Accidents of Marriage (3 page)

When she’d smiled, he’d almost cried. “What the hell,” she’d said. “Better to drive your midlife crisis than bed it.”

His father’s old-world scowl appeared when he saw the Camaro. Known to all as the Judge—despite being retired, the appellation had become both familial and professional—he needed few words to show displeasure, but the Judge’s disapproval made Ben’s ride all the sweeter.

•  •  •

Ben sprinted up the last flight of stairs in the Public Defender’s building, opened the door marked
Level 5
, and headed toward his office, not the least bit winded. He’d bested his brother, Andrew, at their last three games of handball and intended to do the same come Friday. His office door was ajar. Elizabeth sat at his desk, hunched over a yellow legal pad, surrounded by files.

“You said you were coming in early.” She took off her tortoiseshell reading glasses and smiled.

“Barely seven fifteen qualifies as early, I’d think,” he said.

Elizabeth twisted her grin into mock disapproval, perhaps not completely put on—she was so young and sanctified by idealism. “But you said you’d be here before seven.” She pulled a thick orange file from under a pile of standard beige folders. Color-coding hot cases was but one of the many innovations she’d managed to foist on everyone. “I got here at six.”

“And that’s why you’re the gem of this ocean in which we drown each day.”

“I’ve pulled together everything I thought we’d need.”

He had to watch this one. Ben already found himself drawn to Elizabeth’s cool blondeness, and she seemed besotted by his power as senior trial counsel for the Boston Public Defender Division. Admiration could be as addictive as cocaine.

“Unavoidable delay,” he said. “Problem at home.”

“Serious?” Judging from her concerned expression, she expected
an enormous story. Fire! Broken limbs! Ben wanted to construct the tale well—keep that sympathetic look going.

“Caleb cut open his foot yesterday. It looked like hell this morning.”

Elizabeth appeared confused, unimpressed even.

“He needed to go to the doctor, and Gracie had to go to camp.”

Their morning drama sounded weak. Exactly what had riled them so?

“But we wrapped it up—all’s well in family world again.” Ben waved his hand at Elizabeth as she started to rise—ready to return his rightful seat—gesturing for her to stay put. He settled in the worn leather guest chair he’d pulled from promotion to promotion since starting in the Public Defender’s office. Before that he’d tried to work with his father, but Benedikte Illica Sr. ran his law firm as though it were the Ottoman Empire. Room for only one ruler there.

Ben leaned back. The chair gave a satisfying creak, like pulling on his knuckles and getting the snap. “Review what you have for me one more time, okay, Lissie?”

Elizabeth mock-glared. She’d told him
Lissie
was infantilizing. He grinned.

“Summary first?” she asked, shuffling through her files.

Ben pushed back a hank of hair and scribbled
haircut
into a memory Post-it, along with a reminder to call the trophy store. He wanted to give Elizabeth an engraved plaque with a quote from Oliver Wendell Holmes for her twenty-third birthday:
Young man, the secret of my success is that at an early age I discovered I was not God.

Maddy would say he needed that plaque far more than Elizabeth. Of course, Maddy would be more interested in knowing why he was planning presents for Elizabeth’s birthday.
That’s why you had to rush into the office?

He’d given birthday presents to male interns, hadn’t he?

Right.

“Sure you don’t want your seat back?” Elizabeth balanced her legs on the open bottom drawer she’d pulled out to use as a footrest.

Ben held his hand up in a gesture of generosity and then pointed to the papers in her lap. “Shoot.”

“Okay. Nutshell. What we have, and what they’ll say: Prosecution says B-bird, a.k.a. Barry Robinson, allegedly murdered Joseph Kelley last January. B-bird admits he was mad that the victim tried to pick up his girlfriend, but swears he didn’t kill him . . .”

Ben laced his fingers behind his head, leaning back to make his stomach appear flatter. As Elizabeth read facts that he’d already memorized, he concentrated on the pleasure of judging her and her performance.

Finished, she folded her hands. “Did I cover it?”

“B-bird’s girlfriend. What’s up with her?”

“She wasn’t at the scene.” Elizabeth swung her legs off the desk drawer.

“The girlfriend was the reason for the fight, right? Will she be on his side? Will we see her in court?”

