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By the time we got to The Melting Pot, we were ten minutes late. But I had called ahead, ensuring that they’d hold our table, while Robert drove.

He pulled up to the valet stand in front of the restaurant. An attendant came over immediately. They usually did when the car was a Porsche.

Moments later, we were inside The Melting Pot. The restaurant was warm and inviting, done in a combination of dark beige and burgundy. Intimate, curved booths lined the walls. Unique lighting fixtures hung above the tables, reminding me of blown-glass designs I’d seen in Venice.

I liked the place. A lot. My mood instantly brightened.

The restaurant was full of chatter. Happy people all
around us were laughing and talking and dipping various items into pots of fondue.

“I hope we made the right choice,” Robert mumbled.

I glanced at him as we approached the hostess stand. He didn’t make eye contact with me. I didn’t bother asking him what he meant.

The hostess sat us at our table in the center of the restaurant. I took my shawl off and placed it and my clutch on the seat next to me.

Robert was looking around. Not a casual glance inspecting his surroundings, but more of an intense, evaluating look.

Some of the diners were throwing curious glances our way, as well.

I suddenly understood why Robert had muttered that comment. The crowd was young—late twenties to late thirties, mostly. Young and attractive. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that Robert was uncomfortable here.

Uncomfortable because of our age difference.

I reached across the table and took his hand in mine, letting him know that
I
wasn’t uncomfortable. After eight years of marriage, I was used to the second glances we got from some people. At first those looks had bothered me, but not anymore.

I was with my husband, and if the rest of the world didn’t like it, they could go to hell.

In the beginning of our relationship, Robert had had no problem going out with me in public. He’d been a fit and attractive fifty-nine. And when he colored the
gray in his hair, he looked more like fifty. So while there was obviously an age difference between us, he hadn’t been bothered by it.

But over the last few years, his face had aged considerably and his posture was no longer as imposing as it had once been. Because of knee replacement surgery last year, his gait wasn’t the strong, confident stride it had been when we’d met.

Once, Robert had been able to walk into a room and have heads turn—that’s the kind of attention he commanded. Not anymore.

The physical changes, capped off by a full head of gray hair he could no longer be bothered to color, troubled my husband. Oh, he never said as much, but I could tell. He was sixty-seven and looked it—his body defying his ageless spirit more and more.

“This place is beautiful,” I said, hoping to distract him from his thoughts. “The ambience, the decor…” I glanced up at the goldish-orange light fixture above our table, which sort of resembled a large, upside-down wineglass with a very long stem. “Remember that shop in Saint Mark’s Square—the one where we almost bought that chandelier before we realized it wouldn’t look good in our place? I wonder if these light fixtures came from there.”

“Perhaps.” Robert released my hand to withdraw his reading glasses from his jacket pocket.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” I said, hoping that being extra sweet would help his discomfort dissipate. “I keep hearing how fabulous the food is, that the menu is second to none.”

“Let’s hope so,” Robert stated.

He lifted his menu. Even with his glasses on, he squinted slightly as he read.

Something tugged at my heart as I watched him. A little sympathy. I was sorry about the changes age was bringing about that neither of us could control. I wasn’t thrilled about heading toward forty. I could only imagine how Robert felt, nearing seventy.

He needed something else in his life. Something positive to concentrate on, as opposed to life’s ticking clock. We both did.

Which was why I was hoping we’d get pregnant sooner rather than later.

“Good evening.” A man’s voice drew our attention, and I glanced up. The waiter who had arrived at our table wore a crisp white shirt, black tie and burgundy apron neatly tied around his waist. There was an air of confidence about him that said he’d been doing his job—and doing it well—for a long time.

“Good evening,” I replied. Robert continued to peruse the menu.

“Have you been here before?” the waiter asked.

“No,” I said. “We haven’t.”

“Then welcome. I think you’ll be very pleased. Our cheeses are aged to perfection to create the best possible fondue. You can enjoy them with bread or fruit. We have salads as well, if you prefer. And all of our entrées are cooked in our popular fondue styles.”

“Mmm.” I looked at Robert before meeting the waiter’s gaze again. “Sounds delicious.”

