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  I took a deep breath.

  I’d said goodbye.

  It was time to pack. Out with stuffy business suits. In with things two-piece and revealing.

  CHAPTER 2

  I lifted the curtain from the front window and watched as Henry drove away, his Mercedes pausing at the end of our one-hundred-foot driveway. His turn signal was on, another obsessive behavior that I couldn’t understand. Who in heaven’s name was behind him to see it, anyway?

  He sped on towards Route 29, which he would take south into Charlottesville. I glanced at my father’s church across the street and let the curtain fall. I analyzed my emotions. Knowing this was the last time I would watch Henry leave from this window, what should I feel?

  Sad? Hardly.

  Despair? Don’t make me laugh.

  Guilt? Maybe a little. All good church-goers feel guilty.

  But as of this morning, my plans would take me far from the fold of good Christendom. My Christian life was a prop, an implant of sorts, something I’d worn for so long to look proper that I’d forgotten what naked felt like. But I was done with that. I’d put on for so long, I was cancer-sick of the act. What began as a one-act play at a wilderness church camp had settled over me as a life-role. Today, I planned to shed my skin and let the world see a bit of the snake within. Was I the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing? Perhaps, but I’d grown so used to the wool sweaters of Christianity that I wasn’t so sure I could recognize the real me.

  Today, I was taking off the wool. Goodbye perfect house. Goodbye perfect husband. Should I feel remorse? I shook my head to answer my own question, aware that I was departing from a life-path that was predictable and comfortable, if a bit boring. I felt like a child ready to jump rock to rock to cross a rushing stream. I was ready to find my way, reaching my toes forward into the future, testing the stability of a stone and then committing to a launch that promised freedom of new life at the risk of a slippery fall.

  Mostly, I was aware that I felt little of the loss that I thought I should feel. Henry was a surgeon, a provider comparable to few. He’d certainly lifted my social status. He had given me everything I wanted.

  But nothing I needed.

  Henry was gone.

  I had dreamed of this moment for months. I was about to do what I imagined millions of nice Christian women dreamed of doing but dismissed as out-of-the-question outrageous.

  Henry’s gone.

  I took a deep breath. I hadn’t even left him yet, and already a familiar guilt tugged at my conscience. I pushed it away, determined to give it a shove so hard it wouldn’t threaten me again. The moment called for music, something danceable — another sin. In my teen Sunday school class they always called dances “foot-functions,” so as not to raise the eyebrows of crotchety Miss Fogberry. From today, I would dance.

  I pulled a CD from my private stash and ejected one of Henry’s symphonies. “Thirty-nine Minutes of Bliss (In an Otherwise Meaningless World)” by Caesars. I pressed the forward diamond on the front of the player and waited for the sounds of “Jerk It Out.” I gave the volume knob a healthy twist and bobbed my blonde locks to the rhythm. I danced back into the foyer and performed for the mirror, shaking my hair and my Christian backside with such liberty that I laughed out loud.

  Jesus would like this, I thought. He must not have been a pew-sitter akin to Miss Fogberry.

  After the song, I lifted my hair and thought about keeping it. It was fun bouncing it from side to side. I shook my head. Nope. Today it’s history. Along with this house and my marriage.

  I contemplated my position and wondered how someone arrived at a place like mine, a life so whitewashed that no one saw the real me. On routine days, I thought I’d even fooled myself, accepting my appearance and my words at face value. I’d never intended for it to be this way. I never thought I could be bold enough to leave my husband, my family, or the church.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t have good reasons. If anything, I should have run from the sheepfold at fourteen, the moment a trusted leader in my father’s congregation robbed me of my innocence. But instead of running, I followed my mother down a path of deception, outwardly smiling as my soul-wound festered, red with pain. And month by month, I tried not to cry. And soon I mastered a smile so natural that even I had trouble recognizing the real thing.

  But today wasn’t a day to mull over my past. Today was a day for rebirth of the new me. I was a woman with a purpose. I marched down the hall towards my bedroom, a physical attempt at corralling my emotions into a fence of confidence.

