Marriage by Mistake

  "You're talking details."

  "Important details."

  Kelly felt the air rush in and out of her lungs. "We could work through that, manage, if we loved each other."

  "Love." Dean sighed. "Kelly, let's be honest."

  Honest? She'd given him everything, all she had to give — and he couldn't even accept it. He had to make up this — this fantasy that their marriage was like one of his father's shallow affairs. "Right," she said. "Honest." The ice inside of her was closing around her chest.

  "Feelings don't last," Dean went on. "As soon as the sexual part cools down we'll see where we really stand."

  "So you're not asking me," Kelly said. "You're telling me."

  Dean inclined his head. "Just trying to be honest."

  Kelly made herself breathe. He was trying to push her away. She saw that, clear as crystal. He couldn't believe she would stick by him, probably because his father had taunted him, saying something to make him doubt himself. Now he was reaching for excuses.

  At the same time, how much was a girl supposed to take? She'd been so patient with him, waiting, and not asking for anything back. Then she'd given him her heart. But it hadn't meant a thing. God, she could see herself years from now, still giving her all, still requiring nothing back from Dean, a doormat.

  "I see," she told Dean. "I understand." And she did, at last. Even now, she could feel sympathy for the man, and for his weakness. Oh yes, and in sympathy she could easily follow past history here, never stick up for herself, never demand what was only her due. "And I appreciate your honesty. Really, I do."

  Dean tilted his head.

  Kelly smiled, though her heart was breaking in two. She loved him, but no love should lead to self-destructiveness. It had taken her a long time to understand this, and now she had to act on it. "I have to agree with you," she told him. "Yes, I do."

  Dean lifted his brows.

  Kelly hung onto her smile. "This marriage is not going to last. You're absolutely right."

  Something happened to Dean's superior demeanor, like a ripple under calm water. He'd probably expected her to put up more of a fight. But he blustered past it. "I'm glad you see reason."

  Kelly nodded. "It takes me awhile but I get there eventually."

  His brows drew down, ever so slightly.

  Kelly took a step back. "Now, if you don't mind, I want to say goodbye to Robby." She had to get out of there, before she fell apart.

  "Oh yes. Yes, of course." Dean leaned his palms on the table. "And Kelly? I'm glad we had this talk, got everything straight."

  "Yes." Kelly nodded. "So am I."

  ###

  "I'll give you two weeks pay, of course." Dean was on the phone with Aaron Schneider, Robby's tutor. "It's inconvenient, I understand, but can't be helped. Robby's father wanted to take him." Dean paused. "If it's at all possible, we'd like you back in September."

  Schneider gave a lukewarm assent and Dean rang off. He stared at his hand as it remained on the handset. September. So he'd made his own estimate of the length of his marriage. He had until September. Kirk would be bringing Robby back by then, and Kelly would be leaving.

  As Dean lifted his hand from the telephone, he saw that his fingers were shaking. All right, seeing Robby off that morning had been more painful than he'd imagined. And the conversation with Kelly hadn't been easy either. Excruciating, actually. But he was relieved they'd had it out. It was a conversation that had been long overdue. They owed it to themselves to stop fantasizing and look at the truth. There was no such thing as a fairy tale ending.

  And to think, this had all come about due to Kirk. Yes, Kirk had done something responsible for once in his life. He'd made Dean look at the facts. Feelings didn't last, even the best of them. Dean had learned this at an early age, he just hadn't wanted to remember it. Things had been going so well with Kelly, he hadn't wanted to face that one day it was going to be over. One day Kelly would look at Dean and she just wouldn't care any more.

  Dean released a laughing sigh. For a crazy little while there, he'd actually imagined it could be different. Permanent.

  Well yes, he had been crazy.

  A banging, clunking sound in the hall caught Dean's attention. The sound moved toward the front door.

  "What the — ?" Dean got up, strode to the study door, and opened it.

  Kelly was struggling toward the front entry, pushing one beat-up suitcase ahead of her and dragging two other, mismatched suitcases behind her.

  "What the — ?" Dean repeated. He stalked out of the study and down the hall. "What are you doing?"

  Kelly paused in her travail and turned. "No problem. My taxi should be here any minute."

