Accidental Tryst Page 3

Suddenly, she lost her appetite. She scraped the remains of her dinner in the trash and loaded the dishwasher.

  Crap! She wouldn’t generally label herself the jealous type, but her mind reeled now. Had she missed something? Was there something else going on behind all these arguments?

  Mac sat in his office, reviewing spreadsheets, while he waited for Camille. Filling the screen before him, he glanced over the budget for advertising and couponing, funds for operations, and incentives for distributors.

  With a light rap on the door jamb, Camille announced her arrival. “Hey, Mac.”

  “Hi, Camille. Come on in.”

  “Sorry about needing to meet so late. With three weeks left in the quarter, I’m slammed,” she said with a sigh, giving him a half-smile.

  “I understand. Have a seat.” He gestured to the empty chair across from his desk.

  Camille had the look of a curvy 1950s Swedish movie star. She stood about six-foot in her heels, and although she was in her mid-forties, she could easily be mistaken for a woman ten years younger.

  She sat, set her notebook on the corner of his desk and crossed her legs, showing off her shapely calves.

  Camille had never been married, which Mac couldn’t understand. She was friendly, smart, and very attractive.

  Mac pivoted his monitor toward the center so they both could view the screen at the same time. They hammered through the numbers for advertising which included print, Internet radio, and airport and train station billboards. He already had a crew working on the social media blitz.

  “Do you have the timetable for the radio and print spots?”

  “Yes.” He flipped a few keys on the keyboard and brought the document to the forefront. “These are the numbers for next month and projections for subsequent months,” he said while he pointed to each column.

  Camille covered Mac’s hand and slid it down two rows, his finger sliding down the screen. “What’s that?”

  Her move surprised him. Why hadn’t she just pointed? Mac maintained a neutral expression. “Um, that’s strictly print ads that include a coupon.”

  “Okay. Great. Can you print that out for me?”

  “Sure,” he replied and sent the document to the printer.

  She stood, glided to the credenza next to Mac’s desk, and kept her back turned to him as she reviewed the sheet.

  It struck him as odd when she didn’t return to the chair. Did she linger on purpose—intending to give him a view of her backside? He furrowed his brows.

  “Okay, great.” She spun around and took her seat. “Can you go back to the original sheet?”

  With a few keystrokes, he returned to the budget and pricing document.

  “I don’t see any numbers for vending.” She tilted her head and bit her lip.

  Camille appeared more . . . relaxed than usual. Her focus was still on business, but something felt more casual with her. Mac couldn’t say why she was different; he just couldn’t recall a time during their four years working together when she’d been like this.

  “That’s right. Initially, we won’t place the new products in vending. I want to get a feel for how manufacturing could impact the numbers.”

  She nodded slowly. “You’re concerned unless production costs come down, it won’t be worth it to even have these available in vending machines. Or . . . snack bars?”

  “That’s right.”

  She returned to studying the screen. Perhaps Mac had acted hastily in his assessment of Camille. She had a good head on her shoulders. The strain of working long hours could be taking its toll on her demeanor, but that certainly wasn’t a crime.

  They continued to discuss distribution, and the timing of product placement with advertising. They agreed to meet the following week to review some more numbers, but essentially they were both in agreement that the new products’ launch would add to Frisco’s bottom line and provide a decent boost to profitability.

  On the drive to his home in the Dallas suburbs, his head swam. Camille acting casually, even . . . flirty with him. A rise in manufacturing costs hindered a full-blown product launch. And last but not least, Angie. The woman he’d known for twenty years suddenly seemed not to enjoy sex anymore. She was having sex with him out of obligation? He groaned aloud.

  He stopped the car in front of their house, watching through the front window, and trying to recognize the woman he married all those years ago. Asking himself what had changed in her.

  He entered his house to the usual amount of evening chaos—mostly Stuart picking on Robbie, and Angie trying to bring it to an end.