“The dinners for two are very popular, and come
with a cheese fondue, salad, and one of three entrée items.” He pointed to the page on my open menu.

“Ooh, the surf and turf looks good.” I glanced at Robert. “What do you think, sweetheart? Lobster tails?”

“I think that we need a few more minutes to make up our minds,” he said.

“Certainly.” The waiter smiled cordially at both of us before his gaze landed on me. “My name is Alexander. And madam, the surf and turf is one of our more popular items. You certainly won’t be disappointed if you decide on it.”

“All right.” Robert’s tone held a tiny note of impatience. “You’ve done your job. Now run along and give us some time to make up our minds.”

Now run along?

My eyes went wide as I stared at him, shocked by the demeaning words. “Robert,” I began when the waiter was gone, “that wasn’t a very nice thing to say.”

“You would say that, wouldn’t you?”

I was confused by the comment. “Do you expect me to approve of you being rude to our waiter?”

“It was like he didn’t even know I was at the table,” Robert went on.

“That’s because I was the one doing the talking. You barely gave him a second glance.”

“I saw how he was looking at you.”

What was Robert getting at? That the waiter had been out of line? “He was looking at me like he was our waiter.”

“Right,” Robert said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

I didn’t understand what was happening. The waiter had been professional and cordial. He hadn’t ogled me or anything like that. So why was Robert making an issue out of nothing?

Because he never wanted to come here.

Was that what this was about—Robert making an issue because he didn’t want to be here? He hadn’t been interested when I’d suggested the place time and time again, and the moment he’d seen the crowd, there’d been a visible change in him.

“It’s that dress,” he said.

“The dress?” Again, I was confused. “This is the one you wanted me to wear, remember?”

“But what did you do to your
breasts?
” His expression was one of disdain as he lowered his eyes to my chest. “You’re wearing some kind of bra that makes them look larger. As if you got breast implants.”

Certainly that couldn’t be the issue. Even though I was annoyed that he seemed to be trying to sour the mood, I forged ahead gently. “What’s wrong? Is there something else bothering you?”

Robert pretended he didn’t hear me. Pretended to be absorbed in reading the menu.

It was probably best to let the matter drop. I lifted my own menu. “Do you want to do one of the entrées for two? Or decide on a cheese fondue and maybe a couple other items?”

“I’m trying to make up my mind.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

As we both perused the menu in silence, I decided I would let Robert choose our meals. Everything looked great, so it wasn’t as if I’d be disappointed. He was clearly irritable, and I wanted to keep him happy.

It was something I did a lot.

Why shouldn’t you decide?
a tiny voice inside me asked.

Before I could even contemplate the question, Alexander arrived again, a warm smile on his attractive face. This time I noticed that he did stare at me before turning to Robert. But he had to look at
someone
first. Just because it was me didn’t mean he wanted to fuck me.

“We’ve hardly looked at the menu,” Robert all but snapped.

“Take your time.” Alexander clasped his hands together. “But may I start you off with a drink? Some wine or a cocktail?” He looked at me. “Or perhaps a martini.”

“Or perhaps my wife.”

My eyes grew wide with shock and horror. I gaped at my husband before looking at the waiter, who appeared absolutely mortified.

“Excuse me?” Alexander asked.

“Jesus, you’re salivating over her like she’s an item on the menu.”

“Robert, stop it.”

“It’s true,” he insisted calmly. “Isn’t it, Alexander?”

Embarrassment mixed with my horror. I pushed my chair back and stood. I was certain that people around
us were overhearing this ridiculous conversation, and I could no longer stay here.

“Sir, I apologize if I somehow—”

“You’re not the one who needs to apologize,” I said, cutting Alexander off. I gave Robert a pointed look, barely keeping my fury contained. And to think I’d been concerned about keeping
him
happy. I picked up my clutch and my shawl. “We’re leaving.”

“Good idea,” Robert said.

Worry creased the waiter’s brow, almost as if he suspected Robert was the type to lodge a complaint with the manager. If that was his assumption, then he’d read my husband correctly.

Alexander held up both hands, a sign of submission. “If I was disrespectful in any way, I apologize.”

“Next time, look at a woman’s face—not her tits—when you’re speaking to her.”

I heard the words and cringed. For the first time in our marriage, I wanted to slap Robert.

