201.

"No, I'm the one who's sorry, buddy. I didn't realize the pressure I've been putting on you. The past is all we have that's really ours, good or bad. I hate seeing you so miserable, that's all. But do what's right for you, and I'll stand by you." She gives me a squeeze.

Her words make perfect sense. Why fight it? My past is mine, and it changed me. I'm not the same person I was and never will be. I have to stick to what's right for me and stop listening to those who keep telling me that my life is supposed to be something else.

Even me.

CHAPTER 37.

Was I insane? Who was I trying to kid anyway, believing I could sit by and let Lora carry on with some other woman behind my back? No one deserved that. I certainly didn't. I'd been beating the streets for fifteen years, working till I nearly dropped, and for what? For Lora, of course.

After all my sacrifices, I'd been reduced to a foolish little person, pretending not to know better, hobbling through my daily routine wearing blinders. But my shroud of self-delusion could only hide so much, and after weeks of denial, I had to accept the truth.

The seemingly unrelated fragments had been coming together.

More credit card receipts from different restaurants around town, the phone number still tucked away in Lora's jewelry box, and the late Monday and Thursday evenings, after which her mood would go from despondent to elated. But she hadn't been taking late appointments as she'd claimed. I'd checked.

I'd found her cell phone bill hidden in her lingerie drawer, the jewelry box number appearing more often toward the end of the monthly statement. Each time I looked at those seven digits, a sliver of trust chipped away.

My latest discovery had brought me to the boiling point. I sat at my desk, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, heart racing. My mascara had long been ruined by tears. I glanced from Lora's picture to the clock on the wall. Ten a.m. She'd be in sessions till after two. Very little time, when you consider the turn my life was about to take.

I picked up the tri-fold brochure I'd found in Lora's briefcase and scanned it again, hoping to find some redeeming evidence.

The Elms. A romantic resort tucked away in the breathtaking North Carolina Mountains. No question, the place was a paradise. The rustic A-frame built of pine logs and surrounded by evergreens invited couples to lounge by the heated indoor pool, dine in the five-star restaurant, or hibernate in well-appointed rooms.

202.

203.

The brochure was filled with photographs of handsome men and their gorgeous women friends, all wearing toothpaste-commercial smiles. Before my eyes, the models turned into Lora and her faceless lover, arm in arm on a hiking trail, swatting tennis b.a.l.l.s on a pristine clay court, or sharing intimate conversation over flutes of champagne. I gagged.

The toll-free reservation number was circled in black ink, and two dates were scrawled across a photograph of the inn's honeymoon suite.

Under the dates was a reservation confirmation number. In less than three weeks, she would be sharing a weekend getaway with her mystery woman.

I choked down the bile rising in my throat. Let them go on their little tryst. Let them make love in the canopy bed and whisper senseless rubbish to each other. Let them go to h.e.l.l, but d.a.m.ned if she'd come home to find me waiting in blissful ignorance. d.a.m.ned if I'd be her fool for one more day.

I left the office early that day, the last day of my life. Pulling out of my parking s.p.a.ce, I opted for the long way home. No sense rushing, Lora wouldn't be there for hours. It was Thursday, the day for her little bi-weekly rendezvous with the almighty, swimming-in-cash Z.

Storm clouds lingered near the peaks of the western mountainsan apocalyptic omen. I stopped at the red light at the corner of State and Commerce. The radio was tuned to a country music station, and a woman's sultry voice moaned a heart-wrenching song about divorce. I felt like a drug addict coming off a week-long high, all trembly and confused, needing a fix. But there was no fix for my addiction. I had no choice but to crash and burn.

The light turned green. I punched the gas and the Lexus's tires squealed as I switched off the radio.

What was I going to say? That it was over? That I'd been playing the fool for weeks and wouldn't do it any longer? That she'd betrayed everything we'd worked for? That all the time we'd spent together was a joke? A string of cliches that I thought would never apply to me raced through my mind. In a wink, they all applied, and I felt like a Melissa Etheridge song about to be written. But the last verse was a mystery, the final crescendo about to be played out before a thunderous halt to the music. And then what? Dead silence?

204.

