Our Rome will Rise Again

This is a follow-up to "Trust Is Earned, Not Given." I was amazed at the eighty-plus responses I received, which ran the gamut from wonderful to terrible. As posters informed me, Loving Wives readers are an intensely critical crowd. I got praised as well as skewered. To those who did the former as well as the latter, thanks for reading and commenting. Apparently, my characters moved you as much as they moved me. Per your request, coupled with my insatiable curiosity about where Jenny and Conrad will go next, I wrote what follows.

*****

Jenny and Conrad Yeager know one thing: life for them will never be the same. But then how could it? She got caught cheating on him. Yes, it appears that he might be willing to forgive, but she can never take back what she did and he'll never forget what she did. His trust is 'all fucked to hell,' as he had said. It took fifteen years of marriage to build the trust he once had and only minutes to tear it down. Terse conversation and tense silences now reign in their household, the "new normal" as Jenny describes it to a friend.

For Jenny, the old normal, while boring at times, was at least comfortable. Conrad took care of most household chores while she worked. While some outsiders might have questioned their compatibility (she was college educated, he wasn't; she enjoyed high-brow tastes such as classical music, he didn't; she exercised regularly, he couldn't because of his arthritis, the same reason he didn't work), the sum of their union was greater than its parts. Their marriage worked on a certain level that had sustained it for fifteen years. Sex never stopped, but it got to be routine—a consequence of being married for over a decade, she knew, though it didn't quell her hankering for something new and different. Hence her being drawn into an affair with Brayden Walberg, the orthopedist she met on one of her frequent business trips to Washington DC. It was great while it lasted, filling a void in her marriage, not just sexually but intellectually: she conversed with Brayden on topics that didn't interest Conrad.

Even as she tries to regain Conrad's trust, she wonders how long she could have kept going with the good doctor had someone not seen the two of them getting romantic in that restaurant and then altered Conrad. Would bright visions of a future life with Brayden have lured her away from her marriage, even if it meant enduring the emotional and financial mess that would surely follow? She can only wonder now. One thing's for sure—she wasn't yet ready to commit to such a major life change when Conrad confronted her. That's why, with Conrad on the extension, she called Brayden to break things off. To say that he didn't take it too well is an understatement. Knowing that Conrad was on the extension, he got vindictive, rubbing his wife's infidelity in his face. "Brayden did me a favor," she's wont to say, because he revealed a darker side of himself that he had heretofore kept hidden.

The constants of her life remain constant—the car she drives, her job, her home, kids and husband. That six-figure corporate job of hers still takes her out of town where she stays in nice hotels with their chic bars and the men, mostly men, sitting at them in their expensive suits, drinking alone. Avoiding those bars would be the easiest way to avoid temptation. Except that she enjoys sipping her Chardonnay while chatting with these guys. Doesn't mean she's got to jump into bed with them, does it? Of course it doesn't. After what she's just been through, she shouldn't even be thinking about other men and what could or could not happen. But she does, disturbing as it is, she does, even as she remains determined never to cheat on Conrad again. 'You can't ever do this again,' she thinks. 'Think of Olivia and little Conrad if no one else. Think how it would devastate them.'

*****

In the heat of the moment, Conrad forgave her. After that phone call to Brayden, he took his crying wife into his arms, kissed her and told her he loved her. He meant it. Can he ever forgive—that's the question. He doesn't know. He knows he still loves her. He also knows he hates her for what she did. He's a tangled mess of emotions, feelings that push and pull and wrestle each other, each trying to gain the upper hand. Trust is earned, not given, as he told her. He so wants to trust her again. However, less than a week after he confronted her, he's not even close. She hasn't yet earned it. Perhaps she never will. Perhaps he won't stick around long enough for her to. Unbeknown to Jenny, Conrad contacts a lawyer, tells him the situation. "Just making an inquiry," he says. "No action yet. We're trying to work things out." Yes, better to work things out—for the sake of Olivia and Junior, if for no other reason. They sense that things aren't right, thirteen-year old Olivia especially. She's asking questions, questions met with nebulous answers from both her parents. Conrad hasn't said a word to them about Jenny's infidelity, nor does he plan to. He doesn't want them to hate her.

