Marriage Matters (5 page)

“June,” she heard him call, but she didn’t stop. Unwilling to let Charley Montgomery see her cry, June ducked into the house and locked the door behind her.

Five

C
hloe stood in the hallway, staring at the nameplate on the door.
Dr. Geoff Gable, IV
stared back in cool, nondescript prose. She could not believe the renowned psychologist was willing to take the time to meet with her.

Earlier that year, Dr. Gable had made a speech at a fundraising event for her school. The man had such a commanding presence that Chloe listened, riveted, as he discussed the complex relationship between the field of psychology and art therapy. It was pretty impressive. (She couldn’t help but notice that his green eyes were pretty impressive, too.)

“Ultimately,” Dr. Gable lectured, “you should find a mentor in your field. Someone to coach you.” For a brief, breath-catching moment, his green eyes seemed to look right at her. “Email me. I’m happy to advise you in any way I can.”

It took all summer, but Chloe finally worked up the nerve to get in touch. She requested a letter of recommendation for a grant she was interested in applying to, pressed Send and expected to never hear from him again. To her surprise, Dr. Gable responded with a time and date to meet. Chloe read the email seven times, certain that he’d made a mistake.

Now that the big day had finally come, Chloe was giddy with excitement. Brushing her fingers over the nameplate for luck, she took a deep breath and opened the door. Inside the office, she stopped.

On her ride up in the elevator, Chloe had imagined that the waiting room would be bright and bustling, with a tight-lipped secretary who would ask her to take a seat. Then, after Chloe had waited a decent amount of time, flipping through worn copies of
AAA
and
Better Homes and Gardens
,
the secretary would nod. “The doctor will see you now.” But to Chloe’s surprise, the white chairs lining the walls were vacant, the lights were turned down low and the tight-lipped secretary was nowhere to be found. If it weren’t for a light shining behind the frosted-glass partition by the desk, Chloe would wonder if anyone was in the office at all.

“Hello?” she called. “Dr. Gable?”

No answer.

Nervously, she glanced at her watch. Noon. Being on time was definitely overrated.

Taking a few tentative steps, Chloe peeked behind the glass partition. A long hallway led to an open door. Smoothing her hair, she headed for his office. Her sandals seemed to sink into the thick rug and the strands of carpet brushed against her toes. She’d only made it halfway, when the strains of Louis Armstrong’s “I Ain’t Got Nobody”
blasted out from his office.

Crap
. Dr. Gable must have forgotten about their appointment altogether. Feeling a flash of disappointment, she decided to leave. She’d send another email asking to reschedule, even though it totally sucked that he’d forgotten all about her.

Just as she made it back to the glass partition, Dr. Gable started singing along with the music. Chloe stopped in surprise.
Geez
, he had a terrible voice. It was surprising, really, especially considering he was so good-looking. But it was like the worst karaoke ever.

As he hit a particularly high note, Chloe had to clap her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Unfortunately, Dr. Gable chose that exact moment to barrel out into the hallway. He was bare-chested, dripping with sweat and wearing only a pair of green sweatpants.

Dr. Gable froze, the high note dying on his lips. After a long, horrifying moment, he said, “Can I help you with something?” as though trying to figure out who she was and why, exactly, she was spying on him.

Chloe’s hand dropped from her mouth. “Uh . . . hi,” she stammered. “I . . . I had an appointment with you. At noon?”

With one swift look, Dr. Gable seemed to take in everything, from her thin-framed, tortoiseshell glasses to her industrial navy wrap dress. “I never make appointments with pharmaceutical reps. I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist.”

“No, no. I—” Chloe made the mistake of looking at his tanned, heaving chest. Her eyes dipped even lower, falling on a trail of black hair that led from his defined abs to the very top of his pants. Blushing furiously, she forced herself to stare at the carpet. “I’m a student,” she mumbled. “I emailed you?”

Dr. Gable turned his sculpted, sweaty back on her and headed into his office. Cautiously, she followed, waiting as he tossed a series of weights over to the side of the room. Apparently, she’d caught him in the middle of his workout. Although, honestly, Chloe could recommend some peppier music.

“If you’d like, I could come back . . .”

“You may as well stay,” he grunted. “You’ve already interrupted my day.”

Okay. Maybe he hadn’t appreciated the fact that she caught him singing. And half dressed.

