On This Day (24 page)

D
ressed from head to toe in my black jogging suit, I blend with the night. Prowling like a cat through the darkness, I imagine I’m a hungry panther out on the hunt, searching for the kill. I am feisty and wild and ready to catch and kill my prey tonight. Or at least I will make him suffer.

People might think I’m being ridiculous or overly dramatic, but how many times have I heard that before? After my cheating husband left our room an hour or so ago, I went a little crazy. I dumped out his suitcase and tore up some of his things. I threw stuff around the room and made a pretty bad mess. Then suddenly I realized I had better sober up and do something about this mess—I mean, my marriage.

So I brewed a strong pot of that horrible hotel coffee they leave in the room, and I forced myself to drink the whole nasty thing
without a drop of cream (as if they even have it here). Then I put on this velour Versace jogging suit (the one that makes me look thinner), and I, Suzette Burke, went on the warpath.

I feel powerful and strong as I steal through the night. I clutch the Swiss Army knife I found in Jim’s suitcase, the one I got him on our trip to the Alps a few years ago. I remember how he made fun of it then. “Why did you buy that stupid tourist trinket?” he asked. But he must’ve discovered its usefulness since he takes it with him on the road—only in his checked luggage, of course. I have no idea why I wanted it. But having it with me gives me a sense of power and control. Like I’m ready for anything.

I see a couple coming toward me on their way back to the lodge. I suspect it’s the Fairbankses’ other son and his plain little wife and baby. Those smug Fairbankses and all their money; they think they’re so great. Well, they’re no better than me. Even so, I leave the path, retreating to the shadows. I don’t want anyone to actually see me tonight. I plan to do the deed and slip away before anyone knows what happened.

I go around to the backside of the big white tent, crouching low as I go, just in case anyone is watching. I come to a back exit, one the musicians and waiters have been using off and on during the evening. I peek inside to see if I can spot my philandering husband. But all I see are lots of people who are dancing and people who are laughing and talking and still sipping champagne as if they haven’t a care in the world. It’s so unfair. I should be in there.
I should be drinking and dancing with my husband. I should be the one having fun.

Stooping by the door until my knees begin to ache, I watch the dance floor for some time, thinking I will spot the two of them dancing, perhaps off to the sidelines, hiding in the shadows and holding on to each other like high-school kids, dancing cheek to cheek without shame. And then I will jump in there and make my accusations and—well, I’m not quite sure what comes after that, but I’m sure it will be good. Unfortunately, I don’t see them anywhere.

“You looking for something, ma’am?” asks a young waiter who sees me hunkered down by the door.

“I … uh … lost something,” I say quickly. “My diamond earring.”

“Need any help?”

“No,” I snap at him. “I’m fine!”

He leaves, and I do one last search through the crowd, but I don’t see Jim or Nicole anywhere. I must be too late. They probably went to her room, wherever that might be. Or maybe Jim decided to blow out of this mountain madness completely; he’s probably abandoned me here, taking his little bimbo off somewhere nice for the night. And that just totally burns me. He should’ve taken me out of here, taken me to some place where a woman like me is really comfortable. That man is so selfish!

I decide to check the car, to see if it’s still here. Or maybe I’ll get in it and tear out of here. Leave him for good. Just drive far, far
away and forget all about him and his stupid girlfriend. Who needs them, anyway? But I forgot to bring my keys. Rats! Then I realize this is why I brought the knife. I’ll slit the tires, just in case he’s thinking about making a quick getaway himself. That’ll stop him in his tracks.

I’m not exactly sure how I’ll do this, but perhaps I should open the Swiss Army knife—just to be prepared. Kind of like a boy scout. My brother was a boy scout, and his motto was to always be prepared. Maybe I should’ve been paying more attention back then. It takes me several minutes, lurking in the darkness beneath a tree, before I figure how to get the blade out. And when I finally get it open, I also manage to cut the side of my left thumb. I stick my bleeding thumb into my mouth and then continue to sneak along with the knife in my hand, the sharp blade pointing away from me. Ready for action.