What if she refused to leave? How could I handle it if she begged my forgiveness and promised to break off her affair? Could I accept her explanation if she said it meant nothing and was only the result of the stress she'd been under? Or what if she said she'd wanted to find out what it was like to be with someone else? Did I love her enough to forgive?

Yes, I did.

But I didn't expect it to play out that way. She'd probably apologize, say it wasn't my fault, and pack an overnight bag. In a few weeks, we'd be going through the house, dividing the loot. We'd pick through sentimental junk, decide who paid for what, and back a U-Haul up to the front door. Lora would take the dining room furniture. I'd get the computer. Other things, possessions with too many memories, or things we'd forgotten we had, would be sold off. In short, our relationship of eighteen years would be reduced to an expensive yard sale.

When I arrived home, I went to the bedroom and changed clothes.

As I b.u.t.toned my Levis, I glanced toward the clover at our bedside. I s.n.a.t.c.hed up the frame and glared at it. It still looked new, fresh, and alive after all the years. Tears welled in my eyesd.a.m.ned if she'd get the clover. It was mine. After Lora was gone, it would remind me to never believe anyone again when they said they loved me.

When love carried conditions, it wasn't real anyway. Just like my parents. They loved me as long as they didn't think about my s.e.x life.

My brother loved me as long as he didn't have to put too much effort into it, make too many long-distance phone calls, or send too many Christmas cards.

What had Lora's requirements been? Had she loved me as long as no one interesting was around, as long as no one had as much cash as I did? Or maybe she'd loved me till her love ran out. Maybe our final years together had been nothing but the result of her leftover compa.s.sion for me. Perhaps she'd done the best she could, staying all that time, supporting my crazy notions, watching me chase pipe dreams.

I plopped down on the bed and stared at the clover. It knew the truth, but wasn't telling.

The clock caught my eye. 4:30. In another half hour, Lora and her new lover would be together while I sat home, waiting.

Not this time. I grabbed the phone and dialed. Lord knew I'd seen the number enough to have it memorized. One ringmy jaws clenched.

Two ringsmy left hand curled into a fist. Three rings.

205.

"h.e.l.lo?" She sounded older, maybe mid-fifties. Her voice was strong and deep, a mix of power and detachment. I froze.

"h.e.l.lo? Is anyone there?"

I cleared my throat. "Is Lora Tyler there, please?"

A pause. "Why, no. She isn't. Who's calling, please?" Our polite formality was ridiculous. She was sleeping with my wife, for G.o.d's sake, and here I was, giving her the please-and-thank-you routine when what I wanted to do was reach through the line and grab that sleazy wh.o.r.e by the throat.

"Who's calling, please?" she repeated, sounding a little trapped but maintaining her composure.

"This is Claire Blevins. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

Another pause, longer than before. "Yes."

"Then you know why I'm calling. Please ask Lora to come home as soon as possible. We have a few things to discuss before this charade goes any farther. There'll be all the time in the world for you later."

The woman's voice went softer, almost apologetic. "She doesn't want to hurt you. She thinks it's for your own good. I tried to convince her to tell you weeks ago."

Fire rose in my gut. How dare this woman speak to me this way?

How dare she pity me? I swallowed hard and in a level tone said, "I'll be the judge of what's for my own good, thank you. Please give her the message."

As I hung up, I heard her say, "Of course."

That ought to give her something to gnaw on, I thought. For once, I was in control. I'd made my move, and now it was Lora's turn to counter. I dropped the framed clover onto the bed and jumped up. I had to work off some energy if I expected to keep cool for the final showdown.

I was still pacing when the phone rang. What timing. It had been less than ten minutes since I'd landed my first punch by calling Lora's lover. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Claire, what the h.e.l.l is going on?" Lora's tone bordered on hysterical, just the way I wanted it.

"Funny, I was about to ask you the same question."

Silence.

"Well?"

"Not over the phone. I'll be home in fifteen minutes."

Lora was crying and for some odd reason, I longed to comfort her, to wrap my arms around her and tell her everything would be okay. That we'd both made mistakes and we'd work it out, just the two of us, like 206 we always had. But I'd suffered for weeks, wondering what she was up to, finding one clue after another. The pain had fed on itself, growing into a monster bent on retribution, and my momentary spark of compa.s.sion drowned in a welling desire for vengeance. I hung up without saying goodbye.