  I flopped my American Tourister onto our king-size bed. I’d packed with Henry watching. That wasn’t fun. This was going to be. I opened the bottom drawer of the mahogany bureau. It was easily a foot deep and four feet wide. In one motion, I dumped the entire contents of the suitcase into the drawer and whumped it shut with my foot.

  Then, I entered estrogen central, my walk-in closet. It was big enough to house my Mercedes and contained a wardrobe easily double the value of my car. I’d hidden a few things in the back behind my furs. It was silly, I knew, because Henry had looked in there once in six years, and even then, he backed out pale and breathless.

  I replaced the business attire with four bathing suits and three cocktail dresses, including one with a slit so high up the side that I was sure Miss Fogberry would get angina if she was still alive. God bless her lemony soul, I thought, adding a sexy black teddy. With each item, I imagined my sister’s approval. Unlike me, Rene had lived her life in open rebellion against our parents’ wishes. She was a bold, in-your-face sinner, and I envied the happy way she gulped life, like she’d just surfaced from the bottom of a pool thirsty for air. Rene was evil. When she was thirteen, she paid for one movie ticket and got lost in the theater to watch three different films. She lived with her boyfriend in New Orleans, a city brimming with temptations I blushed to discuss. But Rene was an honest sinner, and I an R-rated actress in a G-rated life.

  I threw in my Nikes, a pair of running shorts, and a sports bra because I knew that “all-inclusive” meant I had a week of calorie excess coming my way.

  I looked at my stand-up jewelry chest, momentarily frozen. Then I twisted off my one-carat diamond and pushed it into a felt ring slot in the top drawer. I frowned, a sudden lump in my throat. I would miss my ring more than Henry. I loved that ring. Perhaps I’d get it reset in a stylish divorce pendant. Would that be tacky or what?

  My wedding ring came off with more effort. Henry had designed it for me. It had three intertwined golden cords, based on some verse in the book of Ecclesiastes. A threefold cord is not easily broken. I had no idea Henry even knew the Old Testament contained the book of Ecclesiastes. I cradled the small ring in my hand and gave it a goodbye squeeze. Our wedding had been perfect, a fifty thousand dollar extravagance that Henry paid himself because my father wasn’t able. Everything had to be just so for my obsessive husband-to-be. Flowers. Gown. Reception. Cake. The right guests. The correct champagne. I sighed. We had an awesome wedding ceremony, didn’t we, Henry? Sometimes I wondered whether, if we’d spent five thousand on the wedding and forty-five thousand on things that developed our relationship through common interests, things would have turned out differently.

  After a deep breath, I set it gently in its resting place beside the diamond.

  A moment later, I caught myself staring without seeing. It was time for change.

  I’d said goodbye to Henry. Goodbye to my diamond.

  I checked my watch. It was time to say goodbye to my hair.

  I freshened my lipstick. I’d already kissed one man and planned to kiss another.

  I backed my sedan out and avoided looking at my front yard, but diverting my eyes didn’t quell a stab of guilt. It seemed I was doomed to live under the shadow of the Almighty. At this hour of the morning, the sun pulled up behind my father’s church and dropped a shadow of the steeple cross right onto a bank of ivy next to the drive. A daily reminder of my failure to be a good Christian.
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br />   I paused at the end of the drive and shook my head at the pitiful row of golden willows I’d had Jack plant. Jack was my piano teacher and seven years my junior. He supplemented his income by doing landscaping. He directed the choir at the church across the street, and I planned on rolling in his arms before the sun dropped too far into the Caribbean that night.

  The trees were supposed to reach fifteen feet in two years and were part of my plan to block out the condemning shadow that fell across my turf. It was bad enough living in the same town with my father, and worse yet that Henry insisted the lot across from the church was perfect for so many reasons, including its proximity to First Baptist.

  I’d conceded to buying the property in a weak moment when Henry and I watched the sun set over the Blue Ridge Mountains while standing next to a for-sale sign. He’d brought two plastic glasses and a fifteen-dollar bottle of chilled champagne. My worst university dates had gotten me tipsy and tried to see behind my brassiere. But not Henry. He just wanted me high enough to approve of his plans for his perfect house. I, being his perfect wife and slightly intoxicated, said, “Why not?” But it was evening, and I didn’t know about morning shadows then.

