Washington

                   Hausfrau

Constantina Morrigan stretched, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. Downstairs, Lance, her husband, moved around. The sound of running water and the smell of coffee drifted up like fog creeping toward the shore. She smiled. His coffee smelled great, but tasted bitter, burned. No matter how many ways she explained to him that coffee isn’t supposed to steep for ten minutes, he kept doing it. He hung to his French press and dark roast coffee like a drowning man to a log.

        She rolled out of bed and stripped off her negligee, revealing a slim body, well-toned muscles and smooth skin. She worked hard to stay in prime shape, worked out four times a week. She walked instead of taking the car whenever possible. A remnant of her youth when she had barely enough money to eat, let alone the luxury of owning a car. The stresses and burdens of her formative years still fresh in her mind, as if it all happened last month, not decades ago.

        She stepped into the opulent shower, chose the waterfall setting at sixty degrees and stared at the imported Italian marble tile while the water cooled her down. The mid-summer heat was unbearable. But this was Seattle, and the heat wouldn’t last. Soon, the cold, wet winter would erase all memories of ninety-plus degree weather. For now, the air conditioning and cold showers would do. She chose a light summer dress from her closet, gracefully descended the Victorian style staircase and joined her husband in the kitchen.

        “Good morning.” She said cheerfully. Lance stood at the island, cup in hand, reading the morning news on his laptop. “What's on the menu today? Girls’ night out for your birthday?” Lance watched as she filled the kettle with fresh water. She reached into the oak wood cabinets for her favorite teacup.

        Constantina turned, facing him. Her well-toned legs made it look more like a graceful pirouette. “Aren't you taking me to Canlis, like every year?”

        Lance stood up, walked to the sink and rinsed his coffee cup. “Two things: We’ve been doing the dinner party for each other’s birthdays for almost twenty years. Second, at forty- seven, you're getting too old for birthday parties. Besides, Regina Praeda and Steven O’Toole are coming into town. And you made it clear you don’t care for them. And since you’ve been a Hausfrau for the past two years, you hardly have anything in common to discuss.”

        Connie stared at him, open mouthed. She cradled the empty cup to her chest, as if protecting her heart that felt heavy at her husband's careless words. “That’s not true. I told you I didn’t like the way she talked to the staff. And her partner made the women at the office uncomfortable.”

        She remembered her first meeting with the couple a few years back. They were looking for a local branch to partner with. Back then, she was the office manager in charge of support staff, all one hundred of them. Lance was assigned as the intermediary. She remembered how Steven O’Toole’s eyes glanced over her body. It made her shiver then. The mere memory of it elicited the same physical reaction. But she’d never confess to anyone besides her best friend that she liked the way he looked at her; hungrily undressing her.

        His thin lips curled into a smirk. “The modern woman, afraid of a guy looking. I knew you quit because you couldn’t handle it.”

        Connie shook her head. It was useless. Lance pretended that they didn’t have hours of conversation and how, in the end, he encouraged her to follow her desire to volunteer full-time. He told her they had enough money. How grateful she felt for him that day. And then, of course, that other reason that made her desperate to get out of the office.

        The kettle whistled. Connie reached to shut it off. She turned because she suddenly realized there was no reason for her husband to meet with these people. The business relationship ended last year when Praeda, Inc. moved their offices to the mid-west. As far as Connie knew, they had only that one small office in Seattle, nothing else.

        Lance ignored her attempt to say something. He snorted and pointed toward the counter. “And you left your phone down here, again. Monique called, bragging about a house she bought in Mexico. Peto or something. As usual, she was argumentative when I told her that as a foreigner, Mexico won’t allow her to buy property. No wonder she was fired. Even if that investment company isn’t worth anything.” He walked past her, not expecting a response.

        “Monique has dual citizenship. Her mom is Mexican, her dad a naturalized citizen of the US. He’s from Italy. And she quit that job. You know this.”

        Lance didn’t care. His dislike of her best friend discolored every action into a negative light. He packed his laptop into his monogramed, brown leather case, reached for his phone and keys. He turned and walked out of the house without another word.

        She nodded. “Well, Happy Birthday, Constantina,” she said to the empty kitchen. She waited a moment, listened for his car to start and pull out of the garage. When she was certain he had left, she rinsed out the French press, filled it with fresh ground coffee and poured water into it.

        It was the first time she didn’t feel like celebrating her birthday. Even after her mother’s death she always found a way to be with friends on that special day. I’ve been feeling alone for a while now. And no amount of telling herself that she should feel grateful for her husband, her two children and her beautiful house didn’t alleviate it.

        And yet, despite time putting distance between her and her turbulent childhood, it felt that, somehow, the memory of her mother grew stronger the older Connie got.

        “What’s wrong with me?” She asked out loud. The stainless-steel kitchen appliances stoically stared back at her. No answer here.

        “Well, maybe the living room knows.” She left the kitchen, crossed the hallway into the living room, as if changing rooms would make a difference.

