Susanna lowered the garage door behind her and let herself into the house, then keyed the code into the alarm system. She loved this moment when she first came home, when she saw the tastefully decorated rooms, smelled how clean and fresh it was, with the sweetness of potpourri that wiped out the smells of hospitals and antiseptics. She loved it even more when Rip was there waiting for her, but that seldom happened these days.
The most probable—the most clichéd—cause was another woman. A nurse, of course. Wasn’t that what usually happened? A successful doctor hits middle age, starts feeling less than vital, and looks around for a younger woman to give his sex drive a boost. The only difference in their situation was that in case of a divorce, Rip wouldn’t have to pay Susanna alimony, since her earning power equaled his, and she wouldn’t ask for alimony anyway. But his standard of living would go down, because of the loss of her salary. Susanna thought her own standard of living would stay about the same; she would, of course, keep the house. And insist that Rip pay it off. Divorce wouldn’t be a smart move on Rip’s part.
She didn’t want a divorce. She loved Rip. Even after all these years, she still loved him. He was funny and intelligent and warm, and though anesthesiologists usually had only brief contact with patients, he could establish a rapport and relax the patient better than anyone else she’d ever seen.
Maybe they should have had children. But when they were younger and struggling to establish their practices while still paying off their student loans, there simply hadn’t been either the time or the money for children. Especially no money; she shuddered to remember how tight things had been, how desperate. People thought doctors were rolling in cash, but that generally wasn’t true, at least for most. It took years to become a doctor, all the while taking on more and more debt to finance your education, then years more to establish a good practice. You struggled to pay the salaries of your office staff, your nurses, the overhead of rent and utilities and supplies, equipment, insurance. Sometimes the debt had seemed mountainous. But they had done it: paid off their student loans, gradually became more profitable, and finally had enough money to enjoy life.
But here she was, almost fifty years old, and it was too late for children. She hadn’t had a menstrual period in almost six months, which was a bit sooner than average for menopause, but not drastically so. She had scheduled a checkup with another doctor, of course, just to make certain nothing was wrong. Everything was normal, she was in excellent shape, but she was definitely going through menopause. Even that was going well: no hot flashes, no sweats, no disturbed sleep or emotional swings. Not yet, anyway. Some women sailed through, some women really suffered, then there were all degrees in between. Maybe she would be one of the sailors.
She and Rip hadn’t had sex in . . . four months? She wasn’t certain. It had been a while. Of course, he was fifty himself, and people did slow down. But their sex life had been fairly regular, enjoyable, and then—nothing.
There had to be another woman.
She was in the bedroom changing clothes when she heard the alarm beep as the garage door opened. Rip was home. She didn’t know if she was glad or dreaded seeing him. She was just stepping into the pants of her lounging pajamas when he came into the bedroom, his face lined and tired.
“Where have you been?” she snapped, though until she saw him she had planned to say not a word. “You were supposed to be home at five.”
“What difference does it make?” he asked without inflection. “You weren’t home, either.”
“I’d like to know where you are, in case there’s an emergency.”
He shrugged out of his jacket. “Then you should check your messages more often.”
“I checked my messages—” She stopped. She hadn’t checked them since she’d left the office.
“Obviously not.” He walked over to the answering machine and played the messages. There were two hang-ups, a long distance company, a friend inviting them to a party on Saturday night, then Rip’s own voice telling her his partner, Miguel Cárdenas, had come down with a stomach virus and was puking his guts up, so he was having to fill in on an emergency surgery.
Susanna almost felt ashamed. Almost. Just because he was innocent this time didn’t mean he was innocent all those other times he’d been out late. “What kind of emergency?”
“Car accident. Crushed pelvis, broken ribs, deflated lung, severely bruised heart.” He paused. “He died.”
He sounded as tired as he looked. He rotated his neck and flexed his shoulders, trying to get the kinks out as she had so often seen him do after a long day at the hospital. “Where were you?”
“Doing rounds. Felicia D’Angelo started spotting, thought she was having contractions, so I had her come in. I checked her out, ran some tests. She’s fine. Who’s your girlfriend?”
He didn’t miss a beat, didn’t even act surprised by the question. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Of course you don’t. That’s why you’re seldom at home, why we don’t have sex anymore, why you act like you can barely stand to speak to me. Because of this girlfriend you don’t have. Is it someone in your office? A nurse at the hospital?”
His eyes narrowed as heat came into them. “I’m not fucking around, Suze. Period.”
“Then what’s wrong?” Susanna didn’t want to beg, refused to beg, but the distance between them was killing her. “Is it because I’m going through menopause?”