The Seventh Commandment

By Barb McIntyre

This book spans 30-plus years and tells the stories of four generations of women. It focuses on relationships; how they begin, what makes them last, and how they can cause both joy and sadness. It's about love, friendship, fidelity, honesty, and keeping secrets.
Adultery has touched Sandra's life, as well as the lives of her grandmother, mother, sister, daughter, and a close friend. One is not aware of it, and one has been deeply affected by it. One has only contemplated it, one only imagined it, one does not regret it, and it is one's deepest secret.
From the starry-eyed letter a soon-to-be-bride writes to herself, to the thoughts of her daughter when she reads that letter, these family members reveal themselves. They reveal how they live and love despite adultery, real or imagined, domestic abuse, the discovery that a loved one is gay, aging, and the death of a spouse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667880020

Book preview

PART ONE

1981

CHAPTER ONE

Sandra

My name is Sandra Forester. I’m a little better than average looking, twenty-three-year-old. I live in a slightly worse-than-average apartment in a bigger-than-average Canadian city with above-average scenery. It also has a university and a hospital that are older than the country. It’s the kind of in-between city where you don’t meet somebody you know every time you go downtown. But you do maybe more often than you want to.

Two weeks from today, I’m actually going to walk down the aisle of the church my mother and her mother were married in. And I’ll be wearing a dress Grams designed and made for me. Mom calls it a fairytale princess dress, and that’s exactly how it makes me feel when I put it on. Grams has run a little dressmaking business out of her front room ever since I can remember. She loves creating original gowns. She loves making women look beautiful, and she does a fantastic job of it. She and Gramps are driving around New Brunswick right now, but they’ll be back in plenty of time for my wedding. I’ve promised to wink at her when I walk back up the aisle as Mrs. Mark Taylor.

We’re going to Los Angeles for our honeymoon. Our hotel room faces the beach, and we’ll be there for a full week. I want to lie on the beach, and I want to people-watch. I want to see everything there is to see in Hollywood. During the days, I want to walk on the sidewalks where the stars walk. It goes without saying that I have other plans for my nights.

When we get back, we’ll be living in a slightly better-than-average house, where I’ll have breakfast every morning with my much better-than-average-looking husband. Then he’ll drive me to my very average job at the university, which is on the way to his far above-average job at the hospital. I’m an order clerk in the purchasing department, and he’s a social worker. He’s five years older than me, and he’s a man. I didn’t realize it, but I’d only ever dated boys before I met him. He has a dreamy voice, he always looks so well put together, and he’s gorgeous.

I have to admit that he’s not quite as gorgeous as his best friend, Darcy Fitzwilliams. Women do more than glance at my Mark, but they outright stare at Darcy. I get a kick out of watching women ogle him. It’s as if he’s a big piece of moist chocolate cake covered in thick, creamy chocolate icing, and they’re on a diet. Being around him doesn’t fluster me anymore. I’m used to him. I’m more relaxed and not always concentrating on being on my best behaviour. The man is too perfect. Looks, build, skin, teeth, hair, manners; everything’s a little too perfect. Plus, he comes from money, and he’s a doctor. I keep trying to find a flaw in him. But I haven’t so far, except that he thinks a lot of himself. You can tell. He expects to get his own way and mostly does. I mean, he’s nice, polite to a fault, generous, funny, but judgmental, very judgmental. I don’t think he can help himself. He seems to have very high standards for himself, and he expects the same from everybody else.

I’m actually at work right now, but my boss is away today, so I don’t really have too much to do. I still need to look busy, though. So it’s the perfect time to record how I met Mark and how I feel about him. I’m not naïve enough to think that this high will last forever. I’m typing anything and everything that comes into my mind. It’ll be a letter to myself. I’ll put it in an envelope and read it on my third anniversary. I figure we’ll have a couple of babies by then. I want two, and I want them one right after the other. I figure it’s a good idea to get the sleepless nights and messy diapers over with as quickly as possible. And what’s a few extra diapers every wash?

My favourite aunt, Dad’s older sister, got divorced last year. It was a complete surprise to her. She’d organized a big do for their twenty-fifth anniversary, and he walked out two days before. She even lost her deposit on the hall. Divorce is terrible. Lawyers, money, threats, tears; it went on forever.

My sister, Jodi, and I read up on divorce at the time. Here in Canada, the percentage of marriages that end in divorce is between thirty-five and forty-two. It’s fifty-nine percent in the Yukon and only twenty-five percent in Newfoundland. We couldn’t find a reason for the differences. Jodi said it might be because they’re more isolated in the Yukon, so they get sick of each other faster. I thought they’d want to stay married, if only to keep each other warm in bed. And Newfoundlanders are known for being tolerant, close-knit, fun-loving, and easy to get along with. So we thought that statistic sort of made sense.

