“Great, sounds good. And, honey, we need to leave in about ten minutes, for our dinner reservation,” I say. I think I notice my wife and Buck exchanging looks, a silent communication of sorts. But I could be imagining things. My mind has been busy today. I don’t say anything, just walk out of the room. I still need to remove the surprise from the glove box, but every time I remember to do so, our neighbor is around it seems. I will bring it out tonight, after dinner, once good old Buck has gone away for good.
I climb the stairs two at a time, hurry to our bedroom, and push the cigarettes into the pocket inside my briefcase and zip it closed. I take a moment in the bathroom, quickly brushing my teeth and splashing water on my face, adding a little aftershave. I examine my shirt in the mirror and decide I should change. This is our special day. I hurry back into our bedroom and pull out my favorite thin navy cashmere sweater. I tug on a crisp white T-shirt and then the sweater. My eyes are still dark, but brightened a bit by the sweater. My jeans look fine, and my leather loafers are a statement by themselves. A present from Mia a couple years ago, they’re Gucci. Classic.
I turn off the lights to the bedroom and head back down. “Buck and I moved inside,” Mia says as I reach the bottom of the stairs. “I know how you hate that musty old porch. Here’s your drink.”
I just now realize Mia has changed into a dress. It’s midthigh, a shiny champagne-colored silk. She’s wearing heels, and her legs look fantastic. I should have told her so. I am positive Buck has beaten me to the punch. Buck is sitting in my favorite chair. I glare at the back of his head as I walk to the seating area.
Mia has placed my drink on the coffee table next to hers. She pats the couch cushion. This couch is new; we had a decorator help select this entire seating area. The couch is a light tan, firm but still fluffy. The two club chairs are upholstered in a pale blue cotton. They are the most comfortable chairs I’ve ever owned. Buck is seated across the coffee table from Mia, in one of my comfortable club chairs. Those are much more comfortable than the couch, but I choose to sit down next to my wife, squeezing her knee with my hand as I do.
“Ouch,” she says, pulling her leg away from me. I must have grabbed a bit too hard.
“Sorry, honey, just wanted to tell you how great you look in that dress,” I say. “Got carried away. Cheers!”
“How thoughtful, Paul,” Mia says. Her tone makes me think she doesn’t believe I’m thoughtful at all. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Buck says, raising his glass in my direction. His handsome news anchor face is not cheerful. I don’t think he liked me touching my own wife. His eyes narrow as he says, “What restaurant are you dining at tonight?”
“Oh, some new Italian place in Port Clinton,” I say. “They have their own herb garden, so I knew Mia would enjoy it.” I turn to smile at my wife and she offers a mild close-lipped smile back. I may put my arm around her shoulders and pull her in to me, just to see his reaction, and hers. Perhaps a romantic kiss on the cheek is in order?
“Ciao Bella,” Buck says. “Nice place. Good atmosphere for up here.”
“Glad you approve,” I say. “Well, look at the time. We should get going.” I smile at Mia and fight the urge to yank her up from the couch by the arm. I’m also resisting the urge to kick Buck out of my house. Best thing for me to do is to stand. So I do.
“Since you were running late, I moved the reservation back a half hour,” Mia says. “So sit down, relax. We have time to finish our drinks.”
Well played, Mia, I think. My mind is busy tonight, as I mentioned, and it flashes to another time, another home, another happy hour, this one in Nashville, Tennessee, with a different blonde woman. She was a Mia knockoff, really. Her name was Lois and she was captivating. She said those exact words to me: sit down, relax, we have time to finish our drinks. No doubt you realize by now I don’t like being told what to do. I didn’t back then either.
I was young. I couldn’t control my fire. I didn’t know that I could just stand up, for example, and walk into the kitchen pretending to be in search of ice and a snack. Lois had opened the door in her bathrobe, not even close to being ready. She told me to sit down and wait, like a dog. I stepped inside the door, pulling it shut behind me. Back then, my temper would explode immediately: a fistful of rage to a beautiful face, for example. We’d been together, Lois and I, for more than a year by then. She had no way of seeing this coming, as up until then our relationship had been all fun and great sex. But on that fateful night, we were to attend a cocktail party held in my honor by the professor I’d been working with. It was a very important event, a thank-you and a congratulations, an introduction to society so to speak. Lois wasn’t ready when she said she would be. She completely disrespected me, and the importance of the night. It wasn’t my fault, not really.
Blood was flowing from her nose as she looked at me in shock, the front of her bathrobe turning reddish brown, her bright blue eyes shiny with fear and tears. I looked down at my fist, rubbed my knuckles where her flesh had stung, and shook my head.
“Lois, please, never tell me what to do,” I said. We were in her tiny apartment, now ours, a place I knew intimately since we’d made love on just about every counter and piece of furniture. I walked quickly to the kitchen, turning on the faucet and soaking a dish towel before wrapping it around several cubes of ice. I pulled the paper towel roll from the holder and presented everything to her. I shook my head in disgust. Now we wouldn’t make the reception. She’d ruined everything.
“You need to put ice on your face. Lie back and the bleeding will stop,” I said. I wasn’t at all sure this was the case, of course. The few times I’d been in fights before with boys my own age, neither had sustained serious injuries. My father always was careful his blows fell in places easily disguised by clothing. Unfortunately, Lois’s injury seemed serious and quite visible.
“Leave,” she whispered. She refused to take the ice or the paper towels so I dropped them onto the couch next to her. She was shaking, violently, and I wondered if I should hold her, squeeze her tight. I was afraid, somehow, that maybe I would hurt her more. Could hurt her more. I stood there, immobilized, my feet weighed down by cement. The times I’d seen my father strike my mother flashed through my mind. Her screams, his empty promises. These memories were loud, thudding through my brain.
But between Lois and me, at that moment, there was only silence. I remembered checking my watch. There was blood decorating its face.