Antonia's Choice Read Free Page A

probably passable.
    That sent a pang through me. Chris had always said that. I would come out of the bedroom after an hour in front of the mirror and he’d get that impish glimmer in his eyes and smile—his smile was so slow it was maddening—and he’d say, “You’ll pass.”
    In his more amorous moments, of course, it had been different. The Louisiana drawl he’d tried so hard to hide since law school would ooze right on out into, “Baby, do you know how hard it was for me to keep my hands out of your hair this entire evening?”
    â€œI’m so sure you were going to run your fingers through my hair while you were entertaining clients, Wells,” I would tell him. “Give me a break.”
    â€œI’m serious, darlin’. I saw it all thick and blond and tucked behind your ears and I wanted to slide my fingers right in there.”
    â€œGet over yourself!”
    â€œLook at your eyes, lookin’ so brown, just a-twinklin’ at me, telling me, ‘Come here, boy.’”
    â€œIn your dreams.”
    â€œLet me just hug on that cute little ol’ body—”
    Uh-huh,
I thought now.
Did you say the same things to that little paralegal you bedded down?
    I shook my head, tossing back my bangs.
Don’t go there,
I told myself.
Do not EVEN go there.
    I went back to Jeffrey Faustman.
    Whether or not my mother was right about the causes of Ben’s behavior, it was obvious I was going to have to do something about it before he started slipping out at night with a can of spray paint. Not to mention the fact that Ben and I were miserable. It seemed like all we did was scream at each other. Chris and I hadn’t evendone that, which made me wonder why Ben had chosen that as his latest means of expressing himself.
    During the two weeks my mother was there I had had to admit, begrudgingly, that she was correct about one thing: I wasn’t spending enough time with Ben. An hour in the morning, trying to get cereal down his throat without tossing the whole bowl against the wall, and an hour and a half between the time I got home from work and the time he was supposed to be in bed really didn’t cut it.
    The night before, when I’d finally gotten Ben to sleep for the second time after the bed-wetting ordeal, I’d stayed up forming a plan, which by dawn sounded reasonable to me. Now I just had to convince Jeffrey.
    The baggy-pants gardener was out in front of Faustman Financial Services putting in a flat of pansies when I pulled into the circular driveway. For a mad moment I wished I had his job, complete with the amount of derriere he was showing over the top of his rather pointless belt. To my knowledge he never had to take files home.
    You know you love what you do,
I told myself.
You’ll get through this phase with Ben and then you can get refocused on the joys of handling other people’s money. You can do this. You can do anything.
    I could feel myself setting my jaw, bringing my overbite into full view. As vain as I admittedly was about my appearance, I’d never wanted to have that fixed. I’d seen myself once when a TV camera had caught me cheering in the Orange Bowl, the year Florida was ranked number one, and I’d kind of liked the overbite. It gave me character. Chris always said so.
    â€œWould you
stop!”
I said into the rearview. “What is with the Chris obsession today?”
    I marched my little self up to the oak double doors and breezed into the foyer, where the brass umbrella stand and the leaf-perfect ficus plant greeted me. Regina Acklee looked up from the reception desk, blue eyes taking inventory.
    â€œYou on a mission this mornin’, honey?” she said. She glanced at the grandfather clock that ticked solemnly across from her desk. “Jeffrey’s gonna wish your mission was to get here on time.”
    â€œWhat am I, two minutes late?” I said.
    â€œNinety seconds.” She