I slide my cold fingers onto his warm palms.
“Do you want me?” His eyes find mine.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
“No more secrets. No more deciding what I can or can’t handle.”
“Yes. I promise.” The ease of the words masks the complexity of willingly opening myself up to what he might not want to see. “I love you.”
He drops one of my hands and reaches toward my face. His fingers brush my temple as he wipes a lock of hair that has fallen in front of my eye. “You’re so beautiful, so smart. I just don’t see why—”
I drop to my knees and grip his face, placing my fingertips against the lines extending from his troubled eyes. “You have to believe me. We won’t survive without your trust in my love. Twenty years... they will always separate us. I will never catch up. But I love the man you are and who you will become.” I take a small breath. “Don’t let theyears divide us. We made vows knowing we’d never bridge the gap, so we promised to always celebrate it. You have to stop questioning.”
Clint sucks in his lips as he leans his face into my hands. “Why do you never age?”
I press up and snuggle into his lap. “You complain because you have a younger wife who adores you?”
His arms wrap me as I feel the rumble of laughter in his chest. “A beautiful wife who loves the old man.”
I kiss his neck. “I do love you. We will both continue to get older together.” I whisper up into his ear, “Enjoy me.”
His eyes widen as he pulls back to look into mine.
I wiggle my eyebrows. “Want to—”
“Oh yes.” He scoops me under my legs, bolts from the chair, and tosses me on the bed.
39
FRIDAY
A ringing jars me from sleep. Blinking open my eyes, I see only gray light filling our bedroom. I pat my bedside table for my phone. I come fully awake as I say hello, but I hadn’t even made the decision to answer.
My throat tightens as I realize it’s Friday. It’s probably Betsey. Time to confront it.
“Mrs. Meredith Hansel?”
“Yes?” I can’t place the clipped male voice.
“This is Curt Stevens from WFBC News. Can you tell us about the graffiti on your garage? Do you fear for your daughter?”
I panic, not sure how to respond. He’s asking me about my garage and my daughter. Who is this guy? “No comment.” I poke at my phone three times to finally end the call.
My phone immediately rings. As I’m about to decline the call, our neighbor’s name appears.
“Oh, my dear, they’re swarming your house.” The older woman’s voice is almost breathless.
“What’s that, Mrs. Varnella?” I silently slip from the bed and grab my robe from the hook in the bathroom.
“The reporters are everywhere.” She makes shushing noises. “Napoleon’s scared. Poor boy.” She continues addressing the dog.
I walk to the front window and peer out. There, on our well-manicured lawn, stands a small army of news vans. A few reporters spill from the vehicles with cameras poised and microphones in hand. Why are they coming for us? Why is a house with a large blue tarp a target? Slow news day in Scarsdale. Ridiculous.
“I see them, Mrs. Varnella. Thanks for calling.”
“I hope you can get rid of them. We don’t have this kind of thing here.” Her tone implies we have brought this with us. We’ve been in the house for over five years, but according to many of our neighbors who live in legacy family homes, we’re brand new.
I know I should ask her if she’s feeling all right or if there is anything she needs. The poor woman lives alone. Her only daughter rarely visits. “Thanks again. We’ll talk soon.” I hang up and put my phone on silent, pushing aside my abrupt dismissal of a woman who holds grudges.
