Chapter 2 #2
I slowly eased into the water, sipped my merlot, and closed my eyes.
I fell into another daydream. It was during my fantasies that I could find true peace.
Before I ever dreamed of owning a chicken coop, I’d dreamed of owning and operating a bed-and-breakfast. Sadly, Rory had shot down the idea before I could even get the full proposal out of my mouth.
That’s when I began to call him the Dream Killer, a name my close friends and I became fond of calling him.
Though it wasn’t fool proof, catching Rory at exactly the right moment was the key, like when he was high off an important speech or after a journalist had written something wonderful about him in the newspaper.
Sneaking in the idea of getting chickens might work this way, but the bed-and-breakfast had been a different story.
Burlington, Vermont, was one of the best places on earth to have a bed-and-breakfast, and I had the time and skills. I could have pulled it off, but he had been quick to chop a hand through the air and declare, “There’s no freaking way in hell, Margot. Don’t bring it up again.”
Still, when I closed my eyes, I often went to work constructing and designing my adorable inn.
It didn’t have to be huge. Five or six rooms. A manageable place where I could pamper people with my china, silverware, attention to detail, and, most of all, my cooking.
It would have been the perfect project to prepare for the coming empty nest that dangled in our future.
Maybe that’s why I pushed so hard to save my marriage. Jasper would be leaving home and heading off to college before long, and that day would pull back the curtain on the gaping black hole growing between Rory and me, ready to suck us up into infinite darkness.
Infinite darkness? Who wants that?
Buying an inn could give us something fun to do.
Rory had worked construction in college, so he could use some of his experience to join the remodeling effort.
Or, if he continued to drop further into the abyss of politics, at least I’d have something to do.
I could immerse myself in the tiny details of keeping an inn and providing delicious meals.
Maybe someday I could expand beyond offering breakfasts and do lunches and dinners once or twice a week.
We’d certainly find a baby grand piano for the sitting room, so that Jasper could play for guests an evening or two a week.
Cooking for these get-togethers like the one tonight was fine, but I wanted a place where people would come for the food first, not for the crap spewing out of my husband’s mouth. Feeding the walking dead who were chasing the next rung on the ladder was getting old.
Why was I even letting myself dream such silly dreams? It didn’t matter that my plan made sense, or that it could be the thing that saved our marriage. Or something that might save me. No, it wasn’t part of the political trajectory, so why bother?
I could still hear him shutting me down with his hand chopping through the air. Don’t bring it up again.
Are you now my father, Rory? I’ll bring it up whenever I damn well please. At least, that’s what the lion deep inside of me wanted to roar.
Speaking of, the quiet in the house shattered as the Dream Killer’s feet smacked the creaky steps. I opened my eyes and sipped my wine. A much bigger sip. Gulp, gulp, gulp. One thing to note: merlot really did make him more tolerable.
He told Philippe to get off the bed, and I was grateful that he hadn’t snapped at my sweet precious. Rory wasn’t typically a hothead. His remark had been a quick, “Phil, you know better than that.”
Then Rory walked shirtless into the bathroom and approached the sink. Slightly disappointed, I didn’t notice any hives or rashes. Maybe I should have used the whole pill. He didn’t bother looking in my direction.
I wanted to say, “Hellllllloooooo, there’s a naked woman in here.”
Instead, I softened and asked, “How are you feeling, honey? Are you ready?”
“You know it.” I’m sure he revisited his checklist as he lathered shaving cream onto his face. The man shaved twice a day and always glistened. He could be the face of Gillette.
I sat up higher in the tub, revealing more of my body.
Turning up the sexiness in my voice, I said, “You’ll kill it, mister.
Like you always do.” Rory nodded, and I asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?” He shook his head.
He wasn’t remotely enticed by my subtle offer to give him an orgasm, and I translated his reaction to mean that he wasn’t interested in giving me one either.
A wave of defeat ran over me. Why couldn’t he even turn around?
What man doesn’t want to see a naked woman?
