The Wife. BEVERLY BARTON

      Cathy lifted the lid off the green peas, stirred them, turned the stove down low and replaced the lid. “I’m not sure. At first, I was nervous. Seeing him was such a shock.”

      “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. If I’d had any idea this would happen, I’d have told you he was back in town.”

      Cathy checked on the bubbling pot of sliced potatoes, then faced her friend. “He’s staying permanently. He’s moved into his mother’s house. He’s going to restore the old place, and he offered me the job as his design consultant.” Cathy giggled nervously. “Never in a million years would I have thought that someday Jack and I would…” Realizing she was on the verge of crying, she took several deep, calming breaths. “He’s different. And not just because he’s older and was injured in the war. He used to be so angry and tense all the time, but now he seems…I’m not sure—not so angry. Steadier somehow.”

      “Did he tell you that he’s taken a job as one of Mike’s deputies?” Lorie asked.

      Cathy nodded. “He was wearing his uniform and drove up in a county sheriff ’s car.”

      “Is he still as handsome as sin?”

      “Yes.”

      “Any old feelings resurface?”

      “A few.”

      “Well, listen to you, being honest with yourself and with me.”

      “I don’t lie to myself anymore.” Cathy picked up two oven mitts from the counter, opened the oven door and checked on the warming meatloaf. “There’s nothing wrong with admitting that I’m still attracted to Jack. Most women probably are. He always did attract the opposite sex. Besides, he’s single and so am I.”

      “Amen, sister.” Lorie patted her on the back.

      “He told me that Mike has assigned him to work on two cold-case files for the sheriff ’s department, and one of those cases is Mark’s murder.”

      “What?”

      “He was entirely up front about it.” Cathy looked directly at Lorie. “He told me he was sorry about what had happened to my husband, and then he explained that he was going over the county’s cold-cases—the unsolved homicides—including Mark’s murder.”

      “But why? What possible reason would Mike have to reopen Mark’s case?”

      “He’s not reopening the case,” Cathy said. “Jack is studying the files, and he’s going to compare notes with the police in Athens, where Charles Randolph, the Lutheran minister, was killed last year in the same way Mark was.”

      Lorie put her arm around Cathy’s shoulders. “Oh, honey, you shouldn’t have to deal with any of this. You shouldn’t have to go over all those bad memories about the day Mark died. And you certainly shouldn’t have to work with Jack Perdue. I’ll step in and handle the consulting job myself, and that way you won’t have to—”

      “No, that won’t be necessary. I can work with Jack. I’m not running away from the past. I faced a great many hard truths while I was in therapy. I learned that I can’t change the past. I can’t bring Mark back any more than I could have saved him the day he died. And I can’t deny that a part of me still loves Jack Perdue and probably always will.”

      “Oh, Cathy…Honey, no, no…”

      “It’s all right, really it is. I have no illusions about Jack. But he’s not the same now, and neither am I. I’m not expecting happily ever after, not with Jack or any other man. Whatever does or doesn’t happen between us, I can handle it.”

      “Can you?”

      “Yes.”

      “What about Seth?”

      Cathy swallowed hard. “What about Seth?”

      “How do you think Seth would react if he found out the man you were in love with before you married Mark has come back into your life?”

      “There’s no reason for Seth to know about my past with Jack.”

      “Oh, honey, you’re lying to yourself if you think the truth won’t come out eventually. If you get involved with Jack again, all your secret little birds will come home to roost.”

      He moaned and groaned and trembled with his release. She lay beneath him silent and unmoving, hating him, wishing him dead. His heavy weight pinned her to the bed—her canopy bed with white, lace-trimmed linens—as he kissed her tenderly and whispered the same words he always said when he had finished with her.

      “I love you, sweetheart.”

      When he lifted himself up and off her, she turned over, grabbed the sheet and pulled it over her naked body as she curled into a ball. She didn’t watch him leave her room, but she heard the door close behind him. He would go to his bathroom, remove the condom he had worn and take a shower. Then he would go into his den and spend the rest of the evening in his disguise as a man of God.

      Lying there, her tender young breasts bruised from his rough hands and her whole body throbbing with shame and anger, she wanted to cry. But she didn’t cry anymore. Tears were useless. She was trapped in a nightmare without end. The only way to escape would be to end her life. But she wasn’t that brave. Not yet.

      She got out of bed, took a shower to wash off his smell, dressed hurriedly and sneaked out through her bedroom window, leaving it cracked open so she could come back in later. It was nearly eight-thirty and had gotten dark early this evening because of the rain clouds. Tonight, the sky had partially cleared, enough so that the three-quarter moon peeked through the threads of murky clouds. She could stay out as late as she wanted, go anywhere, do anything, as long as no one recognized her and reported back to her father. He wouldn’t check on her again tonight. Once he raped her, he didn’t bother her again. Not until the next time. During the day, their lives were hypocritically normal. They ate their meals together every morning and evening. He asked her about her homework, her teachers and her friends. He acted like any father might. He attended all her school functions, charmed her teachers and her friends, and had the whole world fooled. Everyone believed he was the ideal father. No one suspected what happened between them several nights each week in the privacy of her bedroom.

      “This is our secret,” he had told her the first time he had raped her, when she was thirteen. “No one else must ever know. No one would understand.”

      He was right. No one would understand.

      She didn’t understand.

      “Mom, I think it’s great that you’ve rented your own place.” Seth finished off the last bite of caramel pie and scooted his chair away from the kitchen table.

      “It’s not as large as our old house,” Cathy told him. “But it’s only three blocks from Nana and Granddad, over on Madison Avenue, and there’s plenty of room for the two of us. Your room is a really good size, and you’ll have your own bathroom.”

      Seth’s smile, which she had enjoyed all evening, faded quickly at the mention of him living with her. “Mom, I…I…”

      “You don’t have to move in with me next week when I take our furniture out of storage, but sooner or later, I want you to come home where you belong—with me.”

      “I know what you want, Mom. It’s just that Granddad’s not going to agree, and I don’t think he’ll change his mind. You know how stubborn he is.”

      “Yes, I know. And I would prefer to have your grandfather’s approval. But with or without it, I want you to live with me. You’re my son, not his. You belong with me.”

      When she saw the confused expression on Seth’s face, she almost wished she could take back the adamant claim to her maternal rights. Almost. She would never make Seth do something he didn’t want to do, but she suspected that his reluctance to live with her had more to do with him not wanting to displease J.B. than it did with any doubts he had