“You have to decide you want to be happy.”

What if you fail? Locking yourself away in your studio is so safe; you don’t have to put yourself to the test. What if you get to Paris and prove you’re a great big failure? What if you go all that way and they don’t want you anymore, just like Blake didn’t?

Okay, I thought. They lay Paris in your lap and you have to think about it? Oh, just kill me now. Or ask your son what he thinks about this….

And Ben had two simple sentences for me:

“Are you crazy, Mom? Go for it.”

Go for it.

I was finally going far away.

I was going to Paris.

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.

What Happens in Paris

(STAYS IN PARIS?)

Nancy Robards Thompson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

I’m a firm believer in the old adage, “When one door closes a window opens.” Because sometimes what seems to be a devastating end is actually a blessed beginning, a window of opportunity to a better life path.

That’s exactly what happens to Annabelle Essex in my NEXT novel, What Happens in Paris (Stays in Paris?). The end of her marriage opens the door for her to discover her authentic self and fulfill unrequited dreams. When life pushes her out of her comfort zone, she steps up to the challenge with grace and dignity (after an initial period of kicking, screaming and cursing fate). In the end, her courage is rewarded in ways she could never have imagined had she not faced her dark hour.

Life does move in mysterious ways. Sooner or later, change knocks at everyone’s door. Sometimes we face the challenges willingly; often it’s with a great deal of angst and trepidation. The next time you find yourself standing at life’s crossroad, I wish you the courage to take a leap of faith that will land you on your best path.

Warmly,

Nancy Robards Thompson

This book is dedicated to Michael and that kiss we shared on the quay of the River Seine. Here’s to many more. Je t’aime.

And to Jennifer, who patiently understands that the only way books get written is when Mommy spends long stretches of uninterrupted time at the computer. Jen, you are my sunshine.

Je t’aime.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to my editor, Gail Chasan, Tara Gavin and all the

wonderful people at Harlequin who make it possible for me to

do what I love.

Thanks to my agent, Michelle Grajkowski, for everything!

Thanks to my critique partners, Teresa Brown,

Elizabeth Grainger and Catherine Kean, who make the hard

parts of writing fun. Special thanks to Elizabeth

for double-checking my French.

I couldn’t have written this book without valuable insight

from attorney Adam Reiss. Thanks for the lowdown on laws

pertaining to lewd and lascivious behavior, bailing oneself out

of jail and filling me in on other—umm—interesting aspects of

getting arrested; and special thanks to my good friend

Carol Reiss, who did not bat an eye when I told her

I needed to discuss lewd and lasciviousness with

her husband. It’s all in a day’s work, right?

“Grandmère, marriage is sacred,” says the girl.

The old lady quivers. “Love is sacred,” she replies. “Often, marriage and love have no connection. You get married to found a family and you found a family to constitute society. Society cannot do without marriage. If society is a chain, then every family is a link in that chain. When one gets married, one is bound to respect a social code…but one may love twenty times because nature has made us that way inclined. You see, marriage is a law, and love is an instinct that moves us to the right or to the left.”

—Conseils d’une Grandmère, Guy de Maupassant (1850–1893)

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 1

My first clue should have been the infestation of gold-embossed, cream-linen envelopes from various law firms. Thirty-three of them I counted in our mailbox on that otherwise ordinary Friday evening. Each one addressed to my husband, Blake Essex.

My second hint should have been the way Blake swept them out of sight, nonchalantly shrugging them off when I asked about them.

“Who knows?” he said. “If I had the money they spend on postage for the worthless junk mail I get, I’d be a wealthy man.”

That was enough for me. I mean, he was right. We did get an excessive amount of junk mail. Just never from attorneys. Still, it was Friday night and all I wanted was a gin and tonic—not a fight. I’d had enough stress at work that week. The wonderful world of marketing can take its toll.

I shoved all thoughts of the unopened lawyer letters to the back shelf in my mind—the place where I stored nagging doubts and discrepancies that didn’t quite add up but couldn’t be explained—and mixed us a drink.

We went on with our Friday-night ritual as we had for the past eighteen years, politely working together to get dinner, cleaning up afterward, watching a DVD, performing our bedtime routine, giving each other a peck on the lips, and falling asleep, back to back, on our separate sides of the big, king-size bed.

Standard MO for an old married couple.

That’s what I used to tell myself.

But now that I think about it, the letters weren’t my first clue. By the time they arrived, it was as if the universe was at its wits end and had resorted to slapping me up the side of the head and shouting, Open your eyes, you blind idiot. Can’t you see the truth?

Even so, I didn’t put two and two together until the next day when my sister, Rita, and I were on our way to Saint Petersburg to catch Le Cycle des Nymphéas—Monet’s water lilies—exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts.

Rita was driving and I was reading the newspaper, skimming each page diligently to make sure the competition didn’t somehow get a leg up on the retirement company I do marketing and advertising for, scoring free press in the paper. I’d finished with the main section and moved on to the local and state when I spied mug shots of two men that gave me pause.

One man looked like Blake.

I did a double take and realized the name under the photo was Essex. The other was of a basketball coach at one of the high schools.

Every little inkling lurking in the murky shadows of my subconscious jumped to attention and my worst fears were confirmed—right there for all of central Florida to read in twelve-point type.

My husband had been arrested for lewd and lascivious behavior after being caught in a sex act with—another man?

The high-school basketball coach.

Thursday, they were caught in a secluded park in Seminole County. According to the paper, it’s a place frequented by people—especially men—who are looking to exchange sexual favors. The coach had been arrested there before, but the school had no knowledge of his run-in with the law.

That’s why the story was in the newspaper.

For everyone to read—

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” I was shrieking. I couldn’t stop myself. “Rita, pull over. I’m going to be sick.”

She swerved a little bit. “What’s the matter?” She glanced at me, then back at the road as if she didn’t know what to do.

“Just pull over. Hurry!”

She veered off onto the interstate’s shoulder, and I tossed the paper in her lap as I stumbled from the car in the nick of time before upchucking my bagel.

The next thing I knew, Rita’s hand was on my back and she was handing me a bottle of water.

“Here, rinse your mouth.”

I took it without looking at her and did just that.

“Did you read it?” I asked.

“Enough to get the gist.”

I turned to face her. Hot tears of anger and humiliation and disbelief brimmed and spilled. “Oh my God! What am I going to do? What am I going to say to him? To everyone who knows us? How could he let me find out like this?” I realized I was screaming because the words scalded my throat and I started choking.

Rita took my quaking arm and led me in the direction of the car. But I shook out of her grasp and stumbled back a few steps.

“How could he do this? I hate him! How could he do this?”

I landed hard on my rump in the sparse grass, in the midst of the sharp-edged rocks and sand, sobbing with my head in my hands. In the periphery of my mind I heard my sister urging me to get in the car, then I heard the crunch of tires pulling off the side of the road.

I looked up and saw a cop. Rita confirmed that, yes, I was okay. I’d just suffered a shock after receiving some bad news and needed some fresh air.

All I could think was, Oh God, if the cop runs my name, he’ll know I’m married to Blake. Then it dawned on me that this was how it would be for the rest of my life. Look, there’s Annabelle Essex. She was married to Blake Essex, that guy caught having sex with another man.

I put my head on my knees until I felt a shadow block out the sun. I looked up and the cop loomed over me.

“You okay, lady? You need me to call an ambulance or something?”

I wiped a sand-gritty hand over my face and shook my head. “I—I’m fine.”

“Then get back in your car and move on. It’s not safe to loiter on the side of the highway like this.”

For a split second I contemplated that perhaps getting flattened by a large truck was preferable to getting in Rita’s car and driving back to my ruined life. But then good sense rallied and I realized I’d rather be alive to torture Blake.

He’d have hell to pay for this.

I intended to collect in full.

Having your dirty laundry aired in the newspaper feels like standing in the middle of a busy street stark naked. No, it’s more like standing in the middle of a busy intersection and not realizing the world is looking at you standing there stark naked until it’s too late and—oops, the joke’s on you.

Oh, look—I’m naked.

I’m standing here like a fool.

With that newspaper article, the whole of me was reduced to what was printed on page B–1 of the Sentinel’s Local and State section. Gee, all that and my name wasn’t even mentioned.

It didn’t have to be. Blake’s mug shot and name spoke for both of us.

I’d been oblivious to the gawks Saturday morning as I walked down the driveway to my sister’s car to begin our drive to Saint Pete; blissfully unaware that the reason Joe Phillips next door stopped mowing his lawn and stared at me wasn’t because he thought I looked hot in my new pink sweater that showed just a hint of décolletage. He didn’t speak; didn’t wave. He just stood and gaped at me across the stretch of Saint Augustine grass with a bewildered look on his face.

Ha! And I thought he was ogling my cleavage.

Later, when I realized the truth— Well, you can understand why coming to terms with Blake’s betrayal would be even harder knowing I had to face people who’d read all about it in the newspaper.

