Slow Moon Rising (16 page)

If only I'd left everything alone. If only the remodeling of the kitchen had been enough. If only having the family over for Thanksgiving had satisfied me. But no . . .

In March—just when so many things were starting to happen with the kids and school and sports—Andre announced he had a weeklong seminar in Dallas he had to attend.
Had
to. And so, like the dutiful wife I've always been, I packed his clothes and drove him to the airport. I kissed him oh-so-sweetly at the curb.

“See you in a week,” he said. “I'll miss you.”

“Miss you too,” I parroted.

A whole week. Kids' schedules busier than ever. Andre gone. Gone to Dallas. I could only hope he didn't meet a cheerleader.

As he walked past the sliding glass doors of Orlando International Airport, a single oversized carry-on wheeled behind him, I gripped the steering wheel of my car, sighed, and jumped when a traffic cop blew his whistle at me. “This isn't a parking garage,” he barked.

I came close to sticking my tongue out at him, but refrained. I eased into the flow of traffic, drove along Concourse A's sidewalk until I reached the off-ramp leading to the 528. I was halfway home when I saw the advertisement for Robb & Stucky Interiors. The kids were in school, and since I had nothing really to do at home, I followed the directions to the nearest location.

The opulence and elegance of the store—not to mention the offer of warm oatmeal cookies and cappuccinos—pulled me in like the first cool days of autumn after a blistering Florida summer. I walked among and relished the homey
arrangements, the upscale designers of furniture, the tasteful “little things” that made each “room” invite me in, that made me pretend it not only belonged in my home but that it would
be
in my home.

Before I'd had time to reason my way out of the store, I'd completed an in-store credit application, been approved, picked out a bedroom set, drunk two cups of cappuccino, and eaten three cookies.

I set a time for delivery, left the store—hands shaking, whether from the coffee and cookies or the shock at what I'd just done, I don't know—and drove down the street to a Thomasville furniture store, where I repeated my actions—minus the snacks. This time, I left with an in-store credit receipt and the same delivery date, but now for the new living room and dining room furniture.

I drove to the nearest mall, entered the food court, purchased a Chick-fil-A traditional sandwich, waffle potato fries, and lemonade. After brushing the crumbs from my fingertips, I walked to one end of the mall and entered Macy's. There, with my zeroed-out Macy's card, I bought new china, stemware, and flatware. For kicks, I threw in new Waterford table linens and Lenox napkin ring holders.

After walking my new purchases to the car, I returned inside, this time walking in the opposite direction of Macy's, straight to Dillard's, where I chose a Ralph Lauren bedding collection, sheets included. The colors were perfect for the wood tone of the new bedroom furniture. I had a fifty-dollar balance on my card. I paid it off in customer service, then ran the balance back up by several hundred dollars.

On the way home, with three hours left to shop before
the kids had to be picked up from their various after-school activities, I stopped at Bed Bath & Beyond for new towels, using my personal credit card and the 20 percent off coupon that had come in the mail the week before and had been stashed in my purse ever since.

That night I placed an ad on craigslist, offering the old furniture for a song. The phone started ringing immediately. I set appointments beginning at ten the next morning.

The following day, I took the kids to school, returned home, and got the house in order for potential buyers. By one o'clock that afternoon, everything was gone, including the everyday china, all the glassware and flatware from the kitchen, and the linens I kept in the dining room china cabinet. At two o'clock I walked through the front door of Dawson's, ready to purchase new draperies with my earnings.

Days later, by the time Andre threw his luggage into the backseat of my car and himself into the front, by the time he'd given me his “I'm back” kiss, I was nearly quivering with excitement and trepidation.

“I've got a surprise for you when we get home,” I said, smiling. Hopeful.

I glanced his way. His eyes danced. “Oh?”

I gave him my best “come now” look. “Men,” I said. “Not that.”

“What then?” In the glow of street lamps I saw him kick off one of his loafers, lean down, and scratch the arch of his foot.

“You'll see.”

“But
that
too, right? 'Cause I've missed you.”

“That too. 'Cause I've missed you too.”

He replaced his shoe, stretched his long legs. “I hate
airplanes. I managed to get the exit row, but it's still never enough room.”

“Why don't you just get a first class ticket, Andre? We can afford it, and then you wouldn't be so miserable.”

“Nah. I don't want to spend that much money.”

I bit my lower lip. “Speaking of spending money,” I said, “I guess there's something I should tell you before we get home.”

Never in the history of our marriage—perhaps in the history of
any
marriage—has there ever been such an argument. At one point it became so verbally volatile, our children went into their bedrooms and shut and locked their doors.