I read that the median duration of marriages for couples being divorced in the U.S. is around seven years. But here in Canada, it’s fourteen. So Aunt Pat’s lasted close to double the Canadian average, for whatever that’s worth.

And another study said that a decrease in the quality of married life appears twice: once after four years and again after about seven. That ties in with the seven-year itch thing. Apparently, we experience physical and mental changes every seven years. Because of our experiences, and/or personal growth, our goals can change, and those changes can make a marriage less stable and increase the probability of divorce.

So, I’m not taking any chances. I plan to capture this amazing, bubbly feeling, this feeling of happiness that seems too big to fit inside me, on paper and read it on my third anniversary. Maybe every anniversary after that too. Just in case I need reminding. I can’t imagine needing reminding. But I’m not taking any chances.

I noticed Mark as soon as I walked through the door. He must have come to the bar right from work, because he was wearing suit pants, his white shirt was open at the collar, and his sleeves were rolled up. I guessed that he had a jacket with a tie stuffed in the pocket somewhere. I found out that I was only partially right when he drove me home. His buttoned jacket was hanging, on a thick, wooden hanger, from a hook attached to the back of his headrest. But his tie wasn’t stuffed in a pocket. It had been carefully straightened, and was hanging on the bar of the hanger.

God, he looked good! But then I’ve always been a sucker for a man in a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I have a hard time not staring at thick, hairy, muscled arms partially covered by smooth, white cotton. It’s the contrast. All I can think about is the manliness hidden under the desk-sitter’s uniform.

Jodi says I’m too easily turned on. But she’s slept with eight guys, and I’ve only slept with four. And she’s almost two years younger than me. Actually, we’re both below par in that department. Most of the women we know score in the double digits.

I’m pretty sure my heart skipped a beat or two, and I stopped breathing for a few seconds when I first saw him. I also suddenly felt as if somebody had jacked the temperature in the room way up to fever levels. And I know I stopped walking because Jodi bumped into me. The first thing I did was to take an inventory of my looks, and although I didn’t give myself a failing grade, I sure didn’t rate an A. Since I was only meeting Jodi for a few games of pool, I was dressed in an old T-shirt and even older jeans. I’d just washed my wavy, blonde hair, so it was at its shiny best. But I hadn’t bothered to do any more than pull it back into a ponytail. At least I’d taken the time for a quick swipe of lipstick and mascara.

While admiring his short, thick, dark hair, not to mention his backside, as he bent over the table for a shot, I kept reminding myself that my jeans were snug enough to show off my well-toned butt and abs. I’m proud of my butt and my abs. I work hard to keep them. The C cups that were outlined by my light blue T-shirt were a gift from my mother’s side of the family. The words ‘Life is a game. Billiards is serious.’ were printed in white on my T-shirt. Poor Jodi takes after the flat-chested women on my father’s side of the family tree. She still has the body she had at fifteen. A picture of a bowling ball hitting a strike covered her B cups. Well, she says they’re Bs. I’m pretty sure they’re As.

The bar was starting a new contest. There was a big blackboard on the wall, and anybody could sign up. You entered your names, and when your game was over, the loser’s name was erased. At ten o’clock, they would count names, and the two people who appeared most often would play each other. The prize was a night of free games the next time you came to the bar. Jodi knew Pete, who was playing with, actually losing to, the perfect specimen of manhood responsible for the sudden change in my vital signs. Luckily, the table next to them was empty, so all four of us could chat back and forth while we played.

It turned out that his name was Mark Taylor, and he usually played at a bar downtown, but it had been taken over by a rowdier crowd than he was comfortable with so he was trying out new venues. He told us he didn’t play very often. None of his friends liked pool. He was a good player, but I knew I was at least as good, if not better.

We were the two left standing at ten o’clock. I almost beat him. I had the winning shot lined up. But then I remembered that men don’t like to lose to women, so, for the first and only time in my life, I shot a foul on purpose. He cleaned up, but he had this funny, determined look on his face, and as soon as it was over, he took my stick, put in in the rack along with his own, and, without saying a word, held my arm to steer me outside. When we were well away from anybody else, he turned to face me.

A woman purposely letting a man win is much harder on his ego than simply losing a game to her, he said seriously. Don’t ever do that again.

Okay, I said, but I’m pretty sure it sounded more like a squeak than a word.

He moved a little closer. I could smell his aftershave and his beer breath.

Are you in a relationship? he asked.

No, I whispered, my eyes focused on the few flecks of brown in the soft, green eyes staring down at me.

