“You already know why, Maggie. I don’t want my wife chasing after two-bit news stories.”
“And what about my car? You sold it without my permission, and now I have nothing to drive.”
“We’ll buy you a car when the time is right.”
She snorts. “When you deem the time is right.”
His hand shoots up, silencing her. “The interview is canceled, the car sold. This discussion is closed. Let’s move on.”
And move on, they do, in silence. For the next five days, they speak not one word to each other. On Friday of the following week, he brings home an expensive bottle of red wine and a bouquet of white orchids. “I hate fighting with you.”
“I don’t like it either.” More than the fighting, she hates living in a hostile environment. Taking the orchids and wine from him, she says, “I brought home some Brunswick stew from the grocery. Let’s build a fire and eat in the living room.”
“I like the sound of that,” he says, nodding his approval.
She waits until after dinner to broach the other subject he’s never adequately addressed despite her constant hounding. “You keep saying for me not to worry about money. But, how can I do that when there’s never more than three hundred dollars in our joint account?”
They are camped out on the sofa, wine glasses in hand and blankets covering their legs, a warm fire crackling in front of them.
“That account is for household expenses,” he says, sipping his wine. “You should never need more than three hundred dollars for groceries unless we’re hosting an elaborate dinner party.”
“What if I want to buy something?” Maggie asks. “Like an airline ticket to see my family?”
His nostrils flare but his voice remains even when he says, “Why would you do that when you’ve only been in Virginia six weeks? Use your credit card if you want to have your hair done or buy a pretty dress. But don’t go crazy. I pay off the balance every month.”
In other words, you’re trying to keep me on a tight leash, she thinks. “What about our bills? Where does that money come from?”
“A totally separate account. I’m a partner in this development deal, honey. I’m not getting a regular paycheck. But once the shopping center is complete, the money will start rolling in. In the meantime, we’re living off my portfolio. It’s nothing for you to worry about. Many of the stocks in my portfolio pay dividends. I transfer funds from my portfolio to the account I use to pay bills on an as-needed basis.”
Under the blanket, she runs her socked foot over the top of his bare one. “You’re so busy, why don’t you let me pay the bills?”
He casts her a suspicious sideways glance. “That’s very thoughtful of you, sweetheart. But I’ve got it under control. Everything is set up on automatic withdrawal.”
With no money of her own, and the pocket change from the sale of her car long gone, Maggie works harder to find a job. She applies for positions she’s overqualified for at establishments within walking distance from her home. She’s not surprised when she gets turned down for all of them.
She rides city buses whenever necessary, but she needs wheels in order to get the type of job she wants. It’s futile to continue harassing Eric about buying her a car. Her lack of transportation is yet another way for him to keep her on a short leash.
She misses her family terribly, and they miss her equally as much. At least one of them calls nearly every day. When they pepper her with questions about her new life, she feeds them a string of lies.
“I’ve gotten plenty of job offers, Dad. I’m holding out for the right one.”
“Sure, Mom! I’m making friends. In fact, Eric and I are having neighbors over for the Super Bowl on Sunday.”
To each of her overprotective brothers, she says some version of, “You’d love it here. You should come for a visit.” But she prays they don’t. She already has enough male testosterone in her home.
On the last Thursday of February, Maggie’s in the living room, sipping a glass of red wine and reading by the fire, when Eric arrives home from work around seven thirty—a bit early for him considering the late hours he typically keeps. He gives her a perfunctory kiss. “How was your day?”
A handful of unpleasant responses come to mind, but she decides it is best to say nothing. Earmarking the page, she closes the paperback and untucks her legs, sitting up straight in the chair.
“Look what I bought for the baby,” he says, dropping a Target bag in her lap.
She sweeps the bag off her lap to the floor. “There isn’t any baby, Eric.”
“There will be soon.” He takes off his coat and tosses it onto the sofa. “What’s for dinner?” He raises his hand, palm out. “Don’t tell me. We’re having chicken tacos again.”
“Bingo! How’d you guess?”
“It was easy considering your repertoire of dinners is limited to four,” he says, holding up four fingers. “Spaghetti, although Ragu and noodles isn’t my idea of an Italian dinner. Caesar salad with rotisserie chicken, although I’m not sure that falls into the home-cooked category since you buy the bagged salad and the already-cooked chicken at the grocery store. And chicken tacos, which counts as two separate dinners depending on whether we have the meat in shells or on top of lettuce. Which is it tonight, Mags? Tacos with shells or taco salads?”
“We could always go out, you know? I’ve been reading Yelp reviews. I made a list of some of the places we should try. And since you were away on another business trip to Charlotte on Valentine’s Day, you still owe me a Valentine’s dinner.”
“I’m not in the mood tonight.”
She looks away, staring into the fire. “You’re never in the mood. We used to eat out all the time in Portland. But we haven’t been out once since we moved here.”
“We will soon. I promise.” Exhaling, he lowers himself to the arm of her chair. “I’m under a lot of pressure right now. I have to think fast on my feet all day, and I look forward to spending a quiet evening with my wife in our new home.”
She experiences a stab of guilt. She’s needling him like a spoiled housewife. But she can’t help herself. Nothing is as he promised it would be when he convinced her to move to Virginia. “I get that, Eric. And I’m busy with my job search. We could always order takeout.”
“How about you cook a real meal for a change instead of reading a book and drinking wine?” His eyes travel to her glass. “That’s bad for the baby. You really should be taking better care of yourself.”
She jumps to her feet. “For the hundred millionth time, there is no baby.” She picks up her glass, guzzles the rest of her wine, and leaves the room.
She’s struggling to uncork another bottle when he enters the kitchen and takes the wine from her, setting it on the counter. “I hate arguing with you. This should be a happy time for us.” He cups her cheek, running his thumb across her lower lip. “I realize there’s no baby yet. I saw the tampon wrapper in the bathroom trash can this morning. What say you stop taking the pill, and we try to make one?”
“So, you’re going through our trash now?” She has no intention of going off birth control until she’s good and ready. “Never mind. Let’s just eat, okay?”