Even before I knew, others were devouring the juicy details with perverse excitement because they actually knew the guy who got caught with his pants down in the park.

Oh, and his poor wife. Didn’t she know her husband was gay? But they have a kid. Maybe it was one of “those kinds” of marriages…? What do they call it? A marriage of convenience?

How was I going to explain this to our son, Ben? He’d be wrecked.

Wait a minute. I didn’t have to explain anything. I was not the guilty party, despite the guilt-by-association factor.

Or stupidity by association.

I had to stop blaming myself, thinking this wouldn’t have happened if I’d been a better wife; a little thinner; more in touch with his needs….

More of a woman.

Or at least enough of a woman to keep my man from turning gay.

Rita and I drove to Saint Pete, but we never made it to the Monet exhibit. Good thing because I didn’t want to forever associate Monet’s water-lily paintings with Blake’s coming out of the closet.

Instead of going to the museum, we walked on the beach. We must have walked for miles, me in my low-cut pink sweater that didn’t seem so sexy anymore, and my sister with her sandals in her hand and her white pants rolled to the knee.

She let me talk.

“Ri, you weren’t surprised when you heard about Blake, were you?”

She shrugged, pushed a wisp of short blond hair out of her eyes.

“Rita? Are you saying you knew all along?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it on a sigh, and shrugged again. “Come on, Anna. He was just a little too…” She dragged out the word as if stalling for time.

Finally with a look of resignation she said, “He was a little too in touch with his feminine side. I mean, either that or you’d snagged every woman’s dream man.”

Snagged him? Was that what I did?

Blake and I never had a sweep-you-off-your-feet courtship. We met our senior year of college and dated for about two months before I got pregnant.

No snagging intended. I was as surprised as he was. I was prepared to raise the child on my own. He was the one who insisted he wanted to be a family.

Rita snapped her fingers. “Oh, I read something the other day where someone said something about a man who was ‘just gay enough.’” Rita made air quotes with her fingers. “That’s how I always thought of Blake.”

I must have made a face because she grimaced. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

Afterward, we mostly walked in silence.

Blake wasn’t home when I walked into the dark house Saturday night. He slinked in rather sheepishly Sunday, late morning.

I sat in the living room trying—unsuccessfully—to distract myself with a biography on the artist Georgia O’Keeffe when he walked in.

He flinched when he saw me and shoved his hands in his pockets. Dark circles under his eyes hinted he hadn’t slept well.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, looking stiff and pale and a little bewildered standing there in his pressed khakis, crisp kelly green polo and navy blue espadrilles that once seemed so Palm Beach, but now just looked…

I wondered where he stayed last night and how his clothing could look so fresh given the circumstances, but I refused to ask.

His gaze darted around the living room, looking everywhere but at me. He seemed so frazzled, like if I made a loud noise or erratic gesture he’d jump out of his skin.

It took a few beats to find my voice. “Why didn’t you tell me, Blake? How could you let me find out like this?”

At least he had the decency to hang his head. “What was I supposed to say?”

“Something.” I set the book on the end table and pulled my knees to my chest. “For God’s sake, anything would have been better than letting me read it in the newspaper.”

He didn’t reply, just raked his hand through his hair—he always messed with his hair when he was anxious—and stared at his espadrilles. I worried the fabric of my pink velour sweatpants.

“I didn’t know it was going to be in the paper,” he murmured so softly I could barely hear him.

I traced a zigzag in my pants’ velvetlike texture and decided he was probably telling the truth.

The paper said his partner in crime was a high-school coach who’d been arrested twice for public indecency. The story admonished the county for its lax screening of teachers more than it focused on exposing the men who meet at Live Oak Park to exchange sexual favors.

Of course. Blake’s name and mug shot made the paper because he made the fateful choice of having sex with the wrong man.

“Was this the first time, Blake, or have there been others?”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

“Never mind, you just did.” Tears welled in the corners of my eyes.

“Would it make a difference if I said it was just a onetime mistake?”

I gritted my teeth before I answered.

“Do you want it to make a difference?”

I didn’t hate myself for asking the question as much as I loathed the tiny spark of hope his words ignited. Was it just a onetime mistake? I held my breath, waiting for his answer.

All that followed was silence like cold water dousing an ember of hope.

Hope? Good God.

A bomb had detonated in our marriage leaving nothing but rubble; everything we’d built together blown to bits by his wanton act of selfishness. It nauseated me to think about it. More than that, it made me angry.

“We have to call Ben,” I said. “Right now.”

His gaze snapped to mine, a look of utter terror on his face.

I put my bare feet on the floor and pushed forward on the chair. “Blake, the story was in the paper, and it affects our son as much as you and me. People who know him have probably read it, and some wiseass is bound to call or e-mail him sooner or later and say, Hey, I heard about your dad. It’s better he hears it from us first.”

Blake closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s Sunday morning. We won’t catch him in.”

I threw up my hands.

“Call his cell phone. He always carries it.”

Blake shrugged, deflated. “Okay. Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

I turned off the reading lamp, which left the living room with its drawn curtains sad and dark. I tried to ignore the tightening knot in my stomach as I followed him into the kitchen.

“His cell phone is number one on speed dial.”

Blake’s shoulders rose and fell on a noisy shallow breath. He kept his back to me as he picked up the phone and dialed. Every muscle in my body tensed, making me second-guess myself. Were we doing this the right way? Panic screamed and threatened to put me in a headlock. Perhaps we shouldn’t break the bad news over the phone.

Ben was in school at the University of Montana. It wasn’t as if we could drop by and tell him in person. He’d come home for spring break just two weeks ago and wouldn’t be home again until summer. What other choice did we have but to tell him over the phone?

“Hello, Ben? It’s Dad. Did I wake you?…Oh, yes, I’m fine…She’s fine, too. And you?”

He listened for a minute. I edged closer to see if I could hear what Ben was saying. I couldn’t, but I noticed Blake’s free hand shook as he raked it through his hair.

My God, he was really a wreck over this. I hadn’t realized it until then.

I turned away and straightened my Eiffel Tower refrigerator magnet. Why was I feeling sorry for him? This was his fault. Facing the refrigerator, I folded my arms as if I could block out the emotions that were weakening me.

Then the stupidest thought barreled through my mind. What if, faced with dismantling his family, Blake realized the enormity of his mistake?

I mean he screwed up—and how—but should we have talked about it a little more before we told Ben?

I’d pushed Blake to make the call, and even though I truly had Ben’s best interest at heart, part of me wanted to see Blake squirm to punish him.

He was squirming.

My God, the man was shaking.

Admitting a mistake of this magnitude to your son must be second only to confessing to God. Well, maybe it was tied for second because he seemed pretty wrecked that I knew—

“I’m glad to hear you’re doing so well, son—” Blake’s voice broke on the last word.

Oh…he was only human. If it was just a mistake, should he have to pay for it with his family?

Encroaching sympathy warred with the thought that Blake should have considered the cost before he dropped his pants.

I remembered a time when I was young. I tried to steal a blouse from Casual Corner, but the store manager caught me before I could leave the shop. She scared me to death, telling me that she could call the police and have me arrested. She went on and on about how this one stupid mistake could ruin my life.

In the end, she didn’t call the police or my parents. Instead, she made me promise never to steal again.

She let me go. She gave me a second chance rather than ruining my life.

I learned from that mistake, and I’d like to think I grew into a better person because of her understanding.

Maybe Blake had learned his lesson. Maybe we just needed to talk about it, get counseling. It wouldn’t be easy, of course, but perhaps if we could surmount this, it was a chance for our relationship to grow.

I reached out to touch him, to take the phone from him so I could tell Ben we’d call him back later. But before my hand fell on Blake’s shoulder, he said, “Ben, I’m calling with bad news. Your mother and I are divorcing because I’m gay.”

After Blake left, the late-morning sun streamed in through the kitchen window. It made my head hurt.

I slipped into the darkness of the living room, and lay down on the cool leather couch, flinging my free arm over my eyes.

Divorce.

He’d already made up his mind.

Ben took the news hard. I’d never heard such language from him. Called his father a bastard. Said he hated him and never wanted to see him again.

First, I was glad because I wanted Blake to hurt as badly as I hurt. Then I felt guilty because Ben was hurting. My baby. It was hard enough for me to learn the truth, but imagine finding out the person you’d looked up to your entire life had lied to you.

I’d never been homophobic and had raised my son to be tolerant of all people…. This was the ultimate test. The logical side of me knew it was ridiculous to hate an entire sub-population based on the actions of one man. Oh…but this was so personal. It hurt too bad to form any conclusions.

While I sat at the café table in the kitchen, trying to talk Ben down from the ledge, Blake disappeared upstairs.

He came back down after I’d hung up, and all he said was, “Will you water the orchids, please?”

He had about twenty-five plants in a small greenhouse in the backyard. I knew they were valuable, but I couldn’t believe he was thinking about them in the wake of what had just happened.

