Capital Wives (4 page)

Pilar had returned to school, this time to become a medical technician, where she'd learned to take blood pressure readings and draw blood. She applied for a position at a local medical clinic and twenty years later she was now their office manager.

Marisol knew it hadn't been easy for Pilar, and she struggled not to repeat her mother's life as an unwed mother living in public housing. Unlike her mother, she didn't have her first serious relationship until after she'd graduated college. It was when she met Bryce McDonald at a Washington Redskins football game that she knew she had met her soul mate. Their
six-month I-95 courtship ended when Bryce asked her to relocate from New York to D.C.—as his wife.

What Marisol had planned as a small gathering quickly became an extravaganza when Bryce's parents invited politicians, elected officials and several heads of state. Her family was definitely outnumbered, and she sought to even the odds when she invited many of her Puerto Rican relatives—some of whom had never left the island—to her nuptials. The highlight of the reception was when the Latin band began playing salsa, mambo, meringue and samba. Her relatives had put on a dancing exhibition that was still talked about when Marisol and Bryce returned from their two-week Mediterranean honeymoon.

“What are you doing?” Marisol whispered when Bryce shifted her off his lap and pressed her down to the sofa.

“I'm going to make love to my wife.”

She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back. “No! My mother will hear us.”

Bryce left Marisol staring at him as he stood up, locked the door and turned on a radio, increasing the volume until the thumping baseline beat reverberated off the walls. She was still staring with wide eyes when he began to undress. This was a side of her husband she had never seen before, but she wasn't going to complain if their lovemaking resulted in her becoming pregnant.

Smiling, she beckoned him closer.
“Venga aquí, Papi.”
Speaking Spanish to Bryce, although he didn't understand the language, turned him on.

Marisol took off her sweater, dropping it to the floor. Her shoes, skirt and stockings followed. Bryce was naked and fully aroused when she unhooked her bra and added it to the pile of clothing. Going to her knees, she slid her hands down her waist to her hips, pushing the narrow elastic waistband off
her hips and down her thighs. By the time the panties joined the discarded clothing Bryce was between her legs, pushing inside her.

There was no foreplay, no whispered words of affection as Bryce made love to her like a man possessed. His heavy breathing, grunts and groans aroused Marisol until she felt as if she was coming out of her skin. Raising her legs, she looped them around Bryce's waist, allowing for deeper penetration. Her whole body shuddered as passion made her its captive and pleasure, pure and explosive, ripped through the area between her thighs. She was on fire! Bryce was on fire as an inferno engulfed them both in flames that would only be quenched when they climaxed simultaneously.

“Harder, harder,” she gasped when she felt the beginnings of an orgasm. “Harder, dammit!”

Grasping her buttocks, Bryce gripped the firm flesh as he went to his knees and thrust over and over into her moist warmth. Every time he made love to Marisol it was like the first time. He'd slept with a lot of women, yet collectively they couldn't compare to the woman he planned to spend the rest of his life with. He felt the tightening in his scrotum that indicated he was about to ejaculate. His fingers dug into her flesh as he pulled back one last time and then plunged into her vagina, holding her fast as he felt the rush of semen that stopped his heart for several seconds as he experienced
le petit mort
.

Completely spent, Bryce collapsed on Marisol's writhing body, smiling as her gasps of fulfillment echoed in his ear. Yes, making love to her was just like the first time—exciting and fulfilling. And he would always remember the first time he saw her sitting in the stadium screaming at the top of her lungs because the Redskins were beating her favored New York Giants. Her hair was longer, a mass of raven curls falling
around a doll-like face with expressive dark eyes. Physically, she was the complete opposite of the girls he'd dated, but there was something about the petite exotic beauty that had made him want to know her better. They'd programmed each other's numbers into their cell phones and he waited a week before calling her.

What had begun as a telephone courtship segued to driving to New York City to take her out. Although she'd shared an apartment with another woman, she wouldn't permit him to sleep over, nor would she sleep with him at his hotel.

The one time he'd invited her to D.C. for a black-tie event, he'd arranged for a car to pick her up and bring her to a Washington day spa for a total beauty makeover. When she'd checked into their hotel room Bryce had surprised her when the owner of a boutique arrived with racks of dresses, shoes and accessories from which to choose for the event. With her shorter coiffed hair, professional makeup and a requisite little black dress that hugged every curve of her petite body, Marisol had managed to charm every man he'd introduced her to. And that included his father.

His parents invited her to come down the following weekend to hang out at their vacation home on the Chesapeake, and when Bryce drove her back to New York he knew he had fallen in love with her. It wasn't until after he'd slipped the three-carat, emerald-cut diamond on her finger with a promise to love her forever that he'd experienced what it was to make love to the woman who was to become his wife.

Being in her arms, lying between her scented thighs, made him regret all the women he'd ever slept with. Especially Odette. She'd given him chlamydia and gonorrhea, all the while swearing he was the only man she'd slept with. He finally ended their relationship, but it was too late. Repeated bouts of STDs had left him sterile. Marisol wanted a baby,
and unless there was a procedure to reverse his infertility he would never father a child.

