Wendy balled it up and shoved it into her pocket. “Now what?”
“Shh,” Maeve said, gesturing wildly. “Follow me.”
They tiptoed out of the bedroom, then down the hall to Dylan’s room. Maeve flung the door open and the smell of boy—potato chips, sweaty socks, and must—wafted out. Maeve made a gagging face to Wendy then said loudly, “I don’t know if paint will do it. I think maybe we should empty it out and wallpaper it.”
She motioned for Wendy to follow then marched down the stairs. “But if I wallpaper that room, Opal will want hers done. Sam will want to paint but, I don’t know ...” When Maeve turned the corner, Sam walked through the kitchen door, a glass of milk in one handand a half-eaten sandwich in the other. He choked down the bite in his mouth.
“There you are! Didn’t you hear me calling?”
“We were upstairs in Dylan’s room. It needs to be painted or something.”
Sam’s eyes tracked from his wife to Wendy. “All right.” He took another bite of sandwich.
“Wendy has a better eye than I do.”
“Hey, Wen,” Sam said, overly casual. “Why didn’t you ask your mom’s opinion? Seeing how it’s still her house. No offense, but Wendy doesn’t strike me as the interior decorator type.”
He’d been snottier about Wendy lately, and this dig seemed especially harsh. Maeve let it slide, resisting the urge to argue. “What are you doing here?”
He held out his right hand. The middle finger was swollen, and the fingernail looked like it would turn. “I slammed my finger in a filing cabinet. I’m not bowling tonight. I thought maybe we could go out instead. It’s been a while.”
“I have to go,” Wendy said, waving awkwardly. “We can talk more about the ...” She waved her thumb in the direction of the upstairs bedrooms, and Maeve felt heat rising in her neck.
“The paint?” Sam offered.
“Yeah, the paint.”
“Okay, bye. Thanks!” Maeve said, waving stupidly as Wendy walked out the door.
Sam took another bite from his sandwich, chewed a couple of times. “That was awkward,” he said, his mouth still full.
“She didn’t want to help. I basically begged her.”
Sam turned his back, returned to the kitchen while Maeve stood paralyzed. Though Wendy was gone, Maeve could smell her still, on her skin and in her hair. She cupped her hand around her mouth and exhaled, certain Wendy was there too. She wished she could twitch her nose, magic herself out of this situation. What was she doing?When she’d used the word “experimenting,” Wendy had lost it. “Experimenting? You’re not dabbling in pastels. If this is an experiment, well, you’ve safely reached a conclusion. It’s a success, Maeve. Trust me.”
She heard water running in the kitchen sink, the clank of silverware. She closed her eyes, felt the room vibrate. Her lips tingled as her mouth dried up. She stared at the stone fireplace, the couch by the window. She remembered her grandfather dying right there, remembered the day that she and Sam moved in with Dylan, Opal on the way. She had a life. And it was this one. It wasn’t too late. He hadn’t walked in on them, hadn’t seen something he couldn’t unsee. She could talk her way out of this bind. She could quit this thing with Wendy.
She breathed in, took a single step. “Babe?” She could see the suspicion in his eyes. Hurt. It was the last thing she wanted. There had to be a way. She could do this. “I was thinking. I’m ready to try for another baby.”
“Really.” It was not excitement in his voice. It was disbelief. He set his plate on the counter, pulled Maeve to him. Her body, still tingling from Wendy’s touch, felt foreign in his arms. She willed herself not to recoil. She loved her husband. That wasn’t the problem. He kissed her the way only he ever had, his palm cradling the back of her head. She didn’t know who taught him to kiss like that. It was the most unexpected thing about him, the way that palm in that spot had always turned her on. She gripped his waist, tried to will herself into a different way of loving, the one that should feel natural to her. He was the father of her children. He was her husband.You keep telling yourself that.Wendy’s voice.
He pulled away gently. “I know you’re not in love with me anymore. I know something’s going on between you and Wendy.”
Her ears rang, the façade cascading like shattered glass around her. “That’s crazy. What are you talking about? She stopped by to help with the paint colors, that’s all.”
“Don’t insult me. That candle. You never light it, but it burns down anyway. It burns when I’m not here. I figured something was up, then it dawned on me when it was happening.”
Maeve looked at her husband’s injured finger. “Did you do that on purpose? To have an excuse to come home?”
“Not really. No. But maybe subconsciously. I wanted to be wrong. But then her car was here. I was kind of hoping it was some man. That would have made more sense to me, I guess. I didn’t take you for—but then again, this thing with Wendy. Anyway, I sat outside awhile, thinking maybe she’d come out. Then I came in and sat down. I didn’t hear anything. But I could smell that candle.”
That look on his face. Bitterness and pain. She could deny it, make promises and vows. Her mind raced. He could take the kids away. Take her to court. Sue for custody. Would cheating with another woman make it even worse? He would run to her parents, tell them what she’d done, out her. She had no defense. She was what he said she was. She’d done what he feared, and these were the consequences. Maeve held her hand over her mouth, ran to the bathroom, and threw up.
Maeve splashed her face, swished and spat and drank. She looked at her own reflection as if it was a stranger there. She was a wife. She was a mother. A daughter and a sister. She was her father’s ray of sunshine. She was a stranger to all of them. A stranger to herself. She had done everything that was expected of her. She remembered that awful night, the way her mother had looked at her when she’d asked about Wendy. Maeve swore when the ambulance drove off with Conor O’Kane’s body that she’d never put her family in this kind of jeopardy again. She’d drawn him to their house. That’s what got him killed. But they’d survived it, hadn’t they? As long as Maeve toed the line, nothing bad would happen again. She stared herself down. Strands of wet hair clung to her pale cheeks.But you crossed the line, didn’t you? And now what?
Sam sat stiffly on the couch next to the fireplace, his right hand resting in his left. Maeve sat next to him. “Let me look at that.”
He held his hand out to her.
