Into the Quiet

by Beth C. Greenberg

  “Yes.” That would surely be safer than standing here, sorting out all the longing.

  Ruth crouched to set Pookie on the floor. About a foot from the ground, the silly girl wriggled free and scurried to Quentin’s ankles, her rump wagging the rest of her body. Who was Ruth kidding? If not for the conventions of common decency, she absolutely would have done the same.

  “The room is this way. Just ignore Pookie’s shameless flirting if you can. She’ll calm down after a bit.” Or not.

  “She’s fine.” Quentin chuckled as he tiptoed alongside Ruth to avoid stepping on Pookie’s tiny paws with his boots. “How long have you had her?”

  “Eight years. Zach thought I might heal quicker if I had a baby to take care of.”

  “Heal?” he asked.

  “Oh. Yeah, after my third miscarriage.” Nothing like ripping off the Band-Aid.

  Quentin’s pace faltered, but he recovered quickly. “The fates can be cruel. I’m sorry, Ruthie.”

  The fates? Quirky vernacular aside, Ruth found herself unexpectedly comforted by his genuine sorrow. Odd how this near stranger could soothe Ruth’s soul. “Thank you.”

  “Did it help, having Pookie around?”

  “I guess, a bit.” Ruth glanced down at the playful fluffball running laps around Quentin’s feet as they walked. “I love my little pooch to pieces, but she’s not exactly the child I wanted.” Ruth’s steps grew heavy as the nursery door came into view. “I suppose that’s why I’ve left this room as is for all these years.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking”—Quentin reached for the Noah’s ark mezuzah she and Zach had bought when they learned she was pregnant that first time—“what is this? I noticed something similar on your front door.”

  “That’s a mezuzah. There’s a scroll inside that’s meant to remind us of our commitment to creating a Jewish home. Some people believe it offers protection.”

  “Like an amulet?”

  “I guess. This one never really had a chance to protect anything.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

  She forced the best smile she could, which Ruth imagined was basically a flat line with two hooks for corners. “You didn’t. Anyway . . .” She took a deep breath and steeled herself before reaching for the doorknob.

  Quentin stepped in front of the door and covered her hand with his. Ahh, no wonder those fingers had so thoroughly tamed Pookie. “Ruthie, wait.” Quentin’s voice, barely above a whisper, pulled her anxious gaze to those mesmerizing eyes of his. “Are you sure you’re ready?” He, who had more to lose than anyone if they abandoned the project now, offered a smile so kind and sincere, Ruth felt tears pooling behind her eyes.

  A rocky sigh left her. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  He nodded once and dropped his hand away as Ruth opened the door. Pookie took off at a dead run into the forbidden room, flew to the opposite wall and back again, yipping at Ruth, then Quentin, unable to decide who to tell first about all her exciting discoveries. Look! Soft, fuzzy carpeting. Look! A crib. A changing table. A little basket filled with books for chubby toddler fingers. A glider, perfect for breastfeeding in the wee morning hours, draped with the crib blanket Ruth had knitted using gender-neutral yellows and greens because they hadn’t found out she’d been carrying a boy until it was already a moot point.

  Everything was exactly as Ruth had left it after her last visit on Baby One’s miscarriage date thirty-four days ago. Six dates every year—three due dates and three miscarriages—Ruth allowed herself unbridled grief within the walls of the nursery. Aside from Cassie’s bimonthly vacuum and dusting, Ruth was the only person to set foot in this room in four years, when Zach had stopped commemorating the events with her. She didn’t blame him for deciding it wasn’t healthy anymore, but she didn’t share his desire or ability to move on.

  And now, inexplicably, here she stood with Quentin. Perhaps Ruthie should have warned him what he was getting himself into. What must he think of her foolishness, preserving the nursery as if it were a museum, holding on to baby furniture and hope for eight ridiculously long years? He gave nothing away, standing stock-still beside Ruthie, and as she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye, the only movement in the room was Pookie’s frantic lap running.

  This was an epically bad idea.