Dr. Gable seized a wad of clothing from the back of his desk chair. Stepping into a tiny bathroom, he shut the door. The latch didn’t catch and Chloe could hear him changing. When his belt buckle clicked closed, she blushed furiously, trying not to think of those green sweatpants.

Chloe glanced around the office. It was comfortably decorated, with a stately wooden desk, typical green plant and a big, comfy blue couch. An impressive bookshelf lined the walls. If the situation had been different, she might have made a list of titles to look up later.

“What is your name?” he called.

“Chloe McCallister.”

Dr. Gable gave a little grunt. For some reason, she pictured him pulling on a pair of black socks.

“I wrote to you about that grant,” she said, just in case he still couldn’t place her. “I had an appointment with you for noon—”

“Tomorrow.” Dr. Gable strode back into the room. He was now fully dressed and sported a tweed jacket, plaid shirt and a yellow ascot.

“Um, no.” Chloe stared at the ascot. What the heck was that all about? “Our appointment was for today.”

“I think I would know,” he scoffed. “I scheduled it.”

Chloe snapped open her appointment book, thumbing through the pages. “No. I’m sure it was . . .”

Shit.
The appointment was for noon tomorrow.

“I’m sorry.” Chloe felt like a total idiot. “You’re so right. This is all my fault.”

“Of course it is.” Dr. Gable folded his cuffs. “I don’t make scheduling errors. Would you like to have a seat?”

Chloe glanced at the door. It was not too late to make a run for it. Instead, she settled into the pale blue suede cushions of the couch as Dr. Gable walked over to the window and snapped open the shade. Sunshine streamed into the room and she squinted in the sudden brightness.

“So.” Dr. Gable turned to face her, his green eyes intent. “You sent me a letter asking for an endorsement for a particularly formidable grant. Is there a reason you’re interested in competing so far out of your league?”

Chloe sat up straight. “I don’t think it’s out of my league.”

Dr. Gable assessed her with his eyes. “Historically, it’s been awarded to older men with Ivy League connections. That’s not you. Is it?”

“That shouldn’t be an issue.” Chloe ran her sweating palms over the starched fabric of her dress. “It’s for a local project. It seems to me, that if someone was going to delve into the psychological implications for the children of our city, it should be someone in our city.”

Dr. Gable looked vaguely amused. “Someone like you.”

“Yes,” she said. “Someone like me.”

Chloe met his gaze, remembering what June always said about the importance of eye contact.
It makes you seem strong
, she always said.
Even if you really don’t feel that
way.

“Chloe . . .” Walking over to his desk, Dr. Gable rifled through a few papers. “I am always interested in helping students. However.” He plucked a paper off the top of the stack. “I did speak with your development professor. He forwarded me a copy of your most recent paper. Given this and your, ah, untimely arrival . . . I do have some concerns.”

Striding across the room, Dr. Gable settled in next to her on the couch. Their fingers brushed as he handed the paper to her. Chloe was quick to move her hand away.

Addicted to Art
was on the viability of using art therapy as a recovery tool for abuse. The paper had been great, even though she’d rushed to get it done right before leaving for the wedding. She wondered why he had “concerns.”

Flipping open the first page, Chloe was surprised to see that it was covered in red marks. “Wait . . .” She peered at it more closely. “Oh, my gosh.” Mortified, she slammed the paper shut like a diary. “This isn’t my paper. This is . . . This is . . . entertainment news.”

“Unless you were analyzing the lifestyle of a child star, I found it a bit difficult to see how the supporting information was relevant.” Plucking the paper from her lap, Dr. Gable read, “‘Duress in the home environment can be demonstrated in several forms. Reports suggest that Madonna was spotted at the Coffee Bean, discussing a new vibe for the national anthem.’”

Looking at her, Dr. Gable raised an eyebrow. “Madonna?”

“No, no, I—” Chloe snatched the paper back. Splashes of entertainment news were neatly situated within her academic argument, like hot pink fishnets spicing up a graduation gown. Her professor had circled Madonna’s name in red ink. “The mother figure???” he’d written in the margin.

Thinking back to Wednesday night, Chloe realized exactly how this had happened. She’d just finished a shift at her part-time job, jammed clothes into a suitcase for the wedding and sat down at the computer to bang out her paper. There was a ton of research to compile and to stay awake, she’d flipped back and forth between the research and entertainment news.

