Marriage Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story (A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery) (5 page)

Chapter 6

My favorite aerobic exercise is jumping to conclusions.

I won’t admit to you that I kept a suspicious eye on Jim’s activities for the next few days. I was just being “extraordinarily wifely,” to coin a phrase I thought of just this minute.

In previous days (not so long ago), I was actually glad when Jim left the house for a few hours. There, I said it. And I’m betting that many wives of retired men would admit the same thing. A few hours of delicious freedom. Nobody to account to about my retail therapy jaunts, long telephone chats with friends, or just curling up and reading a good book. (A mystery book, of course.)

But ever since Nancy dropped her bombshell – or, to be accurate, ever since Bob dropped his little bombshell named Tiffani on Nancy – I decided to pay attention to some of Jim’s “suggestions,” starting with ways to cut our expenses. Coupon clipper extraordinaire, that was the new me.

And I didn’t even yell at him when he washed my brand new white cotton sweater in a mixed laundry load that included his red Fairport College sweatshirt. I do look pretty in the pink. Although it’s not one of my favorite colors.

I kept telling myself I was being silly. Especially when all I had to do was look around my gorgeous redesigned house. Which Jim had done as a surprise for me. Because he loved me and wanted to make me happy.

Whatta guy.

Until I remembered that Jim didn’t ever pick up a paint brush or fix a sagging gutter unless – oh, God, was it possible? Was he thinking of putting the house on the market, divorcing me, and moving into a little love nest with Bambi? Or Brittani? Or whoever?

Maybe he and Bob Green were already double-dating. Groan.

I was driving myself crazy.

I couldn’t share these ridiculous (yes, I knew, on one level, that I was being ridiculous) fears with Jenny, who was all dewy-eyed at the prospect of becoming Mrs. Mark Anderson. When I took stock of my best-friends posse, it consisted of the following: the afore-mentioned, soon-to-be- divorced Nancy Green; Claire McGee, married to Larry the lawyer, the dullest man on earth (sorry, but it’s true); Mary Alice Costello, a widow; Maria Lesko, retired school teacher/now restaurant owner and caterer, who had never been married (or kissed, probably) in her whole life; and Sister Mary Rose, my high school English teacher with whom I’d reconnected this past summer.

I was fairly sure
she
had never been kissed.

Then there was my brand new daughter-in-law (I still had a little trouble with that concept), Marlee, who was pretty much an enigma to me. Jim and I had been with her for a grand total of 12 hours, when our darling son Mike surprised us the night we moved back into our renovated house. I didn’t know much about her, and every time I called their home and she answered, she immediately handed the phone over to Mike.

Which just about killed me. I mean, I wanted to bond with our newest family member. And she, apparently, didn’t want to bond with me.

I thought about confiding in Deanna, my hairdresser. She was willing to listen to all her clients’ woes, but she shared precious little about her own life with us. I’d never been invited to her apartment over Crimpers until Nancy’s marital crisis.

Yes, Deanna was a definite possibility. But I was worried that, over the years, I’d taken advantage of her too much. I was hesitant to do it again.

That left Lucy and Ethel, of course, my two favorite confidantes. They’re very sympathetic, but their feedback prowess leaves a lot to be desired.

So I sucked it up and told myself that Jim and I were fine. This was all my imagination. Who cared about a little dab of aftershave, anyway? Even if the dabs were happening with increasing regularity. And Jim’s noticeable improvement in wardrobe choices meant nothing.

Nothing.

Until a few nights later, when I served Jim’s favorite dinner, pot roast. The carrots and potatoes were simmering away in the beef juices, and the aroma was heavenly. My mouth began to water, and I told myself, “You’re a good cook. Not a fancy one, but a good one.”

Then Jim came into the kitchen with a solemn look on his face. Instead of peppering me with his usual questions, like “What are you cooking?”, “When will it be ready?”, and “Why isn’t it ready now?”, he ignored the siren call of the pot roast and said, “Carol, sit down. There’s something serious we have to discuss. I think you already know what I’m talking about.”

He pulled out a kitchen chair and gestured me to sit down. At that point, I needed to sit. My knees had turned to jelly.
Here it comes, Carol. He’s found someone else. Thirty-six years of marriage down the drain.

Jim cleared his throat and sat down opposite me. I had a brief flashback to hundreds of happy family dinners at this very table. How ironic that this would also be the scene of our marriage break-up.

Jim sighed deeply. “I guess it’s up to me to bring up the subject, since you’re obviously not going to. We had a call from PB Bank a few days ago, asking about suspicious activity on our credit card.”

His face turned red. I thought he was going to have a heart attack. “What the hell is up with you, Carol? Why did you sign up for Dream Dates.com? Do you have something you want to tell me?”

I just sat there and looked at my husband.
Moi? I had signed up for Dream Dates.com?

“This must be a bank mistake, Jim,” I said, resisting the urge to laugh. “I never went on an Internet dating site, much less signed up for one. Swear to God. I think you’re confusing me with Nancy.”

Jim looked at me, his face a mixture of relief and confusion. With a hint of anger. “What does Nancy have to do with this? Are you saying you let her use our credit card?”

“Of course not, Jim. You know I’d never let anyone do that.” Quickly, I brought Jim up to speed on the sorry state of my best friend’s marriage. “And her name is Tiffani! With an ‘i’. The little home wrecker.”

