Please (26 page)

Emily stared hard at Elizabeth. When she spoke, her voice was soft.
“But it’s dishonest. How can you go on with this huge black secret in your heart? And what happens if it gets out?”

Elizabeth had considered the possibility of Steve finding out, and rejected it. Sebastian would never tell him. That would be like admitting he had lost, something Sebastian could never do. And as for Susan and Naomi, well, Elizabeth was just a bit player in their epic dramas, forgotten about once she exited stage right. That left Emily and Nina.

“The only way it could
get out
,” Elizabeth put air quotes around the words, “would be if one of you said something. And I know you would never do that.” She glanced from Emily to Nina before reaching for another pastry.

“
Of course not!” Nina spat, as if even the contemplation of the thought was beneath contempt.

Emily nibbled her lower lip, her eyes fixed on Elizabeth like laser beams. Elizabeth bit into the rich pastry and looked back at her, unconcerned.

“Damn it!” Emily exhaled the expletive sharply, throwing up her hands. “You’re right.” She picked up a pastry, biting into it savagely. “These past few weeks have been hell,” she mumbled, her mouth full. “Trying to avoid you. Inventing reasons why Keenan couldn’t come over. And I think I’m going into board game withdrawal.” She looked at Nina, who was grinning. “These are radical, by the way.”

Elizabeth laughed.
“They are. Totally rad, dude. Gnarly.”

Chapter 14

Elizabeth put the mail down on the bench near the front door and stepped out of her boots, brushing the snow off her shoulders before hanging her puffer coat up on its hook. It was a week before Thanksgiving and they
’d had snow already, unusual for southern Iowa. The precariously leaning snowman the kids had made in the front yard the week before was beginning to lose its form beneath the thick layer of snow that had fallen during the night. It was still coming down, a gentle drift of soft lacy flakes from the gray sky above. Fortunately, it hadn’t been severe enough for the schools to close and Elizabeth could work. With Cullen Zweibeker’s upcoming film added to her resume, Abbie hadn’t had any difficulty finding a publisher for her second novel. In fact, there had been a bidding war, and Elizabeth had come away with an exponentially larger advance for
Hot Damn
than she had for
Habibi Baby
.

She picked up the pile of slightly damp envelopes and glanced through them as she walked through the living room to the kitchen where the recycling bins were. A credit
card bill, a Hy-Vee flier, a postcard from her mother in Florida where she was visiting a friend. Elizabeth looked at the picture of a droopy-eyed bulldog stretched out on a towel on the beach, a fruity umbrella drink beside it. The caption read, “Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?” Elizabeth flipped it over and read, “It all depends on the trick. Laguna Beach, Florida.” Her mother hadn’t bothered to write anything other than, “Don’t forget to pick me up on Tuesday!”

Elizabeth sighed. Connie
McCanna was still living with them, but they’d managed to work out most of the bugs. Installing her in the newly renovated basement granny-flat had helped immensely, as did shipping her off on regular holidays.

Elizabeth stuck the post
card to the fridge with a magnet, glancing at the calendar as she did. She and Steve had needed to cancel their weekly appointment with Frieda, their marriage counselor, but she’d given them a homework assignment to make up for it. She and Steve were supposed to write a letter of gratitude to each other.

Though Elizabeth had groaned inwardly when Frieda, placid and nurturing, her face almost the same shade of gray-brown as her lank hair, had assigned the letter, when she actually sat down to write it, she found herself
surprisingly absorbed. She ended up writing five pages that she’d ruthlessly edited down to two, surprised by how much she did have to be grateful for in Steve. It was amazing how everything was perspective, Elizabeth mused, scanning the ads in the Hy-Vee flier before dumping it in the recycle bin. If she had been asked to do the same assignment a year ago, it would have been an entirely different – and substantially shorter – letter.

They had made some changes since Steve confessed his affair. Frieda was one of them, of course, and as much as they liked to joke about her bad hair and wardrobe of hand-knit sweaters and Birkenstocks and her
pop-psychology catch phrases, they both admitted that she had helped them pinpoint and correct negative patterns of behavior. Elizabeth and Steve were actually learning to communicate in a loving and supportive manner, even when they were stressed. In fact, working with Frieda had improved all of Elizabeth’s relationships, from Keenan’s teacher to her own mother.

Frieda had also helped them find and, where possible, limit unnecessary stresses from their lives. After much deliberation, Steve had decided to give up his job at Dean, working
remotely from his office in the garden shed for a company in Seattle instead. Though he’d taken a significant pay cut, he had more time to spend with the kids, and he and Elizabeth had even started training for a marathon together. Elizabeth looked forward to their early-morning runs almost as much as she anticipated their biweekly dates.

They had reinstated date night, with a twist. Twice a month, they would spend the night at a Super 8 or B&B within an hour
’s drive of home. They took turns coming up with the evening’s entertainment. The week before Steve had made reservations at Iowa City’s most exclusive restaurant, but they’d only stayed for drinks and appetizers after Elizabeth made it clear that she wasn’t wearing any panties under her ladylike LBD and pearls.

Elizabeth sighed happily, and flipped through the rest of the mail. Electric bill. Water bill. Something from her publisher. She tore the brown envelope and pulled out a check. Her first ever royalties check. It was for
one-hundred and twenty seven dollars and fifty cents.

The mail sorted, she was about to make another cup of coffee and head up to her office when the doorbell rang. Elizabeth opened the door to find a snow-dusted young man in a brown UPS uniform.

“Hi?” she said, the intonation rising interrogatively. She hadn’t ordered anything that she could recall.

“
Morning ma’am,” he said, handing her a flat cardboard envelope. “Can you sign here, please?”

“
Sure,” she said, taking the envelope and signing.

“
Thanks, ma’am,” he said, hurrying back to the warmth of his van.

She closed the door and ripped open the envelope. Inside was another envelope, this one thick, glossy and black with her name written on it in nearly illegible silver script. Inside was a card and two tickets. It was her invitation to the premier of
Habibi Baby
. Elizabeth ran her finger along the edge of the slick card, contemplating it. “Ouch,” she said, putting her finger in her mouth. Paper cut.

She decisively stuffed the invitation and the tickets back into the envelope and tossed it into the recycling bin with the Hy-Vee flier.

Elizabeth scooped up the rest of the mail and started up the stairs to her office, but she hadn’t gone more than three steps before she turned around and retraced her steps. Reaching into the recycling bin, she retrieved the black envelope, adding it to the pile of bills in her hand.

In her office, she casually dumped the bills on her desk and stood in front of the bookshelves
beside it. She ran her fingers along the spines and, finding the book she wanted, slipped it off the shelf. Elizabeth opened her well-worn copy of
Madame Bovary
and placed the glossy invitation inside, on top of two notes written on hotel stationery and a computer print-out of a rippled male torso. The ink had faded slightly, but she could still make out the bite mark on the right shoulder.

HAZEL HUGHES
is an erotic romance writer and urban nomad. She writes from wherever there is Wi-Fi, strong coffee and funky beats. You can find out more about Hazel and read more of her work at hazelhughesromance.wordpress.com