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By eight, dinner was ruined. The chicken had fallen off the bone, and the onions had cooked down to nothing. There wasnt enough sauce left to taste.
"Perfect. "
Then she heard his key in the front door.
Her first reaction was a flash of anger. Youre late were the words that filled her mouth, but she took a deep, calming breath and released the air slowly, evenly. So what if he should have called.
For this one night, she wanted to be his mistress, not his wife. She poured him a glass of wine, and headed toward the door.
He stood in the doorway, staring at her.
And she knew.
"Hey, honey," he said without smiling. "Sorry Im late. " He didnt comment on anything--not the fire, the candles, her outfit.
She moved toward him, feeling suddenly self-conscious in her silk robe.
"I didnt get the job. "
"What happened?" she asked softly, knowing what the answer would be.
"Wilkerson didnt want to gamble on a guy who used to do drugs. " Jack gave her a smile so sad it broke her heart. "Some things dont ever go away, I guess. "
She could see how badly he was hurting, but when she reached for him, he pulled away. He walked into the living room and stared into the fire.
"Remember when you blew out your knee?" she said, following him. "We closed all the curtains in your hospital room, and I climbed into bed with you, and--"
"That was a long time ago, Birdie. "
She stared at him, feeling lost. He was less than an arms length away, but it might as well have been miles. Twenty-four years of marriage and here they stood. Both of them unsure; neither able to offer the other a steadying hand. In crisis, theyd become strangers. She didnt know what else to say, or even if she should speak at all. In the end, she took the safe route, and yet, as she spoke, it felt as if her bones were cracking. "Here. Have a glass of wine. "
He took the glass she offered and sat down, then opened his briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers. Without looking up, he said, "Can you turn on the lights? I cant see a damned thing here. "
"Sure. " She turned away from him quickly, before he could see how much hed hurt her. Then she tightened the wrap of her ridiculous robe and headed toward the kitchen. "Ill get you something to eat. "
"I love you, Birdie," he said to her back.
"Yeah," she answered softly, walking away from him. "I love you, too. "
THREE
The next morning, Elizabeth sat on a stool at the kitchen counter, with her hands curled tightly around a mug of chamomile tea.
"Coffee?" Jack asked, pouring himself a cup.
"No, thanks. Im trying to cut down on caffeine. "
"Again?"
"Yeah, again. " She set her cup down on the granite countertop. Her fingertip traced the rough, striated ceramic surface of the mug, the slightly bent handle. This cup was one of her many relics, a memento from her pottery period. She often thought that when she died, an anthropologist would be able to visualize who she was from the trail of her hobbies. Pottery. Stained glass. Hooked fabric rugs. Jewelry made from antique silver spoons. Macrame. Photography. Photo and memory albums. And then there were the endless classes shed taken at local community colleges. Shakespearean literature, art history, political science. Once shed lost her ability to paint, shed gone in search of a substitute, something that would light a fire of creativity
inside her. Nothing had ever taken hold.
Jack rinsed out the coffeepot and placed it gently back in place. He looked tired, and no wonder. Hed tossed and turned all night long.
"Why dont you stay home today?" she said. "We could go out to lunch. Maybe take a walk on the beach. Or go Christmas shopping in town. The stores are all decorated. "
"Its too cold. "