I didn't blame them. I was nearly there myself.

We said all the usual things couples say in such situations.

“How could you do something like this without asking me?”

“I didn't know I was your child. I thought I was your wife.” Which sounded so childish.

“I want you to take it all back. Every last bit of it.”

“I will not.”

“How do you expect to pay for all this?”

And then I said the most idiotic thing of all: “I'll get a job.”

To which he laughed. Not happily.

A shame I'd bought those new linens; Andre slept in the guest room that night while I slept in our bed, alone.

We hardly spoke for days on end. Our children tiptoed around us. After a week I announced that I had secured a job
at a local froufrou store, would work four hours a day, five days a week, and would pay the debt off myself.

“That's it?” he said. At the end of a long day, he stood in front of his chest of drawers, pulling a necktie from the collar of his shirt.

I leaned against the door frame of the nearby master bath. Threw up my hands. They landed against my sides. “What more do you want, Andre?”

“I want you to admit you were wrong in what you did. Heather, I would never dream of spending that kind of money without talking to you.”

He was right, of course. Logical, normal wives just didn't do this kind of thing. I prickled, but so wanting the tension in our home to come to an end, I said, “I was wrong, Andre. I don't know what got into me.”

He blinked slowly, smiled ever so slightly. “Come here,” he said. I went into his arms; he breathed in deeply. “Thank you for that.” He kissed my hair. “I've missed you.”

“You too,” I said.

“Promise me you won't do anything like that again.”

I shook my head. Whether I meant I wouldn't promise or I wouldn't do anything like that again, I don't know. And I'm not sure how he interpreted it.

“And you won't allow this new job to interfere with your work as a wife and a mother. I haven't worked this hard this long so you would have to go out and get a job. We both agreed from the start you'd be at home with the kids.”

“Yes, but I've caused this,” I said, leaning back. “It'll work, you'll see. I'll keep up with what I do here, and I'll work for Margie McCombs four hours a day. I can do it, Andre. I can.”

“Because,” he said as though I'd said nothing, “what you always said was that you wanted to be the quintessential homemaker. A wife and a mother.”

“I know. And I love my role in life, Andre. I do. I can't imagine it being any other way, but I know I can do this.”

But apparently I couldn't. I lasted exactly five days at my new job. The first day one of the twins got sick at school, and after only an hour on the job, I had to leave to get her. The second day, the other twin got sick, and after two and a half hours on the job, I clocked out for the day and headed for the school. The third day, our twelve-year-old son Lenny called informing me I'd not returned his all-important paper for American History class.

“What do you mean, I haven't returned it?” I whispered into my cell phone, the very one I wasn't supposed to be using during work hours.

“Remember two nights ago? You asked me to bring it to you so you could read over it? You never gave it back.”

I could see it. Oh yes I could. Sitting right there on my desk. Heavily researched. Neatly typed. Well-crafted sentences and an obvious A for my son. He was right; I had not returned it.

“Can't it wait until after I get off work?”

“Mom,” he said. I could see his lips forming the words over clear braces railroaded across his teeth.

“Lenny, I can't leave my job.”

“You left yesterday and the day before for Toni and Tyler. Besides, Mom, my class is next period, and the majority of my grade for the semester rides on that paper.”

I swallowed. “I'll be there in less than an hour. But you should have remembered to get it back from me.”

I could all but hear the eyes rolling.

“See you in a bit.”

Two days earlier, when I'd told Margie about Toni being sick, she said, “Oh, dear. I hope she gets to feeling better.”

Yesterday, when Tyler came down with the same twenty-four-hour bug, she said, “I understand.” But she sighed deeply.

This time I got the exhale but not the words of sympathy or understanding.

“I'll be back, and I'll still work four hours today.”

Without looking at me she said, “I already have someone else coming in at two, Heather.” Then she locked her eyes with mine. “Just go.”

I never really liked Margie anyway; this just added to the long list of reasons why. No consideration outside the needs of her store with cute but overpriced items.

Day four went off without a hitch. But day five dawned with my sudden realization that
this
was the day of my six-month dental cleaning. Canceling without a twenty-four-hour notice meant having to pay a rescheduling fee, which was more than I would actually make working.

Margie fired me over the phone, stating this clearly wasn't working out for either of us. She encouraged me to come by and get my paycheck the following Friday.

And so there I sat, at my desk, crying out to God with a pile of invoices and bills clasped in my hands, wondering how I would ever pay them. And then it hit me. I knew exactly what I needed to do, who I needed to call.

