May 1979 – St. Charles, IL

Angela stood up straight and took a couple of deep breaths. Smoothing the front of her dress, she exited the bathroom and saw Michael sitting on the bed, playing This Little Piggy with Jonathan's toes. Jonathan laughed outrageously from the moment Michael said, "But this little piggy…".

It was such a sweet moment, and everything about it hurt. She wanted to smile, but just couldn't. She got her shoes out of her suitcase, picked up her clutch and their wrapped gift, and carried them all toward the door.

"Angela," Michael started.

Angela stopped but didn't turn her head. She closed her eyes, gently grasping at serenity.

"Michael, please." She turned her head toward the ground by his feet. "Let's just try to get through tonight, okay?"

"But-"

"Please?" she said softly, fragile worry all over her face.

Michael closed his mouth and kept it that way. Just before she left the room, she turned back a little. "Thank you for getting him ready," she said quietly, and left the room.


The innate grandeur of the ballroom at the St. Charles Country Club was exquisitely heightened by lead crystal and blush-colored tulips. The muted silver was polished and white linens twirled around the many tables thwarting the dancefloor. The expansive room was bookended by a chamber orchestra on the end by the dancefloor, and a massive fireplace on the other. Angela held Jonathan's hand and looked up and around, taking it all in as she walked.

"Wow. My parents went all out," Michael said quietly. Angela nodded.

She actually liked it better than her parents' country club. It may have been too hot for a fire that night, but she could imagine winter balls here, with snow falling outside the architectural masterpiece with its towering, white columns, hot apple cider awaiting the guests as they took off their furs. It was a lesson in luxury, and the thought lightened her eyes, if just for the moment.

But this spring evening, there was no fire. There was no crisp, jolly mood. But there was chocolate cake. Angela spotted it from across the room among several other types of decadences on the dessert table. She was surprised, but relieved, to find the event buffet-style and without assigned seats. They had more control over when and what they ate, and how often they got up from the table, this way, and she liked the idea of not feeling trapped. They dropped their gift off at the appropriate table, and found seats next to a couple Michael wasn't related to.

Angela looked at Michael. "Do you want me to get him a plate?"

Michael shrugged, and shook his head. "Whatever you want," he said quietly.

Angela nodded, and got up. She walked through the buffet line, with a plate big enough for both she and Jonathan to share. Mostly, she wanted chocolate, but figured some candied carrots and mashed potatoes would help round out her meal.

She traded with Michael, and he got his food while she sat with Jonathan in her lap. The orchestra was playing Tchaikovsky, and when she heard them start up The Sleeping Beauty, Angela couldn't help but smile.

She remembered watching the Disney version with Carwen when she was probably eight or nine years old. Her parents had gone out for the evening, and Carwen had taken her to the theater. They'd giggled and gasped and had a wonderful time together. Now, watching the musicians in open wonderment, Angela slipped into joy as easily as Aurora was led up the stairs by Maleficent's captivating, green glow.

But Angela jumped a little when she felt eyes on her. Michael was staring at her. She gave him an awkward smile and looked down to her plate to take a spoonful of potatoes. She gave Jonathan a bite of carrots and took a drink of ice water. Her nonchalance never seemed to sit well with anyone, but Michael didn't push the issue this time. He just kept watching her, taking drinks of his own water, and picking meagerly at his pheasant with spring greens.

When they had finished most of what was on their plates, and Jonathan was trying to eat the cloth napkin, Michael stood and looked down at Angela. "Will you dance with me?"

Angela looked up at him, her blankness tightening quickly into fear. Of what, she didn't know. But she sat there, looking pained, and wishing she could take a drink of water, and that would suffice for an answer. She did want to dance with him. She missed him. She wanted to be held and be reassured that all was okay. But she was so afraid. One minute, he's smiling at me, the next, he's raging at me. And, like always, the plummet hurts more than the ascension ever soothed.

But when he held out his hand to her, his eyebrows dipped up in vulnerable hope, she took it. He pulled her to her feet, and then let go as he took Jonathan from her arms.