He put a hand on either side of my head, pulled me to him, and kissed me.

Since I lost my virginity years ago, this was far from my first kiss. But it was my first real kiss. I had, up until then, thought that the descriptions of kisses in romantic novels were silly exaggerations. But when I could finally think again, I remembered Scarlett O’Hara’s reaction to Rhett Butler’s kiss. I looked up Margaret Mitchell’s exact words the next morning.

The rush of helplessness, the sinking yielding, the surging tide of warmth that left her limp was a perfect description of my reaction to Mark’s kiss. I really did experience a weakness in my legs, and I may well have fallen if I hadn’t been clinging to his body for support.

He pulled away, looked down at me, and said, You are now. His voice had that husky tone men get when they’re totally turned on.

And, just like that, I was. And I am.

I should have been ticked off. I’ve never been one to take orders very well. Just ask my mother. On the other hand, I was the obedient daughter. Compared to Jodi, I was positively submissive. But, in any case, my brain was out of commission. As I got to know him, I realized that he’d been acting out of character that night. Mark is completely the opposite of domineering. He’s the most democratic man you could ever meet. And he’s so logical. He’ll sit and talk things through with you until everything makes sense. He’s also the nicest, most thoughtful, honest, dependable, and smartest man I’ve ever met. But then, as the saying goes, I might be a tiny bit prejudiced.

I’m going to describe how I feel in as much detail as I can; what being with him, or even just thinking about him, does to me. And I’ll be careful not to use clichés. Most descriptions of people in love do, but I’ve never forgotten my English Comp teacher’s private war against them. They were trite and irritating. They demonstrated a lack of originality. They were tired, overdone, unoriginal, dull, and mindless. We used them because they fit the bill or were just the ticket. She’d scrunch up her face as if she’d just taken a mouthful of vinegar when she gave those examples. Miss Prior always deducted five points off the final mark of any essay that used a cliché.

One day, after getting a B on an assignment, the class genius argued that the expression, I second the motion, wasn’t a cliché. Yes, it was a frequently used expression, he agreed, but it was a valid one, often used in court, and therefore she should not have penalized him five points. Miss Prior got that wide-eyed look she always got when Einstein got the better of her, turned around, and started writing our next assignment on the blackboard. It had taken him a couple of times, but he finally understood that when she did that, their conversation was over. She’d ignore him until he sat down and stopped talking.

Miss Prior called him Jeremy; she always pronounced each of the three syllables and made it sound as if there was an exclamation mark after his name. The rest of us just called him Einstein, even to his face. It didn’t seem to bother him, but who knows? Some of the kids made fun of him, but mostly we ignored him, and he ignored us. He was always reading really thick books or writing in one of the spiral notebooks he always had with him. One of the guys told me he even carried it into the john. I never saw him even look at a girl, let alone talk to one. I hope he’s gotten over that. I hope he’s not still such a loner. I hope he’s found, or will find, somebody that makes him as happy as Mark makes me. But I really can’t see that ever happening.

I feel different as soon as Mark walks into the room. I’m suddenly prettier, smarter, and better. He’s my own happiness pill, and the effects don’t seem to be wearing off. I’m happy, crazy happy, like on Christmas morning when I was eleven, and there was a bicycle under the tree. It was a pink bicycle, just like the one in the catalogue. A bicycle my mother had told me, with a convincingly sad face, we couldn’t afford.

And the world has changed. I know it sounds crazy, but everything’s brighter. It’s as if a light bulb with a higher wattage has been installed overhead. I need less sleep, and I sleep more soundly. I wake up refreshed, think more clearly, have more energy, and accomplish more at work. I feel healthier. I’m more patient. I laugh more. I can do anything I set my mind to. Anything is possible in this best of all possible worlds. And I think time is going faster. My eight hours here just seem to fly by.

(Apologies to Miss Prior, but those words say exactly what I want to say.)

And that’s one thing I wish wasn’t true. I wish time would slow down just a little. Yes, I’m accomplishing more with the extra energy, but there’s so much to do. You read about how much work and how exhausting planning a wedding can be, but you don’t believe it until it’s happening to you. For every task I cross off the list, two more show up. And it’s not even that big a wedding. Seventy-three guests are considered quite a small reception. There were a hundred and twenty-two, a hundred and ninety-six, and two hundred and ten guests at the last three weddings I went to. And we’re not talking about wealthy people here. We’re talking about families that earn the same or less than my parents. I know they’re spending a bundle on me, and I’m grateful. I also know they’re having to cut back on their vacation this year. Mom says not to worry about it. She says I’ll do the same thing for my daughter someday.

