Chapter 1

I was walking down the terminal searching for the gate to my connecting flight at the Atlanta terminal when it all fell apart. I had just turned on my cell phone so that I could check in with my secretary when it rang in my hand. The caller ID showed that it was my wife's cell phone.

"Hi hon."

"You Son-of-A-Bitch!" My wife's tearful anger radiated from the cell phone I held to my ear. "How could you do that to me?"

The phone clicked in my ear and I was listening to my own heart racing. My guilty conscience filled in the rest.

I work for a large high tech consulting firm, one of the original "Beltway-Bandits." We have a program that brings in college juniors and seniors for 2 month summer internships. The kids get a little real work experience and a summer job. We get slave labor and the chance to try out a lot of would be hires without having to commit to hiring them permanently.

Last Friday we had a going away party at the office for the interns that had been our copy slaves and coffee gofers for us over their summer break. Our group had five interns assigned to us. We were not going to end up hiring any of them. They were bright and hard working, but our firm demands far more than that. These kids would all be fine for most places, but we were looking for the cream of the crop, people with the smarts, personality, and drive to be the best in the business. All of these kids had one or two of those qualities, but no one was a complete package.

Sandy Mathers had the smarts and personality, but her drive was going to ensure that the best she could hope for was to catch a wealthy husband. That way she would be able to live off of his income while spending her time shopping at the exclusive stores and toning herself at the gym. She was a beautiful little dark eyed brunette with a happy personality. She just didn't have the hard charging "I'll work 'til I drop" attitude we look for in our new hires. Her attitude was that work was a social event that took second place to her evening and weekend social whirl.

We combined their going away party with celebrating the win of a new government contract that would keep us feeding at the public trough for years to come. The proposal and award process had been arduous and everyone in my group had put in lots of work on it. After the soft drinks and cookies stage of the party most of us went to the local sports bar for wings and beer.

Without going into too much detail (I'm kinda fuzzy on it anyway... ), I ended up in the parking lot with little Sandy. We were both drunkenly groping and kissing each other. Then, she dropped her head into my lap and proceeded to give me an unskilled blow job. This was my only marital indiscretion — the result of lots of work stress being cut loose, too much beer, and a cute little twenty two year old with her hand on my leg.

Lame excuses aside, I knew I screwed up. I was wracked with guilt from the time it happened. To make matters worse, I had to leave the following Monday for a five day business trip. I spent the weekend trying to be extra nice to my wife to assuage my guilty conscience.

I didn't know if it was one of the wives that came to the sports bar that spotted what happened in that parking lot and told my wife, or if Sandy had done or said something that got back to my wife. Whatever it was, something had happened. Before I even got all the way out of town, someone had said something to my wife. Last night and over the weekend we had chatted and played with no sign of any problems beyond my guilty conscience. Then, just as I was moving through the crowds to get to my connecting flight was the call that changed everything.

I was devastated. I tried calling her back to no avail. The house line just rang. She'd turned off the answering machine. Her cell phone rolled over to voice mail. I couldn't think of anything I could say to the machine that could express my feelings adequately, so I just hung up. The two and a half hour flight was hell. I ran scenarios over and over of what could have happened, and of how to properly beg for forgiveness from the love of my life.

I arrived at my destination and tried calling again. This time she answered her cell phone. Her voice was all but emotionless this time.

She answered the phone with, "Please stop calling me. I need some time."

"I can get a flight back leaving in an hour," I said. " We need to talk."

"No. Stay there. Do your work. I need time. Don't call me. I'll call you in a couple of days." CLICK. The line disconnected.

I went on to my meetings. I was a total zombie there. It was fortunate that I had done enough prep work to fake my way through things on autopilot. My thoughts were definitely not on what was in front of me. Monday and Tuesday nights were hell. I wanted to call Debbie so much, but didn't want to push her. If she needed time to come to grips with my stupid mistake, then I would give it to her. I spent the evening playing scenarios in my head of what I could say or do to make it up to her. I was an emotional wreck. The lack of sleep and not having an appetite was turning me into a physical wreck as well.

Wednesday evening was particularly hard. I was guessing that she would call that night so I left early and grabbed a greaseburger and fries on the way from work to the hotel. I sat on the bed staring at my cell phone from five until eight that evening, checking every five minutes that the battery was fully charged and that I had a strong signal. I almost fainted with relief when she called right at eight.

I held the phone, looking at the caller ID, and took a deep breath. "Hello, Debbie. Thanks for calling," I answered with my planned opening. I paused to let her respond.

"I said I would. I told you I needed time," she said quietly. "We need to talk about things — lot's of things. And I don't think the phone is the best way to do it."

"I can get a flight out first thing in the morning," I leapt in. I wanted to get face to face with her and explain what happened and that I realized how I had hurt her and us with my stupidity. "I know you are hurt and I want to make it right. I love you dearly and have made an awful mistake. You are so important to me. I never wanted to hurt you. I can make it up..." I was babbling. Bits and pieces of all the little preplanned speeches were trying to gush out.

