Mrs. Miracle 01 - Mrs. Miracle(23)

Her fingers worked the metal needles. They made soft clashing sounds as they clanked against each other. The tentative contentment began to fade as the regrets took turns lining up in her mind. She didn’t like what was happening between her and her husband but felt powerless to stop it. Jerry was harsh, unreasonable, and dictatorial. She wasn’t willing to let him control her life any longer. She’d made her stand, defied him, but she experienced no sense of exhilaration, no rush of triumph. Her heart felt heavy and burdened with sadness. The dull ache reminded her of those first months following Pamela’s funeral.

In many ways she was dealing with another death, only this time it was the death of her marriage.

Jerry finished in the garage and without a word headed toward their bedroom. He showered and reappeared in his robe and slippers. Sharon concentrated on the television screen as if the murder mystery movie of the week were tossing out fat-free recipes. He walked over to his chair and reached for the novel he’d recently been reading, then headed back to the bedroom. He didn’t tell her he was going to bed or wish her good night. She didn’t say anything to him, either.

By the time the movie was over and she’d watched the eleven o’clock news and listened for the weather forecast, Jerry was sound asleep. He lay on his back, sprawled with his arms outstretched.

Irritated that he’d taken more than his share of the bed, Sharon frowned and jerked her pajamas out of the top dresser drawer. If he was so keen to spend the holidays alone, then maybe she should let him sleep by himself and see how he liked that as well.

With a sense of purpose she moved into the guest bedroom. This would show him how miserable he’d be without her and without family during the holidays. He’d soon learn that she was her own woman, with her own mind and her own will. She didn’t need someone to stand guard over her twenty-four hours a day. She was intelligent and articulate. It was time Jerry appreciated her.

Those were all the things she said to herself as she readied for bed. The things she repeated as she tossed and turned until all hours of the night. The room was dark and cold, the bed uncomfortable. Pride was what kept her there. Pride and pure stubbornness. She wanted Jerry to wake and find her gone and worry, just a little, when he realized she hadn’t been to bed. She wanted him to regret the way he’d treated her.

If he did, he didn’t show it. When she wandered into the kitchen early the next morning, her husband was dressed and ready for a golf match with his friends. The coffee was brewed and he was humming softly to himself. Apparently he’d slept better than he had in months, as well he should since he’d taken his half of the bed out of the middle.

“Mornin’,” he greeted her, sounding as bright and chipper as she could remember.

Sharon reached for a mug. “Mornin’.”

“Did you sleep well?” her husband asked, leaning against the counter. He wore his favorite golf sweater, the one she’d knitted for him several years back. His lucky one. The very sweater he’d been wearing when he scored his hole in one.

“Like a log,” she answered, stretching the truth. No need for Jerry to know how restless the night had been, how she’d yearned for morning, waited to hear him stir before venturing into the kitchen herself.

“Me too.” He smiled as if auditioning for a toothpaste advertisement.

She sipped her coffee and stared at him over the edge of the cup.

He stared back, his gaze unwavering. “With all the trouble you’ve been having sleeping lately, maybe you’d rest more comfortably in the guest bedroom.”

This wasn’t what Sharon expected. He was supposed to have missed her. Supposed to have awakened and felt lost and lonely without her beside him. There’d been a time when neither one of them slept well when the other was away. It had happened so rarely that they’d talked about it for days afterward, cuddled each other each night, grateful for the warm feel of one another.

“Are you suggesting,” she said, not allowing the hurt to show, “that you want me to move into the guest bedroom?”

The question appeared to take Jerry by surprise. He froze and then quietly set aside his mug. “You said yourself you slept better without me.”

That wasn’t true in the least. She’d grossly exaggerated her comfort. “I’m asking you if you want me to move out of our bedroom, Jerry. Quit avoiding the issue.”

His shoulders rose and fell sharply. “All I’m saying is that you seem to sleep better there than with me.”

“Do you want me to move out of the bedroom or don’t you?”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “Do as you like.”

She swallowed tightly and stiffened her spine. “I’ll move, then.”

“Suit yourself. You seem to anyway. Why should this be any different?”

Having said that, he headed for the garage.

Sharon stood frozen as she heard the garage door whirl open and then a few moments later close again. The painful tightening in her chest ached as she battled back the need to cry.

So that was the way it was to be. After dumping the rest of her coffee into the sink, she rushed to the master bedroom, threw open the closet, and scooped up as many clothes as she could carry. With her arms loaded, dresses dangling, metal hangers cutting into her fingers, she all but stumbled into the guest bedroom and dumped everything on top of the mattress.