When Guy arrives home, closer to nine than eight, he seems preoccupied, and I wonder if he’s still irritated that I contacted Eve Blazer without warning him. Immediately he heads upstairs to change. From the kitchen, I hear the shower run for the next five minutes. When he returns, he’s in slim khakis and a blue crewneck cotton sweater, smelling of the grapefruit wash he uses. He smiles as I pass him his dinner plate, not looking at all annoyed.
Gazing at him, with his wet hair slicked back and his skin still dewy from the shower, I realize with a start that it’s been over a week since we’ve had sex. Because of my broken pelvis, our sex life had been on hold for two months after the accident, but with my doctor’s blessing, we gingerly began again about a month ago. I can’t kid myself. Since the accident, my libido has felt at times like a glow stick left in the grass all night long, and I’ve said yes to sex not because I’ve exactly craved it but for Guy’s sake. I wonder if he’s held back because he’s sensed reluctance on my part.
We eat the leftover tagine off the coffee table in the den behind the living room and watch a documentary Guy says he’s been dying to see. I’m actually pleased we haven’t gone to a restaurant in town. This is nicer, no fuss. Guy drapes an arm over my thigh and gives it an affectionate squeeze.
I steal a glance at him. There’s something undeniably magnetic about Guy. And I’m talking not just about his looks but rather his whole personality. Some of it, I know, has come from his training as a fund-raiser—you have to learn how to charm the pants off donors—but in Guy’s case, most of it is just who he is. I want to make love tonight, I realize. I want to succumb to the full force of that magnetic pull and relish its power.
“Ready to go up?” I ask as soon as the show ends.
“Yes, but I think I need to jump on my computer for a bit.”
Again tonight I feel a swell of disappointment, an even bigger one this time. As we rise from the couch and my eyes meet his, I’m surprised by the worry in them.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. No, not totally. I’m afraid I might have miscalculated some numbers at work and it’s been gnawing at me all night. I want to review a few Excel sheets before Brent sets eyes on them.”
Brent Hess is Guy’s sixty-year-old boss. He’s run the company for years and seems to know what he’s doing, but he’s unpredictable and easily aggravated. And a bear when he is.
“Is there any way I can help, honey?”
“Just keep the sheets warm, okay?”
I manage to read for a few minutes in bed but fall asleep mid-page, hearing the book clunk on the floor as I drift off. Once during the night I wake to the sound of rain drumming against the window, and I sense Guy next to me, his body totally still. But when I wake in the morning, the bed is empty. Descending the stairs, still in a camisole and pajama bottoms, I realize that the house is silent except for the slow drip of water from the gutters outside.
Where is he? I wonder. I feel a flutter of anxiety, like a moth trapped inside a light fixture. In the kitchen, there’s a note tucked under the saltshaker on the table: “Ran to the office. Think I figured out what the problem is and I want to deal with it before Monday. Call you in a bit. xo.”
And he does, thirty minutes later, as I’m toweling off after a shower.
“Any luck?” I ask.
“Yeah, I figured it out. Looks like a few numbers were accidentally transposed, making it seem as if we were behind from last year in donations. That would have made Brent go batshit crazy.”
“Want to meet downtown for an early lunch?”
“As long as I’m here, I’m going to catch up on a little paperwork. I’ll be back by midafternoon. And let’s definitely go out tonight. You can wear one of those slutty tops of yours.”
I say good-bye, relieved that he’s sorted out the problem. This job is important to Guy, the last step before applying—or being courted—to run something himself. He needs to nail it. And I like the slutty-top request. It’s time to get our sex life back up to speed.
I’ve barely set the phone down when it rings again. Not a number in my log.
“Mrs. Carrington?” a female voice asks.
“Yes?” I never use Guy’s last name, so I realize it’s someone who doesn’t really know me.
“I work with Eve at Pure Kitchen Catering.” The voice is wispy, baby-doll-like.
“Yes?” I say again, curious. I wonder if it’s one of the women who I encountered working in the kitchen yesterday.
“Eve has something for you. Can you come down here today?”
So this must be her assistant calling. Eve clearly has gotten to the bottom of what happened Thursday night. Maybe I underestimated her.
“Is it the money?”
“She didn’t tell me. But it’s important that she see you this morning.”
“You’re open today? On Saturday?”
“Yes.”
I haven’t even had my coffee yet, but that can wait. I’m eager to know what’s up.
“Fine, I’ll be down shortly.”