Selfish bastard.

“No. I won’t.” I loved flowers, but he fussed over those stupid plants like an old maid. I didn’t care if they died.

“Fine. I’ll come by and get them this week. When would be a good time?”

“Should I get an AIDS test?”

He squinted at my non sequitur. “Would it make you feel better?”

Anger sliced through me. “You are such a jackass. I don’t want an AIDS test to make myself feel better. You had sex with a stranger—with a man. And my life could be in danger because of it.”

AIDS was only one in a jumble of questions logjammed in my mind, tangled up with the likes of how many sexual partners he’d had over the past eighteen years? Did he practice safe sex. Or did he think too little of me to do so? Even though we only had sex maybe once a year over the span of our marriage it only took one time—kind of like getting pregnant.

Only AIDS killed.

Turning onto my side on the couch in the dark living room, I drew my knees up in a fetal position and listened to the sounds of the house that used to be our home—the tick of the grandfather clock, the phantom creaks and pops as the house settled; the refrigerator and air-conditioning that cycled on and off; and the full magnitude of how alone I was pressed down on me and unleashed the tears.

They came in torrents, in great heaving sobs that choked and nearly drowned me.

All the while, one single thought burned in my mind: How long would Blake have lived a double life had he not been involuntarily outted?

CHAPTER 2

The next day, I did what any self-respecting woman caught in the middle of an undeserved scandal would do—I called in sick to my marketing job at Heartfield Retirement Communities, then cut all the blooms off Blake’s orchids.

Good harvest. About twenty stems with at least three flowers each. I gathered them into a bundle, tied them with a ribbon and made an exotic bouquet.

Flowers for me.

Originally, I intended to sit in the middle of the greenhouse and pluck off all the petals: He loves me…He loves me not, because he’s gay and loves men…He loves men…He loves men not because he promised to love, honor and cherish me for all the days of my life….

That was just too maudlin.

The blooms were so beautiful, I arranged them in a crystal vase so I could enjoy them as I gorged on slightly stale beignet—that’s French for doughnut.

I never realized orchids were such exquisite little works of art. They were always Blake’s babies. I fingered a lush maroon petal that draped down past another cream petal shaped like a pouch the size of a chicken egg.

In the greenhouse, he’d labeled this one Showy Lady’s Slipper Orchid. The name conjured images of cross-dressing, but I blinked the thought away and ate another doughnut.

I lifted the curious little pouch-petal with my finger. I’d never looked at an orchid up close like this, certainly not a stem cut free from the potted plants Blake sequestered in the greenhouse for optimum growing conditions (rather than optimum enjoyment).

I plucked Lady’s Slipper from the vase, held it up and slowly twirled the stem in my fingers, getting a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree look at the flower.

Blake was going to be so pissed when he found his naked plants. He’d studied orchids like he was going for a master’s degree, and coddled them, coaxing the temperamental things to blossom. All to end up in a vase on the kitchen table.

Oops. My bad.

Since we were getting a divorce it only seemed fair we shared them fifty-fifty. Florida was a community-property state. After eighteen years of contributing my fair share to our egalitarian marriage, I wanted my half.

He’d get the plant. I’d get the flower.

Fifty-fifty.

I’d downed seven of the twelve doughnuts by ten-thirty and was so disgusted with myself I decided I had to get out of the house before I died an unnatural death.

Death by beignet. Or murder by irate, flower-worshipping, estranged husband.

The thought made me shudder, or perhaps the thought of venturing out into the world?

I pushed the doughnut box out of my reach. It wasn’t as if the paparazzi were camped on my doorstep. The sensible side of me knew the story of Blake’s arrest had faded from the minds of most people in central Florida.

Old news.

But in my world of neighbors, colleagues and husband-and-wife acquaintances the story lived on. Suddenly my world seemed like the whole world; as if everyone knew.

I couldn’t go to work.

I couldn’t even walk out onto my driveway.

Good thing the car was in the garage.

After a few moments’ contemplation, I decided to seek refuge with an old friend. A dear friend I’d neglected for a long, long time—my painting studio at the Orlando Center for the Arts.

I would go there and paint…orchids.

Because if I didn’t get out of the house, I was afraid I might lock the doors and never find the strength to venture outside again.

I waited until I was sure most of the neighbors were gone before I grabbed the vase and drove to the studio.

Far better than staying home and eating until I couldn’t fit through the door, or making myself crazy thinking about how I’d rearrange the furniture to make it appear as if nothing were missing once Blake took his fifty percent.

The only way to keep myself from dwelling on the ne’er-do-well was to focus on me. I’d neglected my interests—such as painting, and fresh flowers, and eating entire boxes of doughnuts—far too long.

I read in the Georgia O’Keeffe bio that she used to leave her husband, Alfred Stieglitz, for months on end to go paint in a place she called “Faraway.”

It was only New Mexico, actually. I’m sure “Faraway” sounded much more romantic than “Alfred, honey, you’re getting on my last nerve. I’m leaving now so I can refill my well. You’ll have to get your own dinner, and pick up your own dry cleaning.”

I know, I know, they probably didn’t have dry cleaning back in those days and if they did, I’m sure a woman who had the gumption to go “Faraway” probably wouldn’t have picked it up anyway.

My point being she took time to nurture herself, to foster her creative spirit. And Stieglitz was waiting for her when she decided to come home.

Paris would’ve been my “Faraway.” Once upon a dream, I wanted to study art there, but life’s obligations preempted those dreams. The big problem was that it was always so far away, and as a wife and mother, I had too much responsibility. Blake hated the French and had no desire to go to Paris. Not even for me.

After stops at Sam Flax for new art supplies (it had been so long since I’d purchased anything there, there was no chance anyone would recognize me) and Panera Bread for nourishment (frequent purchases there, but they didn’t know I was married to Blake), I pulled into a parking space at the Orlando Center for the Arts. I sat in the car for a few minutes with the engine running and the air-conditioning blowing cold air on my face.

OCA sat at the crest of a hill sloping down to a beautiful lake. The compound was actually a series of old buildings united by lush gardens and courtyards. Fantasy architecture, I’d heard it called once, with Mayan/Aztec motifs gracing the aged concrete walls and bejeweled stepping-stones and fountains scattered liberally throughout the grounds. Red clay tile roofs graced buildings with worn cream stucco walls dating back to the early 1900s.

A magical place that always made me feel artsy and organic. As if anything were possible.

I picked up the maroon lady’s slipper again and turned it around and around, trying to decide the angle I’d paint, but my heart felt so heavy I didn’t know if I’d be able to drag myself out of the car so I could get to my paints.

Okay, Anna, you’re starting over, who are you going to be now?

Good question.

I’d been daughter, sister, wife, mother. More successful at some roles than others.

What next?

In the rearview mirror I spied a smirking Mayan tribal mask etched into the garden wall behind my car.

“What are you looking at?” I murmured.

I could almost hear it answer, He’s gay. Is that what you want for yourself? Are you really willing to settle for a man who doesn’t love you?

My first thought was, Yes, I just want my life back. The scorned woman in me sounded a hearty, Absolutely not.

Feeling shaky, angry and vulnerable all at once, I stuck the orchid behind my ear, killed the engine and hauled myself and the vase of flowers out of the cool sanctuary of the car into the oppressive heat.

It was only March, for God’s sake. It was never this hot in March.

In Florida, the relentless, lingering dog days of August were bad enough, but it was brutal punishment when the heat came early.

The weatherman said better days were on the way.

Yeah, promises, promises.

Until then, all the more reason to hole up in my studio with my big fat bag of comfort from Panera Bread—broccoli cheese soup, Caesar salad and a raspberry Danish—God knows I wasn’t hungry, but I would be later. This way I wouldn’t have to go out and get dinner.

I could stay there…indefinitely.

Or until I got hungry again.

Since I was still so full I’d probably never eat again. I was banking on a long stay.

I nudged the car door shut with my rump and adjusted my grip on the Panera sack, careful not to smash the Danish. The paper bag crinkled in my hands, and I had a brief second of panic when I realized pastry had been the sexiest thing going on in my life for a long time.

As quickly as the panic flashed, it dissipated. It was okay to turn to comfort food—

Comfort food and oil paints. The combination made an unlikely elixir, but what the hell?

The baked asphalt radiated heat like the basalt rocks they used in hot-stone massages. A brown lizard dashed across the pavement, heading for the grass, and I nearly tripped over myself to keep from stepping on it—or letting it scurry over my foot.

Logically, I knew they were harmless, but I had a lizard phobia. When I was a kid, one ran up my pant leg once at a picnic, and I did an embarrassing striptease trying to get it off me. I was traumatized. Ever since, they’ve made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and I always end up nearly hurting myself trying to steer clear of them.

Classic case of once bitten, twice shy.

When I was in college, I studied phobias in a psychology class and learned they’re usually traced back to an event that caused the fear, and when you’re faced with similar circumstances, the fear and panic return.

