Burn (13 page)

Gian covered his mouth with his loosely curled fist to
avoid spraying Cinder with partially chewed seaweed
salad.

“The poor kid says, ‘Lady, this isn’t my wife.’ He taps the photo and goes, ‘These aren’t my kids. This guy isn’t
me. He doesn’t even look like me. I’ve got blond hair, this
guy’s dark-haired.’ ” Cinder finished chewing her sushi
and took a sip of warm sake. “Zae stands there, nodding
in total understanding, and the guy turns around and sets
his frame on the counter to pay for it. Zae taps him on
the shoulder, points to the photo again, and says, ‘What’s
your dog’s name?’ I thought I was going to pee my pants,
I was trying so hard not to crack up!”

“Zae’s antics are so funny when they’re aimed at
someone else. That poor guy . . .”

“He loved it,” Cinder said. “When we left the store,
he was waiting in the parking lot to ask Zae for her phone
number. She didn’t break stride when she told him she was married and had three kids.”

“Ruthless.” Gian shook his head. “Colin probably
never had a dull moment with her.”

C
inder’s mirth faded. “She loved him so much. She
still loves him. It’s easy to be alone, but loneliness can eat
you up. I’ve tried to tell her that she needs to move on, and she knows that, but . . .” She sighed.

“The heart can’t exactly be reasoned with,” Gian fin
ished. “None of Zae can be reasoned with, once she
makes up her mind about something.”

“You seem to know her as well as I do. She’s lucky to
have you.”

“I’m lucky to have her, too,” Gian said. “She saved my life.”

“Mine, too.”

Weeknights were slow for Sansai. Cinder and Gian
sat alone in their candlelit corner of the Japanese restaurant. The muted gold and amber color palette comple
mented Cinder, the décor emphasizing the dark coffee of
her eyes and putting a glow in her warm complexion. She
wore a light, off-white cardigan, a matching linen blouse
and white capri pants, an ideal ensemble for a late
summer night in Missouri.

Gian set down his chopsticks and took her hand,
clasping it near the votives flickering in the center of their
table. “Could I ask you what you mean by that?”

Her free hand went to her hair. Out of nervous habit
more than necessity, she smoothed her short locks behind
her ear. “I was married. His name is Sumchai Wyatt.”

Gian leaned farther over the table to better hear her.
“Interesting name.” He slightly tightened his hand
around hers to still the tremble in it.

“His mother is from Thailand,” Cinder explained.
“His parents met when his father was a U.S. Army engineer with the 44th Engineer Group in Korat during the
wars in Vietnam and Laos.”

“The Korat,” Gian repeated. “That’s central
Thailand. It’s brutal terrain, even now, after decades of development.”

“Sumchai idolized his father, but he never thought he
could live up to him. His mother’s English was never very
good, and Sumchai was her translator until he left home.
She kept him isolated from other kids, supposedly
because she thought American children were too spoiled
and inferior in intellect. She ruled with an iron hand,
which she used upside Sumchai’s head whenever she
thought he wasn’t living up to her expectations. He tried
to join the Army, but he didn’t pass the psychological
evaluation.” She smiled sadly. “I wish I’d known that
before we got married.”

Gian held his tongue. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but he knew it was best to follow her
lead.

“He swept me off my feet.” She smiled, her unshed tears sparkling in the candlelight. “I’d just finished my
master’s degree in graphic design at Boston University.
Sumchai was still working on his master’s in education.
We’d gone back to our old high school to participate in a
career day for the students, and we saw each other. From
that day on, we were always together.” She wiped her
eyes, cleared her throat and continued. “He said all the right things. He did all the right things. He made me feel
l
ike I was the most important person in the world. I was
so caught up in the illusion he created, I didn’t notice
that the closer I got to him, the further I got from my friends and family.”

“How long were you together?”

“We were married for three years.” Her hand seemed
to convulse, closing hard around Gian’s fingers. “But according to him, we’ll always be together . . .”

Like a pair of dead snakes, two black seamed stockings lay coiled on the ivory tile of the master bathroom
floor. A ragged thumbnail had ruined one and Cinder
had snagged the other on the door of the under sink cab
inet on her first attempt to leave the bathroom. She sat
on the edge of the deep bathtub and slowly, carefully, rolled a new stocking onto her right leg.

Once done, she stood and slipped her feet into the
scandalously high black patent-leather heels she had pur
chased that afternoon at Shock & Ahh!, an adult toy and
fashion store in Cambridge. She’d gone in for the stock
ings, but the mohawk-wearing grandmother who owned
the shop had convinced her that the stilts, seamed stock
ings, a sheer black mini slip dress and a matching satin
G-string comprised a tastefully sexy ensemble no man
could resist.

She studied her reflection in the triple-paned mirror
mounted above the his-and-hers sinks. This Bizarro
Cinder was the complete opposite of the advertising
graphics manager whose typical wardrobe consisted of pleated slacks and modest, long-sleeved blouses.

Her freshly styled sable hair fell past her shoulders in
soft, full waves that gave her a sexy, kittenish appearance.
She had heavily lined her eyes and made them up in
s
moky plums and earth tones that accentuated their color
and shape. The silky dress covered her while completely
exposing her. The G-string was so negligible, she
wouldn’t have known it was back there if she hadn’t seen
the front of the underwear, which was only slightly larger
than a Doritos chip.

