The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [38]
More nodding.
He reached up and slowly loosened the clothesline. She collapsed into the tub like a sack of grain. He studied her for a moment, noting the silky cascade of blond hair over white skin. He stroked that hair for a bit. Then he undid his construction overalls and let them fall to the floor.
Shelly stirred in the bathtub, recognizing her cue. She lifted her face and he ripped off the duct tape with one quick tear.
“That’s a good girl. Remember, you have to be useful, Shelly. You have to be useful.”
Her mouth closed around him. He let himself relax by degrees into the frantic sucking. His hands continued to stroke her blond hair, lifting it in fistfuls and releasing it. For one moment he indulged himself in the fantasy that it was not Shelly on her hands and knees in front of him, but Theresa. His stupid wife, Theresa.
He’d never made her perform like this. He’d never made her do any of the things he’d had the others do. She was his wife, the mother of his child. He’d considered her separate. Now he saw the error of his ways.
Now he dreamed of all the things he would have her do when he saw her again.
He closed his eyes and his hands curled around Shelly’s/Theresa’s neck.
“I’m coming for you, baby. I’m coming for you.”
EIGHT
SHE WAS FADING on him. Her strokes had long since passed the fluid point. She did little more than beat at the water, and he could see her chin trembling.
Twenty laps, that’s all she’d done. Barely over four hundred yards, when he could swim three thousand. Jesus, they were in trouble.
He’d started her with calisthenics. She couldn’t do a single push-up. Fine. Arm muscles were a problem for some women, and she had a particularly slight build. They’d moved on to stretching. Her flexibility was pretty good. She did a solid twenty sit-ups, survived twenty jumping jacks. He’d moved her on to squats, and she practically keeled over on him. No arm muscles, no legs.
The woman was beyond out of shape. She simply had no muscle mass. And skin and bones didn’t fight very well.
“Another,” J.T. commanded.
“No,” Angela said, but was too tired to put any force behind her word.
He scowled at her, she turned sluggishly into another lap. “You call that form?” he barked out. He needed a whistle.
“I told you, I’m not a good swimmer.”
“No kidding. And no push-ups, no squats. Honey, how have you gotten through life?”
“Housewives don’t do the Iron Man,” she snapped. Well, it was something. If all else failed, maybe she could verbally spar Big Bad Jim into the ground.
She reached the end of the pool, and without his permission clung to the wall. Her shoulders were shaking. She placed her cheek against the patio as if finding a pillow.
She looked like a worn-out child. She looked like someone ought to pick her up, curl her in his arms, and rock her to sleep while stroking her hair.
J.T. stalked away from her in a hurry.
“Know what your problem is?”
“No, but everyone seems to have a theory.” Her lips twisted into that enigmatic, too-old smile that meant she was referring to her husband and the suitcase of secrets she wouldn’t share.
“You think too much.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“I mean it. You’re clinging to the patio and you’re thinking, I’m tired. You’re thinking, My legs hurt. Tell me I’m wrong, Angela.”
Her eyes finally opened, her lashes spiky with water. “All right. I’m tired, my legs hurt.”
“You have to find the zone.”
“The zone?”
“The zone. You ever play sports?”
“Sports?”
“Sports, Angela. You know, football, basketball, hockey, swimming, whatever. We can look it up in the dictionary if you’d like.”
“I . . . I was a cheerleader.”
“Now, why didn’t I guess that?”
“It’s not as easy as everyone thinks,” she retorted immediately. “It takes a lot of flexibility and discipline. Have you ever been able to kick above your shoulder? I don’t think so. We practiced very hard and it was brutal on the knees.”
“I’m not arguing. Must take some strength too, building pyramids, all that.”
“Yes. But I was one of the smaller girls. I was the top, not the base.”
“Ever