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1
Under the safety of the table, I clench the perfectly ironed Irish linen of my dinner napkin between my sweaty fingers, trying with everything I’ve got to keep my nerves from showing.
“Mr. Savage?” I call lightly down the length of polished mahogany to my husband of eleven months, three weeks, and two days. Swallowing the nervous giggle that bubbles up every time I address him that way, I feel like I’m re-enacting Pride and Prejudice. Over the last year, I’ve gained a certain amount of reluctant sympathy for the silly Mrs. Bennett. Maybe she too was once naïve enough to think everything would work out blissfully with the stern older man presiding from the other side of the room.
“Yes?” Nick looks up from his plate with a raised eyebrow, as if surprised. I guess it has been a few months since I initiated any conversation. Until two weeks ago, I was busy wrapping up my college degree and dreading this very moment. I’ve known Nick as my dad’s close friend for years. His self-assurance is intimidating. He’s one of those men that utters one word when others use twenty and it’s always exactly the right word. It’s a trait I find incredibly sexy. And intimidating.
Truthfully, I only manage to call him Nick inside my head. Every time I attempt it in real life, I choke on my tongue and revert back to the familiarity of formality. And he’s never asked me not to.
I swallow hard and tighten my grip on the napkin until I can feel my fingers spasm. “I thought I would take advantage of my down time now that I’m done with school and do some shopping… abroad.” It’s a tiny little white lie, okay? But then most people in New York think anything past New Jersey is actually a foreign country, so not as much of a lie as some might think. “So I won’t be here next Sunday. But I’m sure if you want to come by for Kathy’s cooking, she’d be more than happy to see you.” I bite my lip, waiting to find out if he’s bought my story. I know he comes here once a week out of obligation to check up on me, so I’m not too worried he’ll call my bluff. He has access to far fancier restaurants closer to his formidable penthouse lair.
He’s frowning harder. “What on earth could you want to buy that you can’t find in New York?”
I shrug innocently, I’m ready for this one. “Oh, different styles, you know? I hear they’re wearing skirts much longer in Paris lately.” I’ve no intentions of going to France to find out if that’s true, but there’s no need for him to know that.
“I see.” It’s clear he doesn’t, but also like any alpha male, he dreads getting dragged into a protracted conversation about hemlines. “Just be back by the end of the month.”
I nod, acknowledging the implied threat that my monthly allowance and inheritance are tied to living in the same city as he does per the stipulations in my father’s will. I’ve already consigned that money to the trash, which is why I haven’t spent a penny that wasn’t absolutely necessary in the last ten months. That was when I grew up and faced the harsh reality that Nick would never regard me as his real wife, no matter what clothes I wear or what I say. Some days I want to kick the girl that thought he would sweep her off her feet after the wedding and into his bed. And then I need to hug her, because she meant well. That oh-so-younger version of myself just wanted to pour love on him until he started to smile involuntarily. But I’ve only myself to blame because he never made any promises like that. He didn’t see me as a grown-up woman when we got married, just a responsibility to care for. And he’s done nothing since to indicate a change in opinion.
Nick’s gaze softens almost imperceptibly as he scans my face. It’s these rare moments of tenderness that have given me brief bouts of hope over the last year. Hope that maybe the Beast of Wall Street has room in his heart for me if I can just get a foothold. But I refuse to spend our first wedding anniversary alone here, wondering which of his many mistresses he chose to spend the evening with. And as usual, he ruins the potential for building new dreams of a happy ending with, “Let Penny know when you’re back.” Penny is his secretary. I would call her his administrative assistant, but he never does. And even Penny, who’s close to Nick’s age, is old-fashioned enough to stick to the antique title.
I nod again in acknowledgment and dare to breathe out. We’re in the home stretch. Kathy bustles in from the kitchen, inquiring if his lordship is staying for dessert. I’m kidding, sort of. He’s not really a lord, he just acts like one.