  “Hi, Dad,” Stuart called from behind a forkful of food.

  “Hi, Dad.” Robbie lifted his eyes momentarily from his phone.

  “Hi, guys. What’s going on?” Mac asked cautiously as he hooked his suit jacket on the back of a chair and yanked off his tie.

  “You hungry?” Angie called from the kitchen.

  He nodded. “Yes.” The salad from lunch wasn’t enough to last him until eight at night.

  “Dad, our game Friday night is away. We play Pearson. Can you make it?”

  “Absolutely,” he replied as he rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands at the kitchen sink.

  Angie placed his plate in front of him, and returned to cleaning up the kitchen. He took a seat and dug in. Mac glanced up at one point and noticed Angie walking out the front door with a pot in her hand. That was interesting.

  Stuart spoke what Mac was thinking. “Mom, what are you doing?” he asked when she returned, wearing a sassy grin on his face.

  “I tossed the water from the steamed broccoli on my flower pots. No sense throwing it down the drain,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Mom, you’re a weirdo,” he said playfully. Stuart was usually the more serious of the two boys, but every once in while he made surprisingly humorous or witty comments that only showed his genuine and softer side.

  Robbie chuckled from the family room. She tipped her head to the side and scrunched her face into a snarky smile. Mac dropped his head, facing his plate, to hide his smile.

  After dinner, Mac relaxed in his favorite recliner with the tablet on his lap and the TV remote in his hand. He switched to a show he, Angie, and Robbie would enjoy. Stuart headed to his room to work on his homework.

  Angie strode in, standing in front of the recliner, her lips thinned in a straight line. “Curriculum night is next Tuesday at seven o’clock. It would be really great if you could make it this time, Mac.” Then she spun around and leaned down to give Robbie a kiss on the forehead. “Good night.”

  “G’night, Mom.”

  Mac frowned. Dammit! He wanted to talk to her. He couldn’t talk that morning because he’d needed time to formulate his thoughts. They were on a downward spiral as a couple. Anymore, they had more bad days than good.

  Frankly, he was frustrated. Angie had changed. She wasn’t the same woman he’d asked out twenty years ago.

  She complained of being either too tired or too busy to want to do anything together when he was home from being on the road. She looked pretty—had always been—but it seemed like she didn’t care about her looks much anymore. Her dress was always impeccable for work, but at home, she wore stuff like old sweats and faded T-shirts. She’d gained some weight, too. And they didn’t talk much anymore. He remembered early on in their marriage, they’d sit after dinner, polish off a bottle of wine, and talk. They’d talk about anything and everything. She was more than his wife; she was his best friend. Maybe still his best friend. At that exact moment, he couldn’t say.

  Angie awoke the next morning and turned to see Mac asleep on the other side of their king-size bed. Despite going to bed early the night before, she hadn’t slept that well. Too much on her mind apparently, specifically how to move past this hostility, and how to trust that her husband wasn’t cheating on her.

  She couldn’t stop herself, she had to know—one way or another. With soft footsteps, she went into the closet and lifted Mac’s shirt fro
m the laundry basket to her nose. It smelled like only his cologne. She then walked to the home office where his phone sat in the charger. She tried several combinations, trying to unlock the screen. No luck. She hunted for restaurant or store receipts or anything that might be out of the ordinary. Nothing.

  She sighed. If he was having an affair, he covered his tracks well.

  After she helped Robbie find his English notebook, and confirmed what time to pick up Stuart from football practice, she headed for the shower.

  “I think we’re avoiding what happened the other night,” Mac said as he walked into the master bathroom.

  Her breath hitched. “You scared me.” She hung her dress on the hook and turned his direction.

  “I’m sorry.” He said it, but she didn’t feel the sincerity in his words. “I think we need to discuss what happened.”

  “What would you like to say?” She asked that stupid question to buy time because she didn’t know what she wanted to say. Yes, Mac. Sex is tired and boring anymore. It’s all about you. I’m just a depository. But she knew even in her anxiety that was no way to handle it.

