Torn by Christina Brunkhorst Page A

much as he loved and respected his wife, there were times he just didn’t understand her, times when her interests were so widespread from his own that she baffled him, more so since Hollywood and the Gang had come to their small town. And now, watching the vignette unfold in front of him, was one of those times.
    He stepped down to the bottom stair that led to the basement. The thick, cream Berber carpeting silenced his approach. He stared with a definite sense of the surreal at his wife and those with her. The ever-present Ty Benson, he noted as his molars clamped together with more than a little irritation, sprawled in classic nonchalance on the plush white leather couch, an amber beer bottle with its label peeled off in hand, his thigh –– naturally wrapped in tight, brown leather –– resting just barely against the side of his wife’s head. Chelsea –– twinkling for God’s sake –– with an animation foreign to him –– was seated on the floor, a denim-clad leg bent at the knee, the other stretched out in front of her. One arm was braced against that knee; a nearly empty bottle of Hefeweizen dangled from her fingertips and it slipped precariously low as she laughed, slapped her thigh with her empty hand.
    Julie Bishop –– and he’d thought his wife was a character –– clad from head to toe in dark green leather, was also present, and also laughing, strolled over to the pair from the bar, a freshly opened bottle of ale in each hand. She paused halfway, and held one out to a fourth person that sat in an oversized, matching armchair in the corner. The definitely way too good-looking, way too familiar blonde man took it, thanking the director with a mellow voice, even as he continued his story about some bar in New York City. Julie, about to join Chelsea on the floor, saw him standing there first and grinned. “Hey, Jake, how are ya?”
    His answering smile was small and somewhat guarded as he noticed Ty Benson’s thigh press fully against the back of his wife’s head. Jake forced his attention back to the film director. “Not bad, thanks,” he replied. “You?”
    “Bossy and bitchy as always. Life is good.”
    He nodded absently and returned his attention to the present tableau. Jake could pinpoint the exact moment his wife realized he was in the room. Chelsea’s gaze left the storyteller and fell on him. She climbed to her feet and hurried over to him with the unabashed love and affection that never, in all their years together, failed to make him feel warm and good inside.
    “Jake, you’re home!” She hugged him, kissed him, then turned, leading him into the center of the peculiar gathering. “One of Tyler’s buddies came to visit him on the set today, let me introduce you…”
    The narrator stood as the couple walked over, and Chelsea beamed, her excitement over getting to make this introduction palpable. “Mick Bailey, this is my husband Jake… Jake, Mick.”
    “Good to meet you, Jake.”
    “Likewise.” Jake shook the famous actor’s proffered hand, then turned to his wife. “I’m going back upstairs, I need to finish that presentation for work. The girls are in bed?”
    Chelsea nodded. “It took a while. They were so thrilled to have guests. Tyler wound up sitting with Faye and Grace for nearly an hour telling them stories until they conked out.” She flashed a smile in the actor’s direction. He raised his bottle in salute.
    Jake tensed at the gesture and his wife shot him a questioning look. He shook his head. “I’ve got to work on my Golden Eagle presentation.” The statement was more for his wife than the rest and she nodded.
    “I kept dinner warm for you. There’s a plate in the oven.”
    “Thanks, babe.” Jake kissed his wife, made his farewells, then headed back up the stairs. He overheard the famous newcomer ask his wife about his project and was pleased at the pride he heard in his wife’s voice when she replied.
    Once back on the main floor, he checked