Once Upon a Project (13 page)

Chapter 21

 

“O
h, shucks,” Bruce Dillahunt said as he handed Susan a red and white plastic popcorn container. “I forgot my drink.”

“I'll get it,” Susan offered quickly. She was up and in the kitchen in a flash. She picked up Bruce's freshly filled glass of Dr Pepper and brought it to him in the family room, where they were about to watch the cable debut of a film they'd planned to see during its theatrical release, but hadn't gotten around to seeing.

“Thanks.”

She took her place next to him on the sofa. The kids were home, but they were watching a different program in Quentin's room. It almost felt like the old days, before they had children.

Ever since that night at Junior's Bar nearly a month ago, Susan had found herself thinking continually of Charles Valentine: as she vacuumed, emptied out the dishwasher after a cycle, or folded laundry. She saw the affection in his eyes when she lay down for the night, and fell asleep with thoughts of making love to Charles.

And she felt terribly guilty. Even with things as bad as they were between her and Bruce, he was still her husband, and she couldn't justify daydreaming about another man.

The key, she thought, was to reinvigorate her marriage. She'd recapture the old magic if it was the last thing she did. This nonsense had to come to an end.

“Oops. Guess I should have brought more napkins,” Bruce said.

“I'll—”

“No, I'll get them. You stay put before you spoil me so bad I won't want to wipe my own mouth.” He chuckled.

It occurred to her that maybe she'd been overdoing it. She wanted to make it up to Bruce for—as Jimmy Carter so famously said—lusting in her heart, even though he had no idea of her carnal thoughts toward Charles. She'd made his favorite foods all week, even baking that chocolate pumpkin cheesecake he adored, and didn't complain once when he unfailingly announced how tired he was—which she'd come to recognize as code for “I don't want to have sex tonight.”

Her hungry eyes followed him as he sprinted to the kitchen. Even the sweatpants he wore couldn't hide his sinewy thigh muscles. At fifty-two, Bruce Dillahunt kept himself in top condition, regularly lifting weights and working his abs. He could probably run a marathon if he wanted to.

When they first met seventeen years ago, their mutual attraction was intense and immediate. She still remembered the end of their first date, that almost comical look of surprise on his face when she bid him good night and coyly asked if she could have a kiss. It had been clear that he expected to stay the night with her, but she was determined to hold out, not wanting to be just another woman he got into the sack with after buying her dinner. If she gave in so quickly, they'd likely go out a couple of more times and have great sex, but then someone else would catch his eye and it would be good-bye Susan. She had to stretch out the tension, even if it meant taking cold showers and sleeping with her thighs pressed together.

In the end her strategy paid off. When she finally slept with him, they were both starved for sex. They stayed in bed all weekend, rising only to go for meals, after which they returned and went at it again, turning on the TV when they were too tired to rise. Four years later they got married, and for years afterward she felt like she had stumbled into a fairy-tale existence. A custom-built house, two healthy babies, plenty of money.

Then came the mammogram that changed everything.

Susan smiled at Bruce as he returned with the napkins and sat beside her on the sofa. It made her a little sad to realize that of the two of them, she'd changed the most physically during their years together. She didn't look bad, but she definitely looked middle-aged. When Bruce's hairline began to recede, he'd started shaving his head, which made him look younger. At the time she was still keeping her hair long, as she had worn it all her life. She'd started cutting it, a few inches at a time, some five years ago. Long gray hair might work well on that country singer Emmylou Harris, who was stunning; but on Susan Dillahunt it just made her look like a woman well past forty who was trying to look twenty-five. Finally she had it cut short, and was pleased to see that it curled naturally in a low-maintenance style.

Susan didn't mind growing older. She considered each day a blessing. She knew that in another day and time, before the availability of advanced medical care, she easily could have been on her deathbed by now. All she wanted, all she prayed for, was to live long enough to raise her children. If God would let her live until Alyssa graduated college, she'd be happy. If He let her live to see her grandchildren, she'd be ecstatic.

Even, she thought sadly, if it meant not ever making love again.