Once again I am a wildcat, a panther. I’m on the hunt, and I’m going to get my prey, even if it’s only tires. That car will be going nowhere tonight. I reach the edge of the parking lot and try to remember exactly where our car is parked. I recall driving it earlier today, but it’s blurry after that. I think Elizabeth brought us back to the lake, but where on earth did she park the stupid car?

Finally I spot it—a light-colored convertible with the top down, and as I recall, I left the top down. It’s on the edge of the parking lot, a corner that’s not well lit. But I feel alarmed when I see the dark silhouettes of two people, a man and a woman, standing on the other side of the car. It’s too dark to see clearly, but I’m certain
it must be them. Jim and Nicole—about to make their getaway. I must stop them! Jim is not going to leave before I get a chance to confront him. I keep to the perimeter of the parking lot, slowly working my way around to the other side, hiding behind cars and darting across open spaces like a spy in a movie. I imagine I’m a female 007—call me Jane Bond. And I feel energized, on fire, as if I can do anything tonight—

The next thing I know I’m knocked flat on the ground, facedown, and someone large and heavy is on top of me. He pulls my right arm behind my back and wrenches the Swiss Army knife from my hand.

“Get off of me!” I scream, flailing my arms and legs like the wild thing I am. You can’t do this to Jane Bond!

“It’s a woman!” yells a female voice on my right as she comes rushing over, and when she bends down to see me, I can tell it’s not Nicole.

I’m flipped over on my back, and I look up to see a dark-haired young man in a black tux standing above me—one of the groomsmen, I suspect. Not Jim. What is this nut case doing out here, and why did he accost me like that?

“Suzette?”
says the young woman. She’s standing over me now, looking down on me, and I can tell by her dress and the color of her hair that she’s the maid of honor, the one with a name like Helga or Olga or something Nordic.

“What are you doing?” asks the guy as he reaches down, grabs my hand, and pulls me to my feet.

“None of your blasted business!” I shout, glaring at both of them as I brush the gravel and debris from my Versace jogging suit.

“I’m sorry I jumped you,” says the man. “I thought you were one of the guys and that you were going to do something to Michael’s car. I saw the knife in your hand and got really concerned.” He nods to the car I thought was our Jaguar, and I can see now that I was mistaken. This looks more like a Porsche. And it’s silver, not gold.

“That’s right,” says the Helga/Olga chick. “I asked him to help me guard the car. We thought you were going to—”

“I don’t care
what
the heck you thought!” I yell at them. “You were wrong, and you could’ve seriously hurt me!” My thumb is still throbbing and bleeding, so I stick it back in my mouth and suck on it.

“So why are you prowling around here in the parking lot with a knife?” demands the guy. “Kind of suspicious, don’t you think?”

“It’s none of your business!” I say, not bothering to remove my thumb from my mouth. “And I want my knife back.”

Now the guy looks at the Helga/Olga chick, and she just shakes her head. “Sorry, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Suzette. I’m not sure what you’re up to, but it doesn’t look too good.”

“Fine!” I yell at them. “Keep the bloody knife if it makes you happy!”

I storm off, heading back toward the lodge to lick my wounds. And let me tell you, it doesn’t help to hear peals of laughter coming from the parking lot. Fine, I suppose I am a great big joke to
them. Maybe to everyone. I don’t know what made me think I could carry this off tonight—why I was so certain I could catch Jim and make him listen to me. Good night, I don’t know why I bothered with it in the first place. Jim is a big fat jerk. Why should I care what he does?

Once inside the lodge, I go straight to the bathroom. I brush the remaining bark dust and pine needles from my jogging suit and discover that I have broken two nails. Crud! Then I wash my throbbing, bleeding thumb in the sink. Okay, maybe it doesn’t need stitches, but it sure hurts like heck. I wrap a wad of tissue around it, then glance at my reflection in the mirror and see that I still have pine needles sticking out of my hair. I pull them out, and without considering whether or not the wife of one of Jim’s influential clients is in one of the bathroom stalls, I cut loose and swear like a sailor.

