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It also occurs to me that Quade’s awfully quiet. Unnoticed, I side-eye the mantel clock and see it’s been thirty-eight minutes. The time flew by in my whirlwind of thoughts, and we neither made conversation nor eye contact throughout.
“Okay.” I awkwardly break the silence as I fold up my legs.
Quade looks dumbstruck, as though I’ve broken him from a trance, hands still poised in mid air. “Ah, well. It has been about thirty minutes, hasn’t it.”
Nodding and smiling pleasantly, I straighten my dress and rise from the couch.
“Thank you sweets. That was nice,” I say as I automatically guide us toward the door.
Quade stands in front of it hesitantly, his expression pensive. “Well, I should say it was Cookie. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay another fifteen or twenty? I could work some of those anxiety knots out of your shoulders.”
“Oh, no. Thanks for offering though. I’m just gonna finish a couple things and turn in nice and early.”
Quade gives me the disengaged hug of having given up, then quickly turns to go. I watch, through the distortion of the stained glass door, as his lights appear and disappear down the road, then lock the door, turn out the lights, and enter the kitchen to fix a cup of chamomile tea. As I sweep back into the foyer with my steaming prize, I pause at the bottom of the steps to enjoy the way the streetlights refract through the intricately etched and angled borders of the living room windows. All the wood and glass work in my home is original, restored, priceless.
As I sit at my desk, grazing through a mass of emails, I’m struck by the oddest sensation. Something about when I was downstairs…something right after Quade left. What on earth is it? It feels like when you forget what you were going to say and then remember it was totally insignificant. Except I wasn’t going to say anything, unless I was planning to address it to the atmosphere. Several minutes and two emails later, when I’m still unable to shake the sensation, I decide to backtrack down to the living room.
I allow one more sip of my tea, take a deep relaxing breath, and pull on a light cardigan…feeling silly as I stop my work to walk back downstairs for no reason whatsoever. By the time I reach the bottom step, I’m becoming outraged. Why am I doing this fully pointless exercise…I wonder as I traverse the room and hover around the front door. I was actually, finally, having a perfectly pleasant evening, didn’t fight with Quade, didn’t lose my cool over anything, and now I’m acting stupid for no reason …I think as I reach to open the door and step out for some fresh air.
My body becomes rigid on the spot as my hand grips the knob and it doesn’t open. I locked the door. I live in Fairfield, Iowa and I locked my front door. I don’t lock the door at night. The last time I locked this damn door, I was on a trip out of town for a week. This is not insignificant. What the hell is wrong with me? I decide to trust my intuition, and I back away from the door as though it were protecting me from a lion’s den. Just before I turn to ascend the steps, I see headlights pulling up in front of the house…Quade’s headlights.
I dash up to the top step, knowing I can’t be seen in the semi-darkness. Through the glass I can make out his figure striding purposefully down my sidewalk and then reaching upward. He attempts to turn the handle…without knocking. I watch breathlessly as he raises his knuckles, then changes his mind and stalks back to the car.
Quade and I were married for four years and together for eight. There’s nothing in me that could possibly fear him, yet I find myself locking the backdoor as well. Armed with a tiny flashlight, I quickly check the couch cushions and end tables for whatever he must have left. Finding nothing, I head back up and turn out my office light, huddling in front of the glowing computer screen. I have no missed calls or texts.
Two hours later, I’m still wound up from the oddity of Quade’s behavior. I very much need to get some good sleep tonight, so I think I’ll do some casual reading to wind down. Actually, AFA sent me the list of speakers and vendors for this year’s conference. That could be sort of fun and distracting, or at the very least bore me to sleep.
I begin scrolling through the dizzying list and see several familiar names from last year. I always look forward to going and mingling with people I recognize, although I’ve never felt like I made close friends with any. Maxine is such a nice and charismatic young woman. She should fit right in and, perhaps, provide good company. Quade can’t be wrong about everything.
Finally I’m getting sleepy, as I peruse the vendors page, a languid yawn forcing my eyes to tear up at the corners. Although I usually don’t get too excited about vendors, since none of mine ever attend the conference anyway, a distinct word catches my eye as I quickly scan down the alphabetized list. It’s a short, precise little word that’s hard to miss on a page full of longer names. Bo. Bo Thompson. Big Bo’s. Big Bo’s is listed as one of the vendors attending this year’s AFA Conference.
Irrationally, my heart is beating at double time. I’ve been getting supplies from Bo for going-on four years now, and I’ve never seen him at the conference before…even though he lives right there in Florida. And I never imagined I would. He really doesn’t seem like the crowded-social-event type. I don’t know what’s possessed him to enlist, nor what’s come over me that I would concern myself with it, but suddenly I’m looking forward to this conference in a way I never have before. After the evening’s events, I feel a delirious combination of exhaustion and exuberance as I get into bed.
When my alarm goes off at seven, thirty minutes later than usual, I tear out of the covers and throw on my robe, ready to rush into my morning routine. I bolt down to the kitchen and begin making my cascara tea, which should theoretically give me enough energy to survive morning meditation without falling dead asleep.
As I stroll into the den, which is furnished and decorated like an English tea room, I realize with a start that I must change out of this short, satin robe before Quade drops by. He’s supposed to leave for the airport at eight, so I should be hearing his knock before long. Although I don’t feel any need to wear paper bags around my ex husband, my go-to house robe happens to be especially slinky…and it shows an awful lot of leg. I abandon my tea to rush upstairs and change into a lounge suit.
Back on the flowery couch in the den, I answer a few texts and emails in preparation for my workday. A smile spreads across my face when I pause to sip tea and remember what I found out last night. I glance at my phone; it’s five till eight. What in the world happened to Quade? I get a text from Holly.
Good morning bright eyes! Going to yoga this afternoon?
I’m planning to, if I can make it out of my meeting on time.
You’d better! See you at four.
I’m sure I would have utterly forgotten if I hadn’t received Holly’s text. After a couple sun salutations on the carpet, I’m ready to begin meditation. And I’m turning my ringer off. Whatever Quade wanted will just have to wait till later.
I meditate for one hour, sleep for another, then get up and hustle to the shop…never having received any texts or calls from Quade.
***
I decide to show up at the Om fifteen minutes early because Holly’s always early for everything. How that’s possible, given her schedule, is beyond my comprehension and I rightfully despise her for it. No sooner than the entry-door bell finishes jingling, I spot her on the far side of the room, predictably warming up with deep breathing. Who warms up for deep-breath yoga with deep breathing? I don’t even wish I was as perfect as Holly.
“Oh hey, Fiona!” she opens her eyes and says with total surprise, as I reach out and gently touch her arm. “You’re early. What’s gotten into you?” She giggles and pats the yoga mat beside her.
I sit and stare at her like an animal in headlights, trying to figure out whether to begin with the weird news or the even weirder news. “Holly,” I begin in a lowered voice, “I’ve gotta tell you something.” I break into a wide grin.
Holly gasps. “You’ve met someone,” she says with the enthusiasm of a teenager.
