Out With The Old, In With The New

For each of us, one right after another. Boom, boom, boom. I’m the first to cross that dubious threshold in May. Alex turns right after me in August—

Turns? That’s horrible. It sounds like one day we’re light and lively and the next day we’re soured milk. I’d never thought of it that way and wish I hadn’t because it gives me yet another reason to dread turning forty. Anyhow, Rainey, the baby of the bunch, is the last to outlive her shelf life. She turns in November.

And we started the annual girls’ getaway the year of our thirtieth birthdays. So in a sense this year is a double celebration.

But I can’t go. Because I don’t trust my husband enough to leave him alone for two nights….

Nancy Robards Thompson

Nancy Robards Thompson has reinvented herself numerous times. In the process, she’s worked a myriad of jobs, including newspaper reporting; television show stand-in; production and casting extras for movies; and several mind-numbing jobs in the fashion industry and public relations. She earned a degree in journalism, only to realize that reporting “just the facts” bored her silly. Much more content to report to her muse, Nancy has found nirvana doing what she loves most—writing romance fiction full-time. Since hanging up her press pass, this two-time nominee for the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart struck gold in July 2002 when she won the award. She lives in Orlando, Florida, with her husband, Michael, their daughter, and three cats, but that doesn’t stop her from dreaming of a life as a bohemian writer in Paris.

Out with the Old, In with the New

Nancy Robards Thompson

From the Author

Dear Reader,

I read recently that forty is the new thirty. What does that mean? That forty was considered over the hill and is no longer as old as once perceived? Or is it reflective of a new attitude? That chronological age is irrelevant, and a woman can reinvent herself at any age?

The latter is the premise of my story Out with the Old, In with the New. When forty-year-old Kate Hennessey discovers her marriage of twenty years is over, she’s faced with the horrifying realization that she gave half her life to a man who doesn’t want her anymore. At first, she worries the breakup means the best years of her life—and all she’s accomplished in that time—are null and void. Learning to stand on her own two feet, she embraces her new path and the opportunity to grow into her full potential.

I hope you enjoy Kate’s journey of self-discovery. Here’s wishing you a lifetime of love and happiness…and the strength to look deep inside yourself and discover where those qualities live.

Warmly,

Nancy Robards Thompson

This book is dedicated to the transforming

power of friendship and to my good friends

Katherine Garbera, Mary Louise Wells,

Teresa Brown, Elizabeth Grainger, Catherine Kean,

Debbie Pfeiffer, Robin Trimble, Joanne Maio,

Carol Reiss, Evelyn Sechler and Christina Mancia.

Ladies, your friendship makes my life very rich.

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, I’d like to thank two wonderful

women—Michelle Grajkowski, my agent, and

Gail Chasan, my editor. Michelle, thanks for having the

foresight to get this manuscript

into Gail’s hands. Gail, thanks for everything.

I look forward to many years of collaboration

with both of you.

Heartfelt appreciation (and a long overdue dinner) to

Robert Trimble for your sage advice on divorce law (for

the book, thank God, not for real life!).

Finally, love and thanks to Michael and Jennifer.

I couldn’t do this without your love and support.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 1

Confession time. I’m not going on the annual girls’ weekend with Alex and Rainey. But how do you tell your best friends you’re breaking a ten-year tradition because you don’t trust your husband enough to leave him alone for two nights?

It’s embarrassing. Humiliating.

Rainey would hate Corbin if she thought he was having an affair. And Alex—she’d kill him. Then they’d both rally around me, like a prizefighter’s coaches who were training for the kill.

I’m not ready to deal with it. Saying it out loud makes it so…real.

I can hear Alex now. “Kate, if he’s cheating, your staying in town isn’t going to stop him. So you can’t miss our weekend.” And that would inevitably prompt her to add, “If you even think he’s cheating, why don’t you hire a private detective and find out for sure?”

Don’t think I haven’t considered hiring someone. But for God’s sake, it hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours since the bomb dropped. I need time to think, to sort out my options and figure out how to deal with the aftermath, should I discover the man I sleep with every night is being unfaithful.