Dad.

I called Dad while he was at work, leaving a message on his cell phone. “No biggie,” I lied. “I just needed to talk to you about something.”

Dad called back about two hours later. “Hey, kiddo. What can I do for you?”

I cleared my throat. “Dad?” I said, forcing my voice to sound as much like a helpless little girl as I could. “Do you have some time when I can come by and talk with you about something?”

“What's wrong, little girl?”

I closed my eyes in blessed relief. “Can we just get together and talk?”

A stretch of silence filled the distance between us. “This doesn't have anything to do with Anise, does it?”

One thing about me: I'm loyal to my convictions. In the near seven years since their marriage, I had not relented in my negative feelings about their . . . marriage. “No, Dad. It's not about Anise. It's about me.”

“You okay?”

No.
“Well, yes and no. That's what I need to talk to you about.”

Dad said I could meet him at his house that evening, but I begged away from it. I didn't say it out loud, but Anise would be there and I really didn't want to admit my financial failures in front of her. “Is it possible for us to grab lunch tomorrow? I can meet you anywhere you say. I'll even buy.” I threw my head back at the last statement.
What in the world am I saying?

“Don't be silly,” Dad said. “Okay. Let's meet around noon at Anthony's Pizzeria for a slice of pizza.”

“Sounds wonderful, Dad. I'll see you tomorrow at noon.”

The following day, over a plastic red-and-white-checkered tablecloth and two slices of pizza, Dad listened while I regurgitated my “sin of spend” (as Tyler called it). I watched a look of disappointment cross his face. My heart sank. As angry as I could get with him about some of the choices he'd made since Mom died, I still hated the thought that I'd let him down, even a little, with my personal decisions. This was the man who'd wanted so much for me to go to college, finish college, have a career. When I'd chosen marriage over knowledge, it was Mom who soothed his ruffled feathers. And, while I know he's long been one of Andre's biggest fans, and he absolutely adores my children, and he sees me as a good mother, this was still way over the top.

“Dad?” I said when I'd finished my saga and he hadn't responded.

“Heather . . .” he began but didn't finish.

I leaned forward, clutched my hands together as though I were offering up a prayer to God. “I need your help, Dad.”

Expressionless eyes met mine. “Go on.”

“I need a job. Something I can do without getting fired because my children get sick.” I gave him my best “please, please, please” look. “Is there
anything
in your office I can help with? Filing? Answering phones? Billing?” I squeezed my hands together. “I'm not too proud to come in at night and scrub toilets.”

At that, Dad laughed.

“I'd have to talk to Jayme-Leigh.”

“Ugh.”

“Or, you could try your luck somewhere else.”

“Okay. Fine.”

“I'm sure we could use some help somewhere. I'll ask BJ. She's the office manager; she'll have a better idea than your sister or I will, but I'll still need to discuss it with her.”

“BJ? That cute little thing is your office manager? What happened to Edwina?”

“Edwina retired.”

“Retired?”

Dad stretched. “Yeah. I hear it's something you can do at sixty-two.”

The next day, Dad called to tell me that he had discussed the matter with both Jayme-Leigh and Anise. I wanted to absolutely blow at the thought of his telling his wife, but thought better of such a notion. Then he told me Anise insisted they loan me the money I had indebted myself to everyone and his brother with and that I could work it off both at the medical office and at her floral shop. Anise, he said, thought I probably had great decorating talent.

I was just certain that wasn't a compliment but a slap in the face, seeing as my debt was décor-related.

I swallowed. Hard. “That's very kind of her,” I said. “When do I start?”

When I had worked—and worked
hard
—for six months, when I had survived the summer with active kids, two part-time jobs, and a husband who continued to work long hours and was still holding a grudge, Dad called me into his office at the end of a Tuesday shift. I was tired and needed to get home to cook dinner but wasn't about to say no to my father.

I tapped on his closed office door, waited for the “come on in,” and then entered. Dad was sitting in one of the two burgundy leather wingback chairs that faced his desk. The ankle of one leg rested on the knee of the other. He had a large book—one of those medical ones he and Jayme-Leigh are forever burrowing their noses into—opened wide in his lap.

He looked over his shoulder. “Hey, kiddo.”

“Hey, Dad. You wanted to see me?”

He closed the book and shifted toward the other chair. “Come sit.”

I did.

“I'll get right to the point. You've done a great job around here, and Anise says you've been exceptional at the shop.”

I groaned inwardly.

“I know you are still not Anise's best friend and you may never be, but she's insisting that I offer you a weekend at the beach house.”