again and again, it had become easier to accept whatever was offered.
Perhaps her clash with Paul Blake had occurred because she would not massage another male ego in the presence of her maturing son. Or maybe she had reached a place in her life when she did not care enough anymore to pretend to anyone—even if it meant losing the friendship of someone she’d come to like. And perhaps the truth was none of this—she simply had met someone she loathed so much that all the barriers had been pulverized in that closed circuit of hatred containing only her and Paul Blake.
No matter how much consciousness raising had seeped into the larger world, Carolyn Blake would cleave to Paul Blake because that’s how it worked, how it still worked. Except for the pitiful rebellion of changing her working hours, Carolyn Blake had given no indication that she was other than a dutiful wife. And that had to be the real reason she had married a man ten years her senior—to have someone to obey, a husband and father figure to tell her what to do.
But I’ll miss her. How very much I’ve come to enjoy her…
“San Diego Freeway’s coming up,” Neal said, snapping his fingers to a Michael Jackson song.
“Right you are,” she said, and changed lanes.
Chapter 14
Carolyn flung herself onto the bed in the guest bedroom to stare dry-eyed at the ceiling. She could hear Paul in the yard cursing as he searched out the flaming coals she had scattered; he was so close to her window that if she lifted her head she would see him. She did not want to look.
Val blames herself, I’m certain she does. Whatever was said has to be his fault. I may not know her well enough to be sure, but I do know him.
Suddenly she rose, straightened the yellow print bedspread, and then her own skirt and blouse, and walked out of the house.
Twice she knocked on the door of the darkened guest house, and soon made her way disconsolately up the path. Jerry Robinson had come out of his house and stood in his driveway, peering at her with his watery, timid blue eyes. “Mrs. Hunter and the boy, they left a few minutes ago.”
“Thank you.”
“Heard you folks in your yard a bit ago. Seemed like some commotion.
Nosy old man, she thought furiously. “Nothing of any consequence,” she said, and brushed past him.
“You and Paul, you come over soon now,” he called after her.
Paul sat on the sofa watching television. “I suppose you’ve been over there apologizing.” His tone was aggressive, heavy with resentment.
“They’ve gone out,” she said tensely. “I didn’t have a chance.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” He spoke with clear precision. “But there are things you don’t realize. I’m sure she’s a dyke. What she really wants is—”
“Shut up! That’s enough!”
His voice was a lash: “Don’t raise your voice to me.”
“I’ll do what I damn please! Don’t you say one more word!” Her shout escalated to a scream. “Val Hunter is my friend. It was your idea to meet her—”
“I don’t like her, Princess. I can’t help it. I just can’t stand her.”
He had spoken with surprising softness, almost apologetically. Disarmed, she lowered her own voice. “You have no right to dictate my friends.”
“I’m not trying to. I can’t stand that particular woman.” He grinned with obvious effort. “Could you try someone else?”
Partly mollified, she adjusted her tone but said stubbornly, “She’s my friend and she’ll continue to be, if she’s willing after the evening she spent here—”
“You’re convinced everything that happened was my fault. But I took so much shit from her—”
She stalked over to him, her anger a flame. “Tell me all about taking shit, why don’t you. Lake Michigan wouldn’t hold all the shit I’ve had to take from the stupid leering clowns at your office parties. Smile, you tell me. Be gracious.” Her voice had risen sharply, her words approaching incoherence. “What’s good for
Perhaps her clash with Paul Blake had occurred because she would not massage another male ego in the presence of her maturing son. Or maybe she had reached a place in her life when she did not care enough anymore to pretend to anyone—even if it meant losing the friendship of someone she’d come to like. And perhaps the truth was none of this—she simply had met someone she loathed so much that all the barriers had been pulverized in that closed circuit of hatred containing only her and Paul Blake.
No matter how much consciousness raising had seeped into the larger world, Carolyn Blake would cleave to Paul Blake because that’s how it worked, how it still worked. Except for the pitiful rebellion of changing her working hours, Carolyn Blake had given no indication that she was other than a dutiful wife. And that had to be the real reason she had married a man ten years her senior—to have someone to obey, a husband and father figure to tell her what to do.
But I’ll miss her. How very much I’ve come to enjoy her…
“San Diego Freeway’s coming up,” Neal said, snapping his fingers to a Michael Jackson song.
“Right you are,” she said, and changed lanes.
Chapter 14
Carolyn flung herself onto the bed in the guest bedroom to stare dry-eyed at the ceiling. She could hear Paul in the yard cursing as he searched out the flaming coals she had scattered; he was so close to her window that if she lifted her head she would see him. She did not want to look.
Val blames herself, I’m certain she does. Whatever was said has to be his fault. I may not know her well enough to be sure, but I do know him.
Suddenly she rose, straightened the yellow print bedspread, and then her own skirt and blouse, and walked out of the house.
Twice she knocked on the door of the darkened guest house, and soon made her way disconsolately up the path. Jerry Robinson had come out of his house and stood in his driveway, peering at her with his watery, timid blue eyes. “Mrs. Hunter and the boy, they left a few minutes ago.”
“Thank you.”
“Heard you folks in your yard a bit ago. Seemed like some commotion.
Nosy old man, she thought furiously. “Nothing of any consequence,” she said, and brushed past him.
“You and Paul, you come over soon now,” he called after her.
Paul sat on the sofa watching television. “I suppose you’ve been over there apologizing.” His tone was aggressive, heavy with resentment.
“They’ve gone out,” she said tensely. “I didn’t have a chance.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” He spoke with clear precision. “But there are things you don’t realize. I’m sure she’s a dyke. What she really wants is—”
“Shut up! That’s enough!”
His voice was a lash: “Don’t raise your voice to me.”
“I’ll do what I damn please! Don’t you say one more word!” Her shout escalated to a scream. “Val Hunter is my friend. It was your idea to meet her—”
“I don’t like her, Princess. I can’t help it. I just can’t stand her.”
He had spoken with surprising softness, almost apologetically. Disarmed, she lowered her own voice. “You have no right to dictate my friends.”
“I’m not trying to. I can’t stand that particular woman.” He grinned with obvious effort. “Could you try someone else?”
Partly mollified, she adjusted her tone but said stubbornly, “She’s my friend and she’ll continue to be, if she’s willing after the evening she spent here—”
“You’re convinced everything that happened was my fault. But I took so much shit from her—”
She stalked over to him, her anger a flame. “Tell me all about taking shit, why don’t you. Lake Michigan wouldn’t hold all the shit I’ve had to take from the stupid leering clowns at your office parties. Smile, you tell me. Be gracious.” Her voice had risen sharply, her words approaching incoherence. “What’s good for
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