My professor likened phobias to monsters we manufactured in our minds. Since there are no limits to our imagination, the only way we can dismantle the monsters is by facing them, by reaching out and touching them.

Beads of sweat broke free and pooled in my cleavage, teased by the hint of a breeze blowing in from the lake on the other side of the grounds.

There was no way in hell I was going to reach out and touch a lizard. In fact, the hot weather and the creepy-crawlies made me wonder why I lived here when there were so many other places I could go to avoid them—and Blake.

Ben was at college in Montana. I was free to go, if I wanted to. Just as the orchids cut free from the plant traveled to my studio where I could paint them.

The thought floored me. Did being free equal being unwanted? Cut free to wither and die just like the orchids?

I swiped at the moisture welling in my eyes— “Damn humidity”—and stepped into the grassy courtyard that hosted my studio. I tried to unlock the door, but the key stuck in the lock. I had to set down the bag and flowers so I could jiggle the knob.

It was mad at me for staying away for so long.

Fair-weather friend returning only after exhausting all other options.

After a little coaxing, the door opened with a squeak and I stepped into the shoebox of a room.

The shutters were drawn over the wall of windows and despite the darkness, the space was hot and dank. When I flipped on the light, it bounced off the white stucco walls.

A wooden easel stood bare in the corner below a cluster of cobwebs; a stack of forgotten blank canvases lined the wall; an empty coffee can for brush cleaner and a paint-splattered palette lay on the table, right where I’d left them the last time I was here—a good three months ago.

The first thing I needed to do was get some natural light into the room. I sidestepped a dead palmetto bug and screamed when I inadvertently dislodged a lizard carcass as I threw open the shutters. I couldn’t even kick it into the corner.

The windows looked out into an adjacent courtyard. A large live oak shaded a blue mosaic fountain surrounded by an overgrowth of purple foxgloves, red, white and pink impatiens, hibiscus and azaleas.

It took me back to the day Blake brought me here the first time, when he leased the studio for me. Art was where we connected. When all else failed in our relationship—when we went months without touching—I’d return to his support of the creative me.

It was hard not to slip into doubt. Since he was not who he pretended to be, did that mean everything else he upheld was a lie, too?

How he said I was talented; that he loved me and wanted a family.

I mean, what was love? It wasn’t quantifiable. You couldn’t measure it by any means other than faith and feeling.

When we met he was a good man with a promising future as an architect. He treated me well, if not passionately.

There’s more to life than passion. Passion was the flame that burned so furiously it burnt out and left you wanting.

I always believed a good marriage was born of the slow, steady rhythm of a man and woman, developed after passion flared and faltered.

Now I don’t know what to believe.

We got married and four months later Ben was born.

I loved Blake. I wouldn’t have married him if I thought he hadn’t loved me.

I stood at my studio window staring at the courtyard, waiting for the pretty view to permeate me and work its magic the way it did that first day, but all I felt was empty. And hot.

Good God, it was sweltering in here.

I reached over and turned on the air-conditioning unit that stuck out of the top of the last set of windows like a boxy appendage. It chugged to life, shaking and rattling as if it would burn itself out before it cooled down the place.

Hmmph. Passion.

It took three trips from my car to the studio to schlepp in all of the supplies I’d picked up at Sam Flax—new paints and brushes, a large bottle of gesso and twenty more stretched canvases of varying sizes—I’d forgotten about the extras in the studio.

Finally, I shut the door on the outside world, determined to rediscover the joy of my studio and the painting process.

I started painting again after our son, Ben, began junior high school. I set up an easel on the screened-in back porch, but I couldn’t leave my paintings out there since it was too damp. I used to talk about how great it would be to have a real space of my own; a spot where I could leave all my supplies and canvases—a real artist’s studio.

The spot at OCA was a reward for sticking it out in a marketing job I detested. Since Blake had broken away from Hartman and Eagle, the architectural firm he’d been with for fifteen years, to start his own business, we relied on my company-funded benefits.

The studio was a compromise. Blake got to be his own boss. I got four walls to call my own. But I didn’t have time for it, really. Working full-time, cooking and cleaning, raising a child and washing Blake’s dirty underwear didn’t leave much time or energy for creativity.

I’d bet over the five years I’d leased the studio, the cumulative amount of time I spent there barely averaged a once-a-month visit; that was more often than we had sex. Every once in a while Blake would get on my case about not using it and threaten to cancel the lease, which would force me to drag myself in there to create. So, coming here today, I decided that until I discovered my own style, I would paint flowers of all shapes and sizes, in the tradition of Georgia O’Keeffe; fragile Lady’s Slipper orchids; big fat roses; vibrant sunflowers.

I set a large canvas on the easel and positioned the maroon orchid on a paper towel.

This would be therapeutic. I could mix the paint to any shade I desired; place it anywhere on the canvas I wanted. I could wash it on in thin, translucent wisps or glob it on in thick, heavy layers.

I set out the new tubes of oil paint I’d purchased, and one by one squeezed a dab of each on my old crusty palette.

If I wanted to paint roses blue, I could. If I wanted to render sunflowers purple—no problem. I might even paint this pretty orchid black to match my mood.

It was my choice.

Paint complied. It would stay true to whatever image I created. It wouldn’t start out as one thing and transform itself into something totally foreign.

Unless I wanted it to.

I picked up the paintbrush, regarded the blank canvas and made a split-second decision not to paint the orchid. Nope. On my canvas, I would honor the traditional. I touched my brush to the glob of alizarin crimson.

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

My husband is gay.

Shit.

Who knew?

The brush fell from my hand, pinged and clattered on the rough concrete floor. I pressed my shaking fingers to my temples.

Who knew?

Everyone in the world but me?

The small room started spinning, and I edged backward until my butt hit the wall. My knees gave way and I slid down until I half crouched, half sat.

I had no idea what came over me, but suddenly I knew exactly what to do to that canvas.

By the time Rita knocked on my studio door at seven o’clock that evening, I’d painted three canvases. Two florals and what you might call a Picasso-inspired portrait of Blake, though I’ve never been much of a Picasso fan. Rita likes him, but I’ve always thought of him as a creepy misogynist.

Appropriate inspiration for Blake’s portrait.

I painted him with two heads (one male, one female), Medusa-like orchid blooms for hair and a spear driven through his chest. I’d used washes of blues and blacks with a spattering of bloodred applied with a palette knife for emphasis.

“This one’s a little scary.” My sister held up the canvas of Blake. “If he turns up dead, you’d better destroy this or they’ll have all the evidence they need to hang you for the crime.”

I shrugged, not in a jovial mood.

“What’s Fred doing tonight?” I wiped excess paint off my brush with a paper towel, then walked to the sink to wash the residual from the bristles.

Rita and Fred had such a good marriage, after twenty-five years they were even starting to look like each other. Sometimes—especially after the hell I’d just been through—I wondered if my sister hadn’t snagged the last decent man alive.

“He’s at the all-night driving range, getting his golf fix. Where did those come from?” She pointed at the vase of orchid blossoms.

“From Blake’s greenhouse.”

Her blue eyes flew open wide. “Oh. My. God. If you leave right now, you might be able to outrun him. Let me rephrase what I said earlier. He’s going to be the one hung for murder because he’s going to kill you when he sees what you’ve done.”

I smoothed the bristles back into shape and put the brushes in a jar to dry. “I know. I feel kind of bad about it. I didn’t realize how pretty they were. Do you think he’ll notice if I superglue them back on?”

Rita burst out laughing. “He’s going to flip.”

She walked over and picked up a painting of a huge sunflower I’d leaned against the wall. “This is nice. Sort of Van Gogh–esque.” She set it down and stepped back to view it, tilting her head from one side to the other.

“I wasn’t really going for nice when I painted it.”

My sister ignored me. “May I take it with me to show a client who lives in Bay Hill? The colors are perfect for her family room.”

Rita was an interior designer and some of the houses she decorated cost more than I hoped to make in a lifetime.

“You know,” she said, “we really should make some slides of your work. I could probably sell them for you. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner. Are you coming here after work tomorrow?”

“I’m not working tomorrow.” I picked up one of the brushes I’d just cleaned, dipped it in paint and drew a thick sienna line about a third of the way down the canvas.

“You’re not?”

I shook my head. “I’m taking two weeks’ vacation. I called human resources this afternoon and squared away my leave. They didn’t even ask if I’d cleared it with my boss, Jackie.”

I stole a glance at my sister, who’d crossed her thin arms over her tiny middle. She nodded.

“It’s probably a good idea for you to take some time off. If you have the time, you should use it. What are you going to do? Do you want to go away somewhere?”

I shook my head and wiped my hands on a rag. “Nope. I’m going to paint.”

Rita’s eyes widened. “That’s great. That’s exactly what you should do.”

What she didn’t say was, It will be good for you to pour all your anguish into something creative.