“You’re a mess, Suzette,” I finally say to the sorry-looking image in the mirror. “A big, fat, stupid mess. No wonder Jim left you.”

Then I turn around and stomp out of the bathroom and head for the stairway. I plan to go directly to my room, pack my bags, and call a cab. I don’t care if it costs a thousand dollars to get out of here—I want out of this stinking hole, and I want out now! I don’t know why I ever agreed to come up here in the first place!

As I walk past the lounge, I hear the sound of some good music, and I suddenly remember that nice-looking keyboard player and the way he checked me out earlier this evening. And I also remember how he asked me to stop by later on, after the wedding.

After giving my hair a little pat, I straighten my jacket and lower the zipper a bit. Then I put my shoulders back and toss the wad of tissue from my thumb into a trash can and walk into the lounge like I’m walking into Pellos (one of the hottest new bars in the city).

Thankfully, the lights are low in here, and I hope I don’t look quite as frazzled as I feel. I find a small round table that’s near the musicians, and I sit down, lean back into the chair, and attempt to relax.

Within minutes, I’m sipping my Cosmo and smiling at that good-looking keyboard guy, and he’s smiling back at me like I’m something special. So I think, hey, maybe my life isn’t completely over yet. Suzette Burke doesn’t go down that easily. As for Jim—well, that stupid Nicole can have him. I don’t want him anymore!

W
e need to talk,” says Phil after the cake’s been served and the guests at our table start to thin out as more and more couples fill the dance floor.

“Not now,” I tell him, unwilling to create a spectacle in here.

“Yes, now,” he insists.

I lower my voice. “Look, Phil, for Jenny’s sake, lets be civilized and at least pretend to be happy until the weddings over.”

“Fine.” Then he stands and firmly takes my hand. “Lets dance, Elizabeth.”

Surprised by his determination, I realize there’s nothing to do but go along with him. After all, I’m the one who didn’t want to make a scene. Soon we’re out on the floor, and as much as I hate to admit it, I really do enjoy dancing with Phil. It almost makes me forget about our problems. Almost.

I start to leave the dance floor after one dance, but Phil reaches for my hand again. And then smiling, as if nothing whatsoever were wrong, he pulls me back.

“What’s wrong, Elizabeth?” he asks in a quiet but firm voice as we dance.

I don’t answer.

“Come on, I know something is seriously wrong, and I’ve been racking my brain to figure it out. I realize I blew it by not packing the right socks, but you’re not usually this unreasonable.” He pulls his head back and studies me carefully. “And it’s not PMS, is it? I mean, it’s the wrong time.”

I just glare at him. Then faking a smile, I speak through my teeth. “It’s
not
PMS.”

“Sorry. Just trying to cover my bases here.”

We dance without speaking for a bit, and I actually begin to relax. But then he starts his inquisition again. “Give me a clue. Did I say something stupid to offend you? I know I haven’t forgotten your birthday, and it’s not our anniversary yet. So tell me, what is it? How did I blow it so badly that you’re flipping out on me like this?”

“Not now.”

“Fine,” he says with what sounds like steely resolve. “You’re not leaving this dance floor until you tell me what’s wrong.”

So now it’s a test of wills—well, that and physical stamina—a contest Phil knows he can win. But stubborn to the end, I continue to dance with my husband in stony silence. With a pasted-on
smile, I nod at friends and relatives and do the best possible act of appearing happily married.

Then a song comes on that cuts right through me, slicing through my stubbornness and my thin veneer of “everything’s fine,” and makes me start to lose it. All the music has been really good and easy to dance to, but this particular song—“I Only Have Eyes for You”—completely undoes me. Tears stream down my face, my feet seem to stumble all over the place, and finally I fear I’m going to collapse into a puddle of pain and misery right there on the dance floor.