I fought for patience and scrambled for my next move.
Should I invite him into the tub? We had plenty of time, and we’d succeeded underwater before.
As awkward as those times were, the memories still brought a smile to my face.
I used to love it when he slipped into the bubbles and disturbed me from my dreams.
Now, though, he didn’t care that his beautiful, now skinny, short-haired wife sat naked in the tub wanting him. He didn’t care that I wasn’t repulsive. He didn’t care about my beautiful breasts and swollen nipples poking just above the sudsy waterline.
I wanted to tell him to “forget the damned razor, turn around, and drop your pants. Show me what you got!” I didn’t care if I received anything out of it.
I’d be so thrilled just to give. Sure, I’d love an orgasm, but I would have happily given him a hand job, so he might remember what I can do for him.
Any step toward an intimate physical relationship would be fine.
I knew, though, from experience, that there was no way we would have such an encounter.
The Rory that I had married wasn’t home.
Politician Rory was in residence. Dream Killer Rory was most likely here.
The Bed-and-Breakfast Hater was in residence.
The man I’d married? Not in this home. I sighed and closed my eyes again, returning to my daydream, trying to let go of my frustrations.
I was imagining Philippe playfully running after a hen when Rory asked, “What are you thinking about?”
I almost told him the truth, but I knew where that conversation would go.
Rory would turn his head and tell me to let it go.
That there was no way we would buy an inn and take on a new project when his career was on fire.
He had no time for such trivial business concepts when he was about to turn the state of Vermont over on its head.
Like I said, his “no” was beyond firm on this one.
For most of the past year, I might have fed his ego with an ass-kissing answer.
I might have told him I was thinking about what color tie he should wear or what dress I’d wear that might complement his look.
I was, after all, his arm candy—his accoutrement.
Everything I said and did needed to support his mission.
But the power of this pressure-release solution was softening.
I was angry again, and it felt increasingly like my passive-aggressive attacks had lost their power.
Okay, poisoning him might have been a length or two past a “little passive-aggressive attack.” And even that hadn’t worked!
Almost like a medicine you take too often, my domestic remedies had lost their effect.
No matter how much calm and peace my daydreams about the inn brought me, I couldn’t shake the anger and utter frustration inside.
Did I need to increase the dosage even more?
I felt confrontational, and even though I knew it wasn’t the right time, I said rather truthfully, “I was thinking about chickens. I want them so badly. Can you imagine bringing a basket of fresh eggs into the kitchen every day? We’d have the most amazing breakfasts.
Fried eggs with rich orange yolks. Frittatas that would bring tears to your eyes.
French toast that would make your mouth water.
Fresh pasta all the time. Hmmm. We could raise Easter Egger hens, and the eggs would be a rainbow of colors.
I’d do all the work. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger.
I’ll find a contractor to build the coop.
” I was spitting out anything that came to mind.
Being married to a politician meant that I had to work hard to get what I wanted.
To that end, I needed to slip into his skin, understand his wants and needs, and appeal more specifically to him.
Verbally pivoting, I sat up and said, “Imagine when people visit. It’s such a trend now to have your own chickens.
It’ll make you, make us, seem more real.
Real people. Weekend farmers. Not afraid to get our hands dirty.
With this Whole Foods and farmers market movement, we’d be one of the early adopters to implement the program in our area.
I could make deviled eggs and other things for our parties and brag about how the eggs had come from our own hens.
I could name the hens after Broadway women, and your constituents will love us even more.
” I had to stop there and rest my case. I couldn’t seem too desperate, or he might argue that I was being irrational.
Being a good listener and a good politician go hand in hand.
For that entire diatribe, Rory hadn’t said a word.
In fact, he’d stopped shaving and turned around to listen.
He was always good about letting the other person finish before he responded.
If others weren’t careful, they’d interpret his silence and slow nod as some sort of consensus, but that was rarely the case.
He was preparing for his next debate, like the ones he’d been winning since his debate team debut in high school.