“No thank you, Kathy. I have a late meeting this evening. Dinner was delicious, as always.” He nods politely to her as he stands, laying his napkin neatly to the right side of the plate. I bite my lip before I say something rude and revealing. I’ve seen his calendar. I can usually get Penny to show it to me under the guise of something else when I stop by his office under some pretext or other. His late appointments always have a woman’s name, like Monica or Victorine. I stand as well, smoothing down the camel silk of my modest shift dress and walk demurely behind him as he stalks in a straight and efficient line to the door.
At the last minute, he turns back and scans my face one more time. I blink, unsure what he’s looking for, but eventually he sighs softly and says, “Have fun, Candace. Call if you need anything.”
I nod again, braving a small smile. “I will.” I won’t be needing anything from him. At least nothing he’s willing to give me.
He exits the apartment via the private elevator and the last sight I have of my husband in name only is him frowning in concentration at his watch. Typical.
Dejected, I turn and make my way into the kitchen. “Thanks, Kathy. Can I help with the washing up?”
“Naw, sweetheart. You know I’ve got my system. You sure about this?” She casts a motherly worried glance my way.
I nod yet again. “I’m sure. There’s nothing here for me and I don’t want to turn into one of… them.” I end lamely having yet to find the term that adequately describes the group of very fit, angry women who live in this building. The women who want their husband’s attention without the husband or something. I can’t quite figure them out. But when I found myself ever so briefly considering offering my virginity to the guy running the desk at the gym in the basement in the faint chance it would make Nick jealous, I realized I needed to make some changes and steer my own ship. The gym guy is an idiot. Built and good looking, but dumb as rocks. Not the man I want in my bed at all.
“So, are you all packed for Florida?” I ask Kathy, injecting some forced cheer into my voice. She nods while efficiently washing the hand-painted china with a soft cloth.
“You’ll let me know when you’re settled in your new place?” she asks with concern.
“Yeah. I promise. There won’t be much to settle for a while, but I’ll let you know. How long beforeherealizes I won’t be coming back, do you think?”
She frowns down at the plate. “A couple of weeks, three tops. He’s a good man, Mr. Savage.”
“I know. You know I’m not doing this to hurt him, right? I just can’t go on like this. I won’t fight him on a divorce or separation or whatever. Or about the money. If anything, maybe this will make things easier for him. One less thing on his to-do list.” I fight to keep the bitterness out of my voice. Nick is a good man. That’s why I jumped at the chance to be his wife, innocently thinking that some of my love would rub off on him and maybe he’d stay for the sex until then? The sex we’ve never had.
He didn’t even kiss me at our incredibly brief courthouse marriage ceremony. It was only after that I found out about his evening roster of women. I’ve never seen any of them, but I feel pretty confident that they’re older and more sophisticated in every way than I am.
Kathy shakes her head, but I know it’s in sympathetic bewilderment. “Ah well, it’s not too late. Maybe he’ll come to his senses.”
I adore her sense of optimism, but I’ve misplaced mine. At least when it comes to Nick. I’m still feeling pretty damn good about Kansas.
I keep Kathy company as she goes about her usual Sunday evening routine. I already know trying to help just flusters her, but she never complains about me staying to chat. Originally, when Nick first dumped me here in the penthouse of one of his investment buildings, she lived in and worked six and a half days a week. But my middle class roots and my college lifestyle made that just weird from the start.
And then when I figured out I needed an exit strategy, we had a long talk. It turned out she needed the time off more than the money — her salary comes out of my five figure a month living allowance, so we struck a deal. She moved in with her best friend in Queens and I paid her for two days to work one. Religiously, she shows up at ten am on Sunday, does a little light cleaning in the living room and dining room, the rooms Nick sees as he passes from the front door to the head of the table, cooks, and serves dinner. Then she cleans up and leaves. It works for us and means I’ve been able to put away almost my entire allowance for my new independent future. The one where I knowingly forsake a billion dollar inheritance. Crazy, I know, but then my father always did say I made too many decisions from the heart.
Kathy and I hug it out as soon as she removes her apron. “You have fun in the sun, okay? But don’t forget the sunscreen.” I get bossy when I’m holding back tears and my second mom slash housekeeper knows it. She pats my back and kisses me on both cheeks. “Be brave, little one. Life is waiting for you.”