  She’d taken a real chance, bringing Quentin here. A dangerously attractive, attentive young man who’d already hit on her once, then unrepentantly screwed her best friend, he clearly wasn’t shy or averse to intimacy with older women. He and Ruth would be alone, together, in her home, for many hours a day, for several weeks.

  Would Zach even care? He trusted Ruth, but would he trust this stranger she’d basically picked up in a bar, with minimal experience and zero references? Ruth had nearly worked up the nerve to pull the plug when Quentin crouched down and lifted Pookie into his arms.

  “Hey there, girl. It’s okay.” He murmured sweet nothings in tones as smooth as warm butter until Pookie quieted against his chest. Without another word, Quentin walked toward the big picture window and stared outside, gently stroking his fingers along Pookie’s back.

  “This would be your view while you’re sitting here, at your desk.” Quentin seemed not to even see the changing table right in front of him.

  “Yes,” Ruth answered, surprising herself once again with how easily she committed to moving forward.

  Quentin turned slowly, as if he fully realized he might spook her with one false move. “I can see why you’re excited about this space.” Ruth couldn’t respond, and he didn’t seem to mind.

  He scritched his fingers through Pookie’s hair as he paced the width of the room. Once again, Ruth got the impression he wasn’t seeing the room as it was but rather, somehow inhabiting the finished space. Pausing in front of the blank wall, Quentin stared thoughtfully from floor to ceiling. “The bookshelves will be perfect here,” he said to himself or maybe to Pookie. Quentin had seen the plans only for a minute or two at the diner, but he seemed to have memorized every detail.

  If Quentin’s interest were purely a desperation for work, he certainly had Ruth fooled. All she could see was a man who respected her demons along with her passions and accepted the full package without judgment. Without swinging a hammer, Quentin had already created the space for her sanctuary simply by stepping inside it with her. The room filled with a profound peace Ruth had never experienced during any of her previous visits.

  Ruth closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath. For the first time, she actually believed she could move forward. Even better, when she opened her eyes, Quentin was grinning at her with that contagious confidence that had a way of ungluing her.

  “Let me make this happen for you, Ruthie. Say yes.”

  A chill blew across her skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps. “Yes.”

  “I’m hired?” Quentin exclaimed, his excitement startling Pookie out of her sleepy trance. “Oops, sorry, girl.”

  Pookie barked out an indignant, “Ruh, ruh, rufff!”

  Quentin cracked up first, his pleasure so thorough that Ruth found herself giggling right along with him. Pookie’s complaints only made them both laugh even harder.

  Laughter. In the nursery. Well, that was certainly a first.

  15

  Model Builder

  Now that he was here, standing at Ruthie’s front door, Cupid had to admit his scale model of the project might have been, well, a little too much. Overkill was the word Pan had used this morning, watching Cupid glue the final pieces of trim into place. “But really adorable overkill,” Pan had added with a gentle nudge that did little to soothe Cupid’s nerves.

  He half considered hiding the thing in his trunk, but wasn’t the whole point for Ruthie to see he could take this job seriously, that he was a professional? Besides, he’d stayed up half the night, lovingly carving each shelf and
tiny piece of crown molding with the X-Acto knife he’d picked up at Home Warehouse on his way home yesterday. He sure as shivers wasn’t going to send Pan back to that store—and Rayne.

  Lifting the wood base of the structure practically to his shoulders, Cupid stepped forward and pressed the doorbell, setting off loud chimes and barking and Ruthie’s sharp, “Hush, Pookie! Honestly.” Cupid smiled to himself, picturing the wild scramble on the other side of the door, and his heart filled, knowing he’d soon be a part of it.

  The door opened, and there Ruthie stood, clutching the squirming pooch to her chest with both arms. “Sorry about her,” Ruthie said at the same time Cupid said, “Good morning.”

  “What have you got there?” She peered over the foam core walls, craning her neck until her head nearly touched his chest.

