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She shook her head.
“Excellent,” he said, slapping his hands on the arms of his chair three times. “Let’s shake on it.”
Now Foster was saying, “You told him you’d be in touch within two weeks.”
“I’ll be monitoring my cycle, taking my temperature each morning, so that hopefully I’ll know the day I ovulate.”
“And how long after that before you’d know if you conceived?”
“Two weeks.”
“I get giddy thinking about it.”
“Get giddy when I pee on a stick and it turns pink. Or blue. Or whatever it’s supposed to turn.”
Laughing, he kissed her soundly, then by tacit agreement, they headed for the elevator tucked discreetly under the stairs. “Race you to the top,” he said as he rolled his chair into the metal cage.
She jogged up the curving staircase and was there to meet him when he arrived. “You always win,” he grumbled.
“Those sprints up the stairs keep me in good shape.”
“I’ll say.” He reached around and smacked her on the butt.
Hearing their approach, Manuelo opened the door from inside Foster’s bedroom. “Can we skip the therapy tonight?” Foster asked. The aide smiled and shrugged, indicating he didn’t understand the question. “He’s faking that. I know he is. He knows damn well I’m talking about the therapy he puts me through and how I feel about it.” He clasped her hand tightly. “Spare me, Laura. Please.”
“Hey, I’ve got it just as tough tonight. I’ve got to review that union contract again. But I’ll come and tuck you in.” She kissed him lightly on the lips and continued down the wide hallway to her office.
But an hour later, when she went into Foster’s bedroom, Manuelo had done everything that needed doing. The drapes were drawn. The thermostat was set to his preferred temperature. There was a carafe of ice water and a drinking glass on his nightstand. The call button was within reach. He was sleeping, a book resting on his lap.
She turned off the bedside lamp and for the longest time sat there in the darkness, in the chair beside his bed, listening to his breathing. He didn’t stir, and she was grateful that he was able to sleep so well.
Eventually, she left him and went alone to the bed they used to share, wishing that her sleep could be that sound.
CHAPTER
7
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, GRIFF HAD A HITCH IN HIS BACK from sleeping on the soft mattress, which sagged in the middle. He denied that the chronic pain was a holdover from thirteen years of getting slammed into by tacklers—eighth grade through his years with the Cowboys.
His right shoulder also bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Over the course of his playing days, he’d had four fingers broken, one of his small fingers broken in the same place twice. The second time, he hadn’t bothered to have it set, so it had healed crooked. Assorted other gridiron mishaps and melees made getting out of bed every morning a slow process.
Fondly recalling the comfort of Marcia’s perfumed and silky sheets, he limped into the drab kitchen, boiled water for instant coffee, toasted a piece of bread, and washed it down with a glass of milk to chase the bitter pseudo-coffee taste from his mouth.
Before he forgot, he called the probation officer assigned to him. Jerry Arnold’s voice-mail recording had made him sound like a likable enough guy, and now his live voice sounded even friendlier and nonthreatening. “I was just calling to make sure you got the message I left yesterday,” Griff said after an exchange of hello-how-are-yous.
“Sure did. But let me repeat the info back to you, check to see I got it right.” He recited the address and phone number Griff had left.
“That’s right.”
“How about a job, Griff? Anything yet?”
“I’m seeing about that today.”
“Good, good. Keep me posted on any progress.”
“Will do.”
“Well, you know the conditions of your probation, so I won’t bore you with them again.”