This ugly jealousy is so new. All I can think of is this time yesterday I trusted my husband. I loved him and was so sure he loved me.

Right now, I don’t even know my next move. Let me figure that out first. Then I’ll sic Alex on him.

So instead of leveling with them, I resort to diversionary tactics. “Palm Beach is too stuffy.” I sink into the couch cushions and slant a glance at Rainey. I catch her almost imperceptible eye roll.

“Come on, Kate.” Alex scowls at me. “You’ve managed to pooh-pooh every suggestion we’ve made tonight. South Beach is too wild. Palm Springs is too boring. Napa’s too far.” She says this in a singsong voice that makes me want to jump out of my skin. “New York’s too… What was wrong with New York?”

I shouldn’t have come tonight, but after what happened today, I’ve been running on autopilot, trying to regain my equilibrium. Quite unsuccessfully, I might add. So I can’t blame them for being annoyed. I’d be irritated with me, too. Especially since this girls’ getaway is the last one we’ll take as thirty-somethings.

Yep, the big four-oh looms right down the pike. For each of us, one right after the other. Boom, boom, boom. I’m the first of the three to cross that dubious threshold in May. Alex turns right after me in August—

Turns.

Turns? That’s horrible. It sounds like one day we’re light and lively and the next day we’re soured milk. I’d never thought of it that way and wish I hadn’t, because it gives me yet another reason to dread turning forty. Anyhow, Rainey is the baby of the bunch, the last of us to outlive her shelf life. She turns in November.

We started the annual girls’ getaway the year of our thirtieth birthdays. So in a sense this year is a double celebration—ten years of annual getaways and our foray into the fabulous forties. I guess that makes me a double party pooper.

“Must we decide this tonight? It’s late.” I stand up and prepare to leave, ignoring the pair of disapproving looks. Rainey levels me with a stare that screams stop being so difficult.

“Palm Beach is perfect. It has spas and shopping. What more could we ask for? All in favor of Palm Beach?”

As I pull my car keys from my bag, the two of them raise their hands, voting yes, looking at me with equal parts exasperation and impatience.

I hitch my Coach bag onto my shoulder. “Okay, fine. Palm Beach. Whatever.”

At this point, I’ll agree to anything, even though I have no intention of actually going. I just want to leave before the walls close in on me. Later, I’ll think of a plausible excuse to bow out of the trip. Maybe I’ll even tell the truth.

Ha. The truth. What a novel idea.

I don’t have to tell them about my suspicions, mind you. The other truth is that my six-year-old, Caitlin, hates it when I go away, which is not very often. So I can’t go because Corbin’s not a good babysitter. He’s a good dad, and Caitlin loves him as if he were a prince. But when it comes to bedtime, she wants me.

God, that’s lame. They’ll never buy it.

Well, we’re all adults. Alex and Rainey will understand. Eventually.

Alex makes a satisfied noise. “This is going to be a blast.” She does a little merengue step. “We’re going to get every imaginable spa treatment known to woman-kind, then we’re going to par-tay and we’re going to shop— Oh, Kate, that reminds me, I still have your pearls. Let me run upstairs and get them before you go.”

She’s out of the room before I can tell her not to worry about it. Rainey and I stand face-to-face for an awkward moment. I can tell she’s going to ask what’s bugging me. So I drop my purse onto the chair, pick up my champagne flute and carry it to the kitchen.

She follows me.

The room is too small for both of us and the pregnant questions wedged between.

I keep my back to her and wash my glass.

“Are you all right?” she finally asks. “You haven’t been yourself all night.”

“I’m fine. Tired.”

My composure wavers. In my mind’s eye I see hysteria reaching up to trip me, yanking my poise out from under me like an old rug. I have that sense of slow-motion disorientation, like when you see yourself suspended in midair a split second before a hard fall.

But I’m still standing.

If I stand perfectly still, not moving or speaking or breathing, I will not go down.

I will not come undone.