Michael swung by the dessert table and picked up a ramekin of crema catalana. He brought them both to Elaine. He spoke with her for a couple of seconds, and her face brightened immediately. Michael made sure Jonathan had a solid eyeful of the golden custard as he put him on her lap. To Angela's surprise, the toddler sat happily with his grandmother, and eagerly accepted bites of his bribe. Then Michael straightened and turned toward her.

Even if she hadn't been looking at the way her husband was stalking, she was sure she could've felt the change in the air. He was on a mission, and she was dying to be captured. When he got close, he took her hand, and led her to the dancefloor.

The orchestra started Swan Lake, and the strings gallantly led the delicate charge. Michael placed his right hand in the middle of Angela's back, leaving a slight distance between them. Angela felt his solid arm through his jacket and felt even weaker. He kept watching her intently but held his distance as he directed her confidently back and then to the side.

Angela had no idea her husband knew how to waltz, and she noticed she wasn't breathing like she'd been taught by her dance instructors. They didn't tell her about what to do when your partner looked at you like that, when your whole life and every fragility you possessed were balancing between you. The rhythm picked up, and Michael athletically spun them around and through the other couples. Angela was glad for the ankle strap on her heels, or she'd never have been able to keep up. The hint of a playful smile tilted up his lips, and she remembered them running through the Waldorf, him warming her up in Central Park, and her scooting next to him in an old pickup. Damn, she loved him.

The tempo slowed, and Angela grew tired of the space between them. She stepped closer, and Michael's smile broadened, revealing those powerful dimples toward which she felt she must simply bow. As a couple, their form was impeccable. The strength of their soldierlike posture was accentuated by her long skirt, whipping like a flag on a battlefield. She did feel at war, but she couldn't tell if her partner was the enemy or the mission. One thing was for sure: surrender had never seemed so attractive.

Angela was truly delighted. The acoustics filled her chest with their elegant resonances, and that old dream of feeling taken care of was at her fingertips. Every now and again, Michael's gaze would slip to the depth of her neckline and make a serious reentry into her line of vision. Like him looking up at her as he kissed her stomach in the desert, she felt targeted, chosen. He did want her, and it was an intoxicating feeling. She just wasn't sure she knew how much of her he wanted, and with her wounds from this morning so fresh, she tried to shake herself into sobriety. But the warmth of his hand through the thin material on her back, the power of his thighs guiding hers, and the joint agreement of his hand holding hers, made it near impossible. She would never get over him.

The piece came to a close, and Michael ended with a strong, tall stance, holding her there until all sound ceased. He then relaxed and kept hold of her hand as he walked them off the dancefloor. The Master of Ceremonies took the mic, and toasted the Anniversary couple, asking them for an appearance. Michael and Angela took Jonathan from them and sat down, as his parents took the spotlight.

Steven and Elaine said something, but Angela wasn't listening. Michael had Jonathan in his lap, and she scooted her chair so she could lean back against the other side of Michael's chest. She still couldn't talk to him, but she would give anything if he could interpret her body language. Seeing as it would probably take one dessert per dance for Jonathan to comply silently, they decided against another. But Angela and Michael sat contentedly the rest of the evening, he with his free arm around her, and she with her hand on his thigh.

In light of the fact that Jonathan was squirming and had decided his clip-on tie tasted even better when dipped in mashed potatoes, Michael and Angela acknowledged their hosts and left early.

Michael stopped at a liquor store on the way home and picked up a bottle of rosé. Jonathan was almost asleep when they pulled up to the house and threw a colossal tantrum at being woken up. Sharing a look, Michael and Angela shook their heads and walked up to their room.

"I'll lie down with him," Michael said, and Angela gave him an appreciative look. She was so happy to get her shoes off but fumbled with the idea of whether to stay dressed or not. Clearly, Michael liked the dress, but she was ready to be out of the polyester.

Meh, I can tough it out a bit longer.

She walked softly down to the kitchen and turned on the stove light. She rummaged through some drawers for a corkscrew. I wonder if they mind food in the room.

Angela walked a little around the dark kitchen, letting the tile cool her toes. Soon, she started to twirl, remembering the way Michael had held her so securely.

