Dear Emily. Fern Michaels

You really don’t have any say in how the businesses are run. You refused to become an officer of the corporation. You gave up those rights and Ian will throw that at you with the speed of lightning. His attorney will back it up. You are a paid employee whose salary remains in the business. You are given an allowance by your husband; he takes care of everything. He’s currently working on the list you provided, to give you everything you ever wanted in life.

      The pansy cup fell from her hands and shattered on the terra-cotta floor. One down, five to go, she thought as her gaze raked the colorful cups hanging on a coffee cup tree that was too cute for words. Her arm swept out, sending the metal stand and the five cups crashing to the floor. Now she was going to have to clean it up and even from here she could see the nicks in the new floor. It was a stupid floor. Terra-cotta belonged outside, on a patio or a deck.

      Maybe this was what wasn’t sitting well with her. Ian’s blind rush to start giving her things without asking her dislikes and likes. Why couldn’t she be allowed to decorate her own home? Was her taste so terrible? The house was attractively furnished, but it wasn’t her taste, and as far as she could tell, it wasn’t Ian’s taste either. It was probably some damn. twenty-five-year-old decorator Ian had flirted with.

      Cry, Emily. That’s what you always do when things don’t go right. Instead of taking a stand, making your views known, you cry and give in. Like that time you ironed those forty shirts. Ian smiles at you, and you all but kiss his feet.

      Emily walked into the living room. She needed to take a shower and get dressed. Then she’d go into the clinic and talk to Ian.

      Her shower completed, she tried to dry herself with one of the large towels. The terry cloth refused to absorb the water because the towels were new and hadn’t been washed. She picked up her sweatshirt, turned it inside out, and dried herself.

      Naked, she charged into the yellow bedroom, where she rummaged for her clothes. How should she dress to visit the Park Avenue Clinic?

      The Park Avenue Clinic, two blocks down from Maple Avenue, ran the entire length and breadth of the four-story building. It was going to be huge, bigger than the other three clinics. It was a perfect location. Rent was going to be very high. She walked down the nine steps to the basement, whose windows were above ground level. The workmen didn’t pay any attention to her. She thought she recognized two of the men who worked on the Watchung Clinic. They nodded to her.

      At least six thousand square feet. Really high rent. She was checking on the patient bathroom when she heard two men conversing on the other side of the wall. They were amused about something, she could hear it in their voices, but the words weren’t distinguishable. She backed out of the bathroom and meandered closer to the wall. Now she could hear perfectly.

      “I wouldn’t lie about something like that, Walt. Doc Thorn told me himself just last week. This whole side of the building is for a sperm bank. It’s gonna be a whole separate operation. Ten bucks if you don’t believe me. Ask Dwight, he’s the architect.”

      Emily’s eyes rolled back in her head, but she didn’t move. “Big money in sperm banks, the Doc said. They charge for the donation then they charge rent for keeping the donation. This isn’t just going to be an abortion clinic. Some other doctor is going to be doing vasectomies. Now that’s something I’d never even think of doing. What about you, Walt?”

      “When I don’t want any more kids, I might think about it. You can get it reversed later on if it turns out to be something you can’t live with. My wife cut out an article for me to read. I’d consider it. One of the guys up front said the doc was thinking of converting the other clinics he has to this kind. Must be a lot of money in this. Doc Thorn wouldn’t be considering revamping his clinics if he wasn’t going to be making some mega bucks. My wife is pro-choice, what’s yours?”

      “Pro-life. Guess we’re a wash if it comes to a vote.”

      “Yeah, guess so. Guess the Thorns are pro-choice.”

      Emily swayed dizzily before she felt well enough to leave the work area.

      Sperm banks, abortion clinics. The family clinics she’d believed in, had worked in, were going to be done away with. And she’d made it possible with all her hard work.

      She needed to talk to Ian and she needed to talk to him now. She was off the hook as far as invading Ian’s privacy via his desk drawers. She could now honestly say she’d overheard the men at the clinic talking.

      At home she called the three clinics to see where Ian was. “Pencil me in for lunch,” she told the receptionist. “Tell Dr. Thorn it’s very important I see him. I’m making a reservation at Jacques’ for one o’clock. I’ll meet him there.”

      Emily’s stomach churned as she changed her everyday attire to an outfit more conducive to a Christmassy lunch at Jacques’. She pulled on a raspberry-colored sack outfit and dressed it up with a multicolored belt that matched the costume jewelry left over from her younger days. She felt elegant in her high heels which she hadn’t worn in over a year. For the tiniest of moments she dallied with the thought of spritzing herself with the perfume Ian had given her years ago. He’d take it as a sign that she was ready to give in, as usual, to whatever he wanted. She put the bottle back on the dresser. She was never going to use this room. Never, ever. When this luncheon was all over, she might very well end up packing her bags and moving out. Sheer bravado as far as her thoughts went. In her heart and gut she knew only an act of God could separate her from Ian. He was her reason for living, her reason for being.

      Emily’s spirits lifted when she walked into Jacques’ shortly before one o’clock. She took a moment to drink in the colorful poinsettias lining the foyer. The blooms were banked at the desk and up the steps and into the bar. Inside the main part of the restaurant they were featured in the boxed windows with porcelain dolls dressed in red velvet. Cheerful, colorful, a reminder that the holiday was just days away. She ordered a glass of white wine and settled down to wait for her husband. He was fifteen minutes late, a huge smile on his face when he was ushered to her booth.

      “Scotch on the rocks,” he said to the waiter at his elbow.

      “Emily, you never cease to amaze me. To what do I owe the pleasure? This is verrry nice,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “I don’t think you ever really invited me to lunch before. Great idea. You’re paying, of course.”

      How handsome he looked in his beige cashmere jacket. His white shirt was so perfectly ironed by herself she felt a ring of heat start to form around her neck. “Of course,” she said carefully.

      “Are you telling me you saved your allowance? Or are you holding out on me again?”

      Emily’s heart thumped in her chest. “Pete gave me a generous Christmas going-away present. I planned to use it for Christmas.”

      “And well he should. You worked your buns off for that man. He owes you. How much did he give you?”

      “Five hundred dollars.”

      “In that case I think I’ll order lobster.” Ian flipped open the huge brown menu and pretended to scan the day’s offerings. “Did you sleep well? I slept like a baby. When the phone rang at three forty-five I just got up and showered and out I went. I felt so rested. I really like the idea of my own room, don’t you? Mine looks the way a man’s room should look and yours looks the way a woman’s room should look. I think it’s one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. You have no idea, Emily, how many couples have separate rooms. I personally think it makes for a better marriage. I hope this lobster tastes as good as those hot dogs tasted last night. That was great, wasn’t it?”

      “I enjoyed the hot dogs. Ian, about the separate bedrooms, I don’t like sleeping by myself. What kind of marriage is it when we sleep apart? We’re supposed to be a couple. If I’m not going to work anymore and you’re going to be gone all day and most of the evening, when will I see you? I don’t like that yellow room. I slept on the couch.” She put her hands in her lap and then between her knees to keep them from shaking. She wondered if he could tell she was trembling. Ian could sense everything.