For a full minute I let the water run over my hands and stare at the vivid cobalt and yellow in the Spanish tile backsplash behind Alex’s kitchen sink.

My eyes haven’t teared. No surprise. For the past twelve hours, I’ve felt as if I were locked inside a wooden cask of a body, incapable of emotion. Numbed by the hard exterior that’s settled around me.

Movement reflected in the kitchen window catches my eye. I see Rainey’s reflection. She’s just standing there. Not pushing or needling or prodding. Somehow, without even looking directly at her, I sense she’s reaching out through the murky stillness. I know in that instant I could fall backward, and she wouldn’t let me hit the ground. But I can’t right now. I just can’t.

I turn to her and say, “I’m fine, Rainey. Really.”

Alex enters with my pearls. They were an anniversary gift from Corbin. She drops them into my hand, and I get the absurd vision that they’re an abacus tallying Corbin’s transgressions.

One precious pearl for each sin against our marriage. I’m sober enough to realize I’m just tipsy enough to let my imagination run rampant, but I’m okay to drive. I wouldn’t get behind the wheel otherwise.

Fingering the pearls, I grab my purse, say good-night and escape into the chilly cloak of moonless night, wishing it would swallow me whole so I wouldn’t have to go home and face my husband.

During my twenty-minute drive to Winter Park I realize I need to come up with a game plan. I’ve had since ten o’clock this morning when the mail arrived to think about it. Yet I still can’t force myself to go there. What in the world am I going to say to Corbin when I get home?

“Sweetheart, I received the strangest letter in the mail today. It said, ‘Ask your husband what he’s been doing all those nights he claimed to be at the hospital.’” Then I’ll laugh to prove I’m confident the note’s a prank.

Then he’ll laugh, and it will become our own private joke. He’ll pull me into bed and make love to me to show me how absurd the letter was.

We haven’t made love in months. Why would tonight be any different? Especially when I’m pretty sure he’s not going to be overly thrilled about getting his own dinner. When it came time to go out, I fed Caitlin and let her go play at the neighbor’s house. I was in such a fog I didn’t even think about fixing his dinner. I hope I locked the door.

I can’t think straight for all the bells and whistles sounding in my head warning that something’s rotten in the Hennessey household. If I ignore my gut feeling I’ll be just like all the other pathetic women who know damn well their husbands are screwing around, but pretend they don’t have a clue so they can keep the big house and the fancy cars and the summertime trips to Tuscany. How can they live knowing their whole life is a sham?

I look at the dashboard clock glowing azure. I now have approximately ten minutes to concoct a plan. Most likely he’ll be asleep. Do I wake him up and confront him? Throw the letter in his face and scream, “What the fuck have you been doing?”

I shudder. I hate that word. I hate feeling compelled to ask him to account for his time. But most of all, I want him to know I hate playing the fool.

I could wake him and ask, “So, Corbin, what have you been doing lately?”

Ha. I can see it now. He’ll blink because he’s sleepy, then he’ll look at me as if I’m an idiot and repeat the question back to me. “What have I been doing lately, Kate?”

He’ll tick off a list of noble and important deeds. You know, a typical surgeon’s fourteen-hour day. It won’t be what he says that hurts, but how he says it. Especially when he adds his favorite line: “That was my day, Kate. What did you do today?”

And I’ll say, “Well, Corbin, today I pondered why someone would send me a letter encouraging me to ask you what you do with yourself. But if it were any other day, I’d probably have to stop and think, God, what did I do today? It certainly slipped by fast. When itemized, my list would be just as long as yours, I’m sure. But since I’m just a mom and a typical day for me revolves around the PTA and organizing school bake sales and timing my life to have dinner ready in between running our daughter to two-hour dance classes and peewee cheerleading lessons, I didn’t have time to discover the cure for AIDS and the common cold, much less screw around on you. Certainly not as complex as a doctor’s day, but my life is full.”

I steer the car off the interstate and as I coast to a stop at the light at Fairbanks and Highway 17-92, I realize I’ve been talking to myself—out loud. There’s a couple in a black Corvette in the lane next to me, but they’re making out, oblivious to my self-banter and my watching them go at it.