The ruined stockings went into the waste bin
between the sinks and the toilet, and then Cinder hurried
into the bedroom. She fussed over her arrangements:
fresh rose petals sprinkled on the new white satin duvet;
sparkling grape juice—Welch’s, always Welch’s—that
Sumchai preferred to actual champagne, stood in a silver
ice bucket dotted with condensation; hazelnut chocolate
truffles Sumchai ordered from a little shop in Paris; and
the finishing touch, dabs of Bulgari Blu Notte, the one
scent Sumchai allowed her to wear, behind each ear and
knee. Observing another one of her husband’s prefer
ences, she had drawn the sheers and drapes over the tall,
wide windows even though doing so closed out the
beauty of the sun setting over Singing Beach.

Downstairs in their freshly remodeled kitchen,
Sumchai’s favorites sat in the warming oven—rice
cooked with lemongrass and wood ear alongside chicken
stir fried with straw mushrooms, egg, tomato, bean
sprouts, onion, and sprinkled with diced cucumber and
chopped peanuts. For dessert, she’d driven all the way
into Brookline for sweet bean paste buns from Japonais,
the bakery he’d taken her to on their first date.

Her heart lurched with excitement when she heard
her husband’s key in the backdoor. Giddy, she positioned
h
erself at the head of the bed, careful not to disturb the
petals any more than necessary.

“Cin!” His voice echoed in the mud room.

“I’m up here!”

His footsteps on the stairs harmonized with the eager
beat of her heart, which leaped the moment her husband
filled the doorway.

Sumchai Wyatt was a beautiful man who had inher
ited his mother’s black eyes and his Irish father’s promi
nent square jaw. He also had his father’s imposing height
and lean, muscular build. Even though he had never been
a soldier as he had wanted, the hours he’d spent at the
gym had given him a soldier’s physique. His straight
black hair was the same color as his slightly angled eyes,
and he had his mother’s olive complexion. His tempera
ment was all his own.

“What did you do?” Sumchai’s deep voice dropped an
octave in suspicion as he stared at her.

“Nothing.” Cinder laughed. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“I’m surprised,” he said, slowly approaching her.

It was hard to tell if he was pleased or . . . not. His
expression remained blank, his eyes unreadable. Cinder
reclined on the pillows, one arm draped over her head,
the other across her torso. “Come over here and tell me
about your day,” she invited.

He approached the big sleigh bed but bypassed it to
go to the dresser. “My day was great,” he remarked, his
tone belying his words. “It started off with my interview
at Winchester Prep. That turned out to be a total waste b
ecause the salary the principal was offering was a third
lower than what the employment agency told me it was. Then I had to rush south to Randolph for a meeting with
the board of administrators at Williams-Coe.” He took
off his watch and tossed it onto the silver jewelry tray on
his side of the dresser. Unbuttoning the cuffs of his
striped business shirt, he said, “They had their minds
made up about me before I sat down. Another waste of
time.”

He hadn’t come to her, so Cinder went to him. “They
wouldn’t have had you in for an interview if they had
already made up their minds about you.” She slid her
arms around him and pressed her cheek to his broad back.

In a quick, smooth move, Sumchai turned, took her
by her shoulders, and shoved her onto the bed. “They
called my old school for a reference and spoke to the
principal,” he sneered. “He wasn’t listed as my reference!
Why didn’t they just talk to the vice-principal? She was
the one named on my resumé!”

“Chai, it’s just one school,” she tried to reassure him.
She went to him again and hugged him from behind.
“Did you really want to commute all the way into
Randolph every day? It’s so far away from Manchester
by-the-Sea.”

He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I got a flat on
the way home, so I had to change it while pricks are
whizzing by me at eighty miles an hour on I-95. I ruined
these pants.”

Cinder noticed the streak of road grime on the left leg
of his khaki slacks. “I’ll take those to the dry cleaners
tomorrow. Don’t worry about them.” Peeking around
him, she started unfastening his belt. When she went for
his zipper, he took her wrists and threw off her hands. He
stared at her reflection in the mirror mounted at the back of the dresser. “And the cherry on the top of this crappy
day is that I come home to find my wife dressed like a
slut.”

Stung, Cinder backed away. “It’s been a long time
since we made love,” she started. “I wanted to try—”
“Whose fault is that?” he muttered, yanking at his tie.
“Yours.”

Sumchai turned. In her “slut” heels, she was eye to eye
with him. Her hands on the hips of her “slut” dress, she
elaborated. “I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure
since you got fired, and I’ve been understanding. I’ve
supported you. But you’ve been bringing your stress into
this bedroom, and I don’t like it. Every time we have sex, you’re cold and distant. The last time, you were so rough
and—”

“I got the job done, if I recall correctly,” he said
slowly, quietly.

“Actually, you didn’t.” Cinder deliberately ignored his
lethal calm and the flat shine in his dark eyes, the early
warning signs that a storm was dangerously close. “I was
responsible for my own. You just happened to be there.”