“I'll never look at this sofa again without remembering what we did here,” he whispered in her ear.

“Thankfully it can be cleaned,” Marisol whispered back. “We have to get up and shower. This place smells like sex.”

“I love the smell of sex in the morning,” Bryce intoned like Robert Duvall in
Apocalypse Now
.

Marisol landed a soft punch to his shoulder. “He said napalm, and it's not morning. Please, let me up so I can wash up.”

“What happened to keeping your legs up so the sperm can swim upstream?”

“I'll leave them up until they start getting numb.”

“Mari?”

“Sí, Papi.”

Bryce chose his words carefully. “If we don't make a baby before the end of the year, then I'm willing to consider other alternatives.”

Marisol blinked back tears. “You're not kidding, are you?”

He kissed her nose and wrapped a curl around his finger. “No, sweetheart. I'm not kidding. If you don't want to go through the whole artificial insemination scene, then I'm more than willing to adopt. I know lawyers who can speed up the process and get us a newborn in less than six months.”

It was a full minute before Marisol said, “Even if I do become pregnant, I would still like to adopt. It doesn't have to be a newborn.”

“You'd want an older child?”

“Why not, Bryce? They are the ones who languish in foster care because everyone wants a newborn.”

“I don't mind an older child as long as they're not too old.”

“What made you change your mind when you were so against adoption?”

“I had the TV on earlier this morning and there was a segment about adoption with testimonials from adoptive parents and kids still waiting to be adopted. I suppose you can say it got to me.”

“I'm glad it did,
m'ijo.
You're going to be an incredible father.”

“We'll see.”

“What's there to see, Bryce?”

“I just don't want to become one of those overindulgent fathers whose so-called good kid has the family attorney on speed dial.”

“Never happen,” Marisol said confidently. “I will never let our kids forget that their mother grew up in El Barrio and she can roll with the best of them.”

“Boo-hoo, I'm scared of you.”

“Don't let my size fool you. I'm one tough
chica.
” Lowering her legs, she moaned softly. “You're going to have to massage my legs. They feel like someone is sticking them with pins.”

Bryce pulled out, slid down the sofa and pressed his face to the neatly trimmed fuzz covering Marisol's mound. He inhaled, held his breath, then let it out slowly. “I love the way you smell after we make love.”

A dreamy smile parted her lips when his hands moved over her calves, working their magic.

Life was better than good for Marisol.

It was perfect.

Bryce had told his wife what he knew she'd wanted to hear. He had no intention of subjecting himself to a fertility test when he knew what the results would be. How could he explain to Marisol that he'd slept with a woman who let him do whatever he wanted to her and in the end had contracted a
STD that left him unable to father a child? And he definitely had no intention of adopting some woman's cast-off or stray. If it wasn't his seed, then he didn't want it.

M
arisol and Deanna exchanged puzzled glances in the mirror of the powder room at the National Museum of Women in the Arts. “Is that someone crying?” Deanna whispered.

Marisol nodded. “I think so.” Soft sobs were coming from behind the door of one of the stalls.

Deanna bent down to find a pair of pale feet in a pair of designer heels. “Block the door and do
not
let anyone in,” she told Marisol. “I'm going to try and get her to come out.” She knocked softly on the stall door while Marisol walked to the outer door. “Hello? Are you all right in there?”

“Leave me alone.”

“I'm not going to leave you alone until you open the door to let me see that you're okay.”

“Use another bathroom,” Marisol called out to someone knocking on the door. “Someone just threw up in here.”

“Good girl,” Deanna crooned, replying to her friend's quick thinking. She knocked softly on the stall again. “Open the door or I'll get the museum's security to do it.”

What she didn't want was to read about an incident that someone had been found dead or unconscious in the restroom during a fundraiser and she had done nothing because she was minding her business.

“Just open it a little bit,” Deanna continued, this time in a softer tone. She heard the distinctive sound of the sliding latch and then the door opened a fraction. “A little more so I can see your face.” The crack widened and she saw the pale, mascara-streaked face with red, puffy eyes. “You know you can't go back to the ballroom looking like a hot mess.” The blonde woman nodded. “Where's your purse?”

“It's…it's back at my table.”

“Who are you here with?”

“My husband.”

“Don't move,” Deanna ordered. Walking back to the counter, she pulled several tissues from a dispenser, pushing the wad through the slight opening. “Blow your nose.”

“Hey, Dee. I'm not going to be able to keep them out indefinitely.”

“Give me a few more minutes,” she said to Marisol. “Who's your husband?”

There came a moment of silence. “Damon Paxton.”

Deanna whistled softly. She knew there was something familiar about the woman, but hadn't been able to recall her name. The tabloids had had a field day when Damon Paxton divorced his wife to marry a woman young enough to be his daughter. The fact that Jean Paxton had come from an old D.C. moneyed family hadn't endeared Bethany to those who had labeled her as a home wrecker, along with a few other four-and five-letter words that were whispered but not printed.