Elizabeth’s stricken face made Ben feel almost guilty. Almost. She had to learn. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I spoke to her. She’ll be sitting right next to B-bird’s mama.”

“Sorry. I thought I had it covered.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself. It’s called learning.”

Elizabeth wrung her hands, now more Oliver Twist waiting for gruel than Oliver Wendell Holmes. She gave a determined smile as she gathered her papers and then stood. “Next time, I’ll ace it.” Her hips strained her skirt as she stretched to place a folder in the wire basket on his desk.

Ben fought to keep from staring at her perfect backside. He’d better watch himself if he wanted to remain in the thirty percent bracket. Maddy reminded him on a regular basis, half joking, half not, that seventy percent of married men cheated. After fifteen years of marriage, they assured each other of their faithfulness in shorthand. She’d look at him and put seven fingers in the air. Ben answered by putting up three, letting her know—Scout’s honor—that he still belonged to the other thirty.

Sure, he could be a supreme schmuck, but he’d never cheat—that was his inviolate line in the sand. Maybe he played the line—flirting,
using a woman’s admiration as an ego salve, especially during the dog days of marriage—but crossing that border? Never.

•  •  •

Ben felt as crumpled as his shirt when he put his key in the door at seven thirty. Traffic had sucked, as usual. Whoever said Boston became quiet in the summer didn’t drive his roads. He threw his suit jacket on the chair, along with the tie he’d pulled off in the car. If he could climb straight upstairs, shower, and fall into bed, he’d be happy. The hall had to be a hundred degrees. Air-conditioning was impossible in this old house with its barely code wiring. Maddy nagged him about upgrading the electrical system, but exactly which kid’s college fund did she plan to sacrifice?

Television chatter drifted into the hall. Jesus, was that all they did?

“You missed dinner,” Maddy said as he walked into the living room. She kept her eyes on the screen.
The Simpsons?
Why did she let them watch that crap?

“Daddy, look!” Caleb held up his foot, showing off a thick bandage.

“What happened, champ?” Ben dropped on the floor next to his son.

“They had to sew me.”

“You’re going to be a pincushion pretty soon if you keep this up.” He turned to Maddy. “Everything okay?”

She frowned and scratched a mosquito bite on her bare thigh, still dark from last weekend’s trip to Singing Beach. Her skin, like his, ate up the sun. She’d looked good as ever at the beach—even with her curves covered in the stern-looking tank suit. Her sun-tinted skin, dense curls wild with salt air, deep brown eyes rimmed in some natural black line she must have been born with—it had kept him aroused all day. That itchy feeling he carried around for her drove him to suggest the kids sleep at their grandparents’ that night.

That night, groaning in bed, Maddy hadn’t been all prune-faced like she now appeared.

“The doctor threw in two stitches,” Maddy finally answered.

Right.
Just the facts, ma’am.
What sin had Ben committed while not even present?

“When do they come out?” he asked.

Ah, another deep sigh from his lady of perpetual disappointment. “They’re dissolvable. He should be fine; he just has to keep it very clean. Which is like asking a dog to read. That’s why they put that thick bandage on. It’s not infected, but they want to prevent any trouble. I should have taken him last night. Stupid. I was so stupid. We just barely hit the time period before he couldn’t get stitched.”

He felt like a jerk—her sighing was over displeasure with herself, not him. “Hey, we can’t get it right one hundred percent of the time.”

She smiled in gratitude, stood up, and gave him a tight hug. In response he ran his hands along her back.

“I won, Daddy,” Gracie said. “In color war.”

He smiled at his beaming daughter. “You won? Terrific, honey!”

“She didn’t win.” Caleb turned to Gracie. “Your team won, stupid fatso. Not you.”

“Caleb, stop it,” Maddy warned. “Don’t ever use those words in this house.”

“Do you want to be sent to your room this minute?” Ben said.

Maddy flashed him a warning look and shook her head.
What?
He’d backed her up.

Tears dribbled down Gracie’s cheeks. Caleb stuck out his chin.

Maddy shook her head again. Was his wife motorized, for Christ’s sake? What did she want? Handy how he could fuck up on automatic. He could do marriage on remote.

CHAPTER 3

Maddy

Why’d Ben have to ruin the hug? Just once could she be the angry parent without him upping the ante? Did he always have to follow up with his own tirade?

A rotten end to a horrible day.