If Corbin does have a girlfriend, where do they rendezvous? A cheap motel? Her place? In the car? I surprise myself at how I can ponder the possibilities so calmly. I suppose the logistics would depend on the bimbo.

God, who is she?

Do I know her?

Someone in his office? The hospital? The country club? Someone I’ve invited into my home? That would be the worst. The champagne bubbles up sourly in the back of my throat. I take a few deep breaths and remind myself this whole thing could be a hoax.

“A hoax.”

I say the words aloud hoping they will ring true. But my gut instinct doesn’t buy it.

Somehow I know.

I just know.

The light turns green, and I stomp on the gas pedal. The wheels scream as I lurch into the intersection. There’s something satisfying about the obnoxious sound. Like steam screaming through the release valve on a pressure cooker. I hope the noise startled the kissing couple in the Corvette enough to make them knock noses.

A few minutes later, I steer my Lexus SUV into the driveway and hit the garage door opener. I wait for the door to lift and notice the glow of the living-room lights seeping through the slats of the plantation shutters, as though a happy family lives here. Maybe Corbin’s still awake. A wave of panic seizes me, and I can’t breathe for a few seconds.

But I force air into my lungs. I still have no idea what I’m going to say to him, but I decide right then and there I’m not going to make it easy for him. Girls’ getaway be damned. Going out of town with Alex and Rainey would be like handing him a free pass to be with her.

Whoever she is.

I pull into the garage, kill the engine and sit there until the door wheezes and squeaks shut behind me. Once closed, the garage is perfectly silent, except for the occasional tick and sigh of the car’s hot engine.

If I really want to know who she is I can find out.

The thought makes my heart beat so fast it hurts. I take a deep breath to calm myself, run my hand over the tan glove leather of the passenger seat. I need to touch something tangible, something tactile, to ground me in reality.

I love this car. It was Corbin’s present to me three months ago for our twentieth anniversary. He picked it out himself. Had it delivered with a big red bow on the hood. Like something you’d see in a television commercial.

If material gifts were a standard of measure for his love, there would be no doubt. Always generous. A good provider. And a good father.

Because of that, doesn’t he deserve the benefit of the doubt? Or at least a chance to explain?

The beginning of a headache buzzes in my temples. I close my eyes and press my fingers against the lids, but it doesn’t help. When I open my eyes again, the dim overhead light casts an eerie yellow glow. Everything looks fuzzy and out of proportion, especially the shadows.

If I shine a bright light directly into the darkness, will I prove this dread is merely a figment of my imagination?

As my eyes focus, I see Caitlin’s in-line skates hanging on the Peg-Board next to the kitchen door. Corbin’s golf clubs sit below. My treadmill, slightly dusty, is next to it. Our three bikes are suspended by chains from the ceiling.

Am I willing to give it all up so easily because of an anonymous letter containing one vague sentence?

A chill winds its way through my body. Despite the cool January-in-Florida weather, the night air feels clammy and clings to me like a bad omen.

Okay, I’ll ask him.

I’ll ask him because I need Corbin to explain this away. Not so I can turn the other cheek while he fools around. I want him to convince me it’s not true for the sake of our family.

For the twenty years I’ve given him.

God, that’s half my life.

I let myself out of the car. As I put my key in the kitchen door, I hear Jack, our yellow Lab, barking before I let myself inside. He jumps up to greet me as I step into the kitchen.

“Shh, Jack. Be quiet. You’re going to wake the whole house.” I stroke his silky head half hoping, half fearing Corbin will call out to me that he’s in the living room. But he doesn’t.

The dirty dinner dishes are still on the table along with the remnants of Chinese takeout. I flip off the kitchen light.

My heels click on the hardwood floor as I walk into the living room. Is every light in the house on?

“Corbin?”

The house is so still my words seem to echo back at me. I turn off the downstairs lights and make my way upstairs, which is completely dark by contrast. I push open Caitlin’s bedroom door. Her night-light glows in the corner.

