Getting Some Of Her Own by Gwynne Forster Page A

suit rather than his chef’s uniform; the world didn’t need to know that her husband worked as a chef, even if he owned the famous restaurant.
    After kissing her on the mouth, he sat down and gave her a box that was wrapped in silver and tied with a silver bow. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart,” he said.
    â€œOh, dear. Should I open it now? You’re so thoughtful. Thanks.” Even as she spoke, she put the small package into her purse.
    The waiter brought a bottle of Veuve Cliquot champagne, filled their glasses and waited. Kix tasted it, looked at the man and winked. “First class.” The waiter left, and Kix raised his glass to his wife. “Here’s to the next eight. I’m praying that by then, we’ll have a child in the second grade, if not further on.”
    â€œOh, Kix. You always manage to spoil every occasion with that. Please stop pressuring me. I’m going to do it.”
    â€œYou’ve been promising me for the last six years. I want a family, Cassie, and if you don’t give me one, another woman will gladly do it.”
    Shocked at words she hadn’t previously heard from him, her shaking hands caused the champagne to spill on her new velvet suit. “See what you’ve done,” she sneered. “My new suit is ruined. I want to go home.”
    He called the waiter. “Cancel the dinner, Ray. We’re going home.”
    How skillfully she maneuvered every incident to her advantage. One day, and soon, he’d be fed up with that and her other shenanigans. He looked at her expensive velvet suit and couldn’t see a single blemish.
    He drove the car into the garage at 39 Lake Street, turned off the motor, leaned back in the driver’s seat and looked at his wife. “You didn’t get hysterics over three drops of wine on your suit; you freaked out because I mentioned your starting our family. You do it every time. I want you to get this straight. I am not working my ass off twelve hours a day, six days a week so that you and I can engage in conspicuous consumption. I want children. I want them to have a good, useful and productive life, and I am doing what I can to ensure that. But you are not planning to honor your commitment that you made to me before we married. You agreed to have two and if we could afford them, three children. We can afford half a dozen, but I’m not asking that. I’m asking right now for one. If you won’t do it, I’ll find a woman who will.”
    â€œI can’t get pregnant right now. We’re starting a school to give graduate level instruction to graphic arts students, and I want a shot at the deanship. Can’t you wait just that long?”
    â€œFirst, you wanted a promotion from level one to level two. You’re at level five. You wanted to attend an international conference. You went, came back, and so what. I have accepted a dozen excuses from you. This is the last one. Whether you get that deanship or not, it’s ante up or I’m out of here.” He got out of the car, opened the kitchen door and went inside. She sat there for a few minutes. For the first time since they’d married, she was certain that he had not made an idle threat, that he would leave. She pushed the passenger’s door open and retched. When she finally went inside, a glass once filled with milk and a part of a sandwich remained on the kitchen counter, remnants of her husband’s supper on the night of their eighth wedding anniversary.
    â€œHe’s not fooling now,” she said aloud, remembered to open her gift and stared at the heavy gold chain from which hung a gold heart pendant. “I’ve got to fix this right now,” she told herself and sped up the stairs. The sound of water streaming in the shower of the master bedroom foiled her, but only temporarily. She kicked off her shoes, stripped and hesitated. He had always wanted them together in the shower, but she put