 

 

She went to bed first, right after the movie, but she deliberately positioned herself in the middle of the mattress so that she'd know when Bruce came in. She couldn't give up on him. He was her husband, the man she'd promised to love until she died. It would be terribly wrong for her to sneak out behind his back to see Charles. Charles belonged to her past. Her present, and her future, was with Bruce. If only he would treat her like he used to, run his hand over her breasts, squeeze and lick and gently bite them....

With a smile, Susan caressed the soft, shiny fabric of the sexy nightgown she'd just bought at Carson Pirie Scott. When Bruce came to bed, she'd fling back the covers and treat him to the view. Even post–cancer surgery, she believed she still looked pretty good.

As a teenager she used to worry that her breasts were too small. She wanted big knockers, like Pat had. Time had brought acceptance and satisfaction with her bustline. She had more than enough to fill a champagne glass, and surely that was enough.

But if Bruce continued to not respond to her, she had some hard choices to make.

Eventually she dozed off, but she willed herself to sleep lightly. Her eyes flew open at the sound of the bedroom door being opened. She turned her head in time to see Bruce closing the door.

“Hey, what're you doing on my side of the bed?” he asked jokingly.

“I wanted to squeeze your pillow, since you weren't here.” She propped herself up on one elbow, exposing the spaghetti straps and the lace trim of her midnight blue nightgown. A lock of curly hair fell over one eye—she was overdue for a trim. Even though it obscured her vision a little, she left it where it was, thinking it might add to the allure.

It seemed to be working, if Bruce's stare was any indication. “Uh . . . that new?”

“Just a little something I picked up the other day.” She casually reached across her torso and pulled the covers all the way back. “I thought you might like it . . . and what's under it.”

The light was dim, but she could still make out the smile on his face. She caught her breath as he stepped closer to where she lay.

“You are one beautiful woman, Susan,” he said softly.

She lay back, relieved. It looked like her long dry spell was over. When she thought about what she'd almost done . . . !

His large hand gripped her thigh as he knelt beside the bed. He kissed the inside of her thighs, then buried his tongue where it felt the best, just long enough to leave her dripping wet. She fell back against the pillows, her breaths coming in ragged spurts.

Bruce began furiously removing his clothes, and she pulled the gown over her head. It had done its job.

Or had it?

He stood still, like a fan that had stopped midoscillation after somebody pulled the plug. “Why'd you take it off?”

“Because it'll get in the way.” She searched his face, and soon realized he was staring at the small cone protruding from her right breast. “Oh, no. Not again.”

“Susan—”

“Don't even say it. Your johnson is doing the talking for you.” She fought back tears at the sight of his dwindling erection.

“I can't help it, Susan. If you'd kept the nightgown on—”

“So it's not your work, like you've been telling me for over six months now. I asked you what was wrong. Don't play me for a fool, Bruce. Don't you think I recognize the change in our sex life? Do you honestly believe I'm happy with it? I even suggested we go for counseling. The doctor told me your reaction isn't unusual; lots of men have a hard time when their wives have breast surgery.”

“I don't need counseling.”

He looked almost ridiculous, standing there naked, his penis as lifeless as a dead bird, denying he had a problem. She yanked the covers up to her shoulders. “You don't want counseling. So where does that leave us, Bruce? It's pretty obvious that you find the sight of me naked repulsive.” A lone tear slipped out of her left eye, and she angrily brushed it away. “I won't let you make me feel this way anymore. I'm going to sleep in the guest room.” She grabbed her nightgown and slipped it over her head while walking toward the door.

Before she left the room she turned to him. “One more thing. And don't deny it, like you think I'm stupid. If you're not getting sex from me, Bruce Dillahunt, I know you're getting it from
somebody
.”

She ran to the guest room and closed the door behind her, sobbing. She'd tried so hard to make him want her. How dare he impose conditions. If you were married to someone, you were supposed to love the person no matter what, at least barring any mistreatment. If she hadn't removed her nightgown they would have had sex, the same way they had since her lumpectomy, with her breasts hidden so he could ignore them. That wasn't good enough for her anymore. She wanted to be loved completely.