  Dean halted. "Your taxi?"

  Kelly drew herself up. "You made yourself clear, Dean, crystal clear."

  "Oh?" He felt stiff as ice. Her taxi?

  She adjusted her purse strap over her shoulder. "This marriage isn't going to last. In point of fact, it shouldn't."

  Dean tried, but couldn't, incline his head to agree. Of course it wasn't going to last. That was a given.

  But he hadn't meant she should leave now.

  "The trial period is over, for all intents and purposes." Kelly laughed. "I think we know each other as well as we're ever going to."

  Again, Dean couldn't move, couldn't utter a word in reply. She was talking about leaving now. When he'd thought he had until September.

  But he heard the sound of tires, a car pulling up in the front driveway. The taxi? There was a peremptory honk.

  "I, uh — " Kelly looked away from Dean, toward the front door. "I meant what I said earlier, in the morning room."

  Dean's head was spinning. Her suitcases were in the hallway. There was a taxi outside. And she was asking him to remember what she'd said in the morning room? For the love of —

  There was another honk from the taxi outside. Kelly turned to look at Dean. For a moment the defensive defiance in her eyes fell away. She seemed to open toward him, waiting. Dean felt a spike of hope. He could prevent this, stop her exit — if he only knew what she was waiting for.

  Kelly's lashes fell over her eyes. She gave a short shake of her head. "No," she said. "I didn't think you would."

  I will, Dean wanted to roar. Whatever she wanted. But he didn't. How could he? There were her suitcases and a taxi was waiting outside. How was he supposed to stop this progress of events?

  Kelly sighed, then opened the front door. She shouted out to the cabdriver, "I have some things. Could you lend a hand?"

  Yes, Dean thought, ice inside. She was leaving. There was nothing a man could do to stop a woman who wanted to leave. He'd learned that long ago. He could only watch numbly as the burly cab driver shuffled into the house and began gathering Kelly's bags.

  Kelly turned to Dean. "Goodbye," she said. She smiled, she waved, and then she went out the door.

  Dean's ears were ringing. He felt dizzy. The cabdriver managed to gather all of Kelly's bags at once. Grunting, the man followed Kelly. A wide slice of sunlight spilled into the entry. The driver had left the door open.

  Dean could only stand there like a fence post. He heard the trunk slam, then a car door, followed by the sound of spitting gravel as the cab pulled away. Still he stood there, staring at the swathe of sunlight. Of course he'd known this day was coming. He'd just this morning told Kelly all about it, enunciated the truth she hadn't wanted to face. But still, he felt as if his legs had just been cut from under him.

  She'd left him, gone. It was over.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Kelly was in a daze during most of the flight to Las Vegas. She could hardly believe her own actions. She'd walked out. She'd really and truly done it.

  For once in her life she'd taken charge in a relationship.

  Kelly got off the plane at McCarran airport in Las Vegas and wondered why her self-assertiveness wasn't making her feel any better. As she trudged through the bustling airport, she wondered if she felt bad becaus
e in fact she'd done the wrong thing.

  God, maybe she had. Surely it was a mistake to walk away from the most loyal, most honest — and incidentally wealthiest — man she'd ever been involved with. And only because he hadn't believed their marriage would last, when it would have. If left alone, it would have.

  Perhaps she was crazy.

  Out on the smog-scented concourse, Kelly got a cab. She gazed dully out the car's window on the drive home. No, she concluded. She wasn't crazy. The marriage would not have lasted. Dean didn't trust her. He couldn't believe that she loved him.

  She couldn't have lived with that. If she'd tried, she would have ended up desperately unhappy. And Dean would have been unhappy, too.

  The cab pulled up outside Kelly's apartment building. She looked at the familiar faded lemon siding. It was a far cry from Dean's mansion outside of Boston but it was home. Yes, home, where she belonged.

  ###

  The morning after Kelly left him, Dean went to work the same as any other day. Why not? He was fine. Nothing unusual or unexpected had occurred, after all. At work, he even paid attention and accomplished something. At the end of the day he came home. No one jogged along the winding entrance drive in her sweat suit. No one played video games in the entertainment room. And no one to came down to the dining room for dinner.