“I have to get out of here,” I manage to blubber before I make a hasty exit out the back.

It’s pitch black outside, and it takes a moment to get my bearings, catch my breath, and adjust my eyes to the darkness. I feel as if I’ve been stabbed in the heart and all the pain that’s been festering inside me is suddenly pouring out. How can I survive something like this?

I feel a hand on my back. I know it’s Phil, and yet I don’t resist. I don’t attempt to run away, which is my only chance to avoid the conversation that will probably kill me.

“Can we talk
now?”

I sigh. “I guess so.”

“Are you cold out here?”

“A little.”

With his hand still on my back, he guides me back to the lodge without speaking. We go up the stairs, and to my surprise, he takes
me into the little lounge. I halfway expect to see Suzette there, sobbing over her martini, especially after witnessing her unfortunate exit from the wedding dinner. I do feel bad for her, but I feel even worse for myself.

Phil pulls out a chair for me, and I sit down, too weary to resist. He sits across from me, and putting his elbows on the table, he just looks at me. I don’t look up. I’m not ready to accuse him, not ready to hear what I fear he’s going to say.

“What can I get you?” asks the waiter as he places a bowl of nuts and two cocktail napkins in front of us. We both order black coffee, and I use the napkin on the table to wipe my eyes.

“What’s going on, Elizabeth?” asks Phil in a voice that actually sounds concerned. “Why are you so upset? I’m starting to get really worried about you,” he continues. “About us. Tell me what’s wrong.”

I look up at him now. There’s no reason to put this off any longer. The wedding, the dinner, all the festivities are pretty much over. And the idea of the car trip home with him with all this stuff between us … Well, it’s more than I can endure.

“What do you
think
is wrong?” I say, hoping he will spare me the responsibility of making an accusation and simply admit that he’s in love with his jogging partner, Delia Underwood, and that he’s been wanting to tell me the bad news. Why not just get it out in the open?

He frowns. “To be honest, I’m not sure. The thought has occurred to me that you may be involved with someone else. I’ve
been thinking about that millionaire bachelor you’ve been redecorating for—Asher Crandall—thinking maybe he’s swept you off your feet, and you’re considering leaving me for him.”

I blink. Is he kidding? This is too ridiculous even to be funny. “Asher is gay,” I say in a flat voice. “I’m really not his type.” But I’m wondering if this is a smoke screen, although Phil appears to be relieved.

“Oh.” He twists his mouth to one side, the way he does when thinking hard about something. “Then what is it?”

“What do
you
think it is?” I say again.

He scratches his head now. “Well, I’m still trying to sort out what that crazy woman said to me earlier. It was like she was making some kind of accusation, but she never actually came out and said what …” He pauses as the waiter sets two cups of coffee in front of us. I can tell by the way he plunks them down that he’s disappointed we aren’t indulging in something more expensive.

I give him a little shrug, then take a sip of the strong, acidic coffee. I suspect it’s been sitting on the burner all day. “What did it sound like she was saying?”

“Like I’d done something to hurt you. But she was so wacky about it that it didn’t make any sense.”

Finally I’m tired of the game playing. I’m tired of pretending nothing’s wrong. And I’m tired of postponing the inevitable. I set down my cup and look directly at Phil. Then, taking a deep breath, I begin. “Look, Phil, I know how you’ve gotten into this fitness
thing these past several months. And I know how Delia is into it too. I’ve seen you guys jogging together, laughing and smiling and having a good time. And I’ve seen you stop to rest or stretch or whatever it is you do, and the two of you talk and talk like there’s no one on earth as interesting as each other. And Delia’s said a few things to me, you know, about what a great guy you are, and you’ve said as much to me about her, and … Well, I’m not stupid, Phil. I can see the writing on the wall.”

