion and empathy were two of her best a.s.sets. They made Lora tick.

I held her close for a few minutes. The fresh-shower scent of her damp skin and hair comforted whatever dread I might have felt about the credit card receipt.

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Don't be silly, I told myself. This is Lora, not some bimbo I picked up off the street. We've spent half our lives together. And we'll spend the other half just the same.

But the seed was planted, and like an oyster turns a grain of sand into a pearl, I would worry my speck of doubt into full-fledged torment.

CHAPTER 34.

My muscles ache, muscles I forgot I had. My thighs tingle as I step into the shower, and some kind of knot has worked its way into the small of my back, but it's a pleasant soreness. Getting out and doing something different has invigorated me.

I work up a good lather with the shampoo, and as I rinse my hair, I watch the foam swirl about my feet. The shower's steamy warmth soothes my body and my thoughts. Strange as it sounds, I've gotten used to being morose. There's a certain comfort in steady grief, in knowing the next day will be the same as the last, but lately things have become confusing. I don't know what tomorrow might bring. Conflicting thoughts boomerang through my head. As one notion prods me to take my relationship with Rebecca to a physical level, another springs from the depths of my psyche and reminds me that someone's bound to get hurt. Real life doesn't play out that easy. It didn't before and it won't now.

One thing for sure, Rebecca Greenway intrigues me. She's got so many of the qualities that attract me to a woman, not the least of which is a warm body, and ever since she took me to her bed last Sunday, I've thought of little else.

So maybe my midlife crisis isn't going to be as liberating as I thought. I might sleep with Rebecca, I might not, but I'll try my best not to mislead her, not to let her believe this situation is more than it is.

Here in the shower, as steam billows over the plaid curtain and the nearly-scalding water pounds my skin, these opposing ideas seem softened, less at odds with one another. It's as if the very steam that relaxes my muscles forces the speculations together and whips them into a huge meringueall fluff and no substance. From here, it looks as though I could blow them away as easily as blowing out birthday candles.

Birthday candles. Good G.o.d. It hits me like a ton of bricks. My fortieth birthday is less than a year away. Visions of egg whites and 179 180.

sugar are replaced with images of wrinkle cream and Depends undergarments. Life sucks.

I want to stay in the shower, suspended in time, never to age, never to face whatever might be in store, but I can't. Rebecca is on her way, and the future is barreling at me with sickening speed. I turn off the tap and stand still for a moment. Then I yank back the shower curtain. On the other side, life waits and will go on whether I'm ready or not.

As I step out of the stall, a sudden pain stabs my groin. I steady myself on the vanity. Looking down, I see a tiny crimson trickle of blood running along my thigh. Wonderful. I'm seriously considering sleeping with Rebecca, and what do I do? I get my period.

The worst part is that my cycle isn't like it used to be when I could take a couple of Tylenol and go about my business. With age, my period has turned into a three-day bloodbath, but in seventy-two hours, it'll be over.

c.r.a.p. So much for s.e.xy underwear tonight. I'll have to wear my grannies, which resemble something my mother might have worn while she was pregnant. Very attractive. Oh well, maybe it's a blessing in disguise.

I finish dressing, and as Jitterbug follows me into the den, the bell rings. Another thing about Rebecca, she's reliable. I open the door and invite her in. One look at her in those snug jeans and that ivory cotton blouse makes the whole situation seem like a cruel joke.

She scratches Jitterbug's head as I close the door. "So what's the plan for the evening?" she asks, with no particular undertone.

I shrug and follow her into the den. "I'm flexible. Got anything in mind?"

"I was thinking maybe we could turn down the lights, kick off our shoes, and chill for a while." She pulls me close, and her eyes flicker, gold and green fireflies.

"Thought you'd be sick of listening to me talk after today." My breath mingles with hers and rushes back into my face. The aroma of mint and wintergreen is at once familiar and strange.

Rebecca looks into my eyes, apparently measuring my interest.

"We can be quiet, if you'd like."

"How are you so nice all the time? I keep waiting for your inner b.i.t.c.h to come out and rip me to shreds."

"Never." Rebecca's lips find mine. It's one of those kisses that makes me forget all the ugliness of the past and sweeps me to where all is well. I could let her kiss me like this for a week and never come up for air.

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But she's still company, and I'm still playing hostess, so I pry myself away and take her jacket. I hang it in the hall closet and return to the den.

Rebecca gets comfortable on the sofa while I make a haphazard pile of kindling and wadded newspapers in the fireplace. In a moment, flames flicker and dance and gradually settle down to a steady crackling fire. I find two cinnamon-scented candles in the pantry and put them on the coffee table. I glance at Rebecca. "Music?"

"Yeah, something soft." She closes her eyes and stretches her arms over her head.

"Coming right up." I open the stereo cabinet and flip through the alphabetized CDs. What am I looking for to set the right atmosphere?

After a moment, I stop at Enya's Paint The Sky With Stars. Perfect. I slide the disc into the changer and turn the volume down. The first track is Orinoco Flow.

I light the candles with a fireplace match and sit down beside Rebecca. "How's this for chilling out?"

She hooks her arm through mine and smiles. "Nice."

We kick off our shoes and prop our feet on the coffee table. The mood is mellow and romantic, but a cramp in my lower back says I won't be doing exactly what I'd hoped, not tonight anyway.

Rebecca drapes her arm around my shoulder. "Did you have fun today?"

"Oh, yeah. I haven't been on a horse in so long, I almost forgot how nice it is to take off through the woods." I lay my arm across her waist and am amazed at how natural it feels to sit here like this, watching the amber firelight cast odd prancing shadows across the room, feeling human contact. It's almost as if the past never happened. Almost.

All is quiet except for Enya's soothing voice and Jitterbug's soft snoring. I absently wonder what the dog dreams about. Is she hip deep in Alpo or scampering through a field of Milk Bonz? Does she really dream or are her whines only reflex?

Rebecca, as if reading my thoughts, says, "Wonder what she's dreaming about."

I chuckle and sit up straighter till I'm eye to eye with her.

Rebecca's cheeks are flushed, her eyes dreamy but intent. She's only been here fifteen minutes, but it feels like we've wanted to touch each other for years, like we've already waited too long and don't want to wait anymore. I need to touch her, connect with her.

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As if entranced by the same desire, she strokes my leg, and lets her hand linger on my thigh. "Are your muscles sore from the ride? Maybe I should give you a ma.s.sage."

With a nervous cough, I'm on my feet and on the way to the kitchen. "How about a gla.s.s of wine?"

"Sounds good."

"White or red?"

"Whatever you're having."

I grab a bottle of cheap white Zinfandel from the refrigerator. My hands are slippery and I almost drop the bottle. Some player I'm turning out to be. Finally, the cork pops out and I pour myself a full gla.s.s, guzzling it down in one gulp. Somewhat buzzed from the quick shot, I make my way back to Rebecca with two filled gla.s.ses. She thanks me, takes a polite sip, and puts her gla.s.s on the coffee table.

"You seem nervous," she says.

"Me? Nervous? No, I'm not nervous." I drum my fingers on the sofa and take another long pull from my gla.s.s. "Why would I be nervous?"

"I don't know." She's infuriatingly nonchalant, taking another sip like she doesn't know what's going on.

I turn sideways to face her, but can't look at her face. "Did you catch the evening news? Someone in Georgia hit that big lottery."