Part 2 (1/2)
Unlike Mac, Ali didn't spend her days deciding the fate of criminals or corporations. Justice might be blind, but in Mac's case it was also arrogant. He considered drapery design little more than fluff.
So as he set down his coffee mug and opened the laundry room door, she shrugged and responded to his question about her plans for the day by saying, ”Shopping.”
”Of course.”
Of course? What did he mean by that? Was it a snide observation or just filler because he didn't care to talk to her?
He lifted his robe from its hook and slipped it on. When he turned his back to her as he shucked off his swim trunks, the tightness returned to her chest. They were the only two people in the house. Since when did he feel he had to hide himself from her?
Anger and despair swirled inside her, and she blurted out the question. ”Did you sleep well on the couch?”
His shoulders subtly stiffened as he belted his robe. He hung up his wet trunks, then turned and reached again for his coffee. He stared down at the mug and spoke with an apology in his tone. ”No, I didn't. I intended to come up, but then time got away from me. I didn't want to disturb you.”
She clamped her teeth against a sarcastic How considerate of you, dear. She was supposed to be making an effort here. ”What were you working on?”
”Just reading a brief.” He avoided her gaze and drank deeply from his mug, then crossed to the refrigerator. Opening the door, he gazed inside. ”I think I'll have an omelet this morning. Would you like me to make one for you, too?”
Ali froze. Had he really asked that? She couldn't eat eggs; she'd never been able to eat eggs. They gave her a horrible stomachache. Mac darn well knew that.
Hurt sliced through her, a sharp, deep pain that lodged right beneath her breastbone. Ali shut her eyes, s.h.i.+vered, and shriveled. He knew eggs made her ill, but he simply didn't think, not about her, not anymore. She was of no more consequence to Mac Timberlake than the puddles of water he'd left pooled on the laundry room floor.
He pulled his breakfast ingredients out of the fridge. Eggs, milk, b.u.t.ter, cheese. He never glanced her way or gave any sign of listening for a response to his stupid, careless question. As had become the pattern of late for her, on the heels of hurt came anger.
Fuming, Ali set down her coffee mug and left the kitchen without a word. Forget yellow. Never mind sharing a meal or conversation. She'd forgo her usual yogurt and fruit this morning, stop off at Archie's and buy a hot glazed donut. And maybe a jelly donut, too. Shoot, she'd go for broke and add an eclair to her order. All that grease and fat and cholesterol. Yum. At least she'd enjoy her breakfast before it made her sick. That ought to make him happy.
The thought wasn't exactly fair. Ali knew very well that his offer had been thoughtless, not mean, but she didn't care. That single question summed up all the slights and hurts of the past seven months and left her furious. Marching toward the entry hall, where she'd left her purse and keys on a console table, she paused at the door to his home office and stared into the room.
Ali might have chosen the drapes, furnis.h.i.+ngs, and paint colors, but it had always been his s.p.a.ce. Woe be the family member who invaded it without invitation or permission. She'd not had a problem with that. She'd always agreed that the room and its contents should remain off-limits to the children. Wasn't she forever going in search of scissors that had ”walked off” from her own desk in the den?
”But it's supposed to be your office,” she muttered, taking in the tableau. ”Not your bedroom.”
His shoes sat on the floor next to the couch, socks tucked neatly inside, the big, square pillow moved from the window seat to one end of the sofa, the afghan mussed and thrown over the back cus.h.i.+ons. Like he'd just climbed out of bed.
Ali's temper rose. His sleeping downstairs was an insult. A slap in her face. The need to strike back at him was a living, breathing thing inside her.
She stepped into his office. His inner sanctum-his new bedroom-and strode toward his desk. There she brazenly committed a sin of significant magnitude and booted up his computer. She opened the browser. With her pulse thrumming, her heart pounding, she typed in her favorite luxury retailer's Web address, then navigated to bedding. After a brief search, she made her selection, filled in her credit card and delivery information, then defiantly clicked the b.u.t.ton to confirm the purchase. She was breathing as if she'd run a marathon.
”What do you think you're doing?”
It wasn't the question that prodded her temper but the tone. Clipped and condescending and challenging, all in six little words.
”I'm looking up omelet recipes,” she returned in as snotty a voice as she could manage. Then she snapped her fingers and added, ”Oh, no, wait. That wasn't it. I almost forgot. Eggs make me deathly ill. Actually, I was looking at p.o.r.n. You see, my s.e.x life has been lacking of late.”
