To Hold (5 page)

I worked at the Crystal Palace a total of three years, three months, and twenty-one days. My empty days give me time to calculate useless statistics like that. You’d think that length of time spent before men, gauging their level of arousal, would have taught me something — would have taught me the difference between harmless flirting and a danger zone. It would have given me enough experience to steer me in a direction other than the one I am in right now, which definitely feels like danger.

My hands are shaking. I hold them before me, staring at the tremor. I sink to the kitchen floor, picking up my water bottle, my eyes noticing the spilt water. I take a deep drink, waiting for my heart to calm, my hands to still, my shakes to pass. I need to get to my room, need to separate myself from him, from this kitchen. I need to take a shower, to lie down, take a nap. I stumble away from the counter, grabbing my t-shirt, putting foot ahead of foot in a quest for normalcy. As I walk, leaving Nathan’s house and returning to my sanctuary, two last questions dominate my mind, possibly the most dangerous questions of all.

What if Nathan finds out?

What if it happens again?

Word: 3 letters

Clue: A low-lying island or reef

8
:30 AM: My phone rings, an electronic melody that somebody at some point in time deemed to be the proper level of fancy. I hate it. What’s wrong with a good, old fashioned ring — the kind created by a physical bell in the phone that vibrated with the power of an incoming call? My phone rarely rings, Drew or Mark typically taking the short walk to my room if I am needed. I pick up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mr. Dumont would like to leave in fifteen minutes. Will you be ready?” Drew’s voice is cold and efficient.

“He wants me to go with him?”

“Yes.”

I hesitate, looking down at my outfit. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I am nervous as I approach the house. Does he know about Drew? Is this about my father? Where are we going? I step into the cool confines of the house, seeing Nathan’s profile in the dining room, his phone to his ear, his head turning at my entrance. He stands, looks me over, and then nods in approval. My innards relax at this subtle compliment. I don’t know why I am nervous. My outfits have all been selected by his stylist, all the proper level of sexy society wear. My hair is how he has deemed it, my makeup carefully applied as I have been taught. There is no reason for him not to approve my appearance. But I still feel stress leave my body at that subtle nod. He waves his hand, beckoning me to follow him, and we step into the bright sunlight of the front drive, where Drew and the Maybach await.

The Maybach. I am surprised, the limo our typical vehicle, the Maybach used when Drew and Nathan are alone. I arch my eyebrow at Drew as he opens my car door.

“Guess it’s not
that
kind of trip, princess.”

I hope my quick entrance into the car hides my blush. Nathan does often use the space of the limo to satisfy his sexual needs. In retrospect, maybe that is the only reason we take the limo. We certainly don’t need that much space.

In the back of the Maybach, Nathan seems too close, the area not large enough for his ego and my nerves. I think this is the smallest space we have ever shared. I clasp my hands in my lap, cross my ankles, and try to breathe normally.

Nathan ends his call and looks over at me. “I have to go to the courthouse to sign some documents. I thought we could kill two birds with one stone and get your new identification.”

My mind groans at his words. Nathan had insisted, in an attempt to cover up my past, that I change my name. That process has been a nightmare, form after form, office after office, affidavits, fingerprints, and nine forms of ID required — all which, creepily enough, Nathan already had copies of. “What’s wrong with my identification? We just went through all this.”

His dark look silences me, and I bite my bottom lip and look out the window, squeezing my hands so tightly they hurt. I want nothing more than to rip off this man’s head with my next words. Instead I swallow, smooth my face into a pleasant smile. “Nathan, I didn’t bring any of my identification.”

“Drew has all of that. You just need to smile for the photos.”

You just need to smile for the photos.
The statement is so comically accurate that I want to cry.

We leave the courthouse two hours later; my name officially changed again — this time to Jennifer Ann Dumont. Nathan picked my middle name and I, for the pure reason of stubbornness, hate it. Ann. A boring, old lady middle name. Drew seems to pick up on my irritability, glancing in the rearview mirror as he drives. I can feel another adolescent incident, like my pool strip down, pushing at my psyche; a devil stripper perched on my shoulder, whispering scandalous ideas into my ear.

Scream. Just scream, ‘FUCK YOU,’ as loudly as you dare.

Look, the car is slowing. You could step out onto the street. Kick off those overpriced heels and take off running. There was a Krispy Kreme one block back. You could sink your teeth into a hot & fresh glazed donut and tell Beth to fuck off.

Look at your husband. He’s smug, he’s happy. Jennifer the Wife has behaved — danced as ordered, changed her name to a tasteless one of his choosing.

“What’s next?” I say brightly, holding up an imaginary middle finger to the stripper slut who seems intent on sending me straight to Crazy Town.

“I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat, and then Drew can drop me at the office and take you home.”

Like a date?
My naively romantic self wonders. “Lunch sounds good.”

In the mirror, Drew’s eyebrows knit in something that looks like worry.

N
athan is in the best mood I have seen him in. And unlike the forced happy that we adopt in front of the cameras, his exuberance seems genuine, his kind looks and loving smile painless in their delivery. We sit outside; he orders margaritas and beams at me across the table, his smile infectious, my own mouth curving in a bewildered response.