I start talking fast now, barely pausing to catch my breath, trying to get it all out before he has a chance to say anything. “I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Neighbors have mentioned things too. And there’s the way Delia calls you whenever she needs help with anything—the furnace stops in the middle of the night, her cat’s stuck in a tree, her sink’s stopped up. It doesn’t take a genius to figure these things out. And—”

“Stop!” he says, holding up his hands, and I wonder if he’s ready to surrender, to admit his guilt and just get it over with.

“Fine,” I tell him. “But you asked.”

He shakes his head now. “You’ve got it all wrong, Elizabeth.”

I feel my brows rising, my classic skeptical expression. “Really?” I say in a dry tone. “How is it then?”

“Okay, maybe you have it right about Delia. I mean, nothing’s happened—but I’ve gotten a feeling that she may think there’s more to our relationship than just jogging buddies.”

I nod.
“Yes?”

“But that’s where it stops, Elizabeth. I have to admit that I’m
flattered by her attention. I don’t deny she’s an attractive young woman—not as attractive as you, of course.”

“Of course.” My sarcasm is obvious.

“She’s not!” Now he reaches across the table and takes both my hands. “You are the most beautiful woman I know, Elizabeth. And you’re the only one I love, the only one I want to be with—now and forever. Can’t you believe me?”

I feel myself softening. He does seem sincere, but I’m not totally sure about this whole Delia thing. “I would love to believe you,” I admit.

“Then why don’t you? What have I ever done to make you so suspicious?”

I consider this. “Well, you said yourself that you were getting suspicious of poor Asher. What if I started doing something with him every day—like tennis? Asher’s really into tennis. What if I started playing tennis with him on a daily basis, and he started calling me for help on his window coverings late at night? What if the neighbors were talking about us? How would you feel?”

“Well, knowing he’s gay now, I guess I wouldn’t—”

“Phil,” I say in a stern voice, “you know what I mean.”

“Sorry.” He nods solemnly. “I’d be jealous. I’d think you were flirting with an affair.”

“Flirting?” I repeat. “Is that what you’ve been doing?”

“No, of course not. Like I said, I admit to being flattered. I may be middle-aged, but I’m not dead. I still like to be admired.” He smiles. “I like it best when I’m admired by you.”

Now I feel a bit guilty. When was the last time I paid my husband a compliment? Probably not since Delia came into the picture. But still …

“The reason I took up jogging was to get into better shape.” He reaches down to pat his midsection. “I’m sure you noticed that I’d gotten a little paunchy.”

“Oh, I don’t know.

“And you manage to stay in such good shape—”

“I’m not in good shape.”

“Your shape looks good to me. Anyway, I wanted to get into shape so you’d think I still had it when I took you on our—” He stops himself.

“On our what?”

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“What?”

“I booked us a trip to Maui.”

“Maui?” I’m starting to feel pretty sheepish now, like maybe I have made a mountain out of a molehill.

He nods. “For our twenty-fifth anniversary. I wasn’t going to tell you. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Now I feel stupid. But even so, I’m not completely convinced there’s not something—or the possibility of something—between Phil and Delia. “That’s nice,” I tell him in a slightly unenthused tone.

“Nice?”
He looks hurt. “I thought it was more than nice, Elizabeth.”

“Okay, it’s really nice. But I’m still concerned.”

“Concerned?”

“For us.” I look directly into his eyes now “And about your relationship with Delia. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“She’s just a jogging partner.”

“Maybe,” I tell him. “But I still don’t like it.”

“Oh.” Then he glances at his watch. “We should go.”

“Why?” I demand, worried that he wants to end this conversation now that I’ve told him I don’t want him seeing Delia anymore.

“I promised to help Eric with something.”

“What?” Now I’m getting suspicious all over again. Why is he being so mysterious, and why is he so eager to end this conversation now that we’ve gotten this far?

He drops some money on the table. “I’ve got to go,” he insists. “You can stay here or come with me, but I have to get moving now.”

“I’m coming with you,” I say as I get up and follow him out.
You’re not getting away this easily Phillip Anderson!