Another thing: His outer perception of her has changed. She's not as pretty in his eyes. Funny how actions and personality can change a person's looks even though they've done nothing to alter their appearance. In his more objective moments, she's the same "old" Jenny—slim, fit, blond, blue-eyed Jenny, the girl he married and now the woman who still rustles his innards. Sure, other women catch his eye; it's only natural. Still, unlike her, he's always been faithful, always will be.

He can't deny that she's trying. "We need to get close again," she says in the bedroom. "We need that physical closeness. I know it can't be easy for you. Please, Connie, try, try to make love to me."

In his more objective moments...Yes, like now. She's standing before him in that black lace, one-piece outfit from Victoria's Secret he bought when she was in her thirties. It still fits, fits her as well now as it did then. What curves. What skin, smooth and soft and smelling like lilacs. No belly fat or cellulite either, not on this middle-age gal. Beautiful Jenny. Sexy Jenny—standing there rubbing her firm, sexy thighs, her blond locks all in her face like she just came out of the wind. Chantilly lace and a pretty face...Oh baby, she knows what he likes! Oh, does she! Even so, he hesitates, stands there in his green Hanes briefs. Two minds are at work, the one in his cock, the other in his brain—a frustrating juxtaposition indeed. Those minds once worked in tandem. If only they still did. She's so fucking hot, so fucking sexy. So fucking sneaky also to do what she did. He sighs and shakes his head, feels utterly ridiculous standing there with his cock bulging against his briefs, all tangled up in blue, as Bob Dylan might say.

She steps forward. "Come on, Connie, please Connie. I'm wet and horny and it's all for you." She drapes her arms over his shoulders, leans in and begins to kiss him. "It's all for you, Conrad. You're my man. I'm your woman. Make love to me, damn it."

He tugs at his erection. "Is that an order?"

She throws her head back, shakes the hair out of her eyes. "If it'll get you to cooperate, yes."

Cooperate. To him, it's an odd word coming from someone who broke a sacred trust. Telling her that would spoil the mood. Then they'd end up fighting, adding to the heavy, sometimes oppressive tension that already exists. He doesn't want that. If he wanted to fight, he'd take it all the way; there'd be no middle ground. He'd first kick her out of the house, then hire legal help and go to war. That strategy is still on the table. But so is carrying on, working toward working things out as he told that lawyer. 'Give her a chance,' he thinks. 'Give YOURSELF a chance to forgive and trust. You can always go to war.'

He steps out of his briefs, then embraces her. Damn, she smells good and feels good. After fifteen years of marriage, she's no stranger, yet she kind of feels that way to him. "It feels like we're starting over, Jen. Does it feel that way to you?"

She nods. "Yes, and what better way to start."

Somehow he wills himself to put aside his bitterness, his hurt and mistrust. Not bury it, just put it aside and go with her flow. He can do this because he wants to do this. He can do this for the next hour or so. After that, he doesn't know. He's taking it one day at a time as he had said. At times, like now, he's taking it one hour at a time, even minutes, even seconds. Those precious seconds tick by in their darkened bedroom while their children sleep. Slowly, tentatively, Conrad puts his lips on hers. Weird, very weird, is this sensation of loving and hating at the same time. Never in his fifteen years of marriage have his feelings been so extreme. Before he only loved her. Now, he both loves and hates her, seemingly in equal measure. But she's trying, man is she trying to tip that balance toward the former—trying with her loving words, trying with her body pressed against his, her lovely body that he can't resist.

Once in bed, it's a no brainer, the point of no return. He wants this, he can do this, and the proof is in his actions, slipping between her legs, using his tongue to make her even wetter and then finally giving her what she practically begs for. "That's it, Connie, drive that big boner of yours up my hot twat."

He loves it when she talks "dirty," always did. She hadn't done that in a while, since way before he found out about Brayden. She had complained that their sex life was too routine, too ho-hum. He agrees; it was. But doesn't she deserve some of the blame? He thinks so. He knows that's got to be a major reason she took up with the good doctor. But now look at her. She's like a different person, writhing under his pile-driving loins. He's driving her fucking wild and loving every second of it, loving every shriek and scream, every lewd outburst, every bump and grind, and it's all for him. Or so she says. Could it be she's fantasizing about Brayden or some other guy? It's the trust issue again. When the trust goes, questions arise.

