Cinnamon Bay

Prologue

February 10

Raindrops hit the roof, a continuous weeping that echoes the state of my soul. I’ve cried for hours—days—until my well is dry. My eyes sting and burn.

After tomorrow, I’ll no longer be Mrs. Ben Cushing. After tomorrow, I’ll no longer be a full-time mother to Luke and Cole.

I shift on the couch and put my feet on the coffee table to stretch my weary body. A pile of unopened mail falls onto the floor as I cross and uncross my feet. I can’t find it in myself to care.

My husband of seven years is staying at his mother’s house with our sons. I should have seen it coming. He never does anything nice for the boys, but he volunteered to drive when his mother called to invite them over to decorate gingerbread houses. Carol and I don’t get along well—she’s always saying Ben could’ve done better when picking a wife—so I used the time to finish wrapping the few gifts I had purchased for the boys.

When they didn’t return in time for bedtime, I started to worry. Ben had never kept the boys out that late. When I called to ask Ben when they’d be home, he laughed at me and said they were already home.

“We’ll be staying at Mom’s until you can get your shit together and move out of my house,” he said. “My sons won’t be raised by a waste of space.” He paused, then added, “Divorce papers will be served on Monday, and the house is going up for sale.” The phone went dead, leaving me empty, lost, and mystified. I stood there in the kitchen, staring into nothing, not coming back to earth until the dial tone kicked in.

Two months later, I still feel empty and lost. I’d done everything I could to be a good wife, but it wasn’t enough. Our house had never looked like my dream, but it was our home. I used to take pride in keeping it neat. I kept everything perfect, making sure to tidy up the kids’ toys before Ben got home from work every day, night, or whatever time he decided to show up.

A sudden heavy downpour startles me out of my trance and I shove the memories away, then bend over to pick up the mail. It’s mostly bills, but I catch the flash of Kennebunk Library’s return address as I flip through the pile.

The library has been my savior ever since the first time I visited, checking out What to Expect When You’re Expecting after the first pregnancy test showed two pink lines six years ago. During the long days with an infant, I’d decided it was more enjoyable to pace in the library’s reference room, looking at all the old portraits on the wall, than to stay confined in our tiny home. Some days, I’d even get a reprieve when other patrons would coo over Luke and offer to hold him.

When Cole came along two years after Luke, I took advantage of all the toddler classes, encouraging Luke to play with the other children while Cole slept in a front carrier. Eventually, I even talked to Ben about me getting a job at the library to earn household money, but he was angry. Said it would embarrass him—it would look like he didn’t provide enough for our family.

Ben’s anger is a fearsome thing, so I dropped the subject. Instead I became a volunteer, shelving books and helping patrons find titles while Luke and Cole play quietly in the children’s section. Whenever I can, I give a few dollars here or there to the Friends of the Kennebunk Library, the fundraising arm, in gratitude for all the free programs we’ve attended and all the books we’ve borrowed over the years.

“Don’t tell me I have an overdue book,” I say with a sigh as I pull the envelope from the pile. Mine is the first human voice I’ve heard all day. The rest of the mail I put into a Hannaford’s grocery bag. I’m way too nice to not give Ben all the bills that are due; I’ll take them with me to the courthouse tomorrow. What they say is true: nice girls finish last.

After I slip my finger under the cream-colored flap and pull out the contents, the Friends logo in the letterhead grabs my attention. Huh. I don’t think I’ve ever received a letter from them—at least not one on fancy paper.

January 20 , the letter begins. I didn’t realize I’d neglected the mail for so long.

Dear Isa,

Congratulations! You’ve won the grand prize in the Friends of the Kennebunk Library’s annual New Year’s “Start the Year off Write” raffle contest: a getaway to St. John, USVI! Your prize includes round trip airfare from Portland, Maine, and hotel accommodations at the Cinnamon Bay Villas for two people. You’re scheduled to fly out on February 25. Please contact us as soon as possible to claim your prize.

Thank you for your support of literacy and our local library!

Martha Sullivan

Director, Friends of the Kennebunk Library

I’ve won? I’ve won a trip? I’ve never won anything. Even Ben, who I thought was such a prize when we met in college, had turned out to be fool’s gold. He didn’t even take me on a honeymoon, just borrowed a buddy’s cabin and had a good ol’ time drinking Natty Light and watching his teams on the eighty-five-inch TV until we left for home the next day.

Well, at least Martha seems excited for me. The trip is for two; it comes a little late for me and Ben. Who can I take with me?

