“Yeah, I know, that’s right. Sam. Okay. We’ll be back first thing Monday. And like I said, no worries. Okay? We’re on this.”
I nod and watch as he gathers his men with hand gestures and quick, staccato phrases in Spanish. They move in a herd toward the parking lot, which has been paved but has yet to be marked for individual spaces.
Greta looks over at me, and a slow smile spreads across her face.
“Alone at last,” she says.
I chuckle. “We were alone in the car all the way here,” I say.
“Can’t do much in an enclosed space, Mr. Davenport.” She takes a few steps and narrows the gap between us. “Care to show me your building?”
She closes her hand over mine, then slowly licks her lips. My arousal is swift. I think of Rachel and what she would say about this.
Greta squeezes my hand and pulls me toward the building. I go willingly.
FORTY-SEVEN
RACHEL
My call goes to voice mail, and I leave a quick message, then plug my phone into the charger. I carry the last of the plates to the sink and lower them into the sudsy water, then retrieve my wineglass and set it on the counter next to me. Ruth walks in, grabs a dish towel, and moves in beside me, at the ready. I feel her eyes on me but don’t meet them. I run the sponge over a plate, scrubbing at the bits of melted cheese and red sauce that adhere to it.
“Kids okay?” I ask.
“Watching a cartoon in the big bed,” she says.
Despite the fact that we have a fifty-inch screen in the living room, the kids prefer stretching out on Sam’s and my bed and watching a show on the twenty-seven-inch TV mounted above the dresser. If Sam isn’t home, like tonight, I’ll allow them two before bed. When he’s home, he’ll give them one show, even watch it with them, then shoo them from the room so he can put on one of his favorites on Netflix.
“You okay, Rach?” Ruth asks. She takes the plate from me, dries it, and carefully places it in the dish rack. I know her hands are bothering her, but she doesn’t complain, doesn’t moan or whimper, which she usually does.
“Yes, of course,” I tell her. “What about you? Hands okay? You know you can just leave the dishes in the rack and let them air dry.”
“My hands are fine. You’ve been pretty quiet tonight.”
“I was too busy eating your delicious lasagna to talk.” She chuckles. Ruth loves flattery, and I suppose that’s because she doesn’t get very much in her life. I set the plate I’m washing back in the sink, then reach over and give her a soapy squeeze. “Thanks for dinner. And for coming over tonight on such short notice.”
“I’m glad I’m here,” she says, then glances at the remaining dirty dishes. “What do you say we leave these to soak and go sit and finish our wine?”
I consider her suggestion. I hate leaving dishes undone. I’ll only have to do them later. But I might enjoy doing them more if I’m a little buzzed. Although the probability of breaking a few plates will increase proportionally to the amount of wine I drink. But, whatever. I nod to Ruth, and she smiles and sets the towel on the counter.
I grab my wineglass and the bottle of red and trail Ruth into the living room. Her gait is halting, as though her knees aren’t fully cooperating, and my heart goes out to her. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t jog or swim in the ocean or get down on the floor with my kids. I know Ruth feels less than because of it. She shouldn’t, but she does. I want to say something, to ask if she’s okay, but sometimes she reacts to my sympathy as though I’m the one making her feel less than. So I say nothing and slow my pace.
Shadow’s nails clack on the wood floor as he follows us from the kitchen. He pads to the window, pushes aside the sheer curtain with his nose, and takes several strident sniffs of the air. Finally, he moseys to his bed and curls up in a big charcoal ball.
The wine is good, a cabernet recommended to me by the guy at Trader Joe’s. I top off Ruth’s glass, then my own, then settle next to her on the couch. I take a sip, then another. Every now and then, we hear giggles coming from the master bedroom, and the sound pleases me. Eden has been a sourpuss all afternoon. I’m not sure why. She isn’t talking. But her moods always carry over onto her little brother, even when he has nothing to do with them. I’m not looking forward to her rapidly approaching adolescence. What the hell am I going to do with her when she’s having her period? God. The idea frightens me.
Still, her grumpiness didn’t get in the way of her appetite; she ate an enormous helping of Ruth’s lasagna and asked for seconds, then topped it off with a scoop of ice cream. Ah, to have a ten-year-old’s metabolism.
“Sure you’re okay?” Ruth asks. If it weren’t for the mellowing effect of the wine, I’d be irritated with her. “You seem a little distracted.”
“I was going to say the same thing about you,” I reply. And it’s true. Since Jonah’s lovely, heartbreaking comment about Ruth’s loneliness, she’s been quieter than usual. Ordinarily, she would correct my children’s table manners, or scold Shadow when he begs for food, or, again, complain about the pain in her hands. She has done none of those things this evening.
“Just a long day, I guess.”
“I don’t know how you can have therapy first thing in the morning, sis. I can’t even speak in full sentences before noon.”
Ruth shifts beside me. She looks uncomfortable. “Yes, well, Dr. Moore is extremely busy. I take what he has available.”
“It’s helping you, right, Ruth?”
She stares at me for a moment, as if contemplating. Then she nods slowly. “It is. Maybe you should try it.”
I force a laugh. “What do I need therapy for?”
Her gaze is unwavering. “You tell me.” She reaches her hand out and places it on mine. “I’m your sister, Rach. I can tell when something’s up.”
“Nothing’s up,” I say, a little too quickly, and she arches her brows. “Honestly, Ruth, it’s nothing. Sam’s been a little off lately, and I . . . I’m not sure what it is.”
“Is he having an affair?”
I roll my eyes, even though I’m not surprised by Ruth’s instantaneous response. Adultery is her go-to problem when a man is in the equation. I don’t blame her, after what she’s been through with Charlie. I don’t even allow myself to be annoyed by the question.
“No. It’s not that.”
“Are you sure?” she presses.
I laugh, this time with genuine humor. “Well, I don’t suppose we can ever be one hundred percent sure, can we?” A sudden image of Sam’s assistant comes to mind. The lovely Greta, a temptress, certainly, and she adores my husband. But no. No. Sam would never cheat. He might think about it. Haven’t we all thought about cheating at one time or another? But he would never go through with it.
“As much as I can be sure of anything, I’m sure it’s not that, Ruth.”
She sighs, clearly not convinced, but she doesn’t argue the point.
“I’m thinking midlife crisis,” I say. “I just hope he buys himself a damn Ferrari and gets over it.”