I didn’t dare look around for fear everyone within earshot had heard his crude words. I wanted to meet the waiter’s dejected eyes and tell him that my husband’s high blood pressure medication was making him act like an asshole. But all I could do was head for the door before the embarrassment killed me.

I didn’t stop until the cool evening breeze hit my face. With Robert moving more slowly these days because of his knee, I made it outside before he did. And once there, I wanted to scream.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not with the valet attendants and other patrons nearby.

Robert had been rude on other occasions, more often than I liked these days, but his behavior tonight was completely uncalled for.

Was it his age, his medication, or his growing insecurity? Or was this the real Robert? Had I overlooked his true nature all of these years?

Yes.

The answer sounded in my mind—and it scared me.

I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders as I stood outside waiting for Robert. I didn’t turn back to see how close he was, or if he’d stopped to complain to the manager. It was just the kind of thing he would do.

Several agonizing seconds passed and no Robert. My curiosity getting the better of me, I turned. He was a couple steps from the entryway.

People were staring in his direction with the kind of interest reserved for tabloids and reality shows.

Despite my anger, I reached for the door and opened it for him. It was something I did all the time, the kind of thing a younger wife did to take care of her elderly husband.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Robert said casually, as though he hadn’t created a public spectacle inside.

I didn’t respond. Just watched as he approached the valet stand and handed in our ticket.

A few minutes later, our yellow Porsche 911 Carrera pulled up to the curb. The young valet who’d brought it held the driver’s door open for Robert, then made his way around the car and opened the passenger door for me.

Not going to accuse him of staring at my tits?
I thought sourly.

No, Robert just handed the young man a ten. Then he revved the engine and began to drive.

Angry, I stared ahead blankly. I was going to give Robert the silent treatment if he spoke to me, but he didn’t say a word, either. After a couple of minutes, I glanced his way to gauge his mood. On his face, I saw a contented expression—and if I wasn’t mistaken, a hint of smugness. Not at all the look of a man who’d acted so outraged that a waiter had been inappropriately ogling his wife.

If he truly believed that ridiculous claim.

Robert hit a button to turn on the stereo, and classical music filled the car. He thrummed his fingers against the steering wheel like a man who didn’t have a care in the world.

“I say we head to the country club. You can count on professionalism there.”

I turned my gaze from his face to my window.
To the country club…gee, what a surprise.
Suddenly, I couldn’t help thinking that Robert had orchestrated the whole ugly incident just so we would leave The Melting Pot. He hadn’t wanted to go there in the first place, and what a
perfect plan, to make the experience so uncomfortable there was no way we could have stayed.

Did you do it on purpose?
I wanted to ask him.
Did you humiliate our waiter just so you could get your way?

Yes. You know he did, Elsie.

And I did. That was exactly his style. Passive-aggressive bullshit so that he could always get his way.

After a few minutes, Robert asked, “Are you not going to speak to me again?” He sounded almost cheery.

I said nothing.

“Elsie…”

“You embarrassed me,” I said. “Not to mention that poor waiter.”

“That poor waiter needs to learn some respect.”

Now I faced Robert. “What are you talking about? He wasn’t looking at my
tits,
as you so crudely put it.”

“He was.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“You never see it, do you?”

Knowing what Robert was referring to, I once again turned to look out the window.

“I don’t want a repeat of Hawaii,” he said.

“Hawaii?”

“Yes, Hawaii,” Robert stated curtly. “Don’t play dumb when you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Nothing had happened in Hawaii—though Robert wouldn’t believe it. During our last vacation there, over Christmas, he had been convinced that one of the pool attendants was hitting on me. The man had made pleasant conversation, brought me extra towels, reserved our
lounge chairs every day. Robert had point-blank asked the man if he’d been trying to get me into bed.

He hadn’t been, of course—even if I can admit he was flirting. Robert and I weren’t the only May-December couple who went to the spectacular St. Regis Resort in Kauai over Christmas, year after year. Hollywood producers and their young wives also packed the place over the holidays. Men with power and money and trophy wives. The hotel staff knew how to cater to just that kind of clientele. How to pander to them and even kiss their asses when necessary. But this attendant, Richard, was new, and didn’t keep the same kind of “professional” distance that men like Robert expected. He’d talk to you about the weather, your interests, where you were from—that sort of thing. And sure, he probably stole a few excited glances of me in my two-piece.