“I was exhausted when I wrote this,” she said. “I must have cut and pasted a wrong source or two.” Her ears burned. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.” They sat in silence for a moment. “You didn’t cite the source, either.”

“I cited the wrong source,” Chloe said. “The quotes are all cited.”

“Either way.” Dr. Gable gave her a patronizing smile. “Not your best hour.”

“Not my best
work
,”
she clarified. “You know, I can’t believe my professor would send this to you.” Out of all the well-done pieces she’d turned in to her development professor,
this
was what he decided to use to demonstrate her work? How humiliating.

“Don’t blame him,” Dr. Gable told her. “I asked him to send your weakest performance. I find that the assignments with the least effort invested in them are the most revealing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Chloe’s eyes flickered to the tissue on the coffee table. No, she was not going to cry. It would give this man too much satisfaction. Suddenly, she was glad she’d caught him singing. At least she wasn’t the only one who looked like a jerk.

“May I ask,” Dr. Gable continued, “why this . . . nonsense . . . was on your computer at all?”

“Only if I can ask why you listen to shitty music from the 1930s,” she shot back.

Dr. Gable laughed. “Chloe.” He put what was probably meant to be a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I think your ambition is to be admired. Rumor has it, your work is typically much stronger.”

Standing up, Dr. Gable walked back over to his desk. He sat in his chair in a way that could only be described as smug. “However, according to your professors, you seem to have a hard time managing everything. You rush into class at the last minute, take on too many internship hours . . .”

Show up for appointments a day early
hung in the air, unspoken.

“Slow down.” He spread out his hands. “Enjoy your life.”

“I don’t have
time
to enjoy my life. I have serious goals that I plan to meet by the time I turn thirty. I want to own my own practice, just like you. And with this grant, I could finally—”

“Forget the grant,” he said. “It’s not going to happen this year. Maybe you can find someone else to endorse you, but I’m here to tell you that you’re moving at a pace that is much too fast. You’re going to burn out. And I’d hate to see that happen to such a promising little flame.”

Chloe’s mouth dropped open. “A promising little flame?”

Dr. Gable watched her with dancing eyes. “Isn’t that what you are?” He picked up her paper. With a smirk, he read, “The celebrity wedding was witnessed by friends, family and paparazzi, circling like vultures over . . .”

“Asshole,” Chloe said, then slammed his office door.

Six

K
ristine sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic, trying to work up some sort of enthusiasm for her latest audio book. It would be at least forty minutes until she could pull into the parking spot next to her store. For the hundredth time, she wondered how to convince Kevin to move back into the city.

After college, living in town was something they both wanted. Their first apartment was a cute walk-up with an old-fashioned stove, a fire escape and ceilings almost too short for Kevin’s enormous frame. They’d moved to the suburbs when things like safe neighborhoods and good schools suddenly mattered, but they’d always planned to move back to the city.

It was only recently that Kevin changed his mind. There were a couple of factors, including the recession and what it had done to the value of their home, but Kristine also suspected that losing his job had made her husband emotionally attached to their house. In that year where he couldn’t find a job, Kevin put his frustration into remodeling. He redid the floors, reshingled the roof, rebuilt the deck . . . The assistance of his toolbox and the local hardware store helped him to feel like he had a purpose, even if it wasn’t at the office.

During this time, Kevin had talked about his upbringing more than he ever had before. Kristine listened to the painful stories: The summer his mother served SpaghettiOs for dinner for three months straight, the time the power got turned off in the winter because she didn’t have money to pay the bills, the day the teacher sent a note home with Kevin complaining that he and his brother smelled. Hearing these stories helped her to understand why it frightened her husband so much to lose his job.

“It’s going to be fine,” she’d say. “You’ll find something. We’ll be okay.”

Kevin had just gone back to retiling the bathroom or laying new linoleum, while waiting for the recruiter to get back to him with interviews.

When he finally found another job, the house looked better than it had in years. Kristine could understand his reluctance to leave, but on mornings like this, when traffic was heavy and her shoulders ached with tension by eight in the morning, her appreciation wavered. It would be nice to have the option of an easier commute, not to mention the perk of living closer to June and Chloe.

Kristine wouldn’t push it, though. If Kevin needed to stay in their house, she’d support him in that. Besides, after her behavior the night before, she didn’t have the right to ask for much of anything. She’d stayed out at that French restaurant with Ethan for three hours.
Three hours!