She threw herself on the full-size bed. The urge to cry was nearly overpowering; her sinus system actually felt clogged. But instinct told her crying would serve no purpose.

Susan didn't know what would happen between her and Bruce, now that he'd come right out and admitted—to say nothing of the live demonstration he'd inadvertently provided—that her operative breast turned him off. Would he suggest a divorce? Did he want to marry whomever he was fucking? She had no answers, but she'd better get them quickly. She'd heard of many women who'd been left out in the cold when their husbands decided to turn them in for younger types with perfect figures. He might even want custody of the children! Hell, a live-in housekeeper could babysit, cook, and clean . . . everything she did except pay the bills. With all the money Bruce had, he could easily afford to pay for such a service. And where would she be? Would she even be able to
get
health insurance as a breast cancer patient? She made a mental note to look into it, just as a matter of protection.

It was difficult to imagine Bruce turning her out like that, but she never thought he would allow her illness to come between them, either.

She didn't respond to the soft knock at the door. It opened, and Bruce came in. She continued to lie in the same position, facing the window with her back to him.

“I'm sorry, Susan,” he said. “I don't mean to hurt you.”

“Then stop doing it. I'm not contagious, Bruce.”

“I know that. I'm . . . I'm trying to work it out. Susan . . . Come back to bed. Please.”

She continued to face the window. “Will my coming back make any difference?”

“It's a start.”

“Since you're not ready to finish, I'll pass.”

She didn't expect him to object. She could feel him hovering over her, and after a few moments he left, closing the door behind him.

Then she realized something.

This time he didn't deny he wasn't sleeping with someone else.

God, she felt like a fool. To think that she'd berated herself for thinking of Charles Valentine while she lay next to Bruce. That she'd been so certain she could make Bruce want her again and get their marriage back on track. She could no more make rain pour up from the streets toward the sky.

Now she knew she could call Charles and not feel guilty, even though she had doubts about the wisdom of actually seeing him.

For who was to say Charles wouldn't be as revolted by the sight of her naked body as Bruce had been?

Chapter 22

 

A
s the wait staff serenaded Grace with a loudly performed birthday song, she felt like her smile had been painted on. How she hated these non-reservation-taking chain restaurants with all the little kids running around loose and the packed waiting areas and these noisy renditions of birthday greetings that everyone in the place could hear. All right, so the food wasn't bad, but the waiting was interminable. She could hardly believe that out of all the fine restaurants in Chicago, she was spending the evening of her fiftieth birthday at a T.G.I. Friday's. An ultraspecial day spent at an ordinary restaurant where she often had lunch.

The painful rendition over at last, the staff burst into applause. Grace hastily blew out the candles of the miniature chocolate cake they'd placed in front of her. Anything to get these people out of here.

“So my old lady really
is
my old lady,” Eric said with a smile after they'd all gone off to tend to their customers.

She winced. Did he have to be so crude about her turning fifty?

“Just remember, you're not all that far behind me,” she replied.

“Hey, baby, I'm only forty-five. I won't be forty-six until August. I might not be a young man anymore, but I ain't fifty.” He chuckled. “But if it's any comfort, you're the hottest-looking fifty-year-old woman I've ever seen.”

At least that made her feel better. “Thanks.”

He leaned in and spoke in a low voice. “And I intend for you to give me a demonstration of how hot you can be when we get back to your place.”

Grace shrugged. They were supposed to see a movie after dinner, but they'd had to wait nearly an hour before they could get a table, so those plans had been scratched. How could Eric choose this restaurant? He made decent money, he lived on the site of the storage facility, and he had no dependents. Would it really kill him to put three bills down for a good meal at Texas de Brazil or The Melting Pot? If those prices were too high for him, why not one of the more upscale chains, like P.F. Chang's or even the Cheesecake Factory?

Her conscience spoke to her.
I
told
you that you should have cut him loose after that first night, when he expected you to make him breakfast. What did you expect? The man is utterly without finesse
.

She spoke back to it silently.
But I don't want to be alone on my fiftieth birthday
.
This birthday is hard enough without being all by myself. My God, even
Pat
is seeing somebody
.