  “Angie. What is going on with you? Do you not like sex anymore? Frankly, I don’t buy it.” He stood in the doorway, wearing the boxers he’d slept in, a hand on his hip. His brown hair disheveled, his eyes had a look she’d never seen before. Concern or frustration? Maybe a bit of sorrow.

  Seeing his naked chest, taut muscles, and broad shoulders, used to make her breath hitch. Now she felt nothing. “Mac, are you having an affair?”

  His eyes rounded. “Am I having an affair? No. Absolutely not. Should I be asking you the same question?”

  God, she was so tired. Tired of discussing everything to death. Tired of arguing. Over stupid stuff like their pitiful, cramped bathroom. Tired of being unhappy, and likely depressed. Tired of wanting things to be different and always being disappointed. “Mac, it’s not the same. We’re not the same.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair and let out a frustrated sigh. “I know that. All couples go through ups and downs—”

  “For how many years, though? When was the last time we had an ‘up’?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that.” He looked like she felt—sad, depressed, defeated.

  “We should see a—”

  “Don’t say it, Angie.” His hand cut through the air like he had made the final decision. Judge and jury.

  “I want a divorce,” she blurted.

  “What?” Mac’s eyes widened with disbelief.

  Chapter Five

  Angie swallowed past the lump in her throat. She hadn’t meant to say it. Really. The words hung between them like thick black smoke, and she had a hard time taking it back. Mac simply stared at her with stunned eyes.

  Her brain registered what he’d asked. Although, from the look on his face, he’d heard exactly what she said. “I want a divorce,” she repeated.

  The words felt easier to say the second time.

  The more seconds that passed, the less . . . hesitant she felt. The statement had shocked her, but at the same time, a calm, liberating feeling swept over her. Like a weight she’d been carrying for God knew how long had suddenly lifted from her shoulders.

  She took in a breath.

  “I can’t fucking believe this.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and held her gaze.

  “Believe it,” she said in a cool, rational tone. A tone she’d used when an employee had made a wrong move, and she needed to make it known it should never happen again.

  She wasn’t sad. She wasn’t angry. She was . . . relieved.

  “Angie, we’re going through a rough patch. We just need some time.”

  “No. We really don’t, Mac. We’ve given it years. I’ve been wanting to see a marriage counselor for years, and you keep dismissing it, like I’m not worth your time anymore. Everything I’ve tried hasn’t worked, and you can’t be bothered to fix it with me. I’m done. We’ve stayed together for the sake of the boys, and enough is enough.”

  He looked down and shook his head in denial.

  They had nothing more to say. She forced herself to strip and get in the shower. They’d need to keep up routine for the boys. She had to continue on with work, otherwise she’d crumble.

  Angie stepped out of the bathroom forty-five minutes later, and entered the kitchen.

  Mac wasn’t at the table drinking coffee.

  He was gone.

  A divorce? That was the last thing Mac expected to hear from Angie. He thought they would argue, blow off some steam, then after things calmed down, they would return to normal. What a fucking mess.

  He slammed a drawer closed on his desk. The clank echoed through the office.

  How long had she been thinking about this? She wasn’t having an affair, was she? He stared at his bookshelves blindly. With his traveling, she certainly would have had the opportunity. Now that he was grounded, maybe that put the kibosh on her escapades.

  Shit!

  A knock at the door broke his stream of thought. Camille stood in the doorway in a red dress, high heels, and a bright smile. “Sorry to interrupt. Criswell wants to see us in his office. I think Will Manning is in there now.”

  Mac pinched his brows. Why would Ray want him in a meeting with the VP of Manufacturing? “Thanks. I’ll be right there.”

  She lingered a bit longer watching him close up his PC and slip on his jacket. He caught her stare. She smiled and spun around to leave.

  What the hell was that about? Camille had acted strangely around him as of late, and he had no earthly idea why.

