The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [103]
“I thought you were going to be by his side.”
“Obviously I didn’t make it.”
“Are you all right, Marion? You don’t seem . . .” His voice trailed off. His face held genuine concern. She hated that.
“Go back to your cocktail waitress, Roger. I don’t need you here.”
For a change, he didn’t listen to her. Instead, he stepped into the room.
She arched one fine brow. “Why, Roger, did you grow a spine while I was away?”
His face spasmed, revealing the direct hit. “I know this has been rough for you, Marion,” he tried valiantly.
“Spare me.”
“I know you must hurt a lot right now. I can’t be your husband anymore. I’m sorry. But I thought . . . I thought I might still be your friend.”
“Why would I need a friend?”
“I know you loved him,” Roger whispered hoarsely. “I loved him too, Marion. He was my friend, my mentor . . . I already miss him. I can’t imagine how much you must hurt.” The emotion welled up in his face. Before he controlled himself, she saw the glint of honest tears in his eyes.
She stared at him blankly. She should be crying too. She should feel sadness, grief. But she felt nothing, just ice, flowing through her veins and freezing like a solid mass in her stomach. Ever since two nights ago, ice was the only emotion she could find.
Because sometimes when it cracked, she glimpsed things she didn’t want to know.
Roger stepped forward. He looked handsome and distinguished in his suit, the crystal chandelier reflecting off his fine light brown hair and elegant patrician features. He’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and was the epitome of grace, refinement, and class.
The first time she’d seen Roger, she’d been dressed in a flowing white gown and slowly descending the grand curving staircase of her parents’ house to make the dramatic entrance for her eighteenth birthday party. Roger had been standing by the colonel’s side in full military dress uniform, looking at her mesmerized while the chandelier glinted off the medals on his chest. Her gaze was supposed to sweep the whole room like a duchess granting royal privilege. Instead, she’d simply stared at Roger. She’d thought he was a prince coming to carry her away.
If he put his arms around her now, could he make the images go away? Could he save her from the ice that was consuming her?
I am lost inside myself and no one can hear my cry.
“Marion—”
“Go home, Roger. I don’t want you here.”
“You shouldn’t be alone—”
“Go home, goddammit! Go home or I will call your sweet little cocktail waitress and tell her just how strong and brave you really are! Get out of my home. Get out of my living room. Play the grieving protégé on your own time!”
He looked stricken. She took a step forward and he shrank back. His face became shuttered, his eyes accusing, and he didn’t have to move his lips for her to know what he was thinking.
Cold Marion, unfeeling Marion, frigid Marion.
And for her part she remembered life after the storybook wedding. She recalled the time she’d been in the bathroom, washing her face, and he’d slammed open the door, stepped into the bathroom, and in front of her startled gaze lowered his zipper and pissed in the toilet. He’d stared at her mutinously. “After five years of marriage, we ought to be at least comfortable enough to take a leak in front of each other, Marion. I want that kind of closeness!” She’d just stared at him, unable to keep the horror and disgust from her face. He’d never done it again.
“All right,” he now said stiffly, retreating to the door. “I’ll leave, if that’s what you want.”
“How many times do I have to say it?”
He opened the door, then paused long enough to shake his head. “You’ve always been remote, Marion,” he said quietly. “But I don’t remember you as being so cruel.”
“I’m just getting wiser.”
“Don’t get too wise, Marion. You don’t have that many friends left—just Emma, whom you despise, and J.T., whom you hate.”
“Emma is insane and J.T. is a drunk. I don’t give a flying fig for either of them.”
“J.T. is a drunk?”
“Absolutely,” she said coolly. Goody Two-shoes Roger always had been fascinated