A Woman's Place: A Novel by Barbara Delinsky Page A

her delight.
    I dialed home again, but hung up after one ring. I couldn't talk to the kids, either. Not until I knew what to say.
    What to do, what to do. I had always approached life as a challenge to be faced, but this was a biggie. It had the power to affect my entire future and that of my children.
    "Help, " I cried, but softly because suddenly, in a darkness riddled with dashboard green, taillight red, and neon on either side, I knew where I wanted to go. There was only one place where I could be sure of a haven, only one person I knew I could trust. three. I remembered when Brody bought his house. He had been living in the east for four years, the last three as Dennis's partner. The novelty of being divorced had worn off, along with the excitement of being a swinging single. He was tired of his high-rise condo, tired of first dates, Page 30
    Barbara Delinsky - A Woman's Place
    hungry glances aimed his way, inane chatter. He wanted privacy. He wanted air. He wanted a cozy place for the times when his daughter, Joy, who was six then, came to visit.
    The house was a neat three-bedroom Cape built of cedar shakes that had weathered to gray. It sat on the shore, a gentle fifty-foot climb over sand and rocks from the water's edge at high tide. He had taken me to see it before putting in his bid. I didn't even have to go inside. One look from the pebbled drive, one sniff of the ocean air, one crash and swoosh of water and foam, and I felt the peace he craved. Remarkable, given how upset I was now, but, turning in off the main road, I caught a glimpse of that peace. It was a conditioned response triggered by the first crunch of pebbles under my tires. I'd had only positive experiences here, first visiting Brody, Barbara Del/nsfcy later coming daily to work. I loved what I did and the people I did it with. This place represented comfort, challenge, and success. The office was closed now. The windows and skylights--I was of the never-too-much-light school of thought and had insisted on putting in as many as the physical structure would allow--reflected the moon in silver blocks. The only other outside light came from antique sconces flanking the door.
    Brody was home, though. My headlights picked out the Range Rover in the carport. The lights pouring from the house spoke for themselves. A little something eased up in my chest and unclenched in my stomach. Stepping from the car into the moist ocean air, I felt more grounded than I had seconds before.
    He didn't answer the bell. I rang a second time. I didn't recall his having plans, but he might easily have gone out with a friend and left the Range Rover here. He wasn't expecting me. We hadn't planned on meeting until morning. We had both assumed I would be busy with the children and Dennis until then.
    The thought of that brought pain, the rushing return of reality, disbelief. Quickly, before I started to cry right there on Brody's side steps, I singled out his house key from the others on my ring and let myself into the kitchen. The warmth hit me first, welcome against the cooling night air. Then I caught the smell of a stew simmering on the stove. That was good news indeed. If Brody had left something cooking, with the lights on and the Range Rover in the carport, he was out running.
    He ran six miles, five times a week. At eight minutes a mile, give or take, depending on the condition of the knee he had shattered years before in a cycling accident, his run would take some forty eight minutes. Praying he was nearly done, I went to the eating alcove and slipped into a chair. It was rattan and matched the pedestal base of the round, glass topped table. The set was the only concession Brody had allowed me in this room, his preference being a scarred trestle table with benches on either side. He wanted hominess, warmth without frills, a kitchen where a man wasn't embarrassed to work. So I had cushioned the rattan in a warm brown and gray plaid that went with the dark wood of the