  Dean took his usual seat at the head of the table and waited for Roberto to bring in the soup. Not even Troy showed up. Dean's cousin was probably off having a good time with one of his thousand friends.

  Alone then, Dean looked down at his soup. He was fine, he had to be fine. Nothing unusual or unexpected had occurred. But that soup wasn't going to go down his throat. His stomach rebelled at the very idea. Dean pushed his chair back from the table. All right, then, no soup. No food at all. But he was fine, perfectly fine. He was simply...on a diet. In fact, instead of eating, he'd go work out.

  But in the basement gym, Dean realized working out wasn't such a good idea, either. While lifting weights, he was left to stare at the treadmill, which had been Kelly's favorite. How many times had they come here to work out together and he'd lasciviously watched her trotting nowhere? Too many times, clearly. Dean got up from the bench seat.

  In fact, he left the gym entirely and went upstairs. It was no surprise Kelly had left him, he reminded himself. There was no reason to have a big emotional response here. Wives left their husbands every day of the week. And Dean had known from the beginning his wife was more likely than most to be a leaver. Lord, she hadn't even married him, really. Not him.

  In his bedroom again, Dean stripped and turned on the shower. He pressed his lips together because after he and Kelly had worked out together, they'd often taken a shower together, too. Those shared showers, not just sex, but fun...

  Never mind. Forget it. Gone now. Dean stepped under the spray and washed quickly. He'd be fine. Sex and fun were all well and good, but they weren't necessary. A man could live without them.

  He put on a sweat suit and went down to his study. The twenty-six inch television screen loomed at him as he sat behind his desk; Kelly's television, where she'd sat so many hours just wanting to keep him company. Dean drew in a deep breath, then another one. He told himself he was going to be all right. Suddenly he heard a loud, booming noise. The papers on his desk jumped and he felt a thudding pain in his hand. He looked down to find he'd slammed his fist onto the desk.

  Dean stood up. He breathed hard. He was not going to break down. He was not.

  The next second he was in his chair again and his head was in his hands. She'd left him. God, she'd left him, just as he'd always known she would. They all did, they all left, every last one of them, but Kelly, Kelly...

  He lowered his head until the back of his hands hit the desk top. It seemed the pain was going to come, whether he wanted it to or not. He was crumbling inside, just disintegrating. Oh, God, it hurt.

  He closed his eyes and wondered how he could have let this happen, when it was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid from the very beginning.

  ###

  When Felicia got the second big check for the Boston Family Aid shelter, she knew she was going to have to bite the bullet and thank Troy. Emery Hunsington wasn't as much of a penny-pincher as Joe Esterley, but it was still an achievement, and brought her ten thousand dollars closer to a down payment for the expansion of the Family Aid shelter.

  The easiest way to accomplish the thank-you gesture was to run into Troy at the Club. That way her acknowledgment could seem casual, spontaneous, and without any personal nature. Felicia was determined this not become a romantic interlude. Troy was still who he was.

  So on Saturday night Felicia, dressed in a deceptively simple green Versace, ambled with seeming aimlessness through the rooms of the refined country club. All the while she kept watch for a dark-haired, gypsy-eyed male.

  It only took her about ten minutes to find him. He was sitting by himself, oddly enough, in a far corner of the bar lounge. His ankles were crossed on a hassock and a full martini glass was on an end table beside him. He held a copy of The Economist.

  Felicia came to a frowning halt. She'd never imagined Troy reading anything so serious. Was this another aspect of his transformation, the transformation she didn't really believe was happening?

  Then Troy closed the magazine and threw it to one side with a gesture that revealed he'd simply found it sitting on the chair and had picked it up out of idle curiosity.

  Felicia took in a deep breath. Troy wasn't serious about anything. He was a devil-may-care man-about-town. He was not for her.

  She took another deep breath and started toward him. With no magazine to hold his attention, he saw her immediately. He clearly tensed. Something brief passed over his face.

  Fear? No. Felicia shook the idea aside. Troy had nothing to be afraid of. Oh, well, yes, he'd claimed he was in love with her, but surely that was an over-dramatization of some far more mundane emotions. He'd probably gotten over it by now.

