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“Will do.”
When we reach the third floor, Max keys numbers into a pad on the door and the sound of a lock disengaging sounds loudly. He pushes the door open and waves me in with a flourish.
A dozen monitors sit on a couple of long tables. Underneath are a variety of CPUs. Keyboards and cables spill out of boxes. It’s the most organized junk room I’ve ever seen.
“This is where equipment goes to die. Every computer I’ve ever owned is here.”
“Why?”
He raised one shoulder in a half shrug. “Can’t seem to part with them. Maybe I’ll open a tech museum some day.”
I start to say something, but a huge yawn comes out instead. “I’m really tired.”
“A good night’s sleep wouldn’t hurt.” He looks a question at me.
“I’ll sleep in one of the guest rooms tonight.”
His hurt expression almost convinces me to change my mind, but sleeping apart for one night is probably a good move.
He puts his interlaced fingers behind his neck, then stretches. “I’ll spend a couple of hours at the office getting all the London bumf finished, but I’ll be home in time for lunch. We don’t need to be at the airport until five.”
He gives me a squeeze and I rub the top of my head against the soft cashmere of his sweater briefly.
“Night,” I say.
“Call me if you find monsters under the bed.” He kisses my cheek and we go to our separate rooms.
ChapterEight
Cress
Monsters under the bed. My childhood nightmares were more about being alone. Left in a forest, thrown out of a car, coming home to an empty house where all the locks had been changed. Being chased by monsters would have been a relief from all that aloneness.
When I was older, the dreams changed from my being isolated to being ridiculed. When I dreamed of walking down the halls of my high school, having just discovered I was still in my pajamas, or had forgotten to put on a blouse, mocking laughter would follow me.
Dreams of forgetting an exam and getting to the room only to find it was barred, was accompanied by my grandparents’ scolding voices. “Worthless. Sorry we ever took you in. Just like your mother.”
I swallow down my memories, disappointments, bad decisions. I’m alone and it’s my own choice. Cutting off my nose to spite my face. I drop said face to my hands as feelings of worthlessness sweep over me.
Pointless, I tell myself. Time to move forward. Maybe after a night apart, we can figure out how to move on in the morning. We started with glib promises, but the reality is that changing decades of behavior is a constant struggle. He needs to be more open and I need to be more tolerant, less judgmental. Wanting Max so much, I have to believe we can make it. And I have to trust that he wants the same.
The newly decorated guest room should be inviting, with its soothing Provençal theme. Purples, blues and yellows wash the walls and remind me of the ocean, fields of sunflowers and lavender, and the glow of sun-washed stone houses perched in the shadows of the Alps. The furniture is country French with light woods and upholstery in cream linen.
Instead, the air is cold and lonely, “stale, flat, and unprofitable” in Hamlet’s words. I climb onto the tall, king-sized bed, its vast expanse reminding me of the empty Antarctic plain. The new mattress should feel wonderful—it’s called a Wonder mattress—but I’m as trapped as the princess and the pea, tossing and turning, no comfort here.
I’ve been discounting the danger that Max has been pounding on for the last few weeks. Years of warnings and threat levels since nine-eleven have tended to blunt fears. You can only live with high-levels of anxiety for so long before everything fades into the background. Even reports of terrorist attacks are just fleeting blips in the radar.
Now, the idea of danger seeps into every pore. Metin’s words haunt me.
These threats are specific to Max…a suspicious letter that contained white powder…the terrorist who set up the ambush escaped from prison…he may want revenge…
I miss the comfort of Max’s arms around me. The featherlight kisses on my neck. The murmured endearments. The feel of his skin against mine. The feeling of safety. I almost get up to go to him. Almost.
Instead, I pummel the pile of pillows into submission, throw myself back against the mound, and try to adjust my neck, my arms across my chest, close my eyes, and will myself to sleep.
My mind churns, imagination running away with me. Although I have no idea what this terrorist looks like, I envision a tall figure, swathed in white robes, looking like Anthony Quinn inLawrence of Arabia. Faceless minions range behind him, each holding a cartoon bomb. The ones that are round with a sparking fuse, and the wordbombwritten across the front. Ridiculous stereotype, but the image seems burned into my thoughts. He shakes his fist, mouthing words I can’t hear.
Should I stay home? Let Max face this on his own? I stiffen. No way. My arguments about being a target even if we are separated still make sense. And, foolish though it may be, I would stand with Max than be the little woman pacing the widow’s walk while her man faces danger.