“Plus, it will give us plenty of time to photograph your work. So, can I take the sunflower with me, Van Gogh?”

“Sure.”

I watched my sister walk over and carefully pick up the painting and study it again.

Was it this kind of anguish that caused Van Gogh to cut off his ear?

What would Blake do if I sent him my bloodied ear all wrapped up nice and neat in a pretty little package? I could put an orchid on top of the box.

Nah. He wasn’t worth it.

“Is the paint still wet?” Rita asked.

“Nope. That’s the beauty of acrylics.”

I tried not to get my hopes up, but I thought if I sold a few paintings, it would help offset the cost of the studio. I wouldn’t be able to afford it when Blake and I divorced. Because I was sure once he saw how I’d sheared the blooms from his beloved orchids, he’d go for the jugular, saying I had to pay the rent on my studio because he couldn’t afford it, knowing damn good and well I couldn’t, either.

“I’ll tell you what,” Rita said. “Why don’t you spend the rest of the week painting, and I’ll come over Saturday to shoot the fruits of your labor.”

“Saturday? Don’t you have plans with Fred?”

“Fred knows I’m on standby right now.”

I rolled my eyes. Sweet of her, but I didn’t want to become her charity case. “I’m fine, Rita. Really. In fact, I’m sure I can go to Target and purchase a roll of slide film and shoot them myself. Does Target sell slide film?”

“No, Target does not sell slide film. That shows what you know. Fred already has his heart set on golfing this weekend. So you’re stuck with me.”

Tuesday Blake came over for dinner. I hadn’t seen him since we’d called Ben on Sunday, and I was a little nervous about the orchids massacre. But we needed to talk—to discuss money, who’d get what. All the things soon-to-be-divorced people talked about.

Nothing like a divorce to jump start the conversation. In fact, we had so much to talk about, I figured I could tell him I’d watered the plants and then distract him with conversation to keep him out of the greenhouse. It would work for now, and I’d make a point to be out of the house when he came to pick up the plants.

I wanted to meet in a restaurant. A nice, neutral, public place where things wouldn’t get too intense (translate: far away from the orchids).

He insisted we meet at the house. Since he’d moved out, he wanted to look at everything and start making lists.

Lists?

Okay. Right. Lists.

That wasn’t nearly as unsettling as when he said he hoped this was the first step to us becoming friends since we’d be forever connected by our son.

It just smacked of an HBO movie: My Best Friend Is My Gay Ex-Husband.

The absurdity really hit me as we sat in the dining room at our usual opposite ends of the long mahogany table. The dinnertime arrangement seemed natural when Ben was at home filling the empty space in the middle. We’d grown so accustomed to our places, when Ben left for college six months earlier, it never occurred to us to change.

To move closer.

Blake was his usual nontalkative self, but it was bizarre sitting there as we had countless times over the years, eating my homemade potato-leek soup, the ominous strains of Wagner filling the silence.

He looked so indifferent sitting there as if he belonged at my table. Sitting there in a clumsy, conversation-free standoff, I thought, This is the man I married, the father of my child, but I might as well have been staring at a stranger. Had he suffered at least a modicum of embarrassment or regret over the scandal? Had he lost clients? Was the thrill worth public humiliation and losing his family?

I was so nonplussed by his nonchalance that I meant to take a bite of soup, but instead the words “How long have you known you’re gay?” rolled from my mouth like a piece of errant chewing gum.

“Annabelle.” His tone was reprimanding, a blend of shock and annoyance, but he looked at me for the first time that evening, his soupspoon poised in midair.

The look on his face made me crazy.

“What? Does the word gay offend you? Do you prefer homosexual or another more veiled term? Tell me, Blake, because I’d like to know something before the rest of metro Orlando finds out.”

His eyes flashed and he glared at me for the span of one deep sigh, before lowering his spoon. “I suppose I’ve known for quite some time.”

The unflinching touché of words knocked the breath out of me. Reality slammed down between us like a thick sheet of ice. All I could do was stare at him through the surreal haze until he averted his gaze and resumed eating.

Hello? How could he eat at a time like this?

“If you’ve known for quite some time, why didn’t you clue me in?”

He didn’t answer me, but continued spooning soup into his expressionless face. I pushed away my bowl, and the creamy contents splashed over the rim. “All along I wrote it off that you were simply a man who was in touch with his feminine side. But you know, now that I think about it, it might as well have been written in big, bold script across the bedroom wall. How could I have not known?”

He shrugged and hunched over his bowl a little more, tuning me out. I had questions, and he was going to answer them. So I raised my voice.

“Living with you all these years, what did that make me, Blake? An idiot? Your beard? A fag hag?” Somewhere through the icy miasma of my anger I saw him set down his spoon.

He cleared his throat. “I thought we could discuss this like rational adults, but apparently we can’t.” He dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “I’ll have my attorney contact yours. But in the meantime, I thought you should know so you can start making plans. We’re going to have to sell the house or you’ll have to buy me out.”

“Talk to my attorney.” Don’t have one yet. “I don’t want to move and I shouldn’t have to buy you out, either. My standard of living should not change because your lifestyle did.”

His chair didn’t make a sound as he pushed away from the table and stood. He hesitated for a moment. I saw his throat work in a swallow as his long, manicured fingers worried a button on his shirt. I fully expected him to say something. Instead, he turned and walked out.

A dull ache spread through me as I watched the tall, slim man I’d tried so desperately to make love me disappear into the other room.

A few minutes later or maybe it was a few hours later—who knows how long I sat there contemplating the ruins of our life—I heard the back door slam open.

“What the hell happened to my orchids?”

CHAPTER 3

Saturday, as I painted the finishing touches on a still life of foxgloves, Rita appeared in the doorway of my studio clutching her camera.

It was still hot outside—so much for the weatherman’s promise. The heady scent of gardenia wafted in, and I thought I heard the lake breeze whispering that relief from the stifling heat was just around the corner.

Be patient.

I was wrong. It wasn’t the breeze or anything remotely so romantic. It was merely the air-conditioning cycling on, its cold blast merging with the muggy outside air.

Rita stepped inside and closed the door before the humidity flooded in and took over. “Ready to shoot?”

She set her Cannon on the counter and stood there with a funny look on her face.

“What?” I said, laying down my brush and wiping cadmium yellow off my hands with a rag. “I recognize that look. You’re up to something.”

She nodded. Smiled.

“Before we get started—” She pulled a split of champagne and two paper cups from her shoulder bag. “I have a surprise for you.”

She set them on the counter, then handed me a plain white envelope.

“What’s this?”

She grinned, nearly dancing. “Open it.”

I did. Suddenly, I was staring at a check for seven hundred and fifty dollars—written to me?

“What’s this for?”

“Your sunflower painting.”

I squinted at her, confused.

“The sunflower painting,” she repeated. “My client loved it. She bought it— Is seven-fifty enough? I guess I should have asked how much you wanted for it. But that seemed like a fair price. If it’s not, I’ll—”

“No, it’s fine. It’s fabulous. I can’t believe you sold my painting.”

With a look of pride on her face, she popped the cork and poured two glasses of bubbly.

She sold my painting.

She sold my painting. As I stared at the dollar amount, I couldn’t fathom someone actually paying money for something I’d created.

Holding the check made me light-headed. This was enough for two months’ studio rent with a little to spare for supplies.

Rita handed me a cup and raised hers. “A toast. To there being more where this came from.”

Nice idea, but I was a realist. I painted for fun. I painted for me. But for seven hundred and fifty dollars I could be commissioned.

Holding her cup, Rita walked to the middle of the room and turned in a slow circle, surveying my new work that lined the wall; in some places they were stacked four and six canvases deep, starting to overrun the small space.

She whistled. “You’ve been busy since the last time I was here, huh?”

I nodded. Thirty-three new pieces since her last visit.

“It’s amazing how much I can get done when I don’t sleep.”

I set down my cup and shoved an empty plastic soup bowl—lunch from Panera again—into a sack and put it in the garbage as my sister walked over and flipped through a stack of paintings.

I watched her as she studied my work, and wondered what she was thinking. It suddenly seemed a little amateurish producing thirty-three paintings in the span of five days. Some artists agonized over a single painting for twice as long and here I was mass-producing them.

She paused to take in a brilliant pink camellia blossom, flipped past it and pulled out the close-up of the maroon orchid.

“Has Blake picked up his babies yet?”

I rolled my eyes. “He came by Thursday while I was here and whisked them away. The greenhouse is empty.”

She nodded absently and gestured to the canvas. “I really like this. Reminds me of Georgia O’Keeffe.”

My breath hitched. In O’Keeffe’s biography she said, “Most people in the city rush around so, they have no time to look at a flower. I want them to see it whether they want to or not.”

I read that she painted fragments of things because they made a statement better than the entire object. She created an equivalent for what she felt about something…never copying it form for form. I borrowed the same philosophy in the dark, almost morbid lines of the orchid close-up. No harm in borrowing a style until I found my own.