An angry toddler yell interrupted her daydream, and she dropped her head to her chest. This might take a while. She trudged up to their room with two flutes of wine and waited on the velvet bench in their room.

An hour later, Michael came out, clearly irritated, and looking like he hadn't slept in a week. She smiled at him, then saw Jonathan following behind him. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She walked up to Michael, handed him his flute, and took Jonathan's hand. "Tag," she said with a weary smirk.


Jonathan must have fallen back to sleep somewhere in the middle of the night, Angela on the floor by his bed. Michael was in his pajama bottoms on top of the bed when his preset travel alarm went off. He looked over next to him, and the bed hadn't been touched. Collecting himself, he went to the bathroom, and then walked into Jonathan's room. He saw Angela sprawled on her stomach in her designer gown, a little pool of drool by her open mouth. He smiled at her, and being careful not to wake their son, gently shook her ankle. "Angela?" he whispered.

She frowned and scrunched her face, groaning like someone much older and less dainty than herself. He laughed a little, but instinctively said, "Shhh!"

At that, Angela's eyes popped open, and she pushed herself slowly up to a sitting position. "Hmmm?" she whispered obnoxiously, with her hand to her ear.

Michael rolled his eyes, and held out his hand. She took it, and they tiptoed out as quietly as possible.

He took her in his arms, but she leaned way back, shaking her head. "Mm-mmm!"

She scuttled to the bathroom to brush her teeth. He rolled his eyes again, but joined her. After they'd both rinsed their brushes, Angela asked, "Hey, would you give me a minute?"

He acquiesced with another eyeroll, and said, "I'm gonna get us some coffee."

"Thanks," she smiled and shut the door.

After she went to the bathroom, she looked in the mirror. "Yeesh!" – Just a couple-minute pick-me-up, she thought as she ran her fingers through her hair.


Michael walked softly downstairs and heard hushed, male voices coming from the kitchen. He stopped at the landing and listened curiously.

"At least the baby looks like her," Ben laughed, and was joined by someone else.

"As long as he takes after her scholastically, financially, and socially, that's what matters," Steven rebutted.

"Shit, I still can't believe she married Michael. She carries that relationship on her back."

"I know; we can only hope she never realizes how little she needs him."

Michael heard the clinking of mugs, and stormed upstairs. He thundered into the room and paced recklessly.

Angela heard him stomping and was just about to playfully shush him when she saw his face. "What's wrong?"

Michael glared at her.

Not again. "Michael?" she asked getting more worried.

He didn't say anything but plunked down to sit on the edge of the bed. Angela shut the door and went to sit next to him. He had stilled, and she was trying to figure out what to do next.

After more than a minute of silence, she nudged him a little with her leg. "Hey," she said softly. He turned his head to look at her.

She'd done a quick refresher on last night's makeup, including a smear of lip gloss. She was turned toward him, and her blonde curls fell over the low shoulder.

Michael said nothing but studied her - starting at her face and going down her neck and chest, her slim form swallowed by the piles of skirt flouncing from her waist. She saw him looking at her closely and, not sure if he was liking what he saw, tried to smile. Ugh! Why is he so upset? – again!

Angela was so tired of the up and down, but this down was awful. She'd gone from feeling treasured to hated in a few minutes. She was drowning and dying to rise.

She leaned toward Michael and kissed his neck, under his jaw. He exhaled, and she put a hand on his leg, feathering lighter kisses back toward his ear. He jolted to standing and turned to glare down at her.

"God, Angela! Can't you tell I'm upset? Not everything can be solved by a quick fuck! - even with you!" he wiggled his fingers mystically at her.

Horrified, Angela sat on the bed, looking up at him, completely dumbfounded. He yanked open the top drawer and grabbed a ball of socks. Turning to her, he held it up to her and said, "Ya know? Maybe they'd be less impressed if they knew how baffled you are by the laundry!"

Snatching his sneakers, the man slammed the door on his way out.

Angela felt everything cloud over. Sitting on the edge of – something – she heard a small voice wail in the background.

"Mommy!"