Public Secrets

of her. Often she daydreamed about how she and Drew would push a pram through the park. Would they wear those smug smiles she noticed on new parents?
As the months passed, she told herself to be patient, that the time would come. It was stress, it was trying too hard. Once she had learned to relax during lovemaking, it would happen.
As spring breezed in, she took dozens of pictures of pregnant women, of babies and toddlers in the park. She watched them enjoying the fine warming afternoons. And envied.
Plans to open her own studio and work on her book were postponed, but she continued to sell her pictures. She was content to pour herself into a new domestic life, to spend her free hours expanding her portfolio. She began to collect cookbooks, and to watch cooking shows on public television. It flattered her when Drew praised her attempts to re-create a meal. Since he became easily bored with her photography, she stopped showing him her prints or discussing her works in progress.
He seemed more content to see her as a housewife. In the first year of their marriage, she was more than happy to oblige him.
Deliberately, she kept busy, trying to mask her disappointment when her body informed her, with regularity, that she wasn’t pregnant. Trying not to feel the guilt when Drew sulked each time-she failed.
It was Runyun who shook her out of her complacent routine.

W ITH A BOTTLE of champagne in one hand and a clutch of tulips in the other, Emma burst into the apartment. “Drew? Drew, are you home?”
Setting the bottle down, she switched on the radio.
“Jesus, would you shut that thing off?” Drew appeared at the top of the stairs. He wore only a pair of sweats. Never at his best in the morning, his hair was tumbled, his eyes bleary, his face scruffy with a night’s growth of beard. “You know I worked late last night. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for a little quiet in the morning.”
“I’m sorry.” Quickly, she pushed the off switch and lowered her voice. A few months of marriage had taught her that Drew’s temper was a lit fuse before coffee. “I didn’t realize you were still in bed. I thought you were out.”
“Some people don’t have to get up at dawn to be productive.”
She gripped the flowers a little tighter. She didn’t want to spoil the moment with an argument. “Shall I fix you some coffee?”
“You might as well. There’ll be no getting any sleep here.”
Emma took the flowers and wine into the kitchen. It was a narrow room made spacious by the glassed-in breakfast nook. She had chosen blues and white—gleaming navy countertop, white appliances, pale blue and white tiles for the floor. There was an old kitchen hutch in the corner she’d painted white herself. It displayed a collection of cobalt glass.
Emma added fresh water to the trio of cacti she’d started in blue bowls, then began fixing breakfast. They had help three days a week, but she enjoyed cooking a few meals as much as she enjoyed developing a good print. She set Drew’s favorite sausage on to grill before she ground beans for coffee.
When he entered a few moments later, still bare-chested and unshaven, the scents were enough to mellow his mood. Besides, he liked seeing her at the stove, cooking for him. It reminded him that no matter who she was, no matter how fat her bank account, she belonged to him.
He strolled over to kiss the side of her throat. “Morning.” Her answering smile faded as he slid his hands up to rub her breasts.
“It’ll be ready in a minute.”

“Good. I’m starved.” He gave her nipples a quick, ungentle pinch.
She hated when he did that, but said nothing as she moved over to pour his coffee. When she’d told him she didn’t care to be pinched, he’d only begun to do it more often. Just teasing her, he claimed.
You’re too sensitive, Emma. You have no sense of humor .
“I have news.” She handed him the cup. “Oh Drew, it’s wonderful news.”
His eyes sharpened. Was she pregnant? He badly wanted to present Brian with a grandchild. “You’ve been to the doctor?”
“No—oh, no, I’m not pregnant, Drew. I’m sorry.” She felt the familiar sense of guilt and inadequacy. Disappointment marred his face before he went to sit at the table.
“It’s just going to take a little more time,” she murmured and cracked two eggs into the pan. “I’m keeping my temperature chart carefully.”
“Sure.” He took out a cigarette, lit it, and studied her through the smoke.