“Close the door. I'm going to get your purse, so you can clean up your face before you go back to your table. I'm
certain you don't want to give the old cows the satisfaction of seeing you upset.”

“You know who I am?”

“Yes, I do. Now, close and lock the door. Marisol, come here,” she called out when the lock to the stall slid into place.

Marisol McDonald strutted over in a pair of five-inches strappy stilettos. Instead of the requisite full-length gown, she had worn a short fitted black dress with a scooped neckline and bared back. Her inky-black curls, piled atop her head, added several inches to her diminutive frame.

“What's up, Dee?”

“She's Damon Paxton's wife,” Deanna whispered. “I need you to go and get her purse so she can fix her face. If her husband asks, just tell him that she's not feeling well. Meanwhile, I'm going to try to keep her calm.”

Deanna studied her face in the mirror while she waited for Marisol to return. She opened her evening purse and touched up her makeup. It had taken her more than two weeks to find a dress for the affair. After trying on the umpteenth dress she had decided on a strapless satin sheath gown in a becoming claret-red with a generous front slit. Fortunately, she'd found a pair of stilettos in the same shade with satin ties that flattered her slender ankles.

“Mrs. Paxton?”

“Yes?” came a soft voice in the stall.

“What's your first name?”

“Bethany.”

“How are you doing, Bethany?”

“Just say I've been better.”

Deanna smiled. “You sound like a Southern girl. Where your folks from?” she asked, lapsing into dialect.

“Alabama.”

“Hey-y-y. A blonde sister-girl from my granddaddy's home state.”

“Where was he from?”

“Mobile. Your people?”

“They're from a little mill town in the northeast corner of the state known as Parkers Corner.”

“Are your folks okay?”

“Last I heard they were,” Bethany replied.

“What about your kids?”

“They're good.”

Deanna knew she had to keep Bethany talking until Marisol returned. “What about your husband?”

“Damon's good—except when it comes to…” Her words trailed off. “What's your name?”

“It's Deanna. Deanna Tyson.”

“Are you the party planner?”

“I'm an event planner,” she corrected. “Keep talking,” Deanna whispered when voices floated through the powder room door.

“I've read about some of the parties—I mean events—you've put together,” Bethany said in a normal tone. “Do you do weddings?”

Deanna nodded to two women who'd just come in to fluff up their hair and reapply lipstick. “I don't think I've planned more than four or five. What I mean is I try to avoid them, because I don't have the temperament to deal with young women who thrive on acting out.”

“What about small dinner parties?”

“That's my specialty. Are you thinking of hosting one?”

“Maybe.”

“I'm going to give you my business card whenever you're finished in there.” Deanna removed a card from a sterling card case and placed it on the counter. “Have fun, ladies,” she
said to the two women who'd washed their hands and dried their hands.

“You, too,” they chorused.

“I'm back,” chanted Marisol as she walked into the space with a beaded evening bag. “Her husband is outside waiting for her.”

Deanna knocked on the stall door. “Come on out, Bethany, and make yourself presentable. Your husband is waiting for you.”

The door opened and Bethany walked out. She was stunning in a black fitted slip dress that clung to her slim body like a second skin. “What did you tell him?”

Marisol met Deanna's eyes before she stared at Bethany. “I told him you had probably eaten something that didn't agree with you, so you were in here hurling your guts out.”

Deanna gave the interior designer an incredulous look. “Did you have to be so melodramatic?”

Marisol rolled her head. “Look at Barbie. She's a dog's mess.”

“Don't you mean hot mess?” Bethany drawled.

“No,” Marisol spat out. “I said what I meant, and I meant what I said. You look like something the dogs dumped on.” She waved a hand. “Get some tissues and clean up that mascara. You look like a raccoon.”

Bethany rolled her head on her neck. “Well, thank you.”

“You're welcome, Barbie.”

“I have a name.”

“What is it?” Marisol asked.

“Bethany.”

“Beth or Barb. They're both the same.”

Bethany extended her hand. “May I please have my bag?”

Marisol gave her the small bag that had probably set Beth
any's husband back by at least five figures. “Everything's in there.”

A becoming flush suffused the blonde's face. “I know you're not a thief.”

“How would you know that?” Marisol asked.

“You have enough bling on your hand and ears to choke a horse.”

Marisol touched the studs in her ear. They had been a wedding gift from Bryce. “Fix your face before your husband comes barging in here.” Turning on her heels, Marisol walked out of the powder room, leaving Bethany and Deanna staring at her back.

Deanna closed her purse. “Marisol is right.”

Bethany nodded. “Thank you, Deanna. May I call you?”

“Isn't that why I gave you my card? You may call me even if you're not planning a party. Good luck.” Deanna gave Bethany a tender smile and walked out the powder room.