I marched straight to her jewelry box. What an absurd place to hide her lover's phone number. It was like she'd wanted me to catch her.

Hmm. Wonder what her psychology manuals would say about that. I s.n.a.t.c.hed the sc.r.a.p of paper from its hiding place and wadded it up in my fist. The second punch. The knockout should be easy after that.

Twelve minutes later, I heard Lora come in through the kitchen door. She stopped in the den, looking ragged and pale, and shrugged out of her jacket. When she met my gaze, the sympathy in her eyes curdled my blood. Who the h.e.l.l did she think she was? Did she think I couldn't handle it? Well, I could and I was about to show her how well.

I charged, hurling the wadded sc.r.a.p of paper at her. It bounced off her chest, her hands flailing after it as it dropped to the floor. Lora seemed to be in a daze. She watched Jitterbug scamper toward the note and sniff it.

"Did you really think you could keep this from me?" I screamed, pointing toward the paper on the floor.

She stooped and picked it up, straightened it out, and glanced at the writing before wadding it up again and stuffing it into her skirt pocket.

"How was I so careless?" she muttered.

"I don't know. How were you so careless?"

She stumbled to the sofa and sat down. Lora's eyes scanned the room as her thoughts found words. "You shouldn't find out this way.

It's not right. It's not time."

"I think it's high time, past time really." I stood firm, arms crossed, but inside my true voice cried out, come on baby, tell me I'm wrong. Lie to me and I'll believe you. Please, honey, say it's not true.

She shook her head.

"How long has this been going on?"

She faced me, but didn't meet my eyes. "I've been seeing her for about six weeks."

CHAPTER 38.

I rock back in my chair and look at the clockit's nearly noon.

I've been dodging Choppy's for three days, citing meetings and a full calendar when Rebecca asks why. Truth is, I'm afraid to see her. Despite the crippling guilt stabbing at me from all sides, Sat.u.r.day night's affair is etched into my mind, a hypnotic watercolor of swirling shades.

Rebecca's touch haunts my dreams, her eyes fill my waking hours, and her whispers echo within my ears. I've got to stop this.

My one redeeming grace is that part of me is still chaste, thanks to my pesky period, but now my hormones have leveled and I'm free. The only thing standing between Rebecca and my body is my ever- weakening resolve, and if I see her, that could melt as easily as springtime snow.

But it's time to stand up and do the right thing. I'm tough. I can sit down with her, explain that I just can't get involved, that she's a wonderful person and deserves someone who can give her more. Maybe we can even still be friends.

Mary, the office manager, breezes in and drops a folder on my desk. She stops dead, her Elizabeth Taylor eyes boring into mine.

"What's wrong with you?" So much for the Liz Taylor imageby the sound of her voice, Mary had razor blades for breakfast.

"Wrong? Nothing's wrong."

"Horse manure." She plants her hands on her hips, a defiant posture I've come to detest over the years.

"Is this the proposal for Triad Bank?" I s.n.a.t.c.h the manila folder from the corner of my desk.

"Don't ignore me." Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s jiggle in time with her tapping foot.

"You've always been so focused, Claire. I know you've had a rough patch, but lately you've been downright strange. One day you're happy as a lark, and the next you look like you've lost your best friend."

"Maybe I'm manic-depressive, or whatever they call it these days.

Bipolar?" I open the folder and pretend to read.

207.

208.

"Hogwash. If there's anything wrong with you that a good kick in the hindquarters wouldn't cure, I'll eat my hat."

"You're not wearing a hat."

"Don't tempt me. I am wearing size nine heels, and I'm not afraid to use them." She raises a clenched fist and waves it near my face. If she makes good on her threat, the diamond on her ring finger might leave a mark.

"No one ever accused you of minding your own business, did they?"

"Not when I see someone acting as odd as you. I've kept my big trap shut for a long time, but I know what's going on with you." Mary tucks her skirt beneath her as she perches on the edge of the visitor's chair. She reminds me of myself as a kid. I'd ask Mom for a quarter, and she'd say I couldn't have one, but I'd stand there till she got tired of looking at me and gave in.