Read The War of the Roses: The Children for Free Online Page B

as a career choice and was working for a large law firm on Wall Street. Because she was giving up a lucrative salary, her resignation was met with raised eyebrows. Nevertheless, with skill and good management, she had parlayed their net worth into a secure nest egg, and Josh’s excellent earnings were more than enough to support a fine suburban lifestyle. One day, they had both agreed, when the heavy early load of child nurturing was over, Victoria would return to the practice of law.
    Because of the destructive nature of their parent’s experiences, they had amplified the essence of their marriage vows beyond merely “love and honor” and “until death do us part,” to the absolutes of honesty, openness, truth, and, above all, faithfulness. They allowed themselves to believe that such virtues, if practiced by their parents, might have avoided all subsequent horrors. Currently, most if not all of these bedrock virtues were being badly betrayed by Josh’s behavior. As a result, guilt and self-loathing were eating him alive.
    Before getting into the shower, he placed his cell phone in the charger to cover his story, then inspected his shirt for any telltale stains. He had contrived a costume of white cuff-linked shirts with a kind of attached shallow priest-like collar, which he wore to work under shapeless Italian jackets.
    It was, he knew, a deliberate creative director’s ploy to emphasize his individuality, a kind of armor to allow him the distance and mystique of eccentricity, which, in his business, translated into the perception of talent. It was, he knew, a benign form of deception, at the heart of the advertising game he played so well.
    Satisfied that he had obliterated all clues, he threw the shirt in the hamper, sniffed his jockey shorts—they were brand new and slipped on after the tryst, a deliberate caution to mute the scent of any residual body fluids. He imagined a faint sign but not enough for danger and flung it after the shirt. Only then did he step into the hot shower soaping himself raw to remove any tangible signs of Angela Bocci.
    God, how I hate myself, he cried in his heart, emphasizing this heavy burden of conscience by vigorously soaping the root cause of this problem. You Lobo, he whispered, slapping his penis, hoping humor might restore his equilibrium. You made me do it.
    Cleansed of all microscopic evidence, he baby powdered himself, slipped into pajamas, slippers, and robe and padded down the hall to the bedrooms of his sleeping children. He watched them for a moment from the doorway, then entered and planted kisses on their cool foreheads. The act punished him further, bringing tears to his eyes and a lump to his throat.
    Taking deep breaths to stem a sudden pang of anxiety, he moved downstairs to the den where Victoria lay curled on the couch. She offered him a troubled look and handed him the glass of Glenfiddich, half of which he polished off in a single gulp, hoping the surge would chase the panic.
    â€œYou look pale, Josh.”
    â€œI’m bushed,” he replied, sinking flatly into one of the easy chairs opposite the couch. The den was spacious, with exposed beams and high ceilings. It offered a calming effect with its polished cherry wood panels and floor-to-ceiling book shelves. They were filled with his prized collection of books on advertising art and her leather-bound sets by Victorian authors. Above the bookshelves in the space between the shelves and the ceiling nestled her colorful collection of Victorian straw hats.
    His wife had filled every available surface with her collection of Victoriana knickknacks, inkwells, porcelain vases, angels, and cobalt blue bells that she had lovingly acquired over the years. Lined up on the mantelpiece were more of her knickknacks.
    These displays were not limited to the den. Throughout the house were framed “fashion plates” of that era. When her mother came to visit on Christmas, she would