A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(49)
She and Art used to perform a little stand-up routine, a private vaudeville shtick, when they were feeling romantic. Art would say, "I was so stuck on you, baby, I'd have done anything for you. Anything in the world to make you mine."
Gwen would respond, "Too bad I didn't know that when you asked me to marry you. I'd have held out for more than a half carat and a honeymoon in Arrowhead."
They hadn't had that conversation in years.
The odor of rotting flower stems permeated the air. Gwen knew, in the future, whenever she dumped a vase of old blooms, she'd be transported to this horrible moment. Smell, strong emotion, and memory occupied close territory in the brain. The scent of decaying vegetation was right now linking arms with regret, fear, indecision, and embarrassment and trotting into her neural pathways. She had to get out of there.
The alley had grown quiet. Gwen realized she hadn't heard Art's voice or the woman's sobs for several minutes. Maybe they had gone inside the restaurant, and she could escape unnoticed. She longed for time alone in her bedroom to figure all this out before she had to pick up the kids. She pushed herself off the wall and crept to the edge of the Dumpster. The noise of her heels on concrete sounded like drumbeats in the dead air.
She peered into the alleyway where she'd first seen Art and the woman, expecting it to be vacant. But they were there, spotlighted by a patch of sunlight. Art's arms enveloped her. Her face was buried in his chest. They stood in a silent embrace.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Gwen slammed her car door. She wanted to scream. Instead, she inhaled deeply. Rage rode on the oxygen from her lungs into her bloodstream and was carried to every inch of her body. Her muscles vibrated with it. How could he?
She started the car and swung onto Ortega Highway, tires squealing. Was it only two weeks ago she'd tried to stage a romantic evening for the two of them? The wine, the food, the red negligee, each was now a dart to her pride. Humiliation scorched her face. He'd probably been dreaming about the skinny waitress when he fell asleep on the couch.
She'd been an idiot. How had she not seen it? The distance he'd put between them, the disinterest in sex, the moodiness, the brooding silences. He'd been acting like a lovesick teenager. And the money he'd sneaked out of their bank account. She didn't want to think about what he'd spent it on.
To think she'd been on the fence about becoming Lance's partner because she was afraid it might bother Art. He wasn't worried about bothering her. Decision made. She'd let Lance know tomorrow.
Art had crossed the line. She could tell by the way he was stroking that woman's back, by the disgusting way the tramp was burrowing into his chest. They had a thing going. A real thing, not just a friendship like she had with Lance. There was nothing casual about what she'd seen in the alley.
A car horn startled her out of her thoughts. She'd cut off an SUV. An angry finger appeared through the driver's window as the car jerked around her. She returned the blessing. She drove five miles and exited the freeway on autopilot, lost in misery. She came to herself when she parked in the Humboldt Realty lot not remembering how she'd gotten there.
She thought about driving right back to the school and confronting Art, but she didn't want to give him the upper hand. She needed to get her emotions under control first. When she saw him, she wanted to be cool. No, cold. She wanted to blow into his world like an Arctic wind.
Maybe she should go into the office and find Maricela. She sniffled at the thought of being comforted by her best friend, then rejected the idea. Maricela would defend Art like she always did, come up with some reason for him to hug a blonde in an alley. Then Gwen would let her have it. She couldn't handle the end of two pivotal relationships in one day.
Her eyes traveled the length of the business park and came to rest on The Leaky Barrel. Wine. A bottle of wine and a bath, that's what she needed. First, she dialed Art's office. If he had time to run around with other women, he had time to get his kids.
The phone rang three times before Millie answered. "St. Barnabas. Principal Bishop's office."
"Hi Millie, it's Gwen."
"He just got in from lunch. I can connect you."
"No, no. Just give him a message for me, would you?" Gwen said. "I have a migraine. It came on suddenly. I'm going home. To bed. Could you ask him to get the kids for me?"
"Oh, you poor dear. My cousin Marilyn gets terrible migraines. They're so debilitating."
Gwen half-listened to several minutes of Marilyn's medical history, her thoughts wandering to her own problems. The familiarity of Millie's voice and the confidential way she spoke would be gone if Gwen and Art were no longer Gwen and Art. The thought of this loss, so small in comparison to the totality of losses that were sure to come, was still painful.
By the time Gwen hung up, her anger was spent. Exhausted and numb, she dragged herself across the parking lot to The Leaky Barrel. The terrible bell clanged when she opened the door, but this time she didn't jump. She entered, her movements mechanical, deliberate footsteps echoing on the weathered-wood floor.
"Hello there," a voice called. Gwen looked up to see the shop owner grinning behind his graying beard. "What can I get for you today?" he said.
"Nothing, Mo. I've got it." Gwen didn't want him following her from wine to wine, prattling on about noses and bouquets. She was looking for something to dull her pain, not pair with pot roast.