  He strode down the hall to Criswell’s office to see the others seated around the table.

  “Please join us, Mac,” Ray called.

  Mac took a chair and tried to get comfortable. Tried to appear normal, unaffected, and focused. But everything felt forced.

  Camille passed him a copy of the financial data that pertained to manufacturing. Frisco had three manufacturing facilities—one in Dallas, one in Mexico, and one in Spain.

  Will continued what he’d been saying before Mac entered. “The problem is everything has gone up. Wages have gone up. Add to that the energy cost increases and raw goods . . .” he trailed off. Shaking his head, he said in a low tone, “We should consider raising our prices.”

  "We can’t pass those increases on to the consumer. Or we’ll be higher than our competitors,” Camille quickly interjected as she pursed her lips.

  Mac pinched his fingers over the bridge of his nose. A headache started pulsing behind his eyebrows. He took a drink of water from the glass placed in front of him.

  “Will, we’ve talked about this last month. We need to find a way to bring these costs down.” Ray stabbed the spreadsheet on the table with his finger. “They’re close to being out of control.”

  Mac took another drink, a bigger one, and the image of Angie feeding the cooking water on the household plants the previous night came to mind.

  Water. The word popped into his head, and then out his mouth. “Water,” he said under his breath.

  Everyone stopped and looked at Mac.

  He stared at his glass. The idea rolled around in his head, formulating.

  “What was that?” Ray asked.

  He raised his sight to Ray, then to Will. “Water. We need to cut our costs for water.”

  Mac leaned forward in his chair and focused on the financial data in front of him. Geez! The amount they were spending on water alone was atrocious.

  “What about water?” Will asked with a sigh. The man didn’t want to be in that meeting any more than Mac did.

  “We are spending insane amounts each month on water. Multiply that by three. What if we recycle the water used in manufacturing? I mean,” he shrugged a shoulder, “how many gallons do we use in washing the potatoes for potato chips?”

  Ray’s brow peaked, and Will’s eyes narrowed.

  “I’d need to look it up, but I imagine several thousand gallons a month,” Will answere
d.

  “Exactly. There must be some way to capture what we need, filter it, and reuse it. If a water treatment plant can do it, then so can we. We just need to do it on a smaller scale.”

  He glanced around the table. Clearly, the minds were calculating. Camille looked brightly at him.

  “Mac, that could work.” She faced Ray. “There would be some initial capital investment, I’m sure, for equipment, but Mac’s idea has merit.”

  “Maybe we try it here, then roll it out to Spain and Mexico later. Once we get the processes nailed down, determine maintenance costs,” Mac added.

  “What do you think, Will? Could something like that work?” Ray asked.

  Will tipped his head back and forth, as if mentally working out the logistics of the plan. “It could.”

  “Let’s do some research, people. Get a team together Camille, Will. This could save us boatloads of money.”

  “Not to mention, it’s a smart thing for the environment,” Camille chimed in and slanted a look of approval toward Mac.

  “Right. Maybe even look into a packaging recycling program, if we continue of this ‘going green’ initiative.” Ray stood. “Alright. Everyone get to work. Good job, Mac. I want to review findings a week from today.” He patted Mac on the back once. His boss wasn’t much for flowery accolades, so that simple gesture spoke volumes.

  As they filed out of Ray’s office, Camille leaned in closer to Mac. “Great idea.” She smiled generously before sauntering passed him down the hall.

  Will stuck out his hand. “Thanks, Mac. I’ll let you know what I find out,” he said, relief in his tone. No doubt, he’d been in fear of losing his job. This one thing could save the company tens of thousands of dollars. Enough to stave off a retail price hike.

  So there it was. Mac stroked the back of his neck. Today was potentially the best day of his career, while simultaneously the worst day of his life. He made it back to his office, slumped in his chair, and stared out the window of the twenty-sixth floor office at downtown Dallas.

  What the fuck am I going to do?