The Sheriff's Daughter

“That’s an arrangement, not a relationship.”

“You’re just tired. Overwrought. I’m sorry you found out about Chloe, but this doesn’t change anything, Sara. Things are just as they were last week and the week before. You weren’t unhappy then.”

Wasn’t she? She hadn’t asked.

“You certainly weren’t thinking we needed to divorce.”

He was right. She’d never even considered the possibility. Despite the fact that she’d wanted children more than anything and he’d led her to believe he did, too, until it was too late for her to do much about it. Regardless of how unsexy he made her feel with his dissatisfaction.

Until two days ago, she’d been existing.

Her entire world had changed in the past forty-eight hours. She didn’t know how that could happen; how an inner self that had been complacent and exactly the same for more than twenty years could suddenly wear a completely different face. She just knew she wasn’t the same person she’d been when she’d run to answer the door two days before.

Funny how it seemed to be the unexpected instants in life that irrevocably changed things. Not the planned-for and worked-toward events.

“Are you going to stop seeing her?”

His hands dropped. So did his head. But when he looked up, she saw resolution in his eyes. “I will, if that’s what it takes to keep this together.”

What was “this,” exactly?

“For how long?”

Brent didn’t answer immediately. But she knew him well enough to know that he was attempting to be honest. “I can’t make any promises, Sara,” he finally said. “I’d like to tell you forever, but I just don’t know that. I guess it depends on how much you’re willing to do.”

“Me?”

“We could see a therapist. Work through your sexual issues and maybe…”

Sara stood, took her cup to the sink. “I’ve been through enough counseling sessions to write a book on the topic. Probably two,” she said. “I am what I am, Brent. A woman who doesn’t think sex is the be-all and end-all of life. I enjoy it when the timing is right. I can’t make the feelings come at random.”

He looked over at her. “I’m not asking you to.”

“What are you asking?” Arms folded, she leaned back against the counter.

“I don’t know.” He swore. “That you lighten up a bit, I guess. Be willing to experiment a little.”

Breathing wasn’t easy. The tightness in Sara’s chest had grown into a physical pain. She felt inadequate—in so many ways.

“Wild and crazy is not fun for me, Brent. It’s frightening.”

He stood, too, pushing his chair back to the table. He rinsed his cup. Put it in the dishwasher, and then took her shoulders between his hands.

“We’ll work this out, Sara,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “I’ll end things with Chloe and we’ll go from there. Okay?”

She almost nodded. Wanted to nod. Her instincts told her to nod.

She asked a question instead.

“Do you love me, Brent?”

“Of course I do.” His gaze dropped to her lips.

“Are you in love with me?”

Letting go of her, he ran a hand through his inch-long hair—still the California blond it had always been. “I don’t even know what that means,” he said, obviously frustrated with her. “It’s a pretty phrase some woman made up, I’d guess. I’m a good provider, Sara. Our bills are paid on time. We live in a nice house in a fine neighborhood. We can afford to vacation where and when we want and eat out every night of the week if we choose to. I clean up after myself and am always here when I say I will be. I don’t know what else you want from me.”

She wanted him to think she was enough just as she was. She wanted him to be trustworthy. To be loyal to her. She wanted him to be sufficiently in love with her that he couldn’t look at another woman.

She wanted from him the things she gave to him.

He grabbed her hand again and as she studied their interlocked fingers, her skin started to burn. Those fingers had touched her intimately. Been inside her.

And inside other women, too.

“I want a divorce.”

WHILE BRENT PLAYED GOLF, Sara packed every suitcase they had, as well as a few moving boxes they’d kept in the garage, loaded as much as she could into the back of their dark blue Ford Expedition and rented a furnished apartment near OSU, just off High Street. She’d go back to New Albany on Sunday to get the rest of the stuff she’d packed. And see about finding a more permanent residence—probably in a little better area. She’d been complacent for most of her adult life, but suddenly she couldn’t move fast enough. Couldn’t even recognize herself.

It was almost as though, if she slowed down, she’d fall.

In her new place she hung her clothes and unpacked bathroom essentials. Leaving everything else, she went to the nearest mall to walk around, be among people, find enough diversion to keep her from sinking into hell beneath the weight of her thoughts.

She thought about calling her father.

Or going to work.

Instead, she bought a beautiful teapot. It was fine bone china. Ivory with gold trim and exquisite little roses hand-painted across its belly.

The teapot reminded her of happy women. Of birds and beauty and things that were more powerful than money or marriages or even death. It brought tears to her eyes.

As soon as she had her purchase in hand, she left.

BACK IN HER TEMPORARY HOME, Sara tried the teapot in several locations, on the ledge inside the front door, the only door, in the middle of the dented, half-sized stove; on the back of the toilet; and ended with it on her nightstand, so she’d see it first thing when she woke up in the morning.

And then, at 8:42 p.m., according to the cell phone that was doubling as an alarm clock, she crawled into bed, pulled the cheap bedsheets up over her shoulders and cried until her ribs hurt so much she couldn’t move.

A SCREAM FROM UPSTAIRS woke him. Mark listened, trying to determine if he needed to get up and help. Call an ambulance.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what your mama said, this is my house and I’ll damn well leave my shit on the floor and anything else I want to…”

Mark pulled a down pillow over his head. The newlyweds who’d moved into the apartment above him were at it again.

“Uncle Mark?”

Hell. He’d forgotten he had Jordon with him for the weekend.

“Yeah?” Sitting up, Mark flipped the switch he’d installed in the wall beside his cherry-wood headboard, to see his thirteen-year-old nephew, wearing basketball shorts and nothing else, standing in his bedroom doorway.