Where Do I Go? by Neta Jackson Page A

a family? Even a honeymoon pregnancy would’ve given them nine months to get used to each other.
    He grinned again. “Five months. She’s the reason we got married. When we did, I mean. We were engaged but planning to wait till we both finished school.”
    â€œAnd Edesa? She speaks such fluent Spanish! What is her background?—Oh, I’m sorry, Josh. I know I’m asking too many personal questions.”
    Josh laughed. “It’s all right. She’s from Honduras. Came to Chicago on a student visa. Just like there are African-Americans, there are African- Central- Americans—oh. This is your stop, Mrs. Fairbanks. Berwyn, see? When you get down to the street, just walk two blocks over to Sheridan, then turn left—that’ll be north. Should only be a block or so to your high-rise. You’ll be all right? The rain doesn’t look too bad.”
    I nodded, shoring up my confidence. “Thanks, Josh. I appreciate it. Best wishes with Gracie’s adoption.” I stood and was swept out the door with other disembarking passengers. A moment later, the train was gone.
    Down on the street level, I walked the two blocks to Sheridan Road, crossed the street and turned left. Sure enough, I saw Richmond Towers up ahead, jutting into the air like a giant glass tube that had been fast frozen. But Josh was wrong about the rain. I managed to get downright soaked by the time I pushed through the revolving doors of the Sheridan Road entrance into the lobby.
    Mr. Bentley looked up from behind the half-moon counter that gave him full view of both entrances. I’d already figured out that the true urbanites—the ones with no cars, who walked everywhere or used public transportation—used the Sheridan Road entrance. Those with cars used the frontage road entrance, near the parking garage. I felt proud of myself, going out and making it back again sans car.
    The bald doorman with the wiry gray beard rimming his jawline peered at me over the top of the reading glasses he’d been using to read the newspaper. “Mrs. Fairbanks.” Not hello or good afternoon. Just saying my name, the way a teacher might if I walked into class late. “You are wet again. You seem to have a knack for getting caught in the rain without an umbrella.”
    I didn’t have the guts to say, “So? None of your business.” Besides, maybe the man was just joking with me. I chose joking. “Yep. Except this time I have my shoes on, and I’m not bleeding.” I tossed him my best grin.
    The eyebrows went up. “Uh-huh. And you did not bring home any strays today. Mm, three out of four isn’t bad for a new-comer.” He grinned at me. “You’d better get into some dry clothes, Mrs. Fairbanks, before you catch a whopping Chicago spring cold.”
    I left him chuckling and headed for the elevator. But he had it wrong. I’d managed to avoid four out of five of yesterday’s “sins.” Today I was getting home before my husband, and I had plenty of time to get out of my wet capris and sweater, take a long, hot bath, and get gussied up for our theater date tonight.

chapter 6

    Philip was pleased that I was dressed and ready to go when he got home. I freshened my makeup while he showered and changed clothes, watching as he dressed in dark gray wool slacks, a black silk shirt, and a light gray two-button sport coat. At forty-one, he was still incredibly good looking, no paunch, with a hint of that boyish glint in his eye that had first attracted me.
    â€œDid the cleaning woman work out today?” he said, pulling on a pair of Gucci loafers.
    â€œYes, fine.” I decided not to mention that I’d left her alone a good portion of the time she was here on her first day. Would he mind? Good grief, cleaning services had to be bonded or some-thing, didn’t they? “Her name is Camila.”
    â€œOh. Got the tickets?”
    I could tell he