“Who indeed?” Monica said. Little do they know that I probably have sex more often than any of them, just not inside of any permanent relationship.
“I’m out of here, too,” Cait said. “Oh, and my name’s Cait, short for Caitlin, not Kathryn. C-A-I-T. Just clearing that up.”
Figures, Monica thought. Even a pretentious name.
“Okay. See you all in class next week,” Eve said, opening the heavy main door. “Maybe afterwards, too?” It came out as a question as she headed out toward the parking lot.
“Maybe. I’m out of here.” Angie said. “See ya.”
As Monica crossed the parking lot toward her Lexus, she watched Angie climb into an older model sedan, Cait into a current-model-year Honda, and Eve into a Toyota that looked like it had seen better days—lots of them. “Interesting group,” she muttered to herself. “Samantha? Maybe that’s exactly who I am.”
Chapter
2
Cait turned the key to her Accord V6 and waited for the GPS system to boot. Although she certainly knew the route home, she liked to watch the map out of the corner of her eye as she drove. Finally the screen activated and she pressed OK, then thumbed the voice button on the steering wheel and said, “XM Channel 10.” The feminine voice echoed back at her, then after a slight pause contemporary country music poured from the speakers and filled the car. They were playing Loretta Lynn’s “You’re Lookin’ at Country,” and she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel in time to the cheery tune. She turned the thermostat to sixty-six, knowing that the climate control system would almost immediately kick in and fill the car with cool air, and flicked the wipers twice to squeegee the rain from the windshield.
As she pulled out of the parking space, she waved in the direction of the other women. Decent sorts, she thought. That Monica was a bit pushy but okay. Coffee after next week’s class? Only if Logan was planning to be home. If he was planning to be out she’d have better things to do with her time than sip coffee with a bunch of suburban housewives.
She turned onto Willow Brook and headed for Sheraton. As she was growing up, this was the neighborhood she’d always dreamed of living in: four-acre zoning, no house under seven figures, long driveways and large sloping lawns with gardeners and landscapers to tend them. Wooded areas separated the houses. She knew that on a parallel street there were two large horse farms with riding stables and fenced areas for jumping. She took in a deep breath and smiled. Imagine. Caitlin Gaffney, from a run-down section of Omaha, living here.
She remembered when she’d first arrived in East Hudson. Ms. O’Leary, her new fourth grade teacher, had introduced her to the class. “This is another Caitlin,” she’d said. Another Caitlin? The teacher had held her shoulder and indicated a ponytailed girl in the second row. “This is Caitlin Hanley. We call her Caitlin. And this,” she’d said, pointing to a blonde with carefully styled hair toward the back of the room, “is Caitlin Oakes. We call her Cat. What about you? What would you like to be called?”
“Caitlin,” she said, her voice small and trembling. That was her name and she liked it. Caitlin Gaffney.
“I’m sure you can see how confusing that would be.” Ms. O’Leary’s voice sounded kind, but there was an edge to it and her teeth showed bright white as she smiled a bit too widely. “When I call on Caitlin to answer a question, how would you know whether it was you or Caitlin Hanley? How about we call you Cait?” It sounded like Kate. “We could spell it C-A-I-T. That would make everyone feel better. We’d have a Caitlin, a Cat, and a Cait. Isn’t that a great solution?”
Not for me, she thought. I want to be Caitlin. But even at nine she understood that rank had its privileges, so she’d nodded and became Cait.
As she drove down Sheraton Road, now singing along with Dolly Parton’s rendition of “Here I Come Again,” she noticed several lawn maintenance trucks parked along the roadside, and heard the sounds of Hispanic men pushing double-wide mowers. If she opened the windows, she knew she’d smell the wonderful odor of newly cut grass, but she kept them closed and enjoyed the cool air now pouring from the vents.
She arrived at the large colonial on 214 Sheraton Road and turned the car into the long, upwardly sloping driveway, shaded by massive maples that turned the most fabulous colors in October each year. She pressed the button above her head and watched the garage door slowly rise. Then she played her usual game. She’d learned exactly when to take her foot off the accelerator so the car arrived inside the three-car garage just as it slowed to a complete stop. If she had to touch the brake pedal, she lost the game. Pressing the control to lower the door again, she saw that Logan’s sports car wasn’t in its spot beside their van. Great, she thought. I’ve got some time.
She walked into the large house, and in the spotless kitchen she saw the light blinking on the answering machine. Pressing PLAY, she heard, “Cait, it’s Logan.” He always referred to himself in the third person. Who did he think it would be? Cait scoffed. “Parker Clay invited me to join him in a doubles match so I’ll be home about three. Don’t wait lunch for me, I’ll just grab something with the guys here.” She glanced at her watch. Twelve-fifteen. Plenty of time. “Oh, and don’t forget that we’ve got dinner with the Prescotts. Why don’t you wear that new green dress that looks so good on you with the gold shoes I like, the ones with the sexy high heels? See you.”
The call ended and the machine said, “Ten-forty-seven, Saturday.” She pressed the ERASE button.
Cait rushed upstairs and quickly pulled off her designer leotard and underwear and dropped it all into the hamper in the bathroom. She turned on the water in the stall shower, adjusted the controls so the nozzles on three sides shot out a soft, warm spray, and climbed in.
The bathroom was a microcosm of the whole house, starkly modern, with primarily white tile and black fixtures. Inlaid, hand-painted, Mexican-style tiles added the only color. Once she’d bought several handmade Mexican pots and filled them with greenery to soften the atmosphere. Logan hadn’t particularly liked the plants, so when they died from lack of proper care, she put the pots on a shelf in the garage.
When she finished her quick shower, she wrapped herself in a huge white bath towel and hurried into the bedroom. She ran a quick comb through her auburn hair, glad that it was easy enough to care for so that the blow dryer could stay in the closet, to be used only on special occasions. The bedroom was luxurious. The drapes, quilt, and pillow coverings were white, as was the deep pile carpeting. Fortunately Clara came three times a week, and after vacuuming, used stain remover on any small imperfections. The dressers, head and foot boards of the bed, and her dressing table were Chinese, black enamel, with brass fittings. The spread was squares of black and white satin, accented with lipstick-red throw pillows and red ginger jar lamps on the black enamel end tables.
Still wrapped in her towel, Cait strode into the den, where Logan kept his computer, booted it up, and watched the familiar Windows logo appear. She pulled off her engagement and wedding rings and put them on the desk beside the keyboard. She dropped into the ergonomic chair Logan had insisted on and pressed the familiar series of keys. The “Paul’s Place” logo appeared at the top of the screen and the window to the chat room opened. She read down the “who’s here” list. Hotguy344. They’d chatted before, with delicious results. She saw her screen name appear on the list, Loverlady214.
Hotguy344: Hi, Loverlady. How’s tricks?
Loverlady214: Great. Wanna get private?
Hotguy344: Your place or mine =>> evil grin
Loverlady214: You set it up and I’m there =>> panting with expectation.
There was a moment’s pause.
Hotguy344: Ready, Loverlady. I can’t wait.
She knew that when she clicked the correct keys she and Hotguy344 would be alone in cyberspace. She felt herself getting wet in anticipation. Her nipples were