She’s sleeping on her stomach like an angel child in her pink canopy bed. Long, curly blond hair flows around her. She looks like a princess floating on a spun-gold cloud.

As far as her daddy’s concerned, she is a princess. Although he wasn’t exactly thrilled when I found out I was pregnant. Caitlin was a surprise. Our son, Daniel, was thirteen when she was born, and Corbin was ready to “have his life back,” as he put it. We were going to travel, and he wanted more time for golf.

Secretly, I was thrilled to be pregnant again. I’d miscarried three times after Daniel was born. Then I quit conceiving.

I just knew she’d be a girl. Not that I don’t love my son. I do. I just always wanted a baby girl. And now that Daniel’s away at college, it’s great having someone who still needs me. See, she was meant to be.

That’s what I kept telling Corbin and, of course, the minute she was born she had him wrapped around her little finger. So it’s been a moot point ever since. I mean what’s not to love?

She just turned six. It’s a wonderful age. Every age is wonderful, but this one is particularly nice. She’s so sweet, and there’s nothing I’d rather do than be her mother.

Is that so bad? Does it make me unambitious to find fulfillment in motherhood?

I suppose I should add wife to that job description. But it goes without saying.

Doesn’t it?

I stroke a wisp of hair off Caitlin’s forehead and realize with startling clarity as if I’m staring back through a tunnel of years that mine and Corbin’s relationship went a little off track when I got pregnant. I guess we haven’t had a chance to reconnect as we should have. But you know how it is having a new baby. Since then, life set sail on its own course. Corbin’s practice has just been named the staff physicians for Orlando Magic—the NBA team—and he’s busier than ever at the hospital. Sometimes I’ve felt as if all I can do is hold on or risk falling overboard.

But now everything’s run aground because of that damned letter.

My heart aches. I kiss Caitlin’s cheek and linger to inhale her sweet scent, but she stirs, and I pull back so I don’t wake her.

I walk down the dark hall, into our darker bedroom. I click on the overhead light. Corbin’s asleep on his side. His back is to me. When I sit on the side of the bed, my thigh grazes his body.

I touch his bare shoulder. He lets out a little snore.

“Corbin, wake up. We need to talk.”

CHAPTER 2

I remember a time when a pickup line was defined as a lustful attempt to make somebody’s acquaintance. For the past nineteen years, the only pickup line I’ve been party to is the slow-moving, after-school queue that snakes around the Liberty School parking lot.

I don’t miss being hit on. What bothers me as I sit waiting for my daughter to get out of school is the fact that I never noticed the incongruous dual usage of the term.

Pickup line.

It’s so ridiculous. How could I have missed it?

It makes me wonder what else I’ve overlooked all these years.

I trust so freely. I mean, why shouldn’t I? If a person—namely my husband—has never given me reason to doubt him, why shouldn’t I trust him implicitly? It can’t be any other way. A relationship without trust is a derailed train.

No. Worse.

It’s a yawning sinkhole that opens its greedy jaws and devours everything that once seemed stable. Without trust, you might as well end it before the relationship gets ugly.

Because it will. Without trust, sooner or later you’ll end up eating each other alive.

That’s why when Corbin pronounced the letter someone’s idea of a sick joke, I chose to believe him.

I had to.

If you could have seen him, his eyes hooded and heavy with sleep. He propped himself up on his elbow and blinked at the paper I thrust in his face. “What’s this?”

The overhead light cast shadows on his face, hollowing his cheeks, making his cheekbones appear even sharper. So handsome. What woman wouldn’t want him?

“I don’t know, Corbin. I was hoping you could explain it to me.”

The memory seems ancient, as though it happened years ago, but it still shakes me to the core. I move up three car lengths, edging closer, but not too close, to the Volvo station wagon in front of me, then pull the lapels of my navy-blue peacoat closed at my neck and wait in stone-cold silence for the pickup line to inch its way around to Caitlin. The radio’s off because every time I turned it on they were playing songs like “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover,” and “How am I Supposed to Live Without You.” When was the last time I heard those ditties?