"Be honest with me, Jen," he says, when they're both spent and drenched in their sweat and bodily fluids. "Was it really all for me? Your mind wasn't elsewhere?"

Tenderly, she kisses him, runs her finger over his smooth belly. "Actually no, it was for Justin Bieber." She slaps his hip. "Yes, Connie, it was all for you. Scouts honor." Pause. "Gawd, listen to me. I'm the last person on earth who should talk about honor."

"You're right," he says, almost laughing at the brutal truth of her statement. "But you seem genuinely sorry and contrite. Is that enough to repair the damage? Right now, I'm not sure. But I do agree with what you said about this being a great way to start."

*****

Jenny is cautiously optimistic. The sex didn't diffuse all the tension but it sure helped. Things are far from lovey-dovey, though at least Conrad can now face her without that hostile scowl. Well, almost; he's got his moments. She can see that he's trying and she knows that he can see that she is also. She's been upfront with everything, including subsequent texts from Brayden, telling her they have 'unfinished business,' he misses her, is sorry for his outburst over the phone. She showed them to Conrad, then deleted them.

Still, Brayden is not far from her thoughts, because a major test of her and Conrad's would-be reconciliation is in the offing: Jenny is again flying to the nation's capital on business. Things are tense once again the morning of her departure. It's unspoken but it's there, lurking like dark shadows in an otherwise bright room. "Have a good trip," Conrad says to her, with nary a mention of what she knows he must be thinking.

She's once again staying at the Hyatt, the place where she and Brayden first hooked up. He goes there for medical conferences. Will he be there this time and will she run into him? She sure as hell hopes not. The Hyatt is a big hotel. She's not likely to see him, not unless she takes her usual Chardonnay at the hotel bar, a kind of ritual with her and Brayden from what he told her. Avoiding the Hyatt's bar offers an easy solution to avoid a potential mean and ugly scene. She could go to another watering hole in the Southwest Potomac Wharf District; it's just that the Hyatt's bar is so convenient. Plus, she likes the décor and the convivial vibe of the place.

So, after her usual day's out-of-town business, she steps cautiously to the entrance. No Brayden. Whew! Of course, if he's here, he could walk in at any time. No matter, she'll take her chances. She takes a seat, orders her drink and looks around, sees there's more men here than women in this early happy hour. She's still dressed in what she put on this morning—knee-length blue skirt, off-white blouse and high heels. Her hair is up and she's wearing glasses. In short, she's still dressed for business, not play, although women as pretty as Jenny look inviting no matter what they wear. She's relieved when the server brings her Chardonnay. It should calm her down, settle her nerves. She wraps both hands around the glass, then takes two quick sips. Already she's feeling better, calmer, more confident. If the good doctor shows up, so what? She can handle anything he might throw at her.

The room fills up as the minutes pass. Most of the bar seats are taken. Some people stand, while others sit at tables in back. She's on her second glass of wine and chatting with the woman next to her, a woman around her age dressed in a red pants suit and here on vacation. She's too engaged in conversation to think about Brayden—even too engaged to notice the guy in a blue pinstripe, three-piece suit who takes the empty seat to her left. He's big, football big, linebacker big, a white Ray Lewis, with curly, close-cropped blondish hair. Nursing a bottle of Coors, he looks at her for a few moments. Then: "Hi." She turns her head. "Don't mean to interrupt, but you look like someone with an interesting story to tell. Think you might want to chat?"

She looks him up and down, thinks he can't be more than thirty, a mere kid. "An interesting story to tell...hmm. Now that's an original line. Anyway, as you can see, I'm already chatting."

The woman in red grins, leans into Jenny and says, "Look, if you want to pursue this, go ahead." She glances at her watch. "I'm meeting someone for dinner in a few minutes anyway."

Jenny doesn't like drinking alone. No harm in chatting, right? She soon learns that her new chat buddy is one Derek Kohler, ex-college varsity footballer for Maryland and the proud owner of two quick lube franchises. She's impressed by so much success by someone so young. He's thirty-two, single, here on business himself and enjoys "chatting with beautiful ladies at this place" whenever he's in town. "Not that I'm hitting on you," he adds with a wink.

"Good, because I'm married," she says, holding up her ring, grinning and thinking that if she wasn't and a few years younger, things might get interesting. She loves his smile, adorable, and his boyish charm. And man, look at those shoulders! "Why aren't you married?" She doesn't really care. It's just bar talk, a conversation starter. "I'm Jenny, by the way."

