AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He closed his eyes and pictured Quinn coming downstairs, pleased he hoped, with the breakfast he left, although it was less about the food and more that he couldn’t think of what else to do.
It was close to three a.m. when they finally lay back on the pillows, exhausted. In the blur of restless sleep that followed, he heard her toss and turn, get out of bed and, at some point, sniff as if she might be crying.
He wanted to reach out and touch her back, pull her closer. But he knew enough from the previous few hours to realize she wouldn’t want that, so he let her be.
When he woke up around six, her body was rising and falling steadily and he didn’t want to wake her. At first he had gone to the kitchen looking for a junk drawer with a pencil and paper so he could leave a note. But what would he write? Had a great time? Call me?
Seriously, had it been some hidden camera reality show? Maybe a ruse to make a porno?
Or she was going to try to blackmail him with a sex tape. Jesus. It was just like porn, only better. She was beautiful. Her pussy was beautiful. Her breasts were beautiful. She clenched the entire length of him and took charge of her own pleasure, making it clear to him what she wanted.
It was much better than porn—it was real, primal. Leaving a note on her kitchen counter would have been shitty; it would ruin whatever magical sex world had cocooned the two of them last night.
He had scanned the gigantic kitchen for other ideas, noting a clay pot of chives next to a pair of scissors on the counter. He could make her breakfast, a nice omelette maybe, garnish it with chives. Who could argue with an omelette?
In the fridge, he found mushrooms from last night’s veggie tray and a wedge of nice brie from one of the cheese boards. Quietly, he got to work locating a whisk and cooking the eggs.
When it was ready, he set her a place at the granite island facing the window and left the washed pan, cutting board, and utensils in the drying rack by the farmhouse sink.
He wiped his hands on a dishtowel and looked around again. Her kitchen was incredible—the big stone island, a butler’s pantry with a second set of appliances, the octagonal breakfast nook where he stood with her last night at the windows, looking out over the property and the ocean.
It was a great place, their house. Her house now. His heart hurt for her. The weathered cedar siding, the comfortable, classy furniture, the breezy eastern Long Island waterfront estate—none of it would ease the pain of that loss.
While he made her breakfast, he noticed a low hedge with big round pink flowers—he had no clue what kind they were—bordering a garden path. He contemplated going out to cut one to put in a glass near her plate, but that seemed too romantic and he guessed she would find it sappy if not intrusive.
There were some scrap pieces of plastic wrap on the counter, and he covered her juice glass with the smallest one. She would probably come down in a minute, before the plate got cold. He pictured her at the top of the stairs, waiting. Listening for him to leave.
He wondered if she would eat at the island or the breakfast nook or perhaps her office. Where did one eat alone in such a big house? After Delphine left, he would stand at the kitchen island and scarf his food. At least a quiet apartment heckled you with fewer choices.
Maybe Quinn would eat while she wrote. He imagined her drifting through the rooms to her office like a lonely ghost. There but not there.
Last night she had been among so many people but not with them; it was as if she were hiding in plain sight.
After Delphine moved out, he had been a mess, but that was nothing compared with the loss Quinn experienced. For one thing, he brought his divorce on entirely himself, fucking up his marriage beyond all recognition.
For another thing, although she hated his guts, Delphine had not suddenly died and left him alone.
His head fell forward and he jerked awake. They were stop and go in the Midtown Tunnel, which would soon—hopefully sometime today, given the traffic—hock them out like a smoker’s cough near his apartment.
He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and, when he looked up, caught Gil’s glance in the mirror once more.
“What’s the rest of the day look like, Mr. Jaines?”
Shit, it was only Thursday. “It looks like a Bloody Mary.”
Gil laughed as they got closer to the apartment, and Jonathan pulled out his phone to check his calendar. “I may need to go to the office later; let me catch up on messages and text you once I know what’s going on.”
Barnes, the building’s doorman, greeted Jonathan as he opened the door. With a swipe of his key card near the elevator reader, the bronze art deco gate opened and slid shut a moment after he stepped in.
It opened on the penthouse landing, and he set his keys on the stainless and glass console table in the entry gallery. A lot had happened since he picked them up last night on his way out the door to Quinn’s.
As it always did, the abstract painting that hung above the table drew his eye straight to the raised scar near the lower left corner.
Universe, it was called. He and Delphine had seen it together at a gallery show. Something about it spoke to him, its colors and depth, and he returned to look at it several times that night.
Each time he had stood in a different spot—closer to it, further, off to the left or to the right, trying to read its visual message from multiple angles.
A couple of weeks later, when he came home from shooting an episode in Dublin—and banging his girlfriend on the way back—the canvas was hanging here, a touching, loving surprise.