Jim’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Bob ‘The Blob’ Green? Bob is dumping Nancy after all these years of marriage? I can’t believe it.”

“He’s a real low-life,” I agreed. “And when you started wearing aftershave a few days ago, right after Nancy broke her news, I was afraid you were seeing some hot little number, too. Just like Bob.”

Jim just looked at me and shook his head.

“After all we’ve been through together, how could you think that about me? And why didn’t you say something?”

“Oh, yeah,” I countered. “Well, why didn’t
you
say something after that phone call from the bank?”

I sat back in the chair and gave him one of my famous withering looks. Most wives have a few of these in their arsenal, to be used whenever the situation calls for it. “And why did you start wearing aftershave lotion after all these years? You still haven’t answered that question,
Mr
. Andrews.”

“Well,
Mrs
. Andrews,” Jim said, “I remembered that you liked the scent of that aftershave. Years ago, when I used to wear it, you always used to nuzzle me and, well, one thing would lead to another. I figured that wearing aftershave might be one way to win you back. If I had anything to worry about. In the Dream Dates department.”

He sighed. “I guess it was a stupid idea. But I didn’t know what to do. My rational side told me that the bank had made an error with our account. That’s what I told the person who called, and they immediately took the charge off our account. But when I started thinking about it more, well, I realized some of the romance has gone out of our marriage. I was worried that the charge on the credit card wasn’t a mistake after all.”

He rubbed his face. “I’m lucky that, after all those years of that damned aftershave sitting in our medicine cabinet, it didn’t burn my skin!”

I had to laugh. “You’d think that, after all these years of being married, we’d know enough about each other to be able to talk about anything. But I guess we still have a lot to learn.”

Jim waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “I’m willing to try a refresher course in Romance One-O-One right now. What do you say?”

Well, of course, I said….

Wait a minute. I’m not going to tell you about that.

Chapter 7

Eat, drink and remarry.

It’s odd how a crisis can have such unexpected, positive consequences. Like last winter, when Jim had a heart episode (a mild one, thank God), and that was the incentive for me to quit stalling and put our antique house on the market. Jim had been after me to do that for quite a while, and I resisted. But when I was faced with the choice between losing my husband to a heart attack (I always tend to think of the worst possible scenario, in case you haven’t already realized that about me) or living in my antique house as a widow, well, there was no contest there. Jim’s health was much more important.

And then, when the deal fell through due to the unexpected demise of our buyer (the word “unexpected” being an understatement, believe me), Jim upgraded and redesigned our house as a surprise for me.

This new crisis in our marriage – real or imaginary – managed to put some of the “zip” back in our relationship, if you know what I mean. Not an actual honeymoon, but close enough for folks of our age.

Even Jenny noticed the difference, which surprised me. I mean, my daughter was newly engaged and thinking about her own nuptials.

“Yes, Dad and I are getting along pretty well,” I admitted when she quizzed me about it.

“I’ll say!” Jenny exclaimed, giving me a knowing look. “I’m not going into any details,” I said. “Let’s just say we had a misunderstanding and we’ve made up.”

“I think it’s sweet, Mom,” Jenny said. “It makes me believe that when

Mark and I are married as long as you and Dad, we’ll still want to… “Mom, are you blushing?”

“I never blush,” I lied. “You know that. It’s hot in the kitchen, that’s all.”

Humph. I did not appreciate being cross-examined by my own daughter. No matter how many times I had cross-examined her in the past.

“Are we still going to that wedding show this weekend?” I asked, switching subjects to a far more appropriate one. “We need to catch up about your plans. Have you and Mark given any more thought to a date? And what about a maid of honor and a best man? And any other attendants? Bridesmaids, groomsmen? Are they the same as ushers?”

“Whoa, Mom. Slow down with the questions.”

I mimed zipping my lips shut. And waited impatiently to hear what

Jenny had to share with me.

“That’s better, Mom. I know you care a lot about the wedding. You’re just…too enthusiastic sometimes. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. But you have to admit that you are.”

I nodded my head to show I understood what she was telling me. Which amounted to, “Back off, Mom.”

At least Jenny didn’t accuse me of being too nosey. Which, of course, I am.

“To answer your first question, yes, Mark and I definitely want you and Dad to go with us to the Cinderella Weddings show this weekend. I’ve already made reservations, and I have an appointment with one of the Fairy Godmothers, which is what they call their wedding planners.”

“You made that up,” I said, laughing. “Fairy Godmothers is a ridiculous name.”

“I
did
make it up,” Jenny said. “I wanted to make you laugh. And also to be sure you understand that this consultant, whoever she turns out to be, isn’t going to take your place in the wedding plans or anything else.

She’s just a wedding planner, not a mother substitute. I know you’re not keen on hiring a professional.”

She gave my hand a squeeze and my eyes misted up.

“As far as people in the wedding party, Mark and I are thinking that, because this is a destination wedding, we want to limit it to a two attendants: a maid of honor and a best man. The guest list will probably be small, too. We haven’t figured that part out yet.

“We’ve already talked to Mike and Marlee,” Jenny continued. “Mike’s going to be Mark’s best man, and Marlee will be my maid of honor. Although, since she’s married, I guess I should call her my matron of honor. Anyway, they were both thrilled to be asked.”