  Cupid drew in the scent of whatever she’d washed her hair with that morning—something floral, he couldn’t be sure what. Still mostly wet, it was twisted into a loose knot and clipped at the back of her head at an angle that would not have aligned with his T-square but pleased him just the same. A bit too much, in fact. The rest of her outfit wasn’t helping any: a crisp, white T-shirt with a pocket stretched this way and that by Pookie’s frantic struggling, dark blue jeans, and a pair of tan slippers with a roll of fur hugging her ankles. Cupid swallowed hard. Gods, she was beautiful.

  “Ohmygosh, this is amazing, Quentin,” she said, drawing Cupid’s gaze to the model he nearly forgot he was holding. “You made this for me?”

  “Yes. I wanted to show you how I interpreted our conversation and make sure it’s what you want.”

  “Wow, that was . . . really . . .” Her voice trailed off with a sniffle and a soft shake of her head, the hair clip losing its grip ever so slightly. She lifted her face. Their eyes met; a tear broke free from hers. “It’s exactly what I want.”

  Cupid ached to brush the moisture from her cheek, and if his hands weren’t fully occupied, he would have done just that. Instead, he swiped his tongue across his lips, not that it was any use at all, not for moistening them and certainly not for forming words. Ruthie wasn’t doing much better, pulling the corner of her mouth between her teeth and sniffling before she finally got any words out.

  “That must be heavy.”

  “It’s a bit awkward,” he answered, very much wanting the use of his hands back.

  “Why don’t you come set it down in the kitchen?”

  Ruthie knelt to free Pookie, setting her little paws into a furious air gallop before gaining traction on the marble floor and charging at Cupid. He tracked the furry blur until she disappeared beneath the wood platform in his hands and, fortunately, braced for impact just before Pookie slammed into his ankles. Ruthie clucked and fussed—“Ugh, Pookie. So sorry, Quentin”—and Cupid dragged his boots the rest of the way so tiny paws couldn’t get trapped underneath.

  Cupid settled the model on the granite counter and obliged a very happy Pookie with a belly rub. She flipped onto her back, legs splayed wide, her front paw twitching as if tied to Cupid’s wrist. He tried to imagine Cerberus or any one of Actaeon’s vicious hounds doing the same, but it was impossible to believe they were even part of the same animal family.

  “I can’t get over all the detail.” Ruthie’s awed whisper drew Cupid to her side, causing Pookie to scramble to her feet and yip in protest.

  “You can move things around, see?” He poked his finger over the foam core wall and pushed the miniature desk from one side to the other.

  “Oh!” A tiny giggle escaped her. “That’s handy.”

  Cupid grinned. Every painstaking measurement was worth it, every minute of sleep he’d sacrificed to do the job just right. “If you need more shelves, we can add some here . . . or over here.”

  Her head dipped lower, closer. “Hmm.” Cupid held his breath while Ruthie studied the model from every possible angle. “I’m not really sure how much storage space I need.”

  She walked toward her current desk, a built-in wood countertop with cabinets and open shelving above. A quick touch of her fingertip to the corner of the monitor blackened the screen before Cupid could catch a glimpse. Whatever Ruthie had just hidden brought a soft blush to her cheeks.

  Cupid unclipped the measuring tape from his belt—finally, the blasted restraint made itself useful—and stepped into Ruthie’s makeshift office. “Why don’t we measure your current storage—” A framed picture caught his eye, and he reached for it without thinking.

  A young couple on their wedding day. Bride and groom sitting so close, it would have been hard to say where one ended and the other began. A wide, easy smile on the bride’s face, her face angled slightly toward the groom as if he’d surprised her with a joke just before the picture was snapped. No, not a joke, Cupid decided. Zach had told Ruthie he was the luckiest man on Earth, and for the briefest of moments on her wedding day, she’d believed him.

  “Twenty-three years tomorrow,” Ruthie said with a wistful lilt.

  “Oh. Congratulations!” Cupid pulled the frame closer. “Wow, this picture was taken twenty-three years ago?” Aside from Gail’s comments about the husband, Cupid had no basis to judge his deterioration, but Ruthie had hardly changed a bit unless you counted the way her smile didn’t quite seem at home on her face anymore or the lack of twinkle in her once starry-eyed gaze.