That was to be expected. Guys the world over checked women out, not caring if they were married or not. And wasn’t that supposed to be the perk of having a beautiful woman on your arm—that other men were openly envious of your catch?

Unfortunately for Richard, Robert had been so offended by his “lack of professionalism” that he’d complained to the hotel. There was no way that management wanted to risk losing any of their high-end customers, especially not Robert Kolstad, so Richard had been made to apologize to me and Robert—and then he’d been fired.

“Our waiter was nothing but courteous and professional,” I said.

“He’s lucky I didn’t speak to the manager.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“I’m sure you are.”

I sighed. “Robert, can you just let it go? Please, you’re making an issue where there is none.”

He had never been jealous. Not early in our relationship, anyway. But in the last few years, I think, as the realization that he was getting older, while I was still comparatively a young woman, hit him, he had become far less secure in our marriage.

That had to be the reason for his odd behavior. Which was why I felt he needed something else to make him feel more secure. Something that would show I loved him and was committed to him.

A baby. I wanted a baby more than anything.

“Maybe I did overreact,” he admitted. “I guess I need to accept that I have a wife most men would love to steal from me.”

Then don’t push me away,
I thought silently. It was a sentiment I’d felt more than once over the last year—that Robert’s behavior was eroding the relationship we had. There were other men out there, maybe someone who was perfect for me.

Like the man with the hazel eyes who had come into my shop a couple weeks before.

But I said to Robert, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” He paused a beat. “Shall we go to the country club?”

“Sure,” I said.
You got your way again.

When I was out of town or on vacation, and anyone asked me where I lived, I always said Charlotte. But
Robert and I actually lived just north of Charlotte in an exclusive community called The Peninsula. Situated on Lake Norman, The Peninsula was a country-club community with so much to do, you didn’t have to go anywhere else if you didn’t want to. There was a yacht club, a championship golf course, swimming, tennis. Casual and fine dining. We were members of both The Peninsula Yacht Club and The Peninsula Club. Though we had our own pool at home, we sometimes used the pool at the yacht club when we socialized.

On most days, Robert could be found on the greens at The Peninsula Club. It was his home away from home. We ate there much of the time when we chose to dine out, which was why I had wanted to try someplace different.

But that’s where we went, and Robert was a much happier man. After a casual dinner and a couple of drinks, we headed home—where I still hoped to end the night the way I had originally planned.

I tried to get Robert in the mood after we pulled up in front of the house. Reaching across the seat, I lazily skimmed my fingertips over his hand before taking it in mine.

Robert squeezed my fingers in return. Then he met my eyes.

I stared at the man I had married. He was getting older, yes, but he was still so distinguished. Still looked like Harry Belafonte, a man who no matter how old he got would always be attractive.

“I love you,” I told him. “Only you.”

Robert’s mouth curled in a small smile, one thing
that despite the years was as dazzling as it had been the first day I met him.

Leaning forward, I pressed my lips to his. A lingering kiss that said we would continue this in our bedroom.

“I love you, too, Elsie,” Robert whispered as we pulled apart.

We exited the Porsche, which he had parked at the front of the house. A series of pod lights and spotlights illuminated our grand, Italian renaissance manor. It truly was a spectacular place, complete with a Roman-style fountain on an island of grass in the center of the long circular driveway.

I looped my arm through Robert’s as we made our way up the steps. Once inside, I kissed his cheek. The double front doors led to a huge great room with a plasma television mounted on the wall, a fireplace, sofa, love seat and lounge chair. There was plenty of room to make love right there, and Olga, our housekeeper, was long gone for the day. But I knew my husband. He would want to wait until we were comfortably settled in our bedroom, as opposed to getting hot and heavy on the sofa.

Holding his hand, I led him up the curved staircase, across the portion of hallway that overlooked the great room below, to the double doors at the end that led to our bedroom.

The moment we crossed the threshold, I turned to face Robert, snaking my arms around his neck, my mouth on his, slowly coaxing his lips apart. Slipping my tongue into his mouth, I held him tighter. Robert
began to kiss me back and I moaned, the sound ripe not just with desire, but with desperate need.