I think about all the people I know, but none of them are close friends. Ben made sure of that. When I wasn’t taking care of the house and the boys or sneaking away to the library for a few precious stolen hours a week, I worked in our garden. I’d resorted to growing our own produce to offset the meager amount Ben gave me for groceries each month. I don’t know where his money went. He should’ve been earning a decent wage as a kitchen manager, but I never saw any evidence of it.

The library offered adult-oriented programs in the evening, and I might have made friends there, but Ben was never home consistently, so I couldn’t plan to attend any of them. Also, Ben demanded that I have a hot meal waiting for him when he got home, and that could have been anytime. Long hours on his feet meant he never wanted to cook for himself.

I can’t remember the last time I spent quality time with someone who wholeheartedly enjoyed my company. Yes, the library ladies dote on the boys and are appreciative of my help, but they’re in their sixties and older. I don’t relate to them.

Ben was my best friend in college—or at least, that’s what I thought. When he proposed, I looked around and realized I didn’t have anyone to share my happiness. All the girls I’d been friends with during my first two years had disappeared; Ben had thoroughly isolated me. And now I don’t even have him. Before he moved out, he rarely touched me, except when he wanted to relax . After Cole was born, Ben insisted I get the birth control shot. Condoms were too restrictive, he said.

I chuckle ruefully. The honeymoon was over before it ever started.

Ben’s typical thump at the door pulls me from my thoughts. I put the letter back in the envelope and tuck it under the sofa cushion. I don’t want him to take my prize like he’s taken everything else.

When I open the door, Ben stands there in the dark, wet from the rain. The cold damp air from the storm almost knocks me over.

I don’t say anything, just look at him, trying to keep from shivering. Why is he here the night before our divorce is finalized? Has the house finally sold? Has he had a change of heart? Is he here to apologize? I’m willing to forgive him for everything and start fresh if it means I get my boys back. He’s broken my trust, but I’m willing to give him one more chance for the kids’ sake.

“Damn, it’s cold out here. Let me in?” Ben smiles as he takes a step toward me.

I fold my arms and stay where I am. “Did you forget something?”

“No, I just wanted to talk. See how you’re doing.”

“Oh.” Maybe I’m right and he’s having second thoughts.

“I miss you.” Ben shoulders his way past me and into the house. He grabs a towel from the linen closet and dries off his hair, then drapes it around his neck and unbuttons his sodden shirt. I slowly close the door, my belly twisting with nerves—whether they’re from hope or despair, I don’t know.

I fall back against the door when I realize Ben has toweled off his chest and is removing his pants. “What are you doing?” My voice rises at the end of my question.

“Isa.” His voice is deep, an echo of the man who claimed my full attention between Psych 205 and Comms 212. Just as then, a shiver runs down my spine, but like the unidentified source of my nervousness, I can’t tell whether I feel lust or revulsion.

He drops his pants and strips off his briefs in one quick movement, then wraps the towel around his waist. His handsome face is stretched into a big smile as he steps over the pile of wet shoes and clothes and saunters over to me. He runs his hands up my arms to my shoulders, then lifts my limp hair from around my neck and kisses me below my ear. I curse my body, which reacts to the first touch I’ve had in more than a month by flooding me with warmth.

“Please don’t do this tonight. If you need something for the boys, I’ll go get it for them, but I just don’t have it in me to play games.”

“No, Isa. I came to see you.” Ben drops my hair and looks into my eyes, and I see hope. “I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I really miss you. I miss us.” He steps back, then stoops and gathers up his clothing. “I’ll just throw these in the dryer.”

“You’re staying?” My voice does its high-note trick again. This is not good. Why is my soon-to-be-ex-husband practically naked in my house?

“We had a good life, and I fucked it all up,” Ben says as he makes his way back into the room. He wraps his hand around mine, a tenderness in the gesture that hasn’t been there in too long. “I’m so sorry.”

My heart races as I struggle to keep up my emotional shield. The adrenaline flooding my body has put me on edge.

“How can I believe you?” I move to show him the door, but he pulls me into his embrace. He smells good, and even after being caught in the winter rain, his body is warm. With his arms around me, I convince myself that he does want us. He wants my support. He wants my love. He wants my forgiveness. Why else would he be here now?

But I don’t hug him back immediately. My fear isn’t quelled just because he’s here. I don’t trust him, but his apology is the first step in repairing our marriage. It feels good to be hugged, and I finally allow my exhausted body to melt into his arms. I forgot how safe he can make me feel.

