Die Before I Wake

The now-familiar furrow between his eyebrows—the one I’d never seen until we arrived in Newmarket—put in an appearance. “If it’s a problem with my mother—”

“It’s not about your mother. It’s something else. But it can wait until after we eat.”

“Should I be worried?”

“As in am I about to pack my bags and run back to L.A.?”

“As in precisely that.”

I rested a hand against his abdomen, felt it rise and fall with his breathing. “Stop worrying,” I said. “There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell of me leaving you.”

“Hold that thought,” he said as the girls bounced into the kitchen. “We’ll discuss it in more detail later.”

Supper was over, the table cleared, the dishes washed, the girls read to and tucked into their beds. Tom and I were finally alone. Perched cross-legged on our bed, my hands clasped around my ankles, I watched my husband’s mirrored reflection through the open bathroom door as he peeled off his dress shirt and dropped it into the hamper. His body was lean and sinewy, with nice shoulders, well-defined muscles and a narrow line of dark hair that ran from breastbone to navel. My breath quickened at the sight of all that male pulchritude. He opened the medicine cabinet, took out toothbrush and toothpaste. “What’s in the bakery box?” he said.

“Éclairs. I bought them to soften you up.”

He uncapped the toothpaste and turned on the faucet. “I thought you liked me better hard.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“If you think that’s funny, you should see my summer stand-up act in the Adirondacks.”

“I’m sure it’s a scream and a half.”

I waited until he was done brushing his teeth, watched him as he leaned over the sink and splashed cold water all over his face. New as it was, this kind of familiarity still felt odd. Awkward. A little too intimate. I turned my face away from his reflection and said, “Tom?”

He put away his toothbrush and toothpaste, wiped down the marble counter, and tossed the washcloth into the hamper. Still shirtless, he leaned against the door frame, towel in hand. “What?”

I took a deep breath. Might as well jump right in with both feet. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth about Beth?”

I’d caught him by surprise. I could see it in his eyes. He finished drying his hands and returned the towel to its hook in the bathroom. “What truth?” he said.

“Oh, for the love of God. You know what truth. She killed herself.”

His gaze was cool. “Yes,” he said. “She did.”

“It would have been nice if you’d bothered to tell me. It was a little disconcerting, hearing it from someone else.”

He shoved both hands into the pockets of his pants. “Who told you?”

“Her sister, Melanie.”

“And I bet she told you exactly what she thinks of me. That I’m just as responsible for Beth’s death as if I’d shoved her off that bridge railing myself.”

“That might have come up somewhere in the conversation. She’s clearly not one of your biggest fans. Damn it, Tom, why didn’t you tell me?”

His expression remained emotionless, as if I were a stranger. “The time just never seemed right.”

“She was so smug about the fact that you’d lied to me. As though it corroborated her ridiculous accusations. I felt like a fool.”

“I didn’t lie to you. I just didn’t tell you everything.”

“In the end, what’s the difference? I still ended up looking like a fool. Damn it, Tom, she blindsided me.”

“What the hell do you want me to say, Jules? Maybe I should’ve turned to you that first night and said, Hi, I’m Tom. My wife was so miserable living with me that she killed herself. Say, can I buy you a drink? That would’ve gone over really well.”

“I’m not saying you should have dumped it in my lap during the first five minutes of our acquaintance. But somewhere between dinner that night and our wedding, you might’ve found the time to tell me.”

“I might have. I chose not to. You know, Jules, the world doesn’t revolve around you. Other people have feelings, too. Talk about being blindsided! Instead of confiding in me, my wife—the woman I loved, the mother of my children—decided to jump off a bridge. How the hell do you think that made me feel?”

The guilt was instantaneous. If I thought this was difficult for me, I could only imagine how hard it must be for Tom. He had to live with it every day for the rest of his life, the knowledge that Beth didn’t love him or their children enough to keep trying.

“I’m just a man, Jules,” he said. “I’m not perfect. Sometimes you scare me. Your expectations are so high. I can’t possibly live up to the image you have of me.”

I slid off the edge of the bed and crossed the room to him. The hurt in his eyes tore at my insides. I rested a hand against his chest, felt the strong, steady beat of his heart. “I’m sorry,” I said, embarrassed by the tears I was fighting back. “It must have been awful for you. I’m so very, very sorry.”

“Aw, Jules.” He wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on top of my head. “That’s the real reason I didn’t tell you. It was just too damn hard to talk about it. And the last thing I wanted was your pity.”

“Pity is not something I feel for you. Trust me.”

“I have my pride. Maybe that’s wrong, but I can’t help it. I’m a man. I don’t like to show weakness, and I don’t like to complain. No matter what life throws at me, I deal with it.” His arms tightened around me. “And of course, I know that for the most part, I’ve been lucky.”

It was true. Tom had been blessed with a fine mind, a handsome face, a healthy body and an education that not everybody could afford. Two beautiful daughters, an extended family who loved him, in spite of their differences. A lucrative and satisfying career, a lovely house and a new wife who would walk over hot coals for him.

The only fly I could find in that particular ointment was the first wife who’d killed herself.

But that was then. This was now. A new beginning, a new life. Tossing aside logic and operating strictly from emotion, I stretched up on my toes and wrapped my arms around his neck. Tonight, Tom needed comforting. Regardless of our differences, we were husband and wife. I’d agreed to stand by him, in good times and bad. And the kind of comfort he needed tonight, only I could offer.

He raised his head, looked into my eyes, and smiled.

And I took his hand and led him to the bed.

They say that make-up sex is the best kind.

It must be true, because that night there was a poignancy to our lovemaking that hadn’t been there before. We’d weathered a storm together and, perhaps because it reminded us of the fragility of life and the uncertainty of relationships, it had brought us closer. Left us more attuned to each other.

Our marriage was solid. I had no doubts about marrying Tom; this was a forever thing. We’d had a little spat, but that was an inevitable result of couple-hood. It might be the first, but it wouldn’t be the last. Marriage isn’t a static thing; it’s a fluid entity, one that involves continual adjustments and constant negotiations.

Tonight, we’d foregone all that in the name of something more primal. It wasn’t until later, after the éclairs were gone and Tom was sleeping silently beside me, that I realized we’d never gotten around to discussing Riley’s accusations. We hadn’t gotten around to discussing much of anything. The aforementioned make-up sex had taken precedence over everything verbal. We’d let our bodies do the talking for us.

Which wasn’t a bad thing, but I didn’t want it to become a habit. Although our coupling was delicious, sex can’t solve every problem, and trying to use it as a problem-solving mechanism only leads to bigger problems down the road. Some issues need to be talked out or they fester and grow. Sometimes, guidelines need to be drawn. Not every problem can be resolved with a quick—or not-so-quick—roll between the sheets.