Robert’s hands went to my upper arms. He held me for several seconds, kissing me. Then he tightened his grip and forced my body away from his.

“I haven’t taken my pill, Elsie.”

“You can take it now.” I moved forward to kiss him once more, but he held me away.

“I want to make love to you—I do. But tonight—”

I planted another kiss on his lips. “Please, sweetheart. Please…”

I continued to kiss Robert, not ready for our night to end like this. He allowed it to go on for a few more seconds before pulling away again.

“I’m sorry, Elsie.” His eyes roamed over my face. And I thought I saw, just for a moment, a flash of disapproval.

“What is it?” I asked him.

“It’s…” He fingered the loose locks of hair around my face, almost as if examining the strands. “I’m tired, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

I got the feeling that Robert had been about to say something else. That there was another reason he didn’t want to take me to bed. But it
was
late for him—nearly eleven—and he’d had a couple glasses of that expensive cognac at the club, which always made him a little drowsy.

“Okay.” I gave him a soft kiss this time, trying to quell my disappointment. “If you’re tired, you’re tired. Why don’t you go get ready for bed, then? I’ll do some reading in the great room.”

“I’m sorry,” Robert repeated.

“It’s okay.” I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

I turned and exited the bedroom. Halfway down the hallway, I felt tears fill my eyes.

What am I doing wrong?

Robert and I hadn’t made love in nearly two weeks. There’d been some crisis at the office, Kolstad Systems, and he’d stepped in to help sort the problem out. I’d been busy with work. With all that had been going on, we hadn’t carved out any time for us.

This was the first evening in a while that we had spent any significant time together. I hadn’t wanted it to end like this.

Because I was pretty certain I was ovulating.

I went downstairs to the kitchen and made some tea and put on some smooth jazz. I hoped it would wash away my disappointment, but it didn’t. Two years I’d been off the Pill. Two years I’d been trying to get pregnant.

Robert’s rejection—even if he
was
tired—stung.

And then I asked myself why the night was necessarily over. Sometimes one partner had to do some coaxing to get the other in the mood. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seduced my husband.

My drive renewed, I made my way back upstairs. I would take off my clothes and crawl into bed with him. All he needed to do was get erect. I would climb on top of him and do the rest of the work.

As I neared the bedroom, I unzipped my dress. I pulled it over my head and tossed it onto the floor. Then I unclasped my bra and let it fall, as well. It was an idea
that came to me, and I acted. Surely when I entered the room, naked except for the pumps and necklace, Robert would become aroused.

Outside the door, I paused to strip off my thong panties.

The lights in the room were doused, except the lamp on my night table. Robert was lying on his side with his back to me. He didn’t hear me approach.

“Robert,” I whispered.

No answer.

Time for plan B.

I kicked off my pumps and pulled the covers back on my side of the bed. Then I slipped under the sheets, their coolness caressing my skin. I slid over to my husband, running my hand down his left arm. He didn’t react, so I leaned closer, nuzzling against his neck.

That’s when I heard his deep, steady breaths—and realized he was sleeping.

Still, I ran my hand over his hip and stroked him through his silk pajamas, hoping to wake him. Robert didn’t react.

I was defeated. I lay back on my pillow, sighing. It wasn’t just that I wanted to make a baby. I was sexually frustrated, needed sexual release.

As I lay in the dimly lit room listening to my husband’s steady breathing, I rested my right hand on the lower edge of my belly. I ran my fingertips over my skin. It was my own touch, yet my vagina thrummed in response. It needed to be stroked.

My hand went lower, over my pubic hair and to my
center. I spread my folds. Lazily let my finger stroke my clitoris.

Angling my head slightly, I glanced at Robert. He hadn’t moved. He was still asleep. But even if he woke up and found me touching myself, I wouldn’t stop.

If he saw me, hopefully he would become aroused and make love to me.

I circled my finger around my clit, each stroke making me hotter. Raising my left hand to my breast, I tweaked my nipple. It hardened instantly.

I played with my nipple. Played with my clit. Looked toward Robert and saw that his back was still to me. He was clueless.