was a phone in every room of the house. Except for someone who’d wanted to clean her rugs, all the phones in the house had conspiratorially remained silent. There’d been no call from Brad, saying he was going to be late. It was rare that he remembered to call about being late these days. Most of the time, he forgot or took it for granted that she would instinctively know that one of his patients needed him.
Took for granted.
There was a lot of that going around, Stacey thought ruefully, pushing back from the table where she’d sat for the past hour, hoping for a miracle. Hoping for her husband to walk through the door, sweep her into his arms and murmur “Happy anniversary.”
Stacey bit her lower lip. Damn it, she wasn’t going to cry, she wasn’t. After twenty-six years, why should this hurt?
Because it did.
She didn’t even want a gift. All she wanted from Brad was to have him remember that this day was supposed to be special. To both of them, not just her. And she wanted him to give her a card. Cards meant someone had taken the time to stop the routine of their day and think of her. She would have settled for one created with crayons and construction paper, as long as Brad had been the one creating.
“You’re selling yourself cheap again.”
The words echoed in her head. Words her late mother had said to her more than once whenever she gave in, or met Brad ninety-five percent of the way.
But her mother didn’t know what it was like to love a man with all your heart, love him so much that it ached inside. Her mother and father had had a pleasant-enough marriage, one unmarred by demonstrations of anger. One also unmarred by demonstrations of affection. There were no highs, no lows in her parents’ union, just a marriage that flatlined the duration of its life.
She couldn’t complain about that. Her mouth curved as she remembered what it was like when she and Brad had first fallen in love. When they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. She’d had highs. Oh, God, she’d had highs. And it was the memory of those highs that had sustained her all these years. Sustained her through the unbearable loneliness that had leaked in now and then.
With a sigh, Stacey rose in her seat and leaned over the table. She blew out first one candle, then the other. And just as she did on her birthday, amid much teasing from Brad and the kids, she made a wish. She made the same wish twice, once for each candle.
But the door didn’t open.
Brad eased the door open softly. Then, just as softly, he pushed it back into the doorjamb, taking care not to make noise in case Stacey had gone to bed. He didn’t want to take a chance on the door slipping out of his hand and slamming, waking her up.
His wife had been looking a little tired lately. He worried about her, although he hadn’t had the occasion to say anything to her. Which was just as well, he supposed. Stacey saw herself as some kind of superwoman. Superwomen didn’t like to be reminded that kryptonite existed in the world they inhabited. Stacey took pride in being able to juggle all the balls without dropping a single one.
He didn’t know how she did it. Nothing short of pure magic, he mused.
As he crossed to the staircase, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Rosie trotted up to greet him. Probably roused herself from a dead sleep. The dog was getting on in years, and when she wasn’t chasing away the visiting neighborhood cat, she dozed.
There was a time when he would go out in the wee hours of the morning and run with her, but a bum knee and lack of time had changed all that. He missed those quiet hours. Missed a lot about his life. Sometimes he felt as if he had no control over anything anymore.
Just the tiredness talking, Brad.
He paused to rub the dog’s fur with both hands, savoring the tranquillity of the act.
“How’re you doing, girl?” he asked affectionately. “Chase any cats away today?”
“No. And I’m doing better than my mistress,” Stacey said as she crossed to him from the living room. She was using the high-pitched voice she always used when she pretended to be the dog answering him.
Surprised, Brad turned around to look at her. He was even more surprised to see that instead of jeans or shorts, she wore a dress. The little black one he always liked on her. It fit a little more snugly than usual and he wondered if he should point that out to her. But she’d only get defensive, so he decided against it.
“Stacey.” He stopped petting Rosie. “I thought you’d be in bed.”
“It’s just nine. Even Cinderella got to stay up past midnight.”
“Why are you all dressed up like that?” he asked.
“I thought you were going to come home early.”
She didn’t even have to say anything else. A certain look came into her eyes, a look that made him feel guilty. And angry with her for making him feel that way. He wasn’t up to it tonight. He felt more drained than a tank of gasoline at the end of a NASCAR meet.
“I was,” he replied evenly. “But I got a call from the hospital just as I was leaving the office. There was a car accident three miles from the hospital and they were rushing the survivor into emergency surgery.”
There was no emotion in her voice as she said, “And they needed you.”
Why did she make that sound like a bad thing? She was happy enough to be the wife of a surgeon and to have the lifestyle that came with it. Didn’t she realize that it came with a price?
“They wouldn’t have called if they didn’t,” he replied evenly.
She wasn’t going to start a fight tonight, she wasn’t. So instead, she tried to sound sympathetic. Because she really was. She knew how hard he worked. Did he know how hard she waited? “Wasn’t there any other neurosurgeon they could have called?”
His eyes met hers and held for a long moment. “I didn’t ask.”
She sighed. “No, you wouldn’t have.” Instead, he’d ridden to the rescue. And she was proud of him, but she just wanted her fair share of him.
Life’s not fair, Stacey.
She could hear Kathy’s voice in her head, but she just didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to be forced to believe it.
Brad looked at her, puzzled. Concerned. “Stacey, what’s wrong? You know that this is what I do—”
She stopped him, wanting to get her two cents in before he got rolling and there was no space for any of her words. Or her.
“I know that you’re a doctor. A surgeon. A damn fine surgeon,” she amended. “But I know other doctors, other surgeons, some even almost as good as you—”
“Stacey—”
“And I talk to their wives,” she went on, raising her voice to drown out his. “They go on vacations. Together. They have nights out. Together. And some of the time, they even take a break from saving the world. Together.”
“Stacey, what’s wrong?” he repeated. And then, almost as if his eyes were programmed to take in the sight right at this moment, he glanced toward the dining room. And saw the set table, saw the flower arrangement in the center, saw the fancy tablecloth with the dormant tapered candles.
“Did I forget something?” It was a rhetorical question. She never set the table like that unless it was for a special occasion. “What did I forget?” he asked. Then, because she said nothing, he tried to figure it out on his own. “Not your birthday. Your birthday’s in July and this is August.” And then his eyes widened as his own words sank in. “This is August.” A huge neon sign went off in his head. “I forgot our anniversary, didn’t I?”
She pressed her lips together. “Looks like.”
Damn it, he’d never forgotten the day before. But then, he thought,