“Kevin would kill me,” she said out loud, shutting off the audio book. “I would kill
him
.”

Clicking on the blinker, she waited for the lady in the black SUV to let her switch lanes. The woman ignored her, staring straight ahead. Kristine sighed. Drumming her hands on the steering wheel, she tried to determine just how bad her behavior had been the night before.

At first, everything had been perfectly innocent. They’d finished up dinner and were just about to pay their checks, when Ethan mentioned the Dogons tribe in Mali. “I did a study on the Dogons,” she said, surprised. “In college.” Ethan had actually spent time in Mali and could give her a real-life report.

From there, they just kept talking. They covered everything from decolonization to global health care to German cheese torts. When she finally noticed the time and panicked, he insisted on walking her the five blocks to her travel bookstore.

Kristine cringed thinking about the walk. The white flowers on the trees had practically glowed silver and she felt a profound sense of stillness. Of course, that stillness was shattered when Ethan reached over and linked his arm in hers.

Kristine was taken completely off guard. Didn’t he know she was married? She tried to come up with a clever exit strategy that wouldn’t embarrass them but couldn’t think of anything.

As they walked arm in arm, Ethan pointed out stained-glass transoms above different doors. They strolled past a house with windows etched with red, green and purple flowers, and he stopped. “Every time I walk on this street,” he said, “I feel like I’m walking through cathedrals.”

At the memory, Kristine gripped the steering wheel. It had been nice to see the world through the eyes of a photographer, but why hadn’t she pulled away? It would have been awkward, especially considering Ethan probably meant nothing by it, but the fact that she hadn’t done anything made her feel so . . . guilty.

Back home, she’d felt even worse because Kevin had left an anniversary card on her pillow. It was a silhouette of a sailboat against the setting sun and the caption read:
Looking forward to our golden years
. She could practically picture him buying it at some airport gift shop.

Setting the card on the bedside table, a piece of paper fluttered out. Was it a love letter? Eagerly, she’d snatched it up.
IOU
,
it said
. For whatever you want, within reason. Love, Kevin.

Kristine had been annoyed with herself for feeling disappointed. After all, it wasn’t like she’d gotten Kevin anything spectacular for their anniversary—just a silver pen engraved with the words
Patient and mine—
but at least that had meaning. Kevin used to think the words were, “Love is patient, love is mine” instead of “Love is patient, love is kind.” Silly stuff, but they’d laughed about it.

Either way, there was no point in being upset. Kevin was busy and they’d been together for so long. Did it really matter what he got her? Besides . . .

Glancing at her reflection in the rearview mirror, Kristine gave herself another guilty look. Her bright red hair was pulled up in a sloppy bun and her eyes looked tired, as though she’d stayed out much too late. She was hardly the perfect wife—she’d spent their anniversary drinking wine with another man. If Kevin knew about
that
, he probably wouldn’t give her anything but the silent treatment.

When the sign for the store finally loomed into sight, Kristine felt her spirits lift. The brightly colored wooden cutouts depicted a variety of skylines across the globe and were made up of different shapes and sizes.
The Places You’ll Go
zoomed across in fluffy white skywriting.

Walking in, Kristine was delighted to see the store was busy. A young couple flipped through a guide on Hawaii, a student explored the section on travel memoirs and an older couple browsed through books on Ireland. Annie, Kristine’s dear friend and associate, was ringing up a customer.

Kristine loved Annie. At forty, the woman still dressed like a child of the eighties and sported an ever-changing array of Kool-Aid streaks in her hair. Considering Kristine was too timid to get her long red hair cut into an interesting style or paint her nails a funky color, she admired Annie’s adventurous spirit.

“Hey, stranger.” Annie rushed over. As always, she smelled like Electric Youth perfume, which she’d once ordered from eBay as a joke. “I’m happy you’re back. And . . .” Her hazel eyes danced behind thick black-framed glasses. “I have something to tell you that will just smack you across the face.”

Kristine laughed. “That sounds awful.”

“Oh, it’ll smack you in a good way,” Annie promised. After nodding at Sara, one of their college helpers, she said, “Have some coffee with me.”

Intrigued, Kristine followed Annie to the sunken area of the store with the purple velvet couch and coffee display. Slipping off her sandals, Kristine tucked her legs underneath her. The soft velvet of the couch was cozy as a blanket and she yawned.

“Wild night?” Annie joked, pouring them both a cup of coffee.

