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

cabinets and the black of the iron pots hanging in a bunch over the stovetop island. He had found the accessories himself--Brody was big on nostalgia. The duck decoy was from his grandfather's cabin in the woods, the earthen bowl was one over which he had cracked walnuts as a child, the rooster weathervane was from the barn where he had worked mucking out stalls. I wasn't wild about the sculpture that stood on a low stool under the phone. It was made of two plain stones, the smaller on top, Page 31
    Barbara Delinsky - A Woman's Place
    and had carvings that resembled a face if you squinted a little. I saw a Neanderthal who gave me the willies. Brody saw a simpleton who reminded him that even when he was feeling low, he had a lot more than most. Brody was compassionate. He was humble. He was a man of his own mind, and I loved him for it.
    Yes, loved him. Of course, I loved Brody. Had we ever had sex?
    Absolutely not. I had been faithful to Dennis to a fault and was hurt that he would think otherwise.
    Leaving the chair, I went to the stovetop and gave the stew a hard stir. Bits and pieces of things came and went in the eddy--chicken, carrots, onions, green peppers, mushrooms, all in a red sauce that smelled decidedly of burgundy and was sure to taste good. Brody could take a pot, throw in most anything he found lying around the kitchen, and make it work. Many a meal he had made for himself became leftovers for lunch for the two of us and--yes, Dennis--for whoever else was around. Dinners I always ate with the children. Dennis joined us when he wasn't off doing his own thing. Brody joined us every week or two. I had been looking forward to eating with the children tonight. Now I didn't even know when I would see them again.
    I refused to panic. Still, my stomach started to churn. But fate was with me. Just when my emotions were threatening a revolt, I heard Brody thumping up the wood steps. He opened the door and entered the kitchen, a tall, slightly winded, very sweaty athlete wearing running shorts, a T-shirt, and a broad smile. "Hey--terrific--1 didn't expect you tonight," he said in short breaths, but the last word was barely out when the smile faded.
    I didn't have to wonder why. Hair, makeup, clothing--I hadn't done a thing with any of them since Cleveland, and that was worlds and worlds away. I was scared. I was worried. I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I hadn't had a good night's sleep in two weeks. I must have looked like death warmed over.
    But I felt relieved, suddenly, acutely relieved that Brody was home. Pulling the crumpled court order from my pocket, I gave it to him, then stood close while he read. His face was flushed. His breathing remained rapid. Sweat dripped down his cheek, down his chest, I was sure, down his spine to the small of his back, all those places where his T-shirt was darker. I felt his warmth, even smelled him, but it was a healthy smell, that of heated male. In a day of incredible turns, that smell was reassuringly honest. Dennis, who worked at looking good, had cause to be wary of Brody. Brody wore glasses, wire-rims which he had taken from the counter and put on as soon as I handed him the court order. He had straight hair that was a mild pecan shade and receding at the part, had scars all over one knee and a pinkie that was permanently crooked. Twice a year he went into Boston's finest men's specialty store, bought a suit or two, a casual outfit or two, but he didn't agonize. On his time off, he wore old jeans and older plaid shirts. He was one of the least vain, most gorgeous men I knew.
    But I hadn't slept with him. So help me, God, I hadn't. Nor had I ever, ever lorded Brody's looks over Dennis. Did I touch Brody more than I touched Dennis? If so, it wasn't intentional.
    Brody's face was blank at first. He was mopping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve when a frown appeared. He left the arm suspended, shot me a puzzled look, read on. Then he held the paper up and, less winded Page