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Since he didn’t lose too much—and his mother and her friends didn’t win too much—his self-righteousness was justified. The women at the table were indignant at their lack of obvious advantageous winnings. Vivian explained that counting cards at blackjack often meant finding a “hot” table and the better odds of winning depended largely on how many hands were being dealt an hour—which meant how many players were at a table, the skill of the dealer, the skill of the other players, etc.
“Really,” he interrupted their complaints, “if you’re going to complain about how little cheating pays, you should probably find another game.” He said the words with a smile, so everyone at the table would know he wasn’t serious. “I understand there are some very profitable tax fraud schemes out there.”
His mom gave him a friendly shove. “If you’re going to go back to being judgmental, you can leave the table.”
“I have to leave, anyway.” He kissed his mom on the cheek. “There’s some work I need to get done by Monday, and I’d rather not have my Sunday taken up with work instead of family dinner and Mass.”
As he stood, an idea came to him. “Vivian, would you walk me to the front door?”
She nodded and followed him. They must have made some progress in their relationship over the course of the day, because she looked curious, rather than suspicious. And his mother and her friends giggled like a pack of teenagers.
“Are they drinking?” He hadn’t bothered to notice if the liquid they’d poured in their tea was actually white or if they were just calling it milk.
Vivian’s eye roll was more indulgent than judgmental. “When you got up to use the bathroom, one of them put brandy in the creamer and they’ve been adding it to their tea when you weren’t looking.”
“Why?”
She shifted uncomfortably, but he just raised an eyebrow at her and waited. “You were so disapproving when you saw what they were doing in their card game that your mom made a joke about you being a strict father and them being teenagers. It devolved from there.”
He sighed. The realization that his mother, who should understand where his sense of right and wrong came from more than anyone else, made jokes about his principles was disheartening.
Vivian’s long fingers were strong when they squeezed his shoulder. “Their games—both about you and the cards—are all in good fun. Your mom is really proud of you. I hope you realize that.”
“I know.” And he did. He was the perfect son who had never done anything to disappoint his parents. The one who could find the right path in a dark forest at night. What was it Jessica had crudely said once, during a fight?
You’re a parent’s wet dream, but I want more than a dutiful husband.
What the hell was wrong with having a sense of duty and justice?
Then Vivian squeezed his shoulder again and suddenly he didn’t care that his mom made fun of the integrity his father’s death had forced upon him or that Jessica had never understood it. He wanted to feel those fingers on him again—and he didn’t want them squeezing his shoulder. There were better places on his body for her fingers.
He wanted sex with Vivian. Call it sleeping together or making love, he didn’t care. He wanted the physical connection of his naked body against hers, of his breath and sweat mixing with hers, of him inside her.
Saying he wanted a relationship for the sake of their child, that he wanted to know her as a person, and thinking about the joy he felt when around her was a justification for the elemental truth. If Vivian gripped his shoulders again, he wanted it to be because he was on top of her, pushing into her and she was leaving scratches down his back while screaming his name.
The truth wasn’t elemental so much as it was primal.
“Are you going to fuss at her for drinking, too?”
“What?” It took Karl a few seconds to remember Vivian wasn’t privy to the lustful thoughts ranging through his brain. “Oh, no. I don’t care about that.” Dreams of Vivian’s hands and those pink lips had taken his mind off any irritation at his mother. “Would you like to go to the opera with me on Friday?”
