The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [79]
“Well, I wouldn’t have minded a wife who came home on occasion. A wife who didn’t compare me to her boss or to her darling father. Is that so much to ask for?” The carefully crafted words were spinning away from him. She took sublime satisfaction in that.
“You’re weak!” she spat out into the phone. “You’re spineless and only half the man the colonel is. You’re not a real lieutenant colonel, you just know how to play political games. I’m glad you left. It’s better this way. You play with your little child. At least you finally found someone you can be better than!”
“Dammit, Marion! Don’t do—”
She didn’t hear the rest. She slammed the phone down so hard, Glug flinched. She stared at the lizard, willing it to move so she’d have an excuse to tear it to pieces.
The iguana wisely played dead. She lit a fresh cigarette and inhaled the acrid smoke until tears stung her eyes. Her body was trembling and she hurt, way down deep inside.
For just one moment she wanted to curl into a ball and weep. She wanted to hold out her arms and have someone wrap her in a strong embrace and whisper soothing words in her ear.
It’ll be all right, Merry Berry. I’ll save you. I’ll save you.
The words came out of nowhere, as faint as a dream. She rubbed her cheeks with her fists, swallowing through the tightness in her chest.
To hell with Roger. He was a weak man consoling himself through his midlife crisis with a twenty-two-year-old. She was tougher than him. She was tougher than most men she met. It unnerved all of them. Even in the nineties, men expected a little simpering, a little need. They told her she would have equal opportunity as a female agent, then tried to hide dead bodies from her sight as if she might faint. And then when she bent down and investigated the scene, they exchanged glances over her head as if she were some dyke in disguise.
They told her they didn’t mind independence, then looked wounded the first time she didn’t cry in their arms because she’d seen a murder. They said they understood her strength, then resented it when she outperformed them on the shooting range.
She was not the one changing the rules. She was not the one saying she was comfortable with one thing and expecting another. She’d married and she was faithful. She’d taken a vow of fidelity, bravery, and integrity, and she was a good agent. She’d promised the colonel she would make him proud and she would be at his side holding his hand when he died. And she’d see to it that he got the best sendoff any man had ever had.
She brushed off her shirt. She patted her hair, which was pulled back into a French twist. She told herself she was composed and together and the strongest thing this side of hell.
Then she walked down the hall to her bedroom.
Her feet slowed by J.T.’s door. The urge welled up so strongly, her hand actually curled around the door-knob. Open the door. Go inside. He’ll help you, he’ll help you. Jordan will save you.
Then she remembered that day at J.T.’s orienteering match, when their father had come back and he hadn’t. She’d stood there while the adults had conferred, holding her stomach against the anger knotting her belly. Jordan had gone and done it. He’d escaped, he’d run away. He’d left her.
Then he was crashing through the underbrush. And instead of being relieved, she hated him all the more. Because he had come back, the dumb bastard, and for just one moment she’d thought that he was free, that J.T. had at least escaped and she wouldn’t have to be scared for him anymore.
While the colonel had patted J.T. on the back for walking on a broken ankle, Marion had leaned into the woods and vomited until she dry-heaved.
“I hate you,” she now whispered, the words choked with tears.
She stormed into her room. “Goddamn everyone in this house,” she muttered. “Goddamn them all.” She slammed the window open, found a fresh pack of cigarettes, and tapped out one.
That was it. She’d had enough. She’d given J.T. his one week to decide. Tomorrow she would give him his last chance to see the light.