I don’t know if it’s because there are so many decisions to be made, or if it’s because my mother and sister insist on ‘helping’ me make every decision, or if it’s just harder to make decisions because I’m on a permanent high. Who would have thought that choosing flowers or the font on name cards could be so complicated? And then there’s the guest list. It’s as if every little decision is a matter of life and death, and that’s just plain stupid. But here I am.

Lilacs have always been my favourite flower, but Mom insists that they’re too big. According to my mother, you can only carry dainty flowers when you walk down the aisle. Besides, Jodi’s bridesmaid dress is lilac. We’d never get an exact match. So lilacs were out. What about white and pink? Everybody loves white and pink, Mom insisted. I think they’re girly and pure at the same time, and I don’t see myself as either. We were at a standstill, so I hit the books again. I can’t believe how much information there is out there.

I read that in Victorian times they used flowers to send messages. Gladioli meant achievement or victory. Daisies meant happiness in marriage, and Forget-me-nots meant true love. It’s too bad that I don’t like the looks of any of those flowers. Then I read that Orchids mean beauty and refinement, so I chose soft buttery-yellow orchids. They’re neither small nor dainty, but yellow works well with lilac, so Jodi agreed with me, and Mom gave in.

I also read that Greek and Roman brides and grooms wore garlands of strongly scented flowers to ward off evil spirits and ill health. And back when people didn’t bathe very often, brides carried flowers to mask their body odour. Yuck!

And wearing something old represents the bride’s past, while something new represents her happy future. The bride is supposed to get something borrowed from someone who is happily married in the hope that some of that person’s good luck rubs off on her. And something blue is supposed to symbolize fidelity and love.

And the word honeymoon comes from the custom where ancient Norse couples went into hiding after the wedding, and a family member would bring them a cup of honey wine every day for thirty days. They celebrated weddings with one moon’s worth of honey wine.

Nobody could possibly guess that I’m just a little preoccupied with weddings right now. I’ll read anything on the topic. I’m obsessed.

I just realized that I haven’t played pool for at least two months! I haven’t even thought about it. Wow!

I do have to say that Mark has been my oasis of sanity and strength these past months. He’s convinced me, well, he keeps convincing me, that every one of these decisions has many right answers. We’re going to have a great wedding. Our guests will be happy for us and enjoy themselves, no matter what colour the flowers in my bouquet are, which font I chose for the name cards, or how big the centrepieces on the tables are. Whichever choices I make will be the right choices. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

And we’re going to have a long, happy, and loving marriage. I don’t have to remind myself of that. I know it.

CHAPTER TWO

Three years later

Dr. Darcy Fitzwilliams’ deep brown eyes scanned the hospital cafeteria as he sat down opposite Mark Taylor. Darcy’s fine, shiny, black, wavy hair curled a little over his ears, and a few tendrils fell onto his forehead. Mark had left his jacket in his office. His light blue shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and the knot in his tie was slightly askew. Darcy was wearing wrinkled scrubs that were almost the same colour as Mark’s shirt.

The former university roommates were equally fit and well-muscled, although Darcy was slightly taller and leaner. Darcy regularly watched the evening news while racing on the treadmill in his den, and Mark swam for an hour at least three times a week, always trying to beat his time. Both men exhausted themselves trying to outplay each other during their regular squash games.

Did you do it? Mark asked.

Darcy nodded and drank a quarter of his glass of water before saying, I helped her pack her things and drove her to her place. There were tears. But on the whole, it was fairly civilized. I have to give her that. It’s been a lot worse.

You never did tell me what terrible transgression pushed Deborah out the door.

I think I hear disapproval.

I don’t approve or disapprove. It’s your pattern. She’s not the first beautiful, intelligent woman you’ve been with long enough for you to find inadequate. And I doubt she’ll be the last. And I’m always interested. You know that. I’m always interested in your thought processes. Your ability to rationalize is outstanding.

Darcy’s handsome face suddenly radiated disgust. I got to her place a little early. She wasn’t expecting me for another half hour. I walked into the kitchen, and the woman was sitting there, spooning warmed-up Nutella into her mouth as if it were soup. She had the grace to look embarrassed. She told me how she was going to fit an extra dance class in the next day to make up for it. ‘But some days are just Nutella from the jar days,’ she informed me. Just the thought of it makes me gag.

Darcy’s features softened as he watched a pretty nurse, wearing a uniform that was a little too tight, carry a tray towards the wall of windows at the far end of the room.

Devouring warm, softened chocolate is no worse than devouring that single malt Scotch you use to decompress after a bad day, Mark said, his eyes on the nurse as well.

They both watched the nurse until she found her seat. Mark took a bite of his pizza, and Darcy finished spreading mustard onto his smoked meat sandwich.

"I know you’re not big