A Second Chance in Paradise Read Free Page A

Then I just stood there. I didn’t move a muscle or make another sound. All I could hear was the ticking clock in the living room and the sound of my molars grinding. In the excruciating silence my heart thumped hard against my ribs, and I felt hot blood pulsating in my temples.
    God, I hope she has a legitimate excuse ! She must have! But how can that be possible?  Hayley and Marlene are the only of Wendy’s friends who ever stop over here. Neither of them could ever afford to drive a Lexus, and their feet, they must be six sizes smaller than those prints outside. Ohhh shit, no! She’s my wife, my mate, my confidante and partner. We’ve been together all our adult lives. She’s been part of me the whole time – the best part of me. Why would she ever ....
    Abruptly, my thoughts ended there. The sound of creaking springs cut them short. It was Wendy, climbing out of our bed.
    Padding up the short hallway toward the living room, still out of sight, she said, “Steve?  Is that you?  Did you forget something?” 
    It had been her boss , Steve Silverman.
    My heart stuttered as I stood there, breathless now. My wind-chilled face contorted as if I were experiencing some horribly painful physical torture. I’d have preferred that any day. That I could take – anything but this! 
    I stood there motionless, my back against the door, listening to Wendy’s steps as she made her way down the short hallway.
    Then she stepped into the living room – completely naked.
    Seeing now that it was me, not Steve Silverman, th e smile on her face instantly drooped. Her lips parted slightly, as if she were going to say something, explain, but she didn’t. She just froze.
    This was it – I was living out the worst nightmare any caring husband could imagine. Some men may think of this dreaded scenario often, others rarely, but, no matter what the frequency, if and when it happens, if a man truly loves his women, it is the most devastating of all human experiences. It can cripple the ego, no, worse than that, far worse, when the husband worships his wife the way I had.
    Through glazed e yes I stood  surveying my wife, who stood there, totally undressed for another man. My eyes moved to all the places that, before today, only I had ever touched, fondled, kissed and entered. The creamy flesh of her soft, erect breasts; her impossibly trim waist; the tantalizing curve of her hips; the triangular patch of silky, auburn hair where the inside of her thighs met.
    “My good God, Wendy! What have you done?  Why would you ever do something like this?  How in the hell could you?”
    She said nothing. Arms still at her sides, she turned her palms out and opened her mouth to speak. But nothing came out.
    A long moment passed, an agonizing moment neither of us would ever forget. Then, s tartled by my own calmness, disappointed by it, I began to weigh my few options as I continued to stare at her in disbelief.
    Do I kill her, right here and now ?  Do I go get that bastard Silverman?  Should I kill them both? 
    S lowly but deliberately – as if in a trance, I approached her. With each small step my tormented eyes cut deeper into hers. They spoke to her – cried out to her, and she understood them. They told her what she had done to me. They told her my heart felt like it was being wrenched by a thousand savage hands.
    Face to face now, c lose enough to smell the familiar scent of her bare skin, the shock, hurt, and profound sense of loss I’d felt suddenly vanished. Contempt kicked in. I was now working – working hard to fight back my rage.
    Through quivering lips, with my voice breaking, I managed to say, “I hope you enjoyed yourself, Wendy. You’ve given me one hell of a birthday gift.”  After that I dropped my eyes from hers and gave my wife one long, last look – head to toe and back again. In a tone drenched with hurt, sorrow, regret and a host of other miserable emotions I said, “Have a nice life ... Wendy.”  Then, as I