“Thanks, Ri, that’s quite a compliment.” I pulled out a stool and sat down.

“I’m serious, Anna. These are really good.” She put the canvas back where she found it and picked up her purse again. “I have something else for you.”

I poured a little more bubbly into my cup. “The champagne and check were plenty.”

She nudged my hand with a slim packet of papers. “It’s an application. Here, take it.”

I did so, hesitantly, and set down the paper cup. “A job application? I have a job, Rita, and despite how I hate it, I’m not up for another major life change.”

“It’s not that kind of application. It’s for an artist residency in Paris. Is this not perfect?”

“I’m sure it’s perfect for someone, but I can’t go.”

She put her hands on her hips, and tapped the papers with her index finger’s deep-red acrylic nail. “Anna, this is Paris.”

She held it out again, and I took it.

Artist-In-Residence Fellowship—Call For

Applications.

The City of Paris, France, and the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs seek applications from foreign artists of any discipline who wish to participate in an artist-in-residence program. The winners will receive a monthly allowance and a three-month stay in a workshop/studio at the Delacroix International Exchange Centre, a former convent in the heart of Paris. At the end of the residency, one of the finalists will win a one-hundred-thousand-dollar purchase award given by the French government. The winner’s artwork will become part of the permanent collection of the Museum of American Exchange in Paris, France.

By the time I reached the bottom of the first page, I knew there was no reason to keep reading. I shook my head and tried to give the papers back to her. She wouldn’t take them.

“If you went to Paris, I could sell your paintings for you.”

“You just sold one without me going.”

“I know, but that was a lucky fit.”

My heart sank. “A lucky fit. Gee, thanks.”

“Come on, you know you’re good, but it’s the whole French-mystique thing. My clients would just eat it up. The artist just got back from Paris.”

“Oh, validation. That sucks. My going to Paris isn’t going to change the way I paint. You know what Gertrude Stein said about a rose is a rose is a rose….”

“Right, but everyone finds Parisian roses a hell of a lot more appealing than the varieties we grow here. Come on, Anna, what’s stopping you?”

Oh, let’s see…my job. The fact that I was forty-one and broke and if I gave up that job, at my age I may not find another. And don’t get me started on the huge ocean between the States and Europe and the foreign language I didn’t speak beyond bonjour and au revoir. Even if I attempted to utter those words, I was sure some surly Frenchman would toss me off the side of the Eiffel Tower for butchering his language.

“I can’t.”

“Give me one good reason that doesn’t have to do with your being afraid of something you’ve always wanted.”

I closed my eyes and tried to put into words the litany of good reasons I’d just ticked off in my head, but all that came out was, “If I go I’ll lose my studio space.” Ridiculous—even I had to admit it. The absurdity hung in the air between us like a bad smell. Rita regarded me with a confused grin, as if she was waiting for the punch line of my bad joke.

“You’ll forgo Paris to keep your rented studio?” She looked around, and I could see her considering her words before she spoke.

“Paris, Anna. And you could sell your work to the French government for tons of money. What’s not to love?”

When I didn’t answer, she sighed. “They’re choosing twelve artists. You have to apply. Cross the bridge about going once they offer you the residency.”

I set the application on the table, feeling faintly sick.

“Just think about it,” she said. “You don’t have to decide now.”

Working at Heartfield Retirement Communities was like living in a scene from George Orwell’s 1984. My boss, Jackie King—or the Jackal, as I called her—was always on red alert, watching and waiting for someone to screw up so she could sound the alarm and shine a great big spotlight. No wonder the day before I returned to my job as assistant director of marketing, I had a giant panic attack over what I’d face in the wake of Blake’s arrest.

Exactly sixteen days had passed since the story appeared in the paper. I knew I couldn’t hibernate indefinitely. The longer I put off plunging back into the real world, the harder it would be.

Cold hard reality dictated that since I was getting a divorce, I needed this job. Selling a painting had only lulled me into a false sense of security. Even if my attorney negotiated a decent settlement, I’d still need an income to support myself. Unfortunately, that meant that keeping my job had taken on new importance.

Talk about adding insult to injury.

Jackie King would almost smile if she knew how she had me under her thumb.

The Jackal rarely smiled.

Three of us made up the Heartfield Retirement Communities’ marketing and advertising department: Jackie, the director of marketing, a real piece of work who had no life beyond her job; her administrative-ass, Lolly Rhone, who fancied she ran the organization; and me, the marketing misfit.

The Dynamic Duo. And me.

I’d been blackballed from their club de deux for a holy trinity of sins: my refusal to give my life to Heartfield Retirement Communities; my refusal to kiss Jackie’s ass; and my blatant refusal to play their game.

I had nothing in common with Jackie, and she hated anyone who was different from her. She was a shop-at-WalMart-all-you-can-eat buffet-white-cake-bland kind of normal. Anyone too different, she mocked mercilessly (behind their backs, of course) for the term of her employment.

She cleansed her soul by going to church on Sundays and spending her vacations on mission trips to third-world countries where she built houses and shelters while her daughter stayed home with a sitter. Then she’d come back to work and treat anyone in her way like shit. But that was okay. She did church work.

She and Lolly were like two rotten peas in a pod. They traveled together, ate lunch together, socialized after hours. Jackie even baby-sat Lolly’s kids. Yes, the boss baby-sat the administrative-ass’s kids. In return, Lolly had her face so firmly buried in Jackie’s behind she couldn’t see their “closeness” bordered on incest.

We had our weekly department meetings—Jackie insisted the three of us have department meetings: one hour of hell consisting of a five-minute delegation of assignments for the week and fifty-five minutes of listening to Jackie’s harangue about how her boss, Ezekiel Bergdorf, had screwed up the previous week and how she could have done so much better. She wanted his job as vice president of operations so badly she nearly foamed at the mouth. I was willing to bet that over time she would systematically destroy him to get what she wanted.

Therein lay the irony. Jackie’s weekly rants left her wide open for me to cause her serious professional harm; it was as if she was playing career chicken, daring me to take her tirades to the brass. She knew I wouldn’t do it.

I didn’t rat on others (I’m sure in the catch-22 of her small mind she considered that a weakness) and I had no designs on her job.

Sad to admit, but I wasn’t ambitious when it came to Heartfield Retirement Communities. I did my job and did it well, but come five o’clock, I was gone. Contrast that with Jackie-the-martyr whose life revolved around the company. She was divorced, had a nanny for her daughter and spent more time on the road than at home. She couldn’t fathom why everyone didn’t sell their soul to the company.

My marketing job started out as a temporary gig that stretched to twelve long years. In the beginning it was a part-time position that provided enough flexibility that I could work while Ben was in school—he was in second grade when I started—and leave the job behind when I went home. It allowed me to keep my foot in the workplace, but still take care of our son—

Who was I kidding? I used to feed myself that line of crap when I started feeling bad about not being able to be the room-mother for Ben’s class or chaperon his field trips because Blake was adamant that I bring in my fair share of the livelihood. Heaven forbid that he be the sole supporter of his family.

Looking back, all I really wanted was to paint and be a mother to my baby (not necessarily in that order). My heart was never in marketing an overpriced retirement community. I suppose I should have left a long time ago rather than stay so long my boss regarded me as an inoperable tumor she was forced to live with because Heartfield never fired anyone—short of them murdering their boss.

No wonder Jackie had it in for me. She had no patience for a woman who preferred her child to climbing the corporate ladder.

Looking back, I should have done a lot of things differently. Now, all I could do was try not to look down as I crossed this rickety bridge over the canyon-of-major-life-changes. It was enough to make me contemplate curling up in a fetal position for the rest of my life. Instead, I walked in wearing my hair back in a tight chignon, the same as I had every weekday for the past twelve years. The place smelled of burnt coffee, carpet shampoo and office supplies, the same as it had every day for the past twelve years. I greeted our receptionist, Vicki, and started my approach to the break room to stash my salad in the fridge, the same as I had every day for the past twelve years.

“Oh! Annabelle.”

I stopped and glanced back into an uncomfortable pause that lasted a few beats too long. But I reminded myself to hold my head up and look her straight in the eye.

“Yes?” I said.

“Um…welcome back.”

“Thank you, Vicki.”

Then by the grace of God her phone rang, and I beat a hasty retreat down the long hallway that contained a row of offices on the left and a liberal sprinkling of cubicles on the right. I made it unscathed, stashed my lunch and made myself a cup of tea (no break-room coffee, thank you, because it looked like dirty water and tasted worse).

Clutching my cup, I started to my desk, looking each person in the eye, greeting them. My personal life was my business, and I dared anyone to ask. But as I wound my way through the maze of cubicles, my co-workers honored my privacy.

Perhaps returning to work wasn’t so bad. It reminded me of a little kid going to the doctor for a shot. The more she dwelled on it, the more it scared her, until she’d built it up to be something so monumentally frightening that even the thought nearly paralyzed her.

