The Point of Vanishing - Maryka Biaggio (large ebook reader TXT) 📗

He had such strong hands; she relished his fingers circling her belly, inching up to the cove between her breasts. She smoothed her hand through his hair.

Snuggling his face into her neck, he said, “You don’t need your diaphragm this time.”

“I know you too well.” She stood and pulled him toward the bed. “I already slipped it in.”

He planted the heel of his palm on her breastbone and pushed her back until her knees buckled against the bed, and she fell backward onto it. He said, “Next time, I’ll just have to surprise you.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

BARBARA AT TWENTY-FOUR

Boston, May 1938

I can’t believe you burned the meat again.” Nick poked at the shiny-brown crust of his roasted beef. “You know I hate it like this.”

Barbara plopped her plate down on the kitchen table. “Just eat the middle.”

“Is it that hard to make a decent dinner?”

“I got distracted.” She grabbed the bottle of milk on the table and filled Nick’s glass. Some of it sloshed over and puddled on the enamel tabletop. “It’s not as if that never happens to you.”

He jerked his head up and glared at her. “Such as when?”

She mopped up the spill with her napkin and slipped it on her lap. Its moistness chilled her hands; she rubbed them dry, ignoring the lingering stickiness. “Such as when you forget to quit work on time.”

“That’s different. I’m not ruining anything in the process.”

That, she thought, was debatable. But as much as she hated planning every single meal and cooking in this cramped kitchen, she knew the spat would only heat up if she didn’t back down. “I’m sorry, Nick. I’ll be more careful next time.”

He shook his head as if trying to dispel the haze of disgust.

Spring rain poured down outside, and chilly winds rattled the apartment’s windows. Barbara had left the oven door open to warm the kitchen, but its heat had quickly dissipated. She grabbed the flimsy cardigan she’d draped over her chair and slipped it on.

Nick swallowed a mouthful of peas. “I thought I’d get tickets for William Dodd’s talk at the Harvard Club next month.”

“Who’s William Dodd?”

“Don’t you remember? He was the ambassador to Germany while we were there. The one who’s been saying Hitler is a warmonger looking to build an empire.”

“I don’t believe it. It makes no sense.”

“Then how do you explain reports he’s building up armaments?”

Barbara hated how Nick picked fights whenever the most trivial matter annoyed him. This time it was, of all things, overdone meat. “They’re likely exaggerated.”

Nick grabbed the Heinz 57, upended it, and thumped out a splat. “You can’t know that. There’s probably some truth to them.”

“Well, I don’t want to go anyway.” Barbara shuffled her feet under the table, crossing her legs mid-calf. She hated politics: What good did it do to endlessly debate what Hitler was up to?

Nick asked, “Why do we only do what you want to do?”

“That’s not true.”

“For instance?”

Barbara cut into the baked potato. Its skin broke easily, and a burst of steam gushed out. At least she’d gotten that right. “I went to your boss’s home for dinner last month.”

“That’s the least you could do. It would’ve been impertinent of you not to.”

“Well, I did it for you, which is more than I can say for you. What do you do for me?”

“I gave up the church.”

Barbara snapped her head up. “I never asked you to do that. You decided that all on your own, just like you decide most things.”

Nick gripped his fork and knife upright in his fists and plastered his forearms on the table. “I suppose you mean the canoe trip to Canada.”

“Not just that. Even finding a few days to go skiing. Or just plain taking a vacation together.”

“They need me at work. I can’t take off weeks at a time. Your job’s not serious like mine.”

“I’ll say it’s not. I don’t even want to be doing it.”

“I’m surprised they put up with you and your gallivanting.”

Barbara’s stomach knotted up. She studied her plate; the food looked as shiny and unappetizing as plastic. She slapped her fork down. “I begged you to go on that canoe trip with me. You’re the one being unreasonable.”

“How can you say that? When you won’t even discuss having children.”

“I’m not ready.” She pushed her back against the cold vinyl chair. “You can’t force things like that.”

“Will you ever be ready?”

“Being a mother’s not easy. You wouldn’t have to change a thing about your life. But I would.” As Nick glared at her, she noticed his neck reddening; his blue shirt collar seemed pale and icy by comparison.

“Don’t you think it’s time we started a family? I don’t want to wait until I’m as old as your father.”

“My father has nothing to do with this,” she said.

“Oh? Just look at him: having children by three wives; spending money as soon as he gets it. You’re just like him—flighty and irresponsible.”

Barbara plumbed up her spine. “I’m going to Canada, and that’s that. It’s all planned.”

He thumped his forearms on the table. “God damn it, Barbara, I can’t live like this. You gone for weeks on end. Me making excuses about why my wife’s away half the summer.”

“You knew when you married me; I wasn’t like other girls. I thought you liked that about me.”

“If I’d known you were going to keep being a nomad, I might’ve thought twice about marrying you.”

“Well, you’re going to have to take me for who I am. Just like I do with you. I don’t begrudge you your work or the things you enjoy.”

“That’s precisely what we’re talking about. How long do you expect me to wait until you’re ready to start a family?”

Her head throbbed. She hated these arguments. “Nick, we shouldn’t treat each other like this. I had enough of that with my parents. Please, can we not fight?”

“We can stop when you tell me you’re going to settle down and start being a wife and mother.”

“All right, I’ll think seriously about it