At ten o’clock, she shuffled down the upstairs hall, balancing books, papers, magazines, and the shirt Ben had left draped on the couch. Using her hip, she pushed the bedroom door open and then dropped everything on the wooden chest. Ben lay in bed, one hand behind his head, the other balancing his laptop.

“Work?” she asked. “You look exhausted. I’m ready to fall over. Why don’t we both close up shop for the night?”

He closed the computer and sat up, yawning. “Good idea.”

Folding towels, she watched Ben pull his white T-shirt over his head. His bare chest. His thick arms and back. The olive tones of his skin. His dark hair, her dark hair. His squat wrestler’s build—neither of them tall. They looked like poster children for immigrants who’d done well. Geographic cousins—his father’s parents came from Romania, her father’s from Hungary. Perhaps some core-of-the-earth want drove her craving to inhale his scent and nestle against his back.

He balled up the shirt and threw it toward the chair. Next, he stripped to his boxers and fell back on the bed.

Using a teasing voice, so he’d recognize she wanted détente, she asked, “Do you think you’ll throw your dirty clothes in the hamper just once before I die?” She joined him on the bed, resting her head on his shoulder. “Perhaps a snowball’s chance in hell?”

“Probably not even that much.” Ben smiled and rolled on top of her, proof of his improved mood jutting into her stomach.

His weight, his hardness, his wanting brought on a shiver of excitement. “I have to change the wash.”

“Mmm.” He buried his face in her neck. “I’ll do it for you in the morning.”

“Right.” She thought about how unlikely that was as she pushed him off and rolled off the bed, picking up the mound of books by her side, gathering them into a pile, and placing them on the built-in bookcase across from the bed.

Ben stared as she stripped off her shirt and shorts and threw them in the laundry basket—looking at her as though she were a hamburger that would satisfy a sudden hunger. In that moment he morphed from hungry lover to task. Now making love sounded about as tempting as making the bed.

But.

But.

Sometimes marriage needed to run on the
but
.

She collapsed next to Ben in her bra and underpants. “Let me take a quick shower.”

“Don’t bother. You’re fine.” Ben threw his book on the floor and pulled off his boxers. He drew a line down her stomach and then edged his body between her legs, nibbling her shoulder. Next, he would work his mouth over her body. Marital beds held few mysteries.

She wriggled a bit, aligning herself so he could slip inside.

He pulled a bit away. “What’s the rush?”

She rubbed the deep furrow at the bottom of his back, already feeling the morning pressing in, mentally unloading the dishwasher and finding lost sneakers. “Wanting at least seven hours’ sleep?”

Wrapping her legs around his hips, Maddy tried to wiggle him into her. He lifted himself away from her. “Can’t we just have whatever we have without a plan?” he asked.

“Hon, I’m just trying to relax and push away the house stuff clogging up my head.”

“Why in the world would thinking about laundry keep you from enjoying making love? That’s insane, Maddy.”

She felt him wilt. “You’re right. Go ahead.”

“
Go ahead.
Now that’s sexy.”

“I’m sorry. Making love would be wonderful. Of course the laundry can wait. Forgive the crabbiness; I had a crummy day.”

Ben climbed off. “Never mind. I don’t need a mercy screw.”

Her throat tightened. She sat up and ran her hands down his chest. “Come on. Honestly, I really want to make love.”

“As it turns out, now I honestly really don’t.” He rolled over and faced away.

She stroked him from shoulder to wrist. “Please. Stop. This is stupid.”

He pulled away. “What’s stupid? Me wanting to make love to my wife without a script? Christ. Sometimes our marriage just sucks.” Ben grabbed a book, put on a robe, and left the bedroom without looking back.

Maddy clicked on the television, watching as a muted weatherman pointed to oncoming thundershowers. Unsaid words clogged her chest.

Ben’s temper had existed before they’d had kids—fighting was nothing new. However, once they’d also taken long Sunday-morning showers together and drunk coffee laced with Jameson. Ben measured out the whiskey, swearing that if she poured it, they’d be drunk before the third sip. She’d whip heavy cream with brown sugar and swirl it into the dark liquored coffee.

Deadened, she prayed to cry, wanting the release of tears, wanting Ben to come back with a cup of creamy Irish coffee and stroke her thigh while they whispered dirty secrets.