"Nice meeting you, Jenny. Why I'm not married... Well, for a thousand corny reasons which I won't go into because you'd nod off from boredom. So, why isn't your hubby here? If I had a wife who looked like you, I wouldn't let her out of my sight." She thanks him and then tells him about her job and Conrad's role in the marriage. He nods. "Well, it's apparent that he trusts you. A buddy of mine filed for divorce after he caught his old lady cheating on him."

She nods and sips. "Funny, men are the ones stereotyped as cheaters. But, as your friend found out the hard way, women are just as capable of breaking those sacred wedding vows." She sips some more.

"You're not lying," he says, then knocks back a swig. "Now, I think I'm a pretty good judge of character, and you look to me like a woman of virtue. If you weren't, there's no way your hubby would be comfortable letting you go out of state alone."

"He isn't." She takes a double sip.

Derek's bushy eyebrows go up. "He isn't?"

"He isn't." She finishes her second glass, then orders another. The smile she showed just moments ago morphs into a bitter pout. "So you think I'm a woman of virtue, huh?"

His eyes narrow almost into a squint. "Um, yeah. Why? You're not?"

She grunts, then takes her first sip of Chardonnay number three. "Ha! If only."

His stare is intense, his face a mix of confusion and curiosity. "Wanna tell me about it?"

She holds her glass in mid-air, mouth open, her tongue jacked to the side of her mouth. "Are you a businessman or a therapist?"

"Hey, we all need someone we can talk to at times. And you look as if you have something on your mind, something you'd like to talk about, to get off your chest. Am I right?"

She spreads a hand over her blouse. "My chest is fine, small boobs and all. It's my soul I'm not so sure about." She giggles, shakes her head and drinks some more.

He takes a swig. "Your soul...Now, what could be wrong with that?"

"Plenty, Derek, plenty. I shouldn't even be here. But I am, talking to another hunk of a guy, getting tipsy and maybe headed for trouble once again."

He grins and leans closer. "What sort of trouble? Maybe I can help." Grinning eagerly, he knocks back another swig.

"I don't think so."

"You never know. But I was right, wasn't I?"

"About what?"

"About you having an interesting story to tell." He puts a hand on her knee.

She lifts it away. "It doesn't include you touching me."

He throws his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay, my bad. I just thought you could use some closeness. It might make you feel better."

She giggles. "Nice try, Derek. But the only thing making me feel better at this moment is this." She points to her glass.

He nods. "Want me to leave?"

"I didn't say that. Drinking alone's not my thing. Besides, I think you're cute."

"And I think you're sexy as all get out. Your hubby's a lucky man."

"Yeah, that's something he once thought, too."

"Once thought? What happened?" He sees her glass is three-quarters empty. "Can I buy you another drink?"

She's not so tipsy that she doesn't know when to quit. "No thanks, I've had way too much already."

"Sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Gotcha. So what happened?"

"Brayden happened."

"Brayden..."

"The good doctor whom I met in this very spot and with whom I began a torrid affair that almost cost me my marriage and that still might, depending on if I can earn back Conrad's trust by never doing it again, and loving Conrad till death do us part." She breathes deeply, as if she just surfaced from water. "Still think I'm a woman of virtue, Mr. Kohler?"

"Nobody's perfect."

"Amen. Let's drink to that." They clink glasses.

"So, Conrad is your husband, I assume."

"Yes, of fifteen years."

"Long time."

"Yes."

"Kids?"

"Two. Boy and a girl."

He nods, digesting her info. Then: "Fifteen years...hmm. Sounds like such a long time to me. Maybe too long, eh Jenny?

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, I mean you just admitted to an affair, so it seems to me you were looking for some excitement."

"Looking for it in the wrong place in the wrong way."

"Sounds like you got it, though."

"Not something I'm proud of and not something I'd do again."

"Are you sure about that?"

She bounces her fist on the bar. "You're starting to annoy me, Derek."

Again, his arms fly up. "Okay, okay. Sorry again."

She empties her glass, then calls the server over. "The check, please."

Derek puts down his bottle. "Leaving so soon?"

"I think I've been here much too long already. Thanks for the chat." She reaches out to shake his hand.