Moonlight Over Manhattan(107)

Then she tidied the cottage, took a shower and changed into a wool dress she’d bought to wear at Christmas two years before. It had looked good on her then. It didn’t look so good now. It clung in places it wasn’t supposed to cling. Had she really put on that much weight? She was going to eat less, she really was. She was going to stop baking. Do more exercise. Try and get a bikini body by the summer. In the meantime she needed to order some of that control underwear.

She dragged the dress over her head, stuffed it in the back of the wardrobe along with all the other clothes that didn’t fit and instead pulled on her favorite pair of stretchy jeans and a sweater Greg had bought for her birthday. It was a pretty shade of blue shot with silvery thread and it fell soft and loose to the top of her thighs, concealing all evidence of her dietary transgressions.

She was checking the casserole when she heard the sound of his key in the door.

“Something smells good.” Greg walked into the house and dropped his keys on the table. “You look gorgeous. Is that sweater new?”

“You bought it for me!”

“I have great taste.” He kissed her on the mouth. “How was your mother? Are you in need of therapy?”

“Yes, but I decided on the sort you can pour into a glass. It was that or chocolate chip ice cream.”

“That’s what I call a dilemma.” Greg hung up his coat. “Walk me through your decision-making process.”

“Wine is made from grapes and grapes are fruit, which makes it one of your five a day. So it’s healthy.” She handed him a glass of wine. “And if I’m not pregnant, I might as well drink. How was your day?”

“If I tell you my day was good are you going to take this away from me?”

She grinned. “No, because by the time I’ve finished whining you’re going to need it.”

“Wine for whine. Sounds like a reasonable deal.” Greg took a mouthful of wine. “I’m braced. Hit me with it. What was today’s gem?”

“Nothing new. She reminded me about the painting incident and held me personally responsible for her gray hair.”

“Her gray hair makes her look distinguished. She should be thanking you.”

“She praised you, of course.” She lifted her glass in a mock toast. “You, Greg Sullivan, are the all-conquering hero. A gladiator among men. A knight in shining armor. I was lucky you were there to save me from my wicked ways.”

“She said that?” Greg put the wine down and gave her a sympathetic look. “Maybe it’s time the two of you had a frank, adult conversation.”

“Frank, adult conversations don’t happen in my family. At least, not with my mother. There’s something about being with her that turns me into—I don’t know—I regress about two decades in her company.” She shrugged. “I’m weird around her. We are so dysfunctional as a family.”

“All families are a little dysfunctional.”

“We’re a lot dysfunctional.”

It was easy to talk to him, but being with Greg had always been so easy. When people talked about marriage as something that had to be “worked at” she didn’t understand what they meant. She and Greg just were. They fitted like hand in glove or foot in shoe. They didn’t need to work at anything.

They ate dinner at the table in their cozy kitchen, while the winter wind lashed at the window. After they’d finished the meal and cleared up, they curled up on the sofa.

Jenna topped up Greg’s wineglass and he raised an eyebrow.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Maybe. I’m a wild child, remember? Just living down to my reputation.” She slid off her shoes, curled her legs under her and moved closer, pressing her body against the solid strength of his.

Unlike her, his body hadn’t changed much in the past decade. Greg believed exercise helped control mood and set an example to the community by spending time in the gym and running on the beach. As a result his body was as good as it had been at eighteen.

Jenna still found him really attractive, but if she was honest unbridled lust wasn’t what drove most of their sexual encounters these days.

“Let’s go to bed.”

He turned his head and looked at her quizzically. “It’s not the right time of the month for you to get pregnant, is it?”

Did he really think that was the only reason she’d suggest it?

She felt a flash of guilt, and that guilt was intensified by the knowledge that she’d done those calculations too. And he was right, it was the wrong time of the month. But sometimes sperm hung around, didn’t it? Or maybe her ovaries would be so excited they’d pop out an egg spontaneously. At least having sex meant there was a possibility she could get pregnant. If they didn’t have sex, there was no possibility.

“It’s not the right time for me to get pregnant, but that’s not the only reason to have sex.”

“Isn’t it?” He spoke so softly she wondered if she’d misheard.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Only that lately that’s all you think about.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again.

Greg had been the only guy she’d ever kissed (she didn’t count that one session behind the bike sheds with Nick Jones because that had been part of a dare). Sex had changed over time. Being with him didn’t give her the same dizzying thrill she’d had when they’d first got together (take that, Mom. Saint Greg and I had sex before we were married), but in many ways it was better. Familiar. Intimate.