  So she smiled her best cool, elegant smile as she walked up to him. "Good evening, Troy."

  With his gaze close on her, he dropped his feet from the hassock. "Hello, Felicia." Slowly, he stood.

  Their eyes met and Felicia felt all the old prickliness crackling through the air between them. She now understood the prickles to be sexual electricity, and that it wasn't all manufactured by Troy. It was both of them. An unfortunate chemistry.

  "How have you been?" she asked.

  "Okay." His eyes narrowed. "And you?"

  "Oh, great. Just marvelous." Her lashes lowered. She couldn't hold his gaze while she said what she had to say. "I've been remiss. I should have thanked you by now for the check you got out of Joe Esterley. And now for the one from Emery Hunsington."

  "Me?" Troy sounded surprised. When Felicia looked up, his expression was all bafflement. "What is this about me, and checks from Esterley and Hunsington? I have no idea what you're talking about."

  If she'd had any lingering doubts, Troy's little act just now erased them. He had, indeed, been the one to arrange for those checks to be sent. He'd taken her advice and exerted himself for a cause.

  But he didn't want to admit it.

  Felicia's polite smile quirked. "Fine. Whatever. You still have my thanks, and that of everyone who needs that shelter."

  But Troy was hanging on to his baffled look. "Please don't thank me. I didn't do a thing."

  Felicia could feel her smile freeze. This was beyond modesty. He was adamant she not acknowledge what he'd done for the shelter. With a blow that was almost physical, she realized why. He didn't want her to imagine he'd done it for her. He didn't want her to imagine he'd been trying to impress her or make her think he could be a better man, one with some ideals.

  A man she might consider, romantically.

  Or one who was still in love with her.

  Struggling not to show her hurt, she showed anger instead. "In that case," she said crisply. "I take back all of it. No thanks is giv
en from me to you."

  Her icicle tone appeared to relieve Troy. "Great. I'd hate to think you've been feeling beholden to me, or anything."

  Their eyes met again. Felicia hadn't felt beholden. She had felt...impressed, though. Even admiring. And now with Troy watching her so coldly and her stomach shrinking, she realized she'd been feeling a great deal more. Deep down, she'd been hoping he was giving her an excuse to like him...an excuse to allow him to kiss her. She'd been hoping he was changing into the kind of man with whom she could have a relationship.

  "No," she agreed slowly. "I wouldn't want to feel beholden to you, either."

  Troy rocked back on his heels. "Glad we got that straightened out."

  "Yes," Felicia said.

  Troy smiled. "Have a nice evening, Felicia."

  Felicia glanced up sharply. Troy was smiling in his old, careless way, utterly unmoved. For a moment she felt disoriented. Even suspicious. Was this all some sort of act? He had been moved by his tour of the Boston Family Aid shelter. He had gone out and gotten those checks for their expansion.

  He'd even told her he loved her.

  Memories of their recent interactions swirled dizzily through her mind: his anger and tenderness, spite and humanity. She couldn't make heads or tails of this man. And, suddenly, she didn't want to make heads or tails of him. Even putting the best light on things, he was mercurial, erratic...unreliable. Not for her.

  With a heavy churn of clashing emotions -- anger and injury, confusion and yearning, she put on the cool smiling mask she'd perfected over the years. "Yes, Troy," she told him. "And you, too. Have a nice evening."

  Then, having accomplished her mission, a mission that never had to be repeated, she turned and, all serene elegance, strolled out of the room.

  ###

  Troy watched Felicia imitate a vengeful goddess as she swept from the Club lounge. She looked absolutely magnificent. He felt like an idiot coward.

  Why couldn't he have accepted her thanks? It would have been the gracious thing to do.

  But he'd been too terrified to act gracious. What if she imagined he'd gotten those checks through some kind of talent? Or, worse yet, through hard work? It had only been dumb luck. He'd come across Joe Esterley when he was still reeling from April 15 and had been looking for write-offs for the coming year. As for Emery Hunsington, oh, he was just a soft touch. It didn't mean a thing that everywhere Troy went lately he'd found himself mentioning the shelter, dropping seeds into the minds of people with fat checkbooks. He hadn't taken on a responsibility. He'd simply become...weirdly obsessed.