”Alison!” He stood in the doorway looking shocked, unhappy, and annoyed.
Her chin came up. ”Guess that wasn't funny, was it, Mac? Okay, fine. What I really did on your computer just now was buy a down blanket for my bed to keep me warm at night. You can sleep on the couch forever for all I care.”
”What is wrong with you?” He took a step into the room, his gray eyes a winter storm bearing down upon her, bitterly cold and dangerous.
”What is wrong with me?” she repeated. In that moment, she finally found the strength-or maybe surrendered to the weakness-and stepped out from behind the desk, folded her arms, and confronted the elephant in the room. ”You don't sleep with me anymore. We haven't made love in months. I don't know, Judge Timberlake. You're the one with all the answers. What is wrong with me?”
”Oh, for G.o.d's sake,” he said with disgust and a scowl. ”Have you been taking your hormones?”
Ali sucked in an audible breath. At that moment, she truly hated him.
She rushed toward the door. When she pa.s.sed near him, Mac reached out and grabbed her by the arm just above her elbow. Not hard enough to bruise, but firmly. Flames of anger had replaced the coldness in his eyes.
Ali looked down at his hand. ”Let go. You're hurting me.”
He dropped her arm as if scalded and stepped away. When his gaze dropped to the spot where he'd held her, Ali wanted to smirk. She knew the man. He thought she'd accused him of physically hurting her. Was he worried she would call the cops? Charge the irreproachable judge with domestic violence?
As furious as she was at him, she would never do that. Mac Timberlake was many things, but he'd never been the least bit physically abusive. Not with the kids and not with her. The man never, ever lost control.
The devil in her urged her to push him, to prod him, to make him lose control. She'd like to make him lose control. At least that would mean he still cared.
Even as she debated her response, the anger left his face and he schooled his expression into an increasingly familiar pa.s.sionless mask. Standing with his hands relaxed at his sides, he said quietly, ”I don't want to fight with you, Ali.”
With that, the temper drained from her, too, leaving her exhausted, weary, and worn. Defeated.
In that defeat, she needed to know exactly how much she had lost. Ask him. Get it over with. Find out once and for all. She licked her lips. ”Are you having an affair, Mac?”
His head jerked up and his gaze met hers, steady and piercing. ”No.”
Those gray eyes didn't waver, and she believed him. He was telling her the truth. It wasn't another woman after all.
She waited to feel a sense of relief. During the past few months, for the first time in their marriage, she had worried about his fidelity. However, relief didn't come. If not another woman ... ”Then what's wrong, Mac? What is wrong with us?”
His square jaw hardened and he closed his eyes. ”I don't know.”
That she did not believe.
Now that she'd finally lobbed the stinky fish onto the table, she had to try again. They had to acknowledge the problem and confront it in order to fix it. ”People say you're one of the most brilliant minds in the country. I've even heard murmurs that depending on the way the political winds blow, you could be headed for the Supreme Court. I can't buy the concept that someone so smart could be clueless about what's happening in his own life.” Taking a chance, she reached out and touched him. ”What is it, Mac? Why are we falling apart?”
His jaw relaxed, and she sensed an opening. He was finally going to talk to her!
She drew in a bracing breath, aware that whatever he said was likely to wound her, but knowing that it needed to be said nonetheless.
But instead of talking, his eyes shuttered. His s.h.i.+elds went up and he shut down, locking her out. ”We're not falling apart.”
Her hand fell away from him and she took a step backward. Sadness bigger than any she'd known before washed through her, and the tears she despised welled within her once again. Why wouldn't he help? They were broken and she couldn't fix them by herself. She couldn't fight this fight by herself.
She couldn't bear to hurt this way any longer.
She exhaled softly and closed her eyes, making a decision on the spot. Celeste wanted her help for more than simple decorating. ”I've been offered a job, Mac, and I've decided to take it.”
It obviously threw him for a loop. He gave his head a little shake as if he'd heard her wrong. ”A job? You mean another volunteer thing?”
Ali told herself not to be annoyed at his reaction. After all, she had not held an outside job in all the years of their marriage, and Mac had been the one to always say that she worked just as hard as a volunteer as he did as an attorney.
”No, a paying job. I'm going to run a restaurant in Eternity Springs.”