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POSSIBILITIES
We slept in the forest until dawn, then dressed and headed out before morning hikers and joggers intruded on our domain. We found a tiny bistro near Yonge and had breakfast on the front patio. Business was brisk, but it was all takeout, commuters stopping to grab a double espresso and biscotti on the way to the office. No one had time to stop and sit. We had the patio to ourselves and the staff left us alone even when we'd been there more than an hour. I was leaning back in my chair, eyes closed, fingers against my warm coffee cup, listening to Clay's running commentary on the morning traffic of cars and people rushing by.
"You look happy," he said suddenly.
"I am," I said, not opening my eyes. I tilted my head back and felt the heat of the sun on my face. "You know, I couldn't imagine living somewhere without seasons."
"Yeah?"
"Real seasons, I mean. I'd miss the changes, the variety. Especially spring. I couldn't live without spring. Days like today are worth every snowstorm and slush puddle. By March, it seems like winter will never end. All that snow and ice that seemed so wonderful in December is driving you crazy. But you know spring's coming. Every year, you wait for that first warm day, then the next and the next, each better than the last. You can't help but be happy. You forget winter and get the chance to start over. Fresh possibilities."
"A fresh start."
"Exactly."
Clay hesitated, then leaned forward as if to say something, but then stopped, pulled back, and said nothing.
We got back to the apartment after nine. I was late for work, but I was in too good a mood to care. I could always work through lunch or stay late. No big deal.
As we headed up the elevator, Clay told me how some street punks had tried to steal his car on a trip to New York City last winter. By the time I got to the apartment, I was laughing so hard I nearly fell inside as we walked into the apartment.
"Seriously?" I said as I closed the door.
Clay didn't answer. When I glanced at him, he wasn't laughing. He wasn't even looking at me. His gaze was trained somewhere over my shoulder. I turned to see Philip sitting on the recliner, arms crossed, looking like a parent who'd been waiting up all night for an errant child. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My brain raced, wondering how long he'd been home, what excuse would be appropriate. Had he come back that morning? If so, I could say we'd gone out for breakfast. As we stepped farther inside, Philip stood.
"I'd like to talk to Elena," he said.
Clay headed for the bathroom. Philip stepped in his path. Clay halted, shoulders tightening. He started turning his gaze toward Philip, then stopped, looking somewhere past him. He tried stepping around, as if he didn't see anyone there.
"I said, I want to talk to Elena," Philip said. "I'd like you to leave."
Clay turned and headed for the sofa. Again, Philip stepped in front of him and again Clay tensed. His hands clenched once at his sides, then relaxed. Philip was challenging him and it cost every ounce of self-control to ignore it. I was about to step in when Clay turned and looked at me.
"Please," I said.
He nodded and headed for the door, murmuring, "I'll be downstairs," as he passed me. When the door closed, I turned to Philip.
"When did you get back?" I asked.
"I didn't go."
"So you--"
"I was here all night."
I stalled as I struggled to think up an excuse. "The meeting was canceled?"
"There was no
meeting."
I looked up sharply.
"Yes, I lied, Elena," he said. "I had to prove to myself that my suspicions were wrong."
"You think Clay and I are--"
"No. I wondered, but you wouldn't have needed to leave the apartment for that. Something's going on, it's just not the obvious." Philip paused. "You know he's in love with you, don't you?"
