The Revenge of the Radioactive Lady - Elizabeth Stuckey-French [70]
Full disclosure—he knew the other methods didn’t work because of a few slipups, a very few, none of which Caroline knew about. When he turned thirty-five, he’d determined that all that was behind him. The older he got, the more he had to lose, the less compelling became the prospect of upheaval and drama; and even if Caroline never found out, the pining, scheming, euphoria, and the wallowing in guilt would’ve taken too much out of him. Add to that his intense desire to avoid dueling lawyers; acres of counseling appointments; and most of all, heartbroken children. He’d prefer to just stay home, eat popcorn, and watch all of the above on TV.
So Vic was counting on the all-and-nothing approach with Gigi, because he had no desire to disturb his marriage any more than it was already disturbed—he didn’t want to add to the damage that had already been done by the everyday wear and tear of life with three kids, two of them with “disabilities,” and an old man with dementia. Also, he was already aware of some of Gigi’s flaws: She overdid it with the eyeliner and revealing outfits. Her laugh was too loud and her Southern accent exaggerated. She didn’t take the job seriously. She wasn’t very good at it. She drank too much.
He told himself that nothing had happened between himself and Gigi at the Cyprus—they ate dinner and drank a lot of wine, hugged good-bye a little too long in the parking lot and went their separate ways. But he never mentioned to Caroline that Gigi was the only other person at the dinner, which broke the cardinal rule of All-and-Nothing—if he couldn’t tell his wife about it, it was not nothing.
Later that night, his head heavy with pinot noir, instead of getting into bed where he belonged, he found himself in front of his laptop, checking the NHC Web site to see if there were any new developments, any new storms that might have potential.
There was nothing on his computer screen. Nothing.
Part Four JULY 2006
On the Fourth of July, at the Canterbury Hills neighborhood pond, Caroline sat on top of a picnic table, her father parked on the seat below her, watching fireworks shooting up from across the muddy water. Vic, looking young and trim in shorts and T-shirt, stood a few feet away, arms folded on his chest. Otis had wanted to stay home and watch the Space Shuttle Discovery launching toward the International Space Station, but Caroline had insisted he come out and get some fresh air. He’d walked down to the pond with them but disappeared into the crowd as soon as they got there. Ava and Suzi had better reasons for missing the festivities. Ava’s nervous system couldn’t tolerate fireworks, and Suzi’s knee was giving her trouble.
Kids danced around with sparklers, and the smoke from stink bombs hung like a ceiling overhead. The smoke didn’t rise in this humidity. Caroline wore jeans and tennis shoes, because of the mosquitoes and fire ants, but wished she’d worn a sundress and put up with the bites. She despised July Fourth and all the forced gaiety around it, gaiety that required one to endure the heat, eat bad food, and subject oneself to fiery things that banged and popped and had been known to “take out an eye” or “blow off a finger.” She felt guilty about hating Independence Day, so she usually went overboard in the opposite direction—baking cupcakes with red, white, and blue icing; organizing a cookout; buying tons of sparklers and snakes; forcing