Read Online The Comfort of Lies by Randy Susan Meyers - Free Book Online
Authors: Randy Susan Meyers
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topped with crisped, buttery crumbs.
Had pregnancy broadened Tia? So tiny she’d been, when Juliette found a way to see her, needing to put a face in her nightmares.
Food. Stick to breakfast.
Nathan’s lust for food was broader than Juliette’s. He hungered for steak and for things soft, sweet, and savory. Juliette could make him weak with her cheddar biscuits. She should poison a batch for him.
Was he still seeing Tia? It didn’t seem so from the letter. But who knew? Who really knew one’s husband? Once she would have said she did, but no more.
Nathan thirsted for his students’ awe. Juliette knew that. They treated her husband like a minor rock star, with his exciting politics and edgy lectures, and he held his face to the attention like a flower to the sun.
Lucas slid into the kitchen moments before the last bit of egg transformed from liquid to solid. Juliette sprinkled in shredded cheddar and then scrambled the last bits.
“Juice is on the table,” she said even as Lucas picked up his glass. He grabbed a handful of raspberries from a dish on the table.
“Sit when you eat,” Juliette ordered. Motherhood was little more than a series of repetitive commands and tasks these days. She remembered the moments when Max switched from holding her finger, to slipping his hand into hers, and then to rejecting her touch.
“Why are mothers so keen on these things?” Nathan walked in carrying their three newspapers. Oh, he was so important, the sociology professor—of course he must have the New York Times , the Boston Globe , and the Wall Street Journal .
Lucas surprised Juliette by picking up the slack when she didn’t answer Nathan, perhaps discomforted by her unusual reticence. “What things?” he asked.
“Things like requiring sons to sit when eating, as though vitamins and minerals can be fully absorbed only when they’re in proscribed positions.” Nathan grinned at his all-American athletic blond son, at Juliette. He swiveled, seeking the missing Max.
Nathan held out his arms for an embrace. Juliette held the blistering frying pan between them.
“Hot. Watch out,” she warned. “This is heavy.”
Nathan looked puzzled. He leveled hurt eyes at her. They were close in height. His mournful dark eyes, refugee eyes, velvety full-of-shit eyes, met hers. “Is something wrong?”
She slammed the pan on the wooden block protecting their table, their precious Fairfield Antique Show table. She slid his portion of eggs onto his plate.
“Whole wheat toast,” she said. “I protect your heart, Nathan. No seeds; you don’t like seeds.” She slammed a platter on the table. “And I warm the toast plate each morning. Did you know that, Nathan?”
“Umm, it’s great, Mom.” Lucas, her poor, confused boy. “Thanks.”
Nathan, apparently stunned into silence, reached for the pitcher of juice.
“Put the dishes in the sink when you’re done,” she said. “Make sure Max eats his eggs. Tell him I didn’t have time for waffles.”
“Aren’t you eating?” Nathan asked. “Where are you going so early?”
“I lost my appetite. Work.” She began walking out and then turned. “I love you guys.” She couldn’t confuse Lucas by making her love sound specific to him and not their father. Besides, she did love them all; she just prayed that love didn’t damn her to a life of turning a blind eye.
Juliette climbed the stairs to her bedroom, grabbed clothes, and brought them into the bathroom. After locking the door, she turned on the faucet, fell on the rug, and wrapped her arms around herselftight and rocked. She gripped her upper arms hard enough to leave red marks.
She’d thought it was over: the heartache, the mistrust, watching him for signs of deceit each time he walked in the house. For such a long time, she’d wondered if he was simply riding the comfort of his own lies when he’d promise the bad times were all behind them.
There had been too many threads she hadn’t wanted to cut:
Had pregnancy broadened Tia? So tiny she’d been, when Juliette found a way to see her, needing to put a face in her nightmares.
Food. Stick to breakfast.
Nathan’s lust for food was broader than Juliette’s. He hungered for steak and for things soft, sweet, and savory. Juliette could make him weak with her cheddar biscuits. She should poison a batch for him.
Was he still seeing Tia? It didn’t seem so from the letter. But who knew? Who really knew one’s husband? Once she would have said she did, but no more.
Nathan thirsted for his students’ awe. Juliette knew that. They treated her husband like a minor rock star, with his exciting politics and edgy lectures, and he held his face to the attention like a flower to the sun.
Lucas slid into the kitchen moments before the last bit of egg transformed from liquid to solid. Juliette sprinkled in shredded cheddar and then scrambled the last bits.
“Juice is on the table,” she said even as Lucas picked up his glass. He grabbed a handful of raspberries from a dish on the table.
“Sit when you eat,” Juliette ordered. Motherhood was little more than a series of repetitive commands and tasks these days. She remembered the moments when Max switched from holding her finger, to slipping his hand into hers, and then to rejecting her touch.
“Why are mothers so keen on these things?” Nathan walked in carrying their three newspapers. Oh, he was so important, the sociology professor—of course he must have the New York Times , the Boston Globe , and the Wall Street Journal .
Lucas surprised Juliette by picking up the slack when she didn’t answer Nathan, perhaps discomforted by her unusual reticence. “What things?” he asked.
“Things like requiring sons to sit when eating, as though vitamins and minerals can be fully absorbed only when they’re in proscribed positions.” Nathan grinned at his all-American athletic blond son, at Juliette. He swiveled, seeking the missing Max.
Nathan held out his arms for an embrace. Juliette held the blistering frying pan between them.
“Hot. Watch out,” she warned. “This is heavy.”
Nathan looked puzzled. He leveled hurt eyes at her. They were close in height. His mournful dark eyes, refugee eyes, velvety full-of-shit eyes, met hers. “Is something wrong?”
She slammed the pan on the wooden block protecting their table, their precious Fairfield Antique Show table. She slid his portion of eggs onto his plate.
“Whole wheat toast,” she said. “I protect your heart, Nathan. No seeds; you don’t like seeds.” She slammed a platter on the table. “And I warm the toast plate each morning. Did you know that, Nathan?”
“Umm, it’s great, Mom.” Lucas, her poor, confused boy. “Thanks.”
Nathan, apparently stunned into silence, reached for the pitcher of juice.
“Put the dishes in the sink when you’re done,” she said. “Make sure Max eats his eggs. Tell him I didn’t have time for waffles.”
“Aren’t you eating?” Nathan asked. “Where are you going so early?”
“I lost my appetite. Work.” She began walking out and then turned. “I love you guys.” She couldn’t confuse Lucas by making her love sound specific to him and not their father. Besides, she did love them all; she just prayed that love didn’t damn her to a life of turning a blind eye.
Juliette climbed the stairs to her bedroom, grabbed clothes, and brought them into the bathroom. After locking the door, she turned on the faucet, fell on the rug, and wrapped her arms around herselftight and rocked. She gripped her upper arms hard enough to leave red marks.
She’d thought it was over: the heartache, the mistrust, watching him for signs of deceit each time he walked in the house. For such a long time, she’d wondered if he was simply riding the comfort of his own lies when he’d promise the bad times were all behind them.
There had been too many threads she hadn’t wanted to cut:
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