  I growled under my breath at the scrawny trees and broken horticultural promises and made a left turn.

  Ten minutes later, I entered Trendsetters and went straight to Ellie’s chair as Ellie motioned me in. “Morning, Wendi. I didn’t expect to see you for a couple weeks.”

  I smiled sheepishly. “Do you still know my original color?”

  Ellie’s jaw dropped. “You’re such a beautiful blonde.” Her hands went to her hips. “You love being blonde.”

  I shook my hair. “Henry loved me being blonde.”

  The hairdresser sighed.

  I pulled out a magazine page that I had folded in my purse.

  “There,” I said, pointing at the model with her hair just above her ears. “Make me look like that.”

  She shrugged. “That I can do. But you need to tell me your story.”

  Ellie. She cuts my hair. She massages my soul. “Got all day?”

  “Give me the Reader’s Digest version. You’ve got my ear until ten.”

  Three hours later, I paced my kitchen waiting for my piano teacher, Jack Renner. I looked at the kitchen clock, a black kitten with a tail and eyes that flicked back and forth with each second. Kitty told me that in three hours Jack and I would be on our way to Jamaica and a week of freedom from responsible behavior.

  I double-checked our ticket itinerary that I’d printed and slid it in the front pocket of my carry-on next to a brochure promising white sand, blue water, and a variety of water sports. I wondered if Jack liked snorkeling. Maybe we could learn to windsurf together. The flyer mentioned live Reggae bands. We could stay up late and sleep in. Or go to bed early and skip the bands. I’d packed outfits for either possibility.

  There was only one small detail that needed to fall into place.

  Well, OK, it was a huge detail. One that I’d reserved for the last possible minute so I could chicken out and no one would be the wiser.

  I hadn’t asked Jack to go.

  CHAPTER 3

  I heard his car in the driveway and scurried to the foyer, checking my new do in the mirror. What if Jack didn’t like it? I shook my head. Ridiculous. I look great.

  I think.

  The doorbell rang. I froze and counted to twenty. I didn’t want to appear too anxious. I yelled, “The door’s open,” and ran to the piano bench where I appeared to be absorbed in an Alfred’s piano instruction book. At thirty-two, I should have been a virtuoso, but I was only in level two. Most third-graders played better than I did.

  I didn’t look over when I heard his steps. Instead, I stumbled through my half of a duet entitled “Teasing Mr. Hanon.”

  “Wendi?”

  I glanced his way and played on as if intent on my work.

  I stopped when I felt his eyes fixed on my face. “Yes?”

  “Your hair.”

  I shrugged as if I’d forgotten all about the change. “Oh that.”

  “Wow,” he said, smiling.

  I smiled back. This man couldn’t hide an emotion.

  And I loved him for it. If he liked something, he’d say it, politically correct or not.

  “I love it. From the back I wondered if I had the right house.”

  I laughed and held up my hands, which flopped outward, palms up. “It’s the real me.” I paused. “Finally.”

  He squinted at me.

  I explained. “I’ve been bottle-blonde too long, Jack.” I let my eyes linger on his face a moment before turning back to my Steinway grand piano and continuing with my voice quiet. “I thought it was time for a little honesty on my part. No more masks.” I hesitated and added, “What you see is what you get.” I offered a sideways glance. Was he listening to me?

  I rested my hands on the keyboard. A Steinway piano. Good grief. With my skill, I should be playing on some yard-sale cast-off. The piano was a gift from Henry. He insisted on it when I said I’d always wanted to learn. I’d mentioned it almost in passing, but he’d picked up on it, and the very next week, when I returned home tired from a consulting job, there it was, ready for me to unleash fingers that seemed more suited to adjusting a volume knob.

  It’s ironic, I thought. Henry bought the instrument that turned my heart to this younger man at my side. Jack the honest. Jack the open book. Henry described him as artsy, but I called him my renaissance boy.

  I glanced at him a second time. What you see is what you get, Jack. I screamed it in my mind. He wasn’t getting the vibes.