        I'll call Pete and get a few hours of fencing in. Maybe today, I won’t hold back. He’s always telling me to let it all out. That way, he’d be too out of breath to lecture me on how I waste my life. Damn, I’d rather be lectured than stay home alone.

        Even the prospect of finishing the painting in dark red and bright yellow didn’t appeal to her. Her paintings already adorned their houses in Seattle and Portland, and even Lance’s office. Maybe it was time for another hobby. Maybe get back to volunteering. She only stopped three months ago because she felt exhausted. There were so many people that needed help, so few resources.

        Alternatively, a full-time job. She sighed, damning the idea of going job-hunting, the resumes, interviews. A dreadful, boring procedure. She laughed at herself and remembered her late teens, when she would stalk every storefront in downtown Boston to fill out applications, begging for work, willing to work for less than anyone else if it meant a way to put food on the table. Or when she interviewed for office jobs after college. Twenty different firms, from small to large, days, weeks of waiting to hear if she got the job. I got lucky when I got the job at Weintraub, Ltd. They were the only ones that didn’t want to make me a secretary, despite my business degree.

        The doorbell rang, pulling her out of her memories. Constantina walked toward the main entrance. With her hand on the doorknob, she peaked through the fleurs-de-lis glass panel. Stupid frosted glass.

        Connie recognized the shape on the other side, regardless.

        “Anyone home?” A young woman's voice inquired.

        “Emilia, what are you doing here? You're not supposed to be back from Germany for another four weeks. “Connie opened the door. A tall, skinny, woman stepped into the hallway.

        “Surprise and Happy Birthday, Mommy.” Connie hugged and kissed her daughter.

        “Come in, Mia, sit down, have some coffee.” Mother and daughter, the same height, the same green eyes and light brown hair, walked back into the kitchen, their arms wrapped around each other's hip.

        “I have to tell you, you look amazing. You haven't aged a day.” Mia gazed at her mother.

        “Oh, you're lying, but thank you so much for your kind words.” Connie blushed.

        “I wish you'd stop this false modesty thing - it's annoying. I know 20-year-old’s that would kill to look like you.” The young woman narrowed her eyes in displeasure at her mother’s denial.

        “You're wrong, it's not modesty, I just never felt good looking.”

        “You need to learn to accept compliments.” Mia sniffed the remainder in the French Press. “Is it Dad's brew?”

        Her mother shook her head. “No, my brew. But I only made one cup. I’ll make more.”

        Mia patted a chair. “No, sit. I need to move around a bit. Long flight.” She stretched her arms, then reached for the kettle, filled it with water and returned it to the stove to make a fresh batch. “I can’t believe I ever stomached dad’s coffee. Since I’ve been in Germany, my taste for dad’s coffee is ruined. Its weak coffee trying hard to be Hercules. And it’s a bad imitation. Where is he, anyway?”

        Connie lifted both index fingers, wiggling an air quotation. “He's picking up former partners at the Portland Airport.”

        Mia leaned against the counter her arms crossed. “It's your birthday. I manage to make a surprise trip from Germany for it, he can't re-arrange his work schedule? He's a partner in a big investment firm, don't tell me he can't work around that. Good thing I’m here, or did you have other plans?”

        Connie shrugged. “I was going to text Pete; he’s training for a tournament in Minnesota that’s coming up in four months. He’s been at the fencing hall practicing every day for weeks.”

        Mia shuddered at the mention of his name. “What is it with you and jerks? Dad, I understand …”

        “Oh, no, don’t start on that again.” Constantina sat up straight, ready to defend her husband. “You think because you’re going to be a psychologist, you have the right to judge everyone …”

        The tall, young woman threw her head back. “That’s not true. All I’m saying is that dad hasn’t said more than five consecutive sentences to you long before I left for college. Now he’s not even bothering with your birthday because money and his connections are more important to him. Not to mention all those times he came home in the morning, reeking of perfume. And Pete, well, I don’t like the way he grins when he manages to chase you across the parkette. I’m afraid you might wind up thinking all men are like this. They’re not.”

        Connie blushed, her hands falling limply onto the marble countertop. With large eyes, she whispered, “You knew?”

        Mia turned, biting her lower lip. “Mom, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up this way …”

        Connie shook her head, her index finger tapping on the counter. She cast her eyes downward.

        “I guess you’re right. The truth is, he’s not home that often, he’s always stayed in Portland these last few months. And when he does come home, it’s, he’s …”

        “Oh, mom ...” Mia wrapped her arms around her mother’s shoulders. Connie began crying. All this time she had told herself that it didn’t bother her. They married for other reasons than love. It shouldn’t hurt this much. But it did.

        Mia cradled her head, caressing hair, softly cooing, comforting her. “I think I'll book you a flight to come with me, get you away from him. The University in Koblenz is close to the French border. We could buy nice, sexy, French clothes. We should try to find you a hot, European lover with a sexy accent. That'll show Dad.” Connie looked up at her daughter, silent for a moment, smiling at first, then giggling. Another moment passed, and both began laughing.

        Relieved at the pleasant turn this morning had taken, Constantina sighed.

        It’s amazing how quickly things change.