I’d turned going back to work into the mother of all shots. This wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

Then I ran headlong into the Dynamic Duo.

There they were. Jackie was standing outside Lolly’s cubicle, which, like it or not, I had to pass on the way to my office.

Jackie darted a quick glance at me, but kept on with her canned let’s-pretend-we’re-talking-about-something-so-important-we-haven’t-noticed-Annabelle conversation. Good, maybe she’d let me pass without a passive-aggressive dig or contemptuous look. I was almost relieved, because I’d rehearsed this encounter in my mind, prepared several pointed comebacks I preferred not to use.

For instance, if one of them asked “How was your vacation?” I’d smile and say “Lovely, thanks.” Or if I felt strong enough to volley, I could say “Why would you ask me that?” Then stare them down until they crawled into their respective holes, and then as I walked away say “I am not in the mood for your crap.”

Good God, this was just like junior high school. Of course, since I was prepared, Jackie took another tactic. As I walked past she said, “Lolly, hold my calls. Annabelle, good morning. Please come into my office.”

Oh, shit. “Sure. Let me put away my briefcase and I’ll be right there.”

I was not prepared to deal with her one-on-one.

“Right. Take your time.”

Take my time? She almost sounded…What was that vaguely familiar tone in her voice? Was she being…nice? Jackie King was a lot of things, but nice wasn’t in her repertoire. She was too mean to be nice.

Oh God, maybe she was going to fire me.

Surely she wasn’t that mean? She liked to pretend she had a conscience, and firing me now, when I really needed this lousy job, would be unconscionable.

She told me to take my time, so I did.

I shut my office door, placed my purse and briefcase on a shelf in the small closet. I closed the bifold door carefully so it wouldn’t jump the track, adjusted the clip taming my long auburn curls, smoothed the back of my black skirt before I sat down at my desk and picked a piece of lint off my stocking before I started my computer.

The Windows logo had emblazoned the screen, and I had just lifted my mug to take a sip of tea when I spied Blake’s face smirking at me from the five-by-seven gilded frame perched on the left corner of my desk. A vision of the mug shot that ran in the paper flashed in my mind. My heart ached as the hole in it tore open a little bit wider.

I pressed my hand to my chest for a few seconds before smacking the photo facedown and sweeping it—like a dead bug—off my desktop into a drawer.

Tears stung my eyes. I dabbed them away and gave myself a pep talk: I was not going to cry. He was not worth it. I closed my eyes for a good minute, until the burning subsided, then I took a deep breath, donned my emotional armor and prepared to march into battle.

“Annabelle, come in. Close the door. Sit.”

Jackie’s lips curved down, even when she smiled. She looked at me, radiating a forced creepy-warmth that made me think of the funeral director who helped me make arrangements for my mother’s burial last year. An I-can-be-as-empathetic-as-you-want-while-you’re-giving-me-your-money kind of look, but it wasn’t money Jackie wanted.

Oh, no, no, no. It was details. I sensed it the minute I walked into her office.

She folded her hands on her desk, cocked her head to one side and looked at me. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Liar. She didn’t give a damn about me. She wanted the inside scoop—big fat play-by-play juicy details of Blake’s arrest—and she was willing to make nice to get me to spill my guts.

“I’m fine.”

“I wanted you to know I’m here for you.”

Right. How about a pay raise and a transfer to another department? She’d never been there for me one day in the entire time I’d worked with her. And she’d be there for me now for as long as it took to get the goods and have a titillating oh-my-God-can-you-believe-that lunch with Lolly, because Jackie King was that kind of person.

It took me years to understand what this woman was made of—because there was a time in the beginning when I allowed myself to be taken in by her—and I’d rather ask Blake to move back and bring his lovers home than confide in the Jackal.

“Is there anything else?” My words were icy, yet I managed to curve my lips upward; not into a smile of gratitude, but one that closed this too-personal vein of conversation.

Her funeral-director smile faded to a nearly expressionless mask of comprehension. She unfolded her hands and crossed her arms.

“There is something else,” she said as I started to stand. “I don’t like the direction you’re taking with the new marketing campaign.”

She opened the file on top of her desk and pulled out my preliminary design for the new brochure—the design I hadn’t shown to anyone yet. Where did she—

“Home is where the heart is…Heartfield Retirement Communities…?” She scrunched up her nose. “That’s a little clichéd, don’t you think? Come up with something else by this afternoon. We’re way behind.”

I glared at her in disbelief, trying to think of something to put her in her place, but as usual, my mind went blank with rage.

“Where did you get that?”

She wouldn’t look me in the eye. “I peeked at your files while you were gone. After all, some of us had to work these past two weeks.”

Some of us had to work? What the— Ohh, that martyr bitch. I was not out on a pleasure cruise and she knew it. She was just mad because I wouldn’t talk to her about it. Even worse, she’d snooped through my office and taken one of my files.

“I need that back.” I held out my hand and made a mental note to lock my desk from now on.

She closed the file and handed it to me, then started straightening the stacks of paper on her desk to avoid looking at me.

Coward.

Before I turned to leave, I stood there for a moment, towering over her, waiting to see how long it would take her to look at me. But she spun her chair around so that her back was to me and started typing on the computer perched on the credenza behind her desk.

She was a coward.

It dawned on me that the hardest parts of this crisis—telling Ben and going back to work—were over.

“You can leave now,” she said without turning around.

Yes. Yes, I could. Perhaps it was time.

I smelled the scent of gardenias before I saw the movement in my peripheral vision. My gaze snapped from my easel to the doorway and there stood Rita in the threshold of my studio. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Yanking off my MP3 earphones, I said, “For God’s sake, you scared me to death.”

She smiled and waved a stack of transparency sleeves at me. “Sorry about that. I knocked, but you didn’t answer. Your car’s out front so I figured you were here—wait till you see what I have.” She sang the words as she shut the door and dangled a plastic sheet between two fingers. “I think you’ll forgive me when you see these.”

“The slides of my work?”

She nodded. “They look fabulous.”

I set down my brush, tossed the MP3 player on the table and met her halfway. She pulled a small slide viewer from her bag and popped in the first image. “Here, take a look.”

The boxy magnifier lay cool and light in my palm. As I pressed the button and the light engaged, the oddest sensation enveloped me that my future sat in my hand.

It was crazy—merely wishful thinking that I could make a living doing what I love, especially now that life was so messed up with Blake and I was ensconced in the new marketing campaign at work. All the ideas I came up with after Jackie vetoed “Home is where the heart is…” seemed trite and hackneyed.

I breathed in the heady scent of oil paint—I was experimenting with a new medium. It comingled with the gardenia essence that had marked my sister’s entrance. I peered into the light box and saw the lavender foxgloves I’d painted last week. The delicate purple blossoms dangled from the stems like glorious pieces of amethyst standing out bold against the rich emerald background.

My breath hitched. I loved foxgloves and these looked good, if I did say so myself. There was a whole planter full of them across the courtyard from my studio. The slide reminded me of how soothing it was to lose myself in the painting process.

If nothing else, at least I had my art. Something to call my own, something constant in this world of madness.

Rita handed me another slide, and then another until we established a silent rhythm of viewing and changing. My discard pile grew. Her handoff pile waned. We sank into the comfortable silence that sisters weren’t compelled to fill.

When I’d viewed the last slide, Rita said, “They look good, huh?”

“Yeah, they do. Thanks for photographing them, Ri.”

She nodded, chewing her bottom lip as if she had something else to say.

“What?” I asked, putting the slides back into their sleeves.

“Don’t kill me, okay?”

“Why would I do that? You’re not going to tell me you’ve slept with Blake, too, are you?”

She scrunched up her nose. “Ew. No.”

“Oh, I forgot, you’re not his type. You don’t have a penis.”

My sister didn’t laugh.

I held up the transparency of the foxgloves to the light and looked at it again, and when I looked over at her she shot me a weird sort-of smirk.

“You know it would be really good for you to get away from here. Go somewhere fresh where the word penis doesn’t automatically evoke nightmares.”

“What are you talking about?”

I nudged the last slide into place, skimmed the sleeve to the center of the table and turned my attention to Rita.

“You know I shot two sets of slides, right?”

“No, I didn’t know that. Is it a problem?”

“Only if you hate me for sending them to Paris…with the artist-in-residency application.”

I crossed my arms in front of me. “You did what?”

“I sent your work—”

“I heard you the first time. I just— Rita, I can’t go to Paris. I told you that. That’s why I didn’t send them myself.”

She pulled out a stool and perched on the edge of it. “I know you did. Your mind is kind of on automatic pilot.”

I threw up my hands. “Well, I’m kind of preoccupied trying to figure out how I’ll take care of myself after I’m divorced. As of right now, that plan does not include moving to Paris for three months.”

