A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(20)

Gwen handed him a plate and took one for herself. As they ate, he kept the conversation in safe territory. They talked about Gwen's listings, neighborhood gossip, funny things Emily had said that week.

Art wasn't hungry, but forced himself to eat some food between sips of wine. He poured the last of the bottle into their glasses and took a slow breath. Maybe he could relax and enjoy tonight. His problems were beginning to grow fuzzy around the edges. Gwen opened another bottle of wine.

"So," she said. "What's happening with you? What's the latest at school?"

Not good. The events of the yesterday thudded onto his shoulders. His happy buzz began to sound like the droning of bees.

"Oh," he dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. "Boring." He topped off his glass and drank deeply.

Gwen sat up straighter. He knew that posture. The droning bees became the distant ring of alarm bells. She had a sixth sense when it came to him and the kids. They could never hide things from her. "Nothing?" she said, doubt tinged her tone.

Art shook his head.

Gwen picked up one of his hands in both of hers and toyed with his fingers. "I'm worried," she said after a long, silent minute.

"About what?"

"About us."

He couldn't do this. He didn't have the emotional reserves to joist about their marriage. "There's nothing wrong with us time won't solve."

"I don't know about that." Her lips tightened.

Art removed his hand from hers, slugged the rest of his wine and poured more. He didn't want to bring up the accident, didn't want to think about it, but it slammed around in his mind. "Something happened on Friday—"

Gwen put a hand on his mouth and stopped his words. "I'm sorry I brought it up. I don't want you to stress out about work. I want tonight to be about us." She leaned over and kissed him long and deep. He responded mechanically, hoping that his body would cooperate. Hoping love or lust would kick in and override the guilt and self-recriminations that had held him hostage all weekend.

"I have a surprise for you." She pulled away, slid off the couch and left the room.

Art stared at the red liquid in his glass for several seconds, then drained it. He loved Gwen. That was something he knew to be true. He knew it like he knew the earth was round. He knew it like he knew there were craters on the moon. It was a solid fact. Factual.

His love was factual. It was academic. Not emotional. It hadn't always been that way. It might not have been that way yesterday, but tonight that's the way it was.

It was academic, and he was an academic. Maybe that was his problem. He did have a problem. That was a fact. But he couldn't quite remember what it was. His head felt heavy and full. Much too full to unravel puzzles about love and facts and problems. He leaned it against the back of the couch, closed his eyes and in moments entered a disturbed dream world.

#

Thwack. Art's foot made contact with the heavy bag. Thud, thud. Two right jabs to the ribs. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades and down his back. Front kick to the gut. Pivot, back kick to the knee. Pivot, uppercut—chin. Left cross—cheekbone.

He could feel his tension and anger transfer to the boxing bag every time he made contact. He danced around it on light feet and volleyed six or seven surprise hits to imaginary kidneys. He'd been pummeling the sand for thirty-five minutes. Ten minutes longer than most mornings.

He welcomed the weariness that settled over his shoulders like a robe. He shook himself, grabbed a towel from his gym bag and mopped his face. He had time for two sets of reps in the weight room before heading to the office for the board meeting.

Art had never fought an actual opponent. He'd dreamed about it when he was a teenager, but understood even then it was a fantasy that would never be realized. He was a pastor's kid. Pastor's kids don't fight, not even the bullies. Pastor's kids turn the other cheek, give away jackets along with their shirts, and eat every bite of their humble pie. But kickboxing was a great workout.

He lay on the bench after pushing one-forty-five, staring at the acoustic-panel ceiling and wondered how he'd make things right with Gwen. Falling asleep on Valentine's Day when she'd tried so hard to make the evening special was probably the worst marital crime he'd ever committed.

She'd only spoken to him in monosyllables on Sunday. He'd attempted an apology at breakfast. She'd nodded, like she was only half-interested in what he was saying, then locked herself in the bathroom. This would take more than flowers and dinner dates. Those things were bandages. This rift needed stitches.

Art racked his barbell, picked up his gym bag and headed for the locker room. The hot water sluiced over him washing away the acrid smell of his sweat. Yes, they'd been having problems, but the other night wasn't about that. He wasn't punishing her for not jumping on his political bandwagon at school, regardless of what she thought.

He wasn't ready to talk to her about the real issue until he worked it out for himself, because he might have to admit she was right. Maybe the job was too important to him. Maybe it was so important it almost cost Brian McKibben his life.

While he toweled his hair and ran a comb through it, he made a decision. He'd face the problem head on. Visit Brian in the hospital. Ask his mother for forgiveness. See what he could do to make things right. Maybe then he'd know how to make things right with Gwen.