She
waited, resolutely dry-eyed but aching in her soul.
At
ten o’clock he tossed aside his reading, stretched and grinned at her. “How’re
you doing over there?” he asked, patting the sofa beside him.
“All
right,” she said, refusing to move from her chair.
“I’m
about ready to head upstairs. How about it, Lila?”
Sex,
she thought. Her reward for having endured another long, hard day. Making love
with Ken would be pleasant, but tonight it would be too little, too late. “I’d
like to stay downstairs a while longer,” she said.
He
measured her with his gaze, then shrugged apologetically. “I know, Lila—I’ve
been awful lately. It’s just so annoying, watching them parade all these
outside prospects through the office—”
“I
know,” she murmured.
“And
I’m sitting there, thinking, ‘Come on, guys, how can you bring someone in from
outside the company when I’m right here under your nose?’”
“I
know.”
“It’s
just…it’s frustrating, that’s all. And I’ve been a real bastard. But I
promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“That’s
all right. You haven’t been a bastard.”
“Then
come upstairs,” he cajoled, moving across the room and circling her chair. He
dug his fingers into the knotted muscles at the nape of her neck and massaged.
She
smiled sadly, her eyes growing damp. Even now, after so many years, his hands
could work wonders on her. It would be so easy to say yes, to go upstairs and
tumble into bed with him. He would make love to her and she would forget
everything for a while. She would forget her exhaustion and anger and
disappointment.
She
didn’t want to forget, not tonight, not on this day of all days. “I’m sorry,
Ken,” she said, swallowing the tremor in her voice. “Okay?”
He
stopped rubbing her neck. “Okay. I’ll see you when you come up.” He leaned over
and kissed her cheek, then forced a smile and wandered out of the den.
She
remained where she was for a long time, listening to his footsteps on the
stairs, to the hiss of the shower and the creaking of the radiators and the
mechanical laughter from the television set. Eventually—hours later,
perhaps—she rose, turned off the TV, and crossed to the desk. In the side
drawer she found a pad, in the center drawer a pen.
Dear
Ken
, she wrote,
They
say that life begins at forty. Well, now I’ve turned forty, and it’s time for
my life to begin.
###
About the Author
Judith
Arnold is the award-winning, bestselling author of more than eighty-five
published novels. A New York native, she currently lives in New England, where
she indulges in her passions for jogging, dark chocolate, good music, good wine
and good books. She is married and the mother of two sons.
Judith
is thrilled that her out-of-print books are now available to new generations of
readers.
For
more information about Judith, or to contact her, please visit her
website
.
Here’s
a list Judith’s e-book reissues, all available for sale: