The Point of Vanishing, Maryka Biaggio [top inspirational books TXT] 📗

He was due home from his New York business trip in a matter of hours. And he’d not travel again until mid-January. For the rest of December and on through the New Year, she’d have him to herself.

She so hoped it’d be a joyous time. Or at least peaceful. Anything but the suffocating and tortured existence she’d endured these last four months. If he didn’t freely offer a decision tonight, maybe she’d just ask him. Hadn’t she done everything she could think of? She was running out of ideas—and endurance. This shaky standoff drained her more and more every day. She couldn’t bear this veneer of cold cordiality much longer.

She played out scenarios for his return. He’d notice how neat the apartment was; he’d comment on the scent of Bon Ami; he’d congratulate her on a meal well done. She’d hug him—that wouldn’t be too bold—and he’d assure her that yes, he loved and cherished her.

Only she hoped he’d decide soon. Maybe he was waiting for the most auspicious moment, perhaps at the beginning of a weekend. He’d take her in his arms, tell her he’d missed her, and say he wanted to make love to her, just like before, and whisk her off to a romantic retreat at her favorite ski lodge.

But what if he didn’t?

She steeled herself against pressing him for a decision. Still, if forced to bide her time much longer, she’d collapse under the weight of the dread and hope warring in her. How long could she bear this brittle limbo?

She couldn’t imagine he’d be so cruel as to end the marriage over the holiday season. They’d always gone skating on Christmas eve, just the two of them. On Christmas day, she’d bake an apple pie exactly as Grandma Ding had taught her and bring it to dinner at his mother’s house. Although he typically balked at the tradition of visiting Helen in New York after Christmas, he’d certainly not want to ruin it for her. Not this year. Sabra would be there, and they’d all take the subway to Times Square and watch the ball drop. No, it wouldn’t be like him to upset everybody over the holidays, not after five lovely Christmases together. And she’d have four whole weeks to prove what a good wife she could be.

✭

The doorknob rattled. Nick, suitcase in hand, squeezed in. It was a game he played, opening the door no farther than necessary to keep out the cold.

Barbara got up from the easy chair and walked to him. “It’s so nice to have you home.”

He wiped his feet on the entryway carpet. “How are you?”

“Fine. Let me take that for you.” She carried his suitcase to the bedroom, set it down, and drifted back to the living room. “Cold out?”

He hung his coat and slipped off his galoshes. “About thirty, and the wind’s picking up.”

Barbara had little patience for this small talk. She’d bought a French Chablis—not too expensive but with a pretty label—and prepared a plate of Camembert slices. Yes, she was splurging, but it was the beginning of the holiday season. “Why don’t you unpack. Then we can have a glass of wine, and I’ll take us out for dinner.”

“Uh, well,” he said, smoothing a hand over his cheek, “I guess that’d be all right. I’ll go change.”

He passed within a foot of her on his way to the bedroom. No kiss, no pat on the arm, nothing. Not that he’d shown her much affection lately. She’d just hoped for some gesture, anything to signal a change. But maybe he felt as shy and reserved around her as she felt with him.

She slid the plate of cheese out of the refrigerator and arranged the bread slices around the edge. Yes, it looked lovely, with bits of curly parsley here and there. She put the plate on the tray with napkins, wine glasses, and the Chablis. She carried it to the coffee table and sat down on the sofa.

She could hear Nick in the bedroom, shuffling about, probably emptying his suitcase and changing his clothes. Such a one for routine. He walked to the bathroom. She heard his water streaming into the toilet, the toilet flushing, and faucets running as he washed his hands. It used to aggravate her—how clean and tidy he was—but now she was grateful to be able to please him by keeping the apartment neat and sparkling.

“Well,” he said, his eyes glancing over the hors d’oeuvres as he walked into the living room.

She asked, “Would you like to open the wine?”

“I believe I’ll have some water first. Can I get you some?”

“Okay.”

He brought two glasses of water from the kitchen, handed one to her, and sat down a few feet from her on the sofa. He sipped some water and eased the glass onto the coffee table. He made no move to indulge in her offerings.

A vague dread seized her. She felt the blood drain from her face.

Nick planted his hands on his knees and twisted toward her. His expression hardened as his eyes fixed on her. “I need to talk to you.”

Her mouth turned cottony. Her heart hammered.

“I can’t go on like this,” he said. “It’s simply not working. The marriage feels dead.”

She clutched the arm of the sofa, trying to quell the tremors of panic rolling over her. It was as if he’d hurled a spear straight into her heart. “You can’t mean that. I know we can make it work.”

“I’m sorry, Barbara.” Nick turned away and stared at the wall. “I hate hurting you like this. But I don’t love you anymore.”

“It’s not true. You do love me. Look how patient you’ve been. And how hard I’ve tried. I’ll be the wife you deserve. I’ll give you a child. Can’t you see that’s all I care about now?”

He cupped a hand over his mouth, blinked hard, then dropped his hand and turned to her. “None of that matters anymore. It’s over.”

“No,” she wailed, falling