Page 34 of Conquer
But, because the world is cruel, I think I wind up conjuring him from thin air.
I almost mistake him for another balding, beer-gut sporting beachgoer at first. But no. No one else could sport that smug posture, like a peacock strutting, wanting the whole world to see the gussied-up, naïve little hen he’d cajoled into marrying him. His hen looks even younger than Francesca when glimpsed out in the open and not scurrying from me in the church corridors or cowering in Jim’s shadow.
She’s slender, with ginger waves curling down her back, a baby balanced on her hip. He has his arm around her, showing off the sexy young piece of ass a washed-up man his age managed to score.
But shock isn’t what has me lurching to my feet, toying with the idea of running back to the car. Just pain. Because I recognize that look on her face—the thin-lipped smile, and simpering expression. God, how could I face myself in the mirror every day and not see it before?
But they see me. Jim cocks his head, frowning once he spots an unwelcome addition to his fawning crowd. He squints as if unsure if it really is me—dressed in a sexy, A-line beige sundress, my hair hanging loose in the style he never liked, my makeup bold and obvious.
His lips twitch in that ugly way, a hallmark of his irritation. Most often glimpsed when I said the wrong thing or seemingly embarrassed him, and he felt the need to “set me straight” with some cruel tirade. Rather than approach me, he tugs his new bride closer, almost protectively.
Because in his tiny brain, I’m still in love with him. Still pining for him. I bet he thinks I followed him here on purpose, waited for him.
Fuck him.
I don’t even realize I’m taking a step forward until a pair of tiny arms goes around my waist. “Mommy!” a little girl chirps, clamoring for my attention. “We got you ice cream! Do you like it?”
A masculine arm encircles my shoulders, as the child—who I’m startled to recognize as Magda—flanks my opposite side.
“Here you go, baby,” Vadim murmurs, pressing a cone piled high with strawberry ice cream into my hand, his lips soft on my cheek. And yet his voice is loud enough for anyone within ten yards to easily here. “It’s about time we got back, don’t you think?”
Like orderlies guiding a wayward patient, he and Magda block me in, forcing me down the length of the boardwalk. Purposefully I suspect. And yet, I can’t resist glancing back, just enough to see Jim’s face.
“Keep walking,” Vadim tells me, his tone gently insistent. “Let’s savor this moment.”
Savor…
He couldn’t know who Jim is, could he? I look over to find him and Magda trading conspiratorial winks, and then it clicks. Hell, yes, he knows.
And he intervened to give me a revenge too sweet to have devised on my own.
“You two and your mind games,” I murmur, equally awed and impressed.
Poor Jim. He’ll probably spend all night wondering if it really was me he saw—the woman he supposedly defeated—or a stranger with a beautiful life he could only dream of.
* * *
I’ve never dreaded leavingmy parents’ home more. Even Magda seems to sulk at the prospect after a week spent gardening and playing dress up in my old wardrobe. Vadim, ever the resigned stoic, is the one level-headed enough to muster us to the airport after three days spent in utter bliss.
“I mean it, Tiffy,” my mother scolds as she and Daddy follow us out to the car. “We expect you back for the summer holidays. And Magdalene, darling, I’ll take you to all of the clubs once they open. Oh, all of the girls will find you so darling, and we can get you into tennis lessons, and maybe if your fatherdoesdecide to try out a pageant or two—”
“Stay in the muck, kid,” Daddy says with a knowing wink. “You’ll learn more rooting through the dirt than you ever could in some fancy dress.”
“Oh, Harold,” my mother whines in exasperation.
They fuss as Vadim claims the driver’s seat, and we make our escape. In the end, the journey home isn’t anywhere near as daunting as I’d initially thought. Travel with one stoic—and a mini-stoic in tow—is an experience in of itself. Especially when Magda struggles to hide her excitement during her second plane trip, and Vadim loses himself in the pure joy of watching her eagerly prattle about plane engines and aerodynamics.
When she finally tires out, I find myself seated beside him, my head on his shoulder, his fingers lazily parting my hair.
“How did you know?” I ask, eyeing the clouds rolling beneath us beyond the windows. “About my ex?”
He shrugs, his expression neutral. “I noticed you were uncomfortable, and I made a logical leap to the obvious conclusion.”
Fair enough. But as I submit to his gentle stroking, he adds, “And, I may or may not have researched the man the second I learned you were divorced.”
“Oh,” I croak, stunned by the implications of that confession. Seemingly harmless. But seeminglynot, considering Vadim’s wealth of resources. Not to mention his knack for manipulation.
“I don’t think your arrival caused his ill mood, however,” he explains, going a step further in his assessment of my ex’s mental state than even I did. “It seems that persistent rumors of his infidelity may have reached the leadership of your old parish. Poor James may have been relieved of his duties for the time being, given the rumor of impropriety.”