“You know me.” Kristine kept her voice light. “As wild as they come.”

“Give yourself more credit.” Annie passed over a full mug. “You could be wild if you wanted to.” After adding sugar to her coffee, she eyed the display table. “Should we have some cake?”

“Yes,” Kristine said automatically. “Without a doubt.”

Each day, The Places You’ll Go set out complimentary coffee cake from the bakery next door. They spent a good part of each day debating whether or not to eat it or skip it. Considering the selection today was a crumbly pastry covered in powdered sugar, Kristine was not going to let today be a skip-day.

“Decadent
and
messy.” Kristine laughed as crumbs spilled down her turquoise button-up shirt. “Okay, so tell me.” Brushing the crumbs into her hand, she made a neat little pile on a napkin. “What’s this big news?”

“Well . . .” Annie raised a pierced eyebrow. “One of our fabulous employees entered The Places You’ll Go in the Valiant Travel essay competition. And . . .” She paused dramatically. “We
won.
”

Kristine gasped. “You’re kidding!”

Valiant Travel was a well-known online travel site. People from all over the world visited to voice compliments or complaints about hotels, airlines and tour companies. Kristine always encouraged her customers to post their travel clips. It was rewarding, somehow, to watch people she knew climb pyramids or cross a desert while carrying guidebooks from her store.

“That’ll be some good publicity,” Kristine said excitedly.

“Not just publicity.” Annie spoke into her coffee cup like it was a microphone. “The winning essay has won the owner of the store and the essay writer a weeklong, all-expenses-paid trip to . . .”

“A trip?” Kristine’s heart started to pound. “Oh, my gosh. Really? Where?”

“Rome.”
Annie bounced up and down. “Kristine, you finally get to go to Rome!”

Kristine set her coffee cup on the table in surprise.
Rome?
She had wanted to go to Rome for years! But just like most of the fabulous foreign cities she ached to travel to, she had been saving it for the future, when she and Kevin could go together.

“You’ll have to speak at some luncheon or something that Valiant is throwing.” Annie gripped her hands. “But the rest of the time is yours. We just got the message this morning. You’ll have to listen to it. I’m so excited for you.”

“Wow,” Kristine said softly. She imagined what it would be like to see the Colosseum, to explore the ancient ruins. To drink Italian wine with . . . “Oh, wait. Who wrote the essay?”

Annie raised a pierced eyebrow. “Ethan.”

“Ethan?” Kristine was horrified. “No, no,
no.
”

Flushing, Kristine remembered the moment when he’d linked his arm in hers. Traveling to the other side of the world with him was
not
a good idea.

“What do you mean, no?” Annie squealed. “It’s yes! Just think, you can make him stand next to the statue of David and tell us all which one is better looking.”

“David’s in Florence. And I always pictured him as a blond.”

“Either way,” Annie said, taking a big bite of cake.

Kristine shook her head. “I can’t do it.”

“Do what? Rome?” Annie stared at her like she was the most disappointing human being on the planet. “You’re kidding.”

Kristine slid the elastic band off her ponytail and wound her hair up into a tight bun. “Annie, love it or hate it, I’m married. I can’t travel the world with someone who’s not my husband.”

“So, tell Kevin to come along.” Annie licked powdered sugar off her fingers. “Problem solved.”

Kevin spent too much time already traveling in and out of O’Hare. He wouldn’t want to go back to the airport on his time off. Kristine opened her mouth to explain, but Annie held up her hand.

“I don’t want to hear it. You need to get out there and see the world. With or without him.”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts,” Annie insisted. “Kristine, you have to stop waiting for Kevin to live your life. He can make a choice. Come with you or kiss you good-bye at the airport. It’s that easy.” She said this with the confidence of someone who’d never been forced to compromise. Considering Annie had never been married, she’d never really had to.

“You’re right.” Kristine sighed. “Kevin
should
go to Rome with me. But I’d have to have a pretty convincing . . .” Suddenly, she stopped. “You know what?” The silhouette of a boat flitted through her mind. “I
do
have a convincing argument. Kevin gave me an IOU.”

Annie looked puzzled. “An IOU?”

“For our anniversary.”

Annie squinted through her glasses. “Seriously?”

“I’m sure he thought it was a great gift.”

“It was a great gift.” Laughing, Annie got to her feet. “That IOU just bought him a trip to Rome.”