  “I know what you’re thinking. I wasn’t always old.”

  “What?” Cupid’s focus snapped back to Ruthie. “I wasn’t thinking that at all.” Truth be told, Cupid was thinking he wished he were the one putting that glow on her face.

  She let out a harsh sigh. “Anyway. The shelves?”

  Cupid didn’t like it, but he saw the familiar detour sign as sure as if it were a bright orange arrow flashing on Ruthie’s forehead, and the last thing he wanted was to give her a reason to push him away now that he’d finally found his way in. He replaced the photo and set about taking measurements.

  “How about all this covered storage, the cabinets and drawers? Did you want to recreate the same setup?” Drawers were tricky, but Cupid could practice.

  Ruthie opened the cabinets one by one, rattling off lists of what she’d keep and what she’d ditch. She opened the wide desk drawer last, groaning as she lifted a stack of clipped papers. “This should probably go in the garbage, but I don’t have the guts to do that either.”

  “What is that?”

  “It’s silly.” She riffled through the pages at the bottom corner, a loud sigh filling the air around her. “Just something I wrote.”

  “You wrote a book?”

  “Noooo. A book has a shiny cover and a life outside of my kitchen drawer. This . . . is a manuscript, a story with no future.” With that, she set the stack of pages back inside the dark drawer and slid it silently shut, an act that shook free Cupid’s memory of Mia tucking her boys into bed, minus the kiss on the forehead. “My actual books are in the mother-in-law suite, overflowing the bookcases. I probably have enough to fill another six shelves this size.”

  Cupid jotted down the information. “Got it. Okay, this has been really helpful. I’d like to leave the model with you so you can think about the space some more.”

  “Sure, uh, would you mind very much setting this up for me in the nurs—the room?”

  “That’s a great idea. You’ll get a much better feel for the scale that way.”

  The more time they spent in the nursery-sanctuary, the better, as far as Cupid was concerned. Ruthie seemed less hesitant this time as she led him down the hallway. He still couldn’t help feeling like an intruder. “Where would you like me to put this?”

  “Hmm.” Ruthie surveyed the room, her gaze pausing longest on the changing table. “I think maybe the floor would be best.”

  “Sure.” Cupid knelt down, using his body as a shield from Pookie as she jumped and sniffed at the delicate walls.

  Ruthie
swept the dog into her arms. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep her out of here.”

  Cupid gave Pookie a playful scratch behind her ears so she’d know there were no hard feelings. “In the meantime, if you’re committed to moving forward, we can start thinking about next steps.”

  “Next steps?” The anxious look Ruthie shot him made Cupid feel like an even bigger jerk, but someone had to get her unstuck.

  “Have you thought about what you want to do with the furniture?”

  “Not really.”

  And now they were in extremely uncomfortable territory. “Are you fairly certain you won’t be needing it in the future?”

  Her hollow laugh sent a shiver down Cupid’s spine. “Despite the pregnancy weight I’m still carrying from baby number three, I can assure you, my body is quite out of service.” Gods be damned. Ruthie would have made the most wonderful mother. “And the adoption window closed a long time ago. By the time I was ready to accept defeat, Zach and I decided we’d waited too long to start considering other options.” Pookie seemed to sense her need for affection, choosing that moment to wriggle higher and flick her little tongue all over Ruthie’s cheek.

  No use rubbing salt in her wound. “If you’re sure, then . . .” Cupid waited for her nod before continuing. “I can take care of removing the furniture. You remember my friend Pan, from the club? He has a truck and a connection to some teen moms who could put this furniture to good use. It would be—”

  “—a mitzvah.” Ruthie finished his thought with a smile.

  Cupid didn’t recognize the word, but he was pleased his appeal to Ruthie’s kind heart had clinched the deal. He’d have to remember that next time she needed convincing.

  “Okay if we come by tomorrow with the truck?”

  “Tomorrow is perfect. That’ll give me the weekend with the empty room.”