"No," she cut me off. "I still need this time. I need to put things in perspective. I love you. I don't want to be without you. But I need to handle my own feelings on this before I will know how to forgive you. You shattered the world I built. I need time to find a place to start rebuilding again."

I wasn't sure what she was talking about. Rebuilding? It sounded like something from Oprah or Cosmo to me. It was the kind of woman talk that never made sense to men. All I got from what she said was that she wasn't cutting me out of her life and that forgiveness was in the works. I should have listened better.

"OK, honey. I'll give you all the time and space you need. Like I said, I know I've done wrong and want to make things right again," I said. "But, can I call in the evenings?"

"I'd rather not," she replied. " I don't want to try to deal with things on the phone. Lets use this as some cooling off time. I'll see you at the airport on Friday evening, OK?"

"Well ... alright. But don't hesitate to call anytime you need anything. I'll be happy to drop everything and come home right away."

"I'll call if I need. Otherwise, I'll see you on Friday."

"I love you," I said. But she had already hung up.

Patience was never a virtue that I possessed in measure. The next day at lunch I wrapped things up and headed to the airport a day early. I debated calling her to tell her I was on the way, but decided that she would try to get me to hold off for another day. I couldn't do that.

I took a taxi home from the airport. It was about 9:00 in the evening by the time the cab found it's way out to our little piece of suburbia. The house was dark and empty. Debbie was nowhere to be found.

I tried her phone once I got in and settled a little. No luck, so I called a couple of her friends. I told them I got in early and was looking for Debbie to let her know I was in — no luck. My next step was to open the liquor cabinet and commune with Jack Daniels.

It was much, much later when I was shaken awake by my wife. I had put away more alcohol in a few hours than I normally drink in a year. As I blearily came back to a semi-conscious state, I realized that she was dressed to kill. She had on a short black skirt that showed her sexy legs to great advantage. Her athletic build was displayed beautifully. The white knit top hugged her small firm breasts tightly enough to demonstrate to all that she didn't need a bra. I was too fuzzy to tell if the smudged makeup and less than crisp look was due to my blurry eyes or real. She led me to the bedroom, got my shoes and belt off and let me crash without a word being spoken.

I woke late the next morning. The sunshine peeking through a crack in the curtains was blinding. It took me the better part of an hour to shower, dress, and start operating in a non-zombie mode. I tried to understand the fuzzy memories of being led to bed by my sexily dressed wife. I saw no evidence of her having been in the bedroom or the bath.

The smell of a big breakfast hit me as I entered the kitchen. I knew she was home. Debbie pointed me to the table and set a plate in front of me. "Eat up," she said, "Then we have some talking to do."

Breakfast was almost normal — except for the tension in my gut. Debbie caught me up on the domestic goings on; one of the sprinkler heads was stuck and not working, her car had been named in a recall for a new airbag, I needed to fill out some information for the new health insurance program that my company had switched to. Very normal day-to-day stuff.

After we ate and cleaned up, Debbie led me into the dining room and we sat across the table from each other.

"Why did you come home last night?" she asked me.

"I couldn't work for the worry. I wanted to sit with you and try to make things right. I wanted to apologize for what I did and try to start getting us past it." I looked at her across the table, "Let's go sit on the couch together. It'll be more comfortable."

"No. A little discomfort is better right now," she stated. "What do you remember of last night?"

"Not much. Just that you helped me upstairs and put me to bed. I waited for you for hours," I complained. Then I kicked myself. I didn't need to attack. I needed to be contrite and start working to build her trust. Damn!

"You seem to have occupied yourself quite well," she said. "You were pretty wasted."

"I've been very upset..." I began.

"So have I," she said calmly. "More upset than you may realize. You don't have any idea how your actions have upset my world."

I had been ready for tears and anger like that first phone call. This deliberate calmness from her was unsettling. This discussion was not going anywhere near the way I had envisioned it.

"You really don't know. You don't know me. You don't know what this has done to me," she said. "If we are going to work things out ... going to stay together, then you have to understand. You have to know all about me."

I was stunned into silence. How could my wife of ten years be saying this. I knew her better than anyone on the planet. Her father died before she was born. Then, her mother was killed in a car wreck when Debbie was 13 and raised by foster parents that had taken care of her until she finished high school. We met in college and married two weeks after we both graduated.

I reflected back on our first months together. I had just finished my undergraduate degree and had started an MBA program at UT in Austin. Debbie was an incoming junior transferring to UT from the branch campus down in San Antonio.

I met her at the student union one day in September. It was smoking hot like only Texas can get in September. I had found a cool dark hidden corner in the building that suited me well for studying. I was lost in reading when I was interrupted by someone tapping my shoulder.