“Jennifer Dumont,” he says the name in wonder, leaning forward and gripping my hand, staring at the stone there. “We should go somewhere and celebrate. Take the honeymoon we never took.”

The honeymoon we never took? Similar to the wedding we never had? I had assumed the limo ride from the courtroom marriage ceremony was all the honeymoon we would ever have. I take a sip of water, hoping that the alcohol is on its way, wondering who this man is and what he has done with my serious, all-business husband. “A honeymoon?” I can’t think of a more creative response.

His grin weakens a little, and he shrugs. “The press would enjoy a honeymoon. Plus, I have business in the Caribbean. You’re coming.”

I am able to mask my irritation with the arrival of our drinks. I sip the margarita, and glance around the restaurant. I shouldn’t be irritated. I should be grateful for the trip, for an opportunity to go somewhere with this beautiful man. The mention of press means photos. Photos mean charismatic Nathan, loving smiles, and soft caresses. Photos mean a weekend like Napa — a weekend that will break my heart in its perfection. “When will we go?”

“Next month. I have a land deal that I need to close first. Once that’s taken care of, I will be able to take a couple of days off. Plus, it will take some time to get you a passport.” He picks up the menu. “I’ll have Drew make the flight arrangements. I don’t like to take the plane out of the country.”

I want to ask if Drew will be joining us, but worry the question will seem odd. Instead, I settle into silence, placing my order, and saying little else.

It is the first meal we have shared without others present. We’ve had a couple of double dates — arranged for business purposes — dates on which Nathan was on his best behavior. More common has been group outings — a party, a dinner, a tour of a new development, charity events. Group outings are easy for us, the crowds allowing us to mask our limited knowledge of each other, our lack of inside jokes, pet names, and shared history. For some couples, silence is comfortable, everything already discussed, shared, communication possible without speaking. For us, silence is all we have ever known. I do not speak because I do not know what to say. He does not speak because he has no interest in talking.

“Does Nathan talk to you?” I am tucked into the backseat of the Maybach, staring into eyes in the rearview mirror. It’s the first question I’ve asked him since the kiss. It’s funny how I now consider questions dangerous behavior.

His brow furrows. “Talk?”

This is new — an opening to discussion, something out of the ordinary for Drew. I lean forward. “You guys spend a lot of time together. With me, he is always quiet. Does he talk to you?”

“Yes. We’ve known each other a long time.” His eyes are now straight ahead.

A long time.
That prompts a stack of new questions in my mind. I mull over them, trying to decide which is most important, which he is most likely to answer. Then he speaks, the question surprising me.

“What did he say to you? At lunch?”

I blink, the question so foreign and strange. I feel a childish urge to refuse to answer, to withhold the information until he gives me some. I look out the window. “Very little. We’re going to go on a trip to the Caribbean.” My mouth curves without prompting — a quiver of excitement lighting up my body. I had the entire meal to think about it: a trip, the island sun, cold frozen drinks, nights spent in Nathan’s bed, his hands on my body, mouth on my skin. I have never been out of the country, have only seen ads on television showing peaceful sunsets, steel drum music, and couples who are head over heels in love.

I snap out of my daydream, realizing that Drew has not spoken. I look up, my angle allowing me to see his profile, the tightness in his jaw alerting me that he is annoyed. The emotion baffles me. He keeps his face forward, then his jaw moves and I hear, “When does he want to go?”

This is the first conversation that Drew has ever instigated. My mind races. I’m searching for a question to ask him, wanting to grasp this opportunity before talkative Drew slips away. As the months have passed, the questions have stacked up, a teetering mountain of them in my mind. Some large, some small, they have grown atop one another, the ones on the top useless unless buried ones are also answered. “Would you go?” The words jut out of my mouth, the question that I was too scared to ask Nathan, the question I need the answer to.

He doesn’t respond, and the silence is uncomfortable, long, and thick. “Nathan mentioned it was a business trip, and that you’d handle the arrangements. I just thought that maybe …” I desert the useless sentence. I shouldn’t have to explain my questions; he never bothers to explain anything. He is still mad, his jaw continuing to do that clenching thing, the tension stifling in the car.

“I don’t know if I am attending, but I typically don’t.” He flexes his hands and tightens them on the steering wheel. “When does he want to go?”

I don’t know how I should feel at his words. Elated that Nathan and I will have the time alone? That is the proper response. Certainly the response that a committed, doesn’t-look-at-other-men wife should have. I glance out the window, the city turning into suburbia, our Maybach catching the eye of ordinary life. I almost forget to respond, Drew’s expectant silence reminding me. “Uh … in a month or so. I need to get a passport.”

Darkening. His reflection almost hides it, the darkening of his eyes, the scowl across that face, the temperature in the car cooling slightly. Anger. I have no idea where it is coming from, and no idea at whom it is directed; I didn’t even ask a lot of questions. I look out the window, pressing my body against the curve of the seat, wanting to put distance between me and the black cloud who is driving. Inside my mind, the questions scream for attention, their shrill shrieks causing my head to ache, building a pain in my temple that urges me to shut my eyes.

Blackness.

Road noise.

The soft sounds of music.

Sleep.

I awaken in Drew’s arms, his face close to mine, his arms gently lowering me into my bed. I don’t think. I don’t speak. I reach up, and before my mind can say a word, pull his mouth to mine.