Autorentext

Evelyn Palfrey, a native Texan, lives in Austin. She writes for the "marvelously mature" and is the author of *The Price of Passion (a #1 *Essence bestseller), *Everything in Its Place, and *Three Perfect Men, and was a contributor to two *Chicken Soup books. She is an attorney, a gardener, and an avid motor homer.

Klappentext

For the sake of keeping the peace in her 19-year marriage, Vivian Carlson struggles to accept her husband's frequent infidelities. And, even though she cannot have children of her own, she draws the line at taking care of his illegitimate baby.

Zusammenfassung
"Does it have a name?" Vivian asked Walter. What would be the proper question to ask her husband of nearly twenty years, when he brings home his illegitimate baby as casually as a bag of groceries? Although Walter's frequent infidelities became increasingly obvious to Vivian, she struggled to accept them. After all, she reasoned, they came with the Mercedes, the beautiful house, and the prestige of being Mrs. Carlson, the Texas state representative's better half. Having long since abandoned her attempts at motherhood, Vivian resigned herself to her law studies and a lonely existence as the perfect political wife in suburban Austin.
But Vivian draws the line at her husband's unexpected arrival. And once one line is drawn, she discovers that she can draw others. Left alone with this tiny, helpless bundle that disgusts and fascinates her, Vivian faces some of the hardest choices of her life. On the brink of a long-forgotten freedom, she begins the painful, empowering process of rebuilding her shattered life -- and the reawakening of her soul to the possibilities of love.
An emotionally charged, razor-sharp take on the myriad challenges facing women today, Evelyn Palfrey's witty and suspenseful novel establishes her as a refreshing new voice in contemporary women's fiction.

Leseprobe
Chapter One

Vivian couldn't think of the precise word for what she felt, as she stared at the small squirming mass of flesh. Disbelief? Shock? Dread? Detachment? Loathing? Disgust? Even nausea. None of them was strong enough alone, and there was no one word that encompassed everything she felt. Hatred? No. Any hatred she had was reserved for Walter. It had been that way for a while. She wasn't a hating kind of person, but he'd forced her, and she finally gave in. She sometimes wondered if her habit of keeping a good black suit ready, still in the thin plastic cleaner's bag, was wishful thinking. She couldn't remember the first time she'd thought, on hearing his car in the driveway, "Why couldn't he have been killed in a car wreck?" There had been so many times. This night had been no different. The clock over the mantle said 10:45. Even for a Monday, he was early.

"Does it have a name?" she asked.

It was the only question she could think of. What would be the proper question to ask your husband of nearly twenty years, when he brings home his baby by another woman, and without a word, casually places the carrier on the table, as though it were a bag of groceries you'd asked him to pick up on the way? She stared at the little bundle swathed in soft yellow. It stared back at her, out of eyes just like his -- same shade of brown, same shape.

Walter was at the bar pouring himself a drink -- as if he hadn't had enough already.

"I don't remember what she said. You can name it whatever you want."

"What I want? I don't have anything to do with this." She heard her voice rising, despite her calm exterior. She had suffered the indignity of his affairs before -- many times. Enough times that there was no indignation left. No hurt, either. She didn't care anymore what he did in the streets, but her home was a cocoon of beauty she made for herself. She surrounded herself with contentment. Whenever he came home, no matter what time, she felt invaded. But bringing this home -- this dirty linen, this evidence of his stupidity -- was an extreme violation.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, as calmly as she could manage.

"Well, we'll just have to deal with it, Vivian," he said, his back to her. He turned the glass up and emptied it. "We have no choice."

"What do you mean, we?"

"Just that, Vivian. What else is there for us to do?"

"Us?! You must be out of your mind. What on earth makes you think I am going to accept this...this -- "

"'Cause you're that kind of woman, Viv." He poured another drink. "Besides, you've always wanted a baby. I thought you'd be happy."

"Happy? Happy? You...arrogant...son-of-a-bitch! How can you fix your mouth to say you think I'd be happy about your child by one of your whores!"
She felt bubbling deep inside herself, hot lava bubbling. She took deep, measured breaths, to hold it down. She heard the baby's whimpering grow louder.
"You need to come see about your...this."

He turned to face her.

"You know I don't know anything about babies. You're a woman. You see about it."

The volcano erupted. Clouds of dry ash spewed forth, pushed ahead by red-hot lava. Vivian marched to him, and with a wide arc of her arm, slapped the glass out of his hand. Walter didn't react when it hit the hard ceramic tile and shattered.

"You low-life dog!" she screamed at him. "How dare you! How dare you!" The rage she felt was hotter than the lava, and it poured forth, heaping obscenities on him. The look on his face -- the slight smile, the hint of smugness -- infuriated her so, that she struck out at it. She tried to slap it off, claw it off, but he held her hands -- and the smirk. She jerked her hands away and slashed wildly at him, but he caught them each time.

"Control yourself, Vivian. Calm down. Quit acting like a hysterical child. Try to act like an adult."

She didn't hear the words, but she did hear the insult. The screaming she heard was her own -- and the rage. She jerked her hands with her whole body, while he held them still. As the lava flow slowed to spurting, the release of emotion from her body left her limp on her knees amid the broken glass and wetness. He held her hands above her head. The screaming she heard in the distance was not hers. It came slowly into focus. It.

"Now, look what you've done," he accused. "I can't deal with this. I've got to chair the committee meeting in the morning. I'm going to bed." When he released her hands, she fell in a heap on the floor.

Walter was at the stairs before Vivian saw the piece of glass. It was large enough, and jagged. She picked it up and fingered it, rubbing the sharp edge against her thumb. She knew the perfect place to jab it into his soft flesh.
Angry, insistent screaming snatched her attention away from the thought. She sat up and stared at the carrier, across the room on the table. The screaming grew louder, echoing and reverberating in the cavernous living room. She stood up and slowly walked to the source. She stood over it, watching it. The yellow blanket had been pushed aside by the baby's squirming, revealing tiny fists, balled up on each side of its face. The eyes were squeezed shut. No tears. Its face was red, its mouth tiny and O-shaped. With each angry scream, the little body shook violently. Vivian understood. She wished she could do that, too. Just lie on her back on the Persian rug, ball her fists, draw her knees up, close her eyes, and scream until her whole body shook. But she couldn't. So why did it get the luxury?

"Hush!" she snapped at it.

It startled at the sound of her voice. The screaming stopped suddenly. The eyes opened and looked at her. A curious look, examining her. Just as suddenly, the screaming started again.

"Hush!" she tried again. The response this time was louder, more demanding.

Vivian was tempted to put her hand over its face and hold it there, until the screaming stopped -- until the breathing stopped. B…