Ben softly strokes my back, and we sway to the rhythm of the rain. He leans down and kisses my neck, hugging me tighter. My hands are on his hips, on top of the towel, so it quickly becomes obvious that he’s aroused. The towel shifts even as I feel his hardness press against my leg. I never thought I’d experience this again.

I’m so weak from the pain of the last few months—no, the last few years—that my shields crumble and I give in to him.

This Ben—kind, gentle, apologetic Ben—this is the man I married. Perhaps the separation was good for him. Perhaps he realized he wants to live up to his vows to love, honor, and cherish me. Perhaps I just don’t want him to stop.

“You did this to me,” he says, pushing himself into my leg. “I’ve been thinking about you so much. I miss you; I want you.”

Why is it easy for me to believe every word he says? We have a difficult past. Did we love each other? I certainly loved him, and early on, I thought he loved me. Were we attracted to each other? Definitely. Our relationship wasn’t all bad.

Ben kisses me, and I kiss back, eager, because I need this right now. This is my last chance to keep our family together. With a low chuckle, he ends the kiss, and I realize I have my hands in his hair and I’m tugging him to me.

He leads me to our bedroom, our marital bed. It’s unmade and the sheets haven’t been changed in a month. Piles of dirty laundry are all over the room, a reflection of how I’ve been feeling about life.

“Do you want me?” Ben asks, and I nod. He starts to undress me, kissing my collarbone sweetly. He’s taking care of me first. He wants me to feel good first. He wants me. He wants us. He’s never taken care of my needs before his. Never. I assumed he either didn’t know how or my needs weren’t important to him.

I untie his towel, and there he is. A familiar distant memory that has come back to me, but it’s a memory of how I wanted our marriage to be. Not how our marriage actually was.

He sits me down on the unmade bed and guides me to lie back while he kneels in front of my dangling legs. With his big hands, he separates my thighs, holding my legs open so he has unimpeded access to my most private parts.

He kisses the insides of my thighs, making his way up to my folds. Expertly using his tongue to navigate, he drives his tongue inside me, and I moan. Oh. This is new. When—where—did he learn this? Some of his shirts smelled stronger of perfume than the restaurant’s usual odor, but I thought he might have had to deal with complaints. The food isn’t that good there.

Ben’s tongue relentlessly circles and flicks my clit, interrupting the train of questions running through my mind. Somehow I come, but he doesn’t relent, continuing to suck on my sensitive areas and extending my climax until I can’t bear to be touched. I reach down and pull his head away. I have never known him to be this unselfish. During all the time we were married, he rarely brought me to orgasm, and the few times he did were early in our relationship. I always ended up taking care of myself when he wasn’t around.

Sex with Ben always took place in a dark room—more a marital chore, not a fun expression of love. After our non-honeymoon, he never acted affectionate or showed interest in foreplay. I thought he hated seeing my body and that made me hate it too.

At first I tried to get Ben interested in being the sweet, romantic man he was while we were dating. I hoped sex would get better between us, but it never did. The longer our marriage went on, the more impersonal the sex was. Tonight is the first time I’ve ever had an orgasm with him in the room and the light on. Why now? What does he want?

“Do you want me?” he asks again with a sharp slap to my hip.

“Yes,” I say, trying to find the breath to produce the word. I rub my hip, wary now. He stands up, moves me farther up the bed before positioning himself as though he is doing a push-up over me. With one thrust, he shoves inside. His eyes are fixed on an unknown focal point above the walnut headboard. After a few, quick thrusts, he freezes and lets out a moan.

Grunting, he pulls out and rolls over, his stare now fixed on the ceiling.

Where once my body was heated with passion, it’s now cold as ice. My stomach churns. That’s it. He’s done. He came and then there was nothing. No kisses, no hugs, no emotion.

I’m afraid to say anything. That slap could so easily become a bruise if I say the wrong thing. Ben’s face is stone, and the distance grows like a chasm between us. All that sweetness and light from earlier was just a facade. Our marriage is really over. After all these years, he’s choosing not to have a happy marriage. I trusted him; I thought he was here to keep our family together, but he was here to make sure I’m destroyed emotionally. One more dagger in my heart.

Ben sits up, then leaves the bed. Not even bothering to clean himself off, he gets his clothing from the dryer and redresses.

I quickly pull on a robe and run out to the living room where he’s toeing on his shoes.

“I’ll see you tomorrow in court,” Ben says as he pulls on his coat. The door shuts behind him with a snick .