He nodded, slowly and conclusively. "You treat us like children, like we can't be trusted to think for ourselves. You arrange our lives to suit your needs."

"Ben, I don't!" she protested.

"You do, and when we dare object, you pat us on the heads and send us off like little kids too young to understand what life is about.

It's insulting, Angie. It's demeaning. It's infuriating" She could see that. His hands were white-knuckled on the edge of the counter.

But it didn't make sense. Ben was soft-spoken. He went about his business without hassle, passive in a positive way. This lashing out was totally unlike him. She struggled to understand what was going on in his mind.

"I know you're not pleased that I'm working longer hours, but it's a temporary situation."

"It's not the hours, Angie. It's the way you go about it. It didn't once occur to you to sit down with me and discuss how you planned to handle Mara's death. You decided what you were going to do, based on what was best for you and the office, then you put up a new schedule for us to follow and assumed we'd go along. Well, the scheduling isn't working anymore. Not for Doug, and not for me."

Her stomach twisted. "It's working," she insisted, because that had always been one of the givens of her life. She prided herself on having a successful career, a well-adjusted son, and a solid marriage.

"You're perfectly happy."

"See? Damn it, you're doing it now, telling me how I feel! Well, I'm telling you I'm not pefectly happy. I spend hour after hour alone in this house" "You're working" "Not all the time. I take breaks, and I don't spend more than five hours at the drawing board. So what do I do when I'm done? I walk through this godawful quiet house and feel lonely."

"That's absurd, Ben. Up until this week, I rarely worked more than six hours a day myself."

"And when you're home, you're fixated on Doug." She shook her head in denial, but he insisted "It's true, Angie. Your career comes first, then your son then me."

She was stunned by a thought. aYou're jealous?"

"If I am, I have every right to be." He jabbed his chest "I'm a man, and I'm human. I need companionship."

"You chose a solitary occupation."

"I chose an occupation I was good at, that just happened to be a solitary one, but it wasn't even so solitary when we lived in New York," he went on seeming unable to stop now that he had started. "I could hand-deliver my stuff and have lunch with the guys at the paper.

I could sit around the city room for as long as I wanted. So now I have cable TV for stimulation. There's no comparison, Angie."

It seemed he was finding fault with everything She was being torn apart. "Now it's Vermont that you hate? But you went right along with the move. You didn't once say boo."

"Because the move made sense! You were looking to Join a practice that wouldn't be cutthroat, we were looking to buy a house, which we couldn't do in New York, my work was portable, the quality of life here seemed right. I figured the positives outweighed the negatives, and if you were happy, that was half the battle. So we moved and you were happy."

So were you," she insisted, because she remembered too many smiles and good times for it not to "On some levels I was. You were working, which you wanted. I was working. We had our house and the freedom to drive down Main Street without experiencing gridlock."

"It's been good," she said, trying for points, only to be knocked down again.

"It's been lonely. At first I kept in touch with the guys, but after a few years, even with trips back once in a while, it wasn't the same.

There's a high turnover rate in the newspaper business. Before long, I didn't know who to call, and you were at work all day and then preoccupied with Dougie the minute you walked in the house. But I have needs, too, damn it."

"You should have said something."

He tipped up his chin. "I have, only you never hear. When I ask if you can take an hour off from work to go to lunch, you say you have patients booked straight through. When I suggest taking off for a weekend, you cite something or other that Dougie has doing here.

When he goes to bed, so do you. Where does that leave me?"

"But I do things with you," she argued. She didn't understand his attack. "We go out to dinner. We have friends over."

"You decide, you invite, you plan."

"And we do go away. That's what the awards ceremony next month in New York is all about."

"That awards ceremony is about recognition and prestige. It isn't about me. I could care less about getting an award. You're the one who wants it."

For you.

"But it isn't what I want," he repeated, and raced on. "But you don't know what I want, do you. You formed an idea of who I am and what I do, and you've woven that idea into your life.

You may listen to my words, but you don't hear my thoughts. You don't hear my needs. You don't see me. You haven't seen me in years!"

She came out of her seat to face him. "That's not true. You're my husband. I may not be here all the time, but I'm aware of what you do."

He shook his head. "You're so wrapped up in your own life that you haven't got a clue."

"You're dead wrong." "I don't think so," he said, leveling her a stare. "If you were aware of any of what I've been feeling, if you heard the things I asked you and looked at me really looked at me, you'd know that there's some thing going on in my life. But you're so blind to any thing but what's on your own schedule that you have no idea, no idea." He thrust a hand through his hair. iFor Christ's sake, Angie, I've had a relationship with another woman for nearly eight years now, and you haven't the foggiest."

Angie felt as though her insides had slipped to another part of her body. She put a hand to her chest to try to anchor her heart.

"What?" she asked in a shaky voice.

"You heard," he grumbled.

I've had a relationship with another woman for nearly ezght years, he had said, but that couldn't be.

She knew her husband. He was loyal and devoted "Are you saying that just to hurt me?" she asked because it was the only thing she could think of, and even then it didn't make much sense. Ben wasn't a hurter. He was a kind, introspective, innocuous sort.

He looked away. "I'm saying it because it's the truth, and because I don't know how else to get through to you." iWho is she?" Angie heard herself ask. It seemed important, the acquiring of as much information as possible. J He turned to the window and put his hands on his hips, and for a minute she thought he wouldn't answer. Finally, in a low voice, he said, "Nora Eaton."

Angie conjured up the image of a pleasant-looking woman average in nearly every respect except for a headfu, of long, incredibly vibrant salt-and-pepper curls. She was Tucker's librarian and terrifyingly '!She's older than we are," was all Angie could think to say.

Ben shrugged. ill never really thought about it."

Her legs were shaking. She eased herself down onto the chair. "How often do you see her?"

"I don't knowonce, twice a week sometimes.

Look, Angie"he turned backUit's not some kind of sexual perversion.

There are times when all we do is talk like you and I used to do before we were married. i miss that. I miss having you around."

"You never told me that."

"I did. You just chose not to hear."