  “Shall I play it with you?” he asked.

  I looked back at the duet. “Sure,” I whispered, my voice suddenly hard to find.

  He set the metronome. “Let’s try it a little slower. One, two, ready, go.”

  We played it together. Jack made even my baby steps sound decent. He embellished the edge of the song with added grace notes, something I was convinced he’d do to my life as well.

  I remembered the first time I’d seen him play. He gave free performances in my mother’s nursing home every Sunday afternoon. I was so smitten, I’d asked him that very day if he’d take me on and teach me.

  Week after week, he patiently walked me through my lesson, demonstrating again and again proper hand position and counting. Every lesson, I let my wrist droop, knowing he would gently remind me with a touch to lift my hand into place.

  We played two more elementary duets and laughed at my mistakes. “I practice every day. Honest I do,” I said.

  “You’re doing fine.” Jack the encourager. “It takes time to get really good.”

  I kept getting distracted by his left thigh against mine. My leg felt like it was on fire. I glanced at my watch. We should be getting to the airport soon, and I needed to give him time to pack.

  I turned my head as he leaned forward to flip through my books, looking for a playable piece. When he straightened, I let my lips stroke his left ear. A light touch. It could have been an accident. I waited for his response. He didn’t pull away. So far, so good, I thought. I touched him again, a little longer this time, my lips soft against his earlobe. Still, he didn’t pull away. “Jack,” I whispered in his ear.

  I listened as he swallowed, and I sensed his head push ever so slightly against my lips.

  I felt that someone had switched my heart for a galloping horse — no, a jack-hammer, I thought. I breathed his name again, my voice hot against his face.

  He turned into me, allowing my lips to slide across his cheek. When my lips were at the edge of his mouth, I pulled away, my eyes intent on his, searching for desire. I saw it there, for an instant, just before he blinked and covered his mouth with his hand. “I — I’m sorry,” he gasped.

  Jack the open book. He wanted to kiss me.

  But something held him back. Jack had moral scruples, and I was a married woman.

  When he leaned forward, I placed my fingers on his lips a
nd intercepted his kiss. “Not here,” I said. “Not just yet.”

  He pulled up, confused. “I shouldn’t.”

  “Stop,” I said, tapping his wonderful mouth. “Listen,” I whispered. “Go with me to Jamaica.” I paused, capturing his eyes.

  “Leave with me today.”

  His jaw dropped. I coaxed it closed with my hand and leaned forward so that I could talk with my lips against his ear. I teased at his hair with my fingers.

  “I’ve already purchased the tickets, Jack. Just say you’ll go.”

  “I — ” his voice halted.

  “Just say yes, Jack,” I whispered. “I want you to go with me.”

  “But you’re married.” He pulled away and stood up, nearly stumbling off the bench. “We’re not married.”

  “Look at me and tell me you don’t feel something special.” I stood and stepped towards him. “I know you.”

  He stopped backing. He was cornered against the curve of the Steinway. “But we — ”

  “Papers, Jack. I’m married on paper. Not in my heart.” I stared at him. I’m going to have to play it firm. I pressed him against the piano. “What does your heart say? What do you feel?”

  I pushed my face into his neck. “I know what I feel, Jack.”

  “I am attracted to you,” he stammered. “You’re a beautiful woman. I — ”

  “I’m tired of doing everything for the right reasons. Everything for someone else. And nothing for me. I’m tired of living a lie.”

  “So you want to run away. Just like that?”

  “I’ve been dreaming about this for months, Jack. Tell me you don’t feel the same.”

  “You’re married.”

  “For now. You didn’t tell me how you feel.”

  He walked away from me and let the silence grow between us. When he finally spoke, I thought my heart would escape my chest. “Every night I fantasize what would happen if Dr. Stratford died.” His cheeks reddened. He told the truth because lying to me wasn’t in him. He shook his head slowly and stared at the carpet. “I find myself wishing for some kind of lethal illness. For a fatal accident.” The last words surged forward until his throat abruptly closed in the beginning of a sob. This honesty was hard even for Jack.