She looked disappointed and lowered her voice the way our mother used to when she tried to win us over to her way of thinking. “Why can’t you see that would be the very best way for you to take care of yourself? A change of scenery, a change of career.”

I hated this logical side of my sister. I walked over to my easel and picked up my brush. “Okay. Okay. Fine. I’m not going to fight with you over this. Thank you for thinking enough of my work…for thinking enough of me—”

The words burned the back of my throat, and made my eyes water. I swallowed hard.

“Thank you for doing that for me. But you know, you have to stop—”

I shook my head and stabbed my brush in the gob of cadmium yellow on my palette so hard the bristles flared.

“What were you going to say?”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rita stand.

“That I have to stop interfering with your cocoon-building? Well, I’m not going to, Anna.”

I swiped a slash of yellow across the canvas. “This is not worth fighting over. Tell me where I can find a telephone number and I’ll call and withdraw.”

“Withdraw?” She laughed and stood behind me, but I didn’t turn around. “If you feel the need to withdraw, then you think you might win a spot.”

I shrugged, and dipped my brush into the black paint. “I don’t. I don’t know what I think. Just stop.”

“Why would you not go for this?”

A funnel of fear rose and whirled around my stomach, but I ignored it, focusing instead on how I should’ve been mad at my sister for putting me in this position; for going against my wishes and entering my work in that contest. And I would’ve been mad at her if I hadn’t been so numb. But despite the numbness, deep inside in the very center of my soul, down in the tiny little speck of heart that hadn’t frozen solid, I knew she was right. Only, there was a wide cavern between what I should do and what I was capable of doing just then.

“Well, Ri, I’ll add painting in Paris to my to-do list right behind finding a decent divorce attorney and securing another place to live because Blake is barking about putting the house on the market.”

She clucked her tongue and sighed. Loudly. As if she’d just learned I’d pierced my nipples and planned to shave my hair into a Mohawk.

“Look, it’s easy to judge when your ass isn’t on the line,” I said over my shoulder.

“Yeah, I guess so. And I guess it’s easy to use Blake as an excuse for not living your life. As big a bastard as he is, he’s not the one keeping you from Paris. You’re doing this to yourself.”

I whirled to face her. “That is so unfair.”

“I know it is. The entire scenario that’s brought you to this juncture sucks. But Anna, what would really be unfair is if you used this crap as an excuse to curl up into a little ball and fade away.”

I turned back to my canvas before the first tears broke free and meandered down my cheek. I wiped them away with my sleeve.

“You blame Blake for taking away your life. Don’t give him your soul.”

I heard Rita’s sandals clicking on the concrete floor, walking away from me. I wanted to shout at her, If I’d wanted to go to Paris I would have sent in the damn application myself. Well, okay, I wanted to go to Paris. Someday. Just not right now.

Arrgh. Too much. Too much. Too much was coming at me too fast.

“I have a challenge for you.” My sister’s voice was softer. I glanced over to see her hitching her purse up on her shoulder.

“Don’t withdraw. Just let the application ride. Toss it up to fate and see what happens. Okay?”

CHAPTER 4

After six weeks of having the bed to myself, I decided I liked sleeping alone. I woke up at six-thirty that particular morning smack-dab in the middle of the king-size bed. No one poked me in the back and told me to keep to my own side of the bed. No one elbowed me for inadvertently kicking him when I stretched out.

It was kind of nice, this newfound personal space. If I wanted to I could take my half out of the middle. It was a good thing, sleeping alone. I lay there and waited for reality to jolt my sleep-befuddled mind and expose the big dark hole that had taken up residence where my heart used to live.

I waited, but the familiar pain didn’t stir.

A good sign.

Never mind that waking up was the easy part. Going to bed alone was still a challenge. After eighteen years of sleeping with the same person, I’d found comfort and reassurance in being able to reach out and touch Blake whenever I wanted—even though we rarely touched.

There was something in just knowing he was there, something comforting in the occasional brush of his foot against mine, no matter how unintentional; something in the rhythmic ebb and flow of his breathing; even something in his snoring, although until I discovered earplugs it used to drive me nuts.

I guess my newfound personal space—room to stretch—was one fringe benefit of living alone.

I spread my arms and legs to the four corners of the bed, just because I could, and moved them back and forth like a child making a snow angel. I reveled in the softness of the sheets under my body, and then lay spread-eagle for a moment, and listened to the quiet until the shrill ring of the telephone interrupted my calm.

“Annabelle, I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Blake. My heart skipped a beat. “No, I’m up.”

“Good. I wanted to catch you before you went to work.”

His brisk tone hinted that I might not like what he had to say. But I waited, holding firmly to the old adage she who speaks first loses.

“Annabelle, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, I’ve secured a Realtor, Jared Helmsley, to list the house for us.”

“Excuse me?”

I sat up and swung my feet over the side of the bed.

Not quite a fighting stance, but at least I wasn’t taking it lying down.

“I’d like to bring him by this afternoon to see the place so we can get it on the market as soon as possible.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, Blake. I told you at least ten times already, I’m not ready to list the house.” I’d just found an attorney to represent me and we hadn’t gotten that far yet. “I’m not doing anything until I talk to my lawyer. So just cool your jets.”

He heaved a sigh in my ear. A huffy, sissy sigh that irked me to the core. Oh, be a man.

He cleared his throat. “Annabelle, we’re going to have to do something soon because my partner and I are starting our own business and we need the capital. I want my half.”

Whoa! Wait a minute. Rewind. The implication propelled me to my feet.

“Your partner? Since when do you have a partner? You always worked better alone. That was the principal reason you broke off from the firm and started your own business.”

He cleared his throat again. God, it sounded like a chain saw sputtering and dying in my ear, and it was getting on my nerves. I got to my feet and started downstairs to keep myself from snipping at him about the ugly noise. On the way down, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the stairs. Holding the phone with one hand, I tried to tame my wild curls, which sprang out in every direction and made me look like the Raisin Bran sun.

“Not that kind of partner. Jared Helmsley is my…um…my partner.”

I braced myself on the kitchen counter. It took a few seconds before it sank in. “Oh my God, this Realtor is your boyfriend? Well, you certainly work fast. Tell me where you two met. No, wait—let me guess. Live Oak Park, right? Aww, I love hearing about blossoming romance.”

Not.

“Don’t be crass, Annabelle.”

Don’t be a pansy, Blake.

“I’m retiring from architecture, and Jared and I are starting an antiques business.”

Antiques. How typical. My husband was a gay cliché.

So much for the small pleasures of sheet angels and taking my half out of the middle of the bed. I needed a good strong cup of joe after waking up to this. I picked up my French-press coffeepot, measured water from the refrigerator and poured it into the kettle to boil.

“Don’t you think it’s a risky move to cash it all in and set up shop with a guy you just met?”

“I’ve known Jared a while.”

“Like six weeks a while? Or longer a while?”

“Longer.”

“How much longer, Blake?” I dumped some French-roast beans into the grinder. I pressed the start button and the machine hummed and chomped; the rich, aromatic promise of a good cup of coffee lulled me into hoping the day would get better.

He planned it this way, didn’t he? He had to have some sort of Annabelle Happiness Radar that sounded an alarm when my misery dropped to a bearable level. Because just when I started to feel okay he’d fling another doozy. I turned around and picked up the glass pot, getting it ready for the fresh coffee.

“Jared and I have been together for three years.”

I caught the answer just as the grinder stopped. The press pot slipped from my hands and shattered on the slate floor.

“What?”

He’d been in a relationship for three years?

“Did something break?” Blake’s voice sounded miles away. But as far as I was concerned, if he were in China it wouldn’t have been far enough.

Oh my God! Where was I when all this was going on? How could I have missed this? How could I have been so pathetically ignorant?

My free hand flew to my mouth, as much to stop the bile that was making its way up my esophagus as to contain my shock. My heart beat as if it were trying to break free from my chest.

As I moved around the glass shards, trying not to step on them with bare feet, I wished my heart would just break free and fall into the glass so that I could give it a decent burial. Like the coffeepot, it, too, was shattered beyond repair.

“Annabelle? Are you there?”

When he got arrested, not only was he cheating on me, he was cheating on the one with whom he was cheating on me. Obviously Jared was a little more forgiving than I was.

I wanted to scream at Blake for being so callous, for making a mockery out of our marriage, for making me feel so utterly, disgustingly unlovable. For making me feel as if this were somehow my fault.

“Yeah, I’m here. But you know what? I have to get ready for work. No Realtors, Blake. Just—just go away.”

I never got my coffee.

I didn’t have time to tame my hair into my old reliable chignon and stop at Starbucks and get to work in time for the big unveiling of our new marketing campaign to the Heartfield brass. It was the trial presentation before we took our “new image” to the board of directors. I couldn’t don my game face with wild hair.

So with or without coffee, life marched on.

For that matter, with or without Blake, with or without boyfriends and antiques businesses and whatever else Blake planned to spring on me around the next bend, I had to put it all aside and go to work.

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