A huge, gaping hole showcased the wet, winter-dead garden beyond. It was, by her precise calculations, exactly the right size for a standard set of French doors.
She scooped up lengths of thick blue plastic sheeting and stapled it across the opening. She’d have to order the doors tomorrow. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take too long to get them in stock.
Whistling happily, she went into the kitchen and made dinner. It wasn’t much tonight, just a chicken and rice casserole. Truthfully, her hands and arms hurt so badly she could barely open the oven door.
At almost seven o’clock, she heard Jack’s car drive up. She couldn’t wait to show him what she’d done. He always teased her about how long it took her to make a decision. Well, not today.
She hurried toward the living room.
He was smiling when he walked through the front door.
“Hi,” she said, taking his briefcase and coat. “I want to show you—”
“You won’t believe what happened to me today,” he said. “I tried calling you, but you must have been out.”
“I made a couple of trips to the hardware store.”
“This was too cool to leave on the message machine. Come here.” He looped an arm around her and led her to the sofa. They sat down. He stretched his legs out, planted his feet on the coffee table.
From this angle, she could see through the house to the dining room. A long strip of blue plastic showed. She tapped her foot nervously, waiting for him to notice.
“Guess who called me today?”
She was no good at this game, but it never stopped him from playing it. She glanced at the dining room again. “Just tell me, honey.”
“Come on, three guesses.”
“Julia Roberts. Muhammad Ali. President Bush.”
He laughed. “Close. Larry King’s executive producer.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. He booked me for Tuesday. He bumped some political bigwig to get me scheduled. And it’s not one of those via satellite gigs. I’ll be in the studio.”
She sat back. “Wow.” This was big. She felt a flash of the old pride in him. “You’re on your way now.”
Your way. She’d chosen her words badly; they excluded her somehow, left her behind.
“He’s sending two first-class tickets. We’ll have a great time. There’s a restaurant I’ve heard about—Birdie?”
She looked at the dining room, at the gaping hole in the wall. There was no way she could get it finished in time to go with him, and she sure as hell couldn’t go out of town with the house like that. There wasn’t much crime on the coast, but you still couldn’t be crazy. She tried to think of someone she could call, but all of her friends had kids and husbands. They couldn’t just pick up and move into this house for a weekend. She supposed she could close the gap with sheets of plywood—if she could find them locally on such short notice—but in truth, the thought of spending a few days all alone was pure heaven.
“What is it, honey?”
She pointed toward the dining room. “I knocked out the wall today.”
Frowning, he stood up. As he crossed the room, she knew he was seeing more and more of the plastic. In the archway that separated the two rooms, he stopped and looked back at her. “What in the hell?”
“You know I wanted a bigger window there. It overlooks the garden. Today, I decided on French doors instead.”
“Today? You decided today? It takes you seven months to choose a paint color for the kitchen and twenty-four minutes to decide to smash out a wall?”
She lifted her hands helplessly, feeling more than a little stupid. “How was I supposed to know Larry King was going to call you?”
Jack sighed heavily and stepped over the rubble on the floor. Without turning to look at her, he said, “You can’t leave the house like this.”
She picked her way through the two-by-fours and crumbled bits of Sheetrock on the floor, and came up behind him. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she pressed her cheek to his back. “I’m sorry, Jack.”
He turned, took her in his arms. She could see how hard he was trying to be fair. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t mean to sound like an asshole. You did a lot of hard work here. I’m sure it’ll be great.”
Why was this always the way of things these days? Nothing came easily anymore, not even a romantic getaway. She ought to want to go on this trip with him. In the old days, she would have moved a mountain to make it possible. “It shouldn’t be this hard,” she said softly, realizing that he’d said the same thing to her only a few weeks before.
“Not tonight, Birdie,” he said, drawing back. She knew what he meant. She didn’t have the energy for another what’s-wrong-with-us discussion, either.
She forced herself to smile. “Well. Let’s go figure out what you’re going to wear. I might need to get Mrs. Delaney out of bed for a rush dry-cleaning job.”
He smiled back, and though it was tired, that smile, it was the effort that mattered. “I was thinking about that navy suit you bought me at the Nordstrom’s anniversary sale this summer.”
“With the yellow tie and shirt?”