Into the Quiet

by Beth C. Greenberg

  Healing did not happen without effort. Zach would be the first to admit that Ruthie suffered on a whole different plane, but their intimate, shared sorrow created a momentum of its own. The brilliant fire of youthful passion mellowed into a smoldering, enduring tenderness. What conflict could possibly warrant choosing opposite sides after all they’d survived together?

  Their tacit strategy not to inflict wounds over “the small stuff” filled Zach with a not-so-secret pride. He and Ruthie became the couple to double-date. No embarrassing squabbles in front of their friends, no babysitter to cancel on them at the last minute. Perspective was a double-edged sword, though, as Zach was only now beginning to realize. Had “letting things go” turned into taking each other for granted? How did one distinguish what was “worth the fight”? Three dinners missed for the sake of a new job? Ruthie spending more time inside her computer than with Zach on his days off? Ten days without sex? A month?

  Zach roared through the streets of Tarra in his armored cocoon, a machine embarrassingly overqualified to navigate the unchallenging straightaways of his faux city. Well aware of the looks fellow motorists would give his car as he wove in and out of rush hour traffic, Zach didn’t seek or relish the attention, but was he not entitled to enjoy the fruits of his labor? Inside his bubble, undistracted from his troubled thoughts even by the morning radio talk shows, Zach wondered if his revelation had come too late. Had their marital knot frayed, one sinew of negligence at a time, to the point where the raggedy ends could no longer hold together?

  Zach swung the front end into his parking spot, the Reserved for CEO sign providing a much-needed dose of validation. Whatever his failings as a husband, Zach excelled at CEO-ing. The national headquarters of Brighter Tomorrows sat at the top floor—fifteen—of the tallest building in downtown Tarra. The city’s architecture reflected “value” property, structures that sprawled thriftlessly over wide concrete swaths of recession-cheapened land and extended upward almost as an afterthought.

  Zach’s corner office afforded him an unobstructed view in two directions of the ever-unchanging landscape, a perfect place to ponder life’s big questions, and today’s was a whopper. He sank into his leather throne and spun toward the east. With his focus fixed on the faraway horizon Zach had always assumed would be his and Ruthie’s future, he let the question in: Am I losing my wife?

  “Rough morning?”

  Zach startled at Joan’s voice in his doorway. There was a lot of that going around today.

  He turned away from his marital woes, stowing them in their airtight compartment, at least for the next ten hours. “All good.”

  She eyed him skeptically, arms crossed over her no-nonsense suit. Regardless of the season or the lack of contact with the outside world, Joan followed the adage, Dress for the job you want. Zach had to admire her ambition, even if she’d chosen his back to prop up her ladder.

  “I was looking for you earlier.”

  “I just got in,” Zach said without a trace of apology. Then, though he immediately regretted it, Zach added, “Ruthie and I had some things to discuss this morning.”

  Joan’s nose twitched as if a garbage truck had just rolled by. She tolerated Zach’s marriage in the abstract, but any reminder of the actual wife led to passive-aggressive backlash in the form of wildly inconvenient meetings with potential donors or crises only Zach and Joan together could resolve.

  “Did you have any comments on the redlined doc I sent you over the weekend?” Ah yes, another of Joan’s favorite tactics to hold Zach’s attention—excruciating revisions.

  “Haven’t had a chance to look at it yet.”

  “We have to submit our final materials to Langston by Friday so he can send out a pre-read for the board meeting. I don’t think I need to remind you we’re only going to get one chance at the Glover Foundation—”

  “No, Joan. You don’t.”

  In fact, Glover had been their main thrust since Zach accepted the CEO position. He and Joan had been working toward national presence for almost two years, strengthening their brand, expanding into six states with twenty-eight new sites, a wildly ambitious vision he could never have achieved without Joan. Her demands stretched Zach beyond even his own outsized ambitions, igniting a creative spark he had never accessed before, which was—Zach would be the first to admit—addictive.

  So maybe, when Joan intruded on his personal time, Zach didn’t object as strenuously as he should have. It was complicated, as they say, especially when his labors bore results even Ruthie couldn’t dispute. They’d wooed the crap out of Glover to chase this grant opportunity, and they were so close to finally achieving their dreams, Zach could almost hear the children’s laughter in the centers of the future.

  Joan plowed forward. “I’ve reworked the outcomes section, but you’re the genius when it comes to articulating vision. I thought we could stay late tonight and push through it.”

  “Sorry, Joan, I can’t tonight.”

  “What’s going on with you, Zach?”

  “Nothing. We’re in the middle of a home renovation project.”

  “Smart. Increasing your property value before you put your house on the market.”

  “Right. So, I need to”—make sure the contractor isn’t banging my wife—“be there for Ruthie.”

  Joan huffed. “No offense, but since when are you helpful with anything around the house? Please don’t tell me you’re attempting a do-it-yourself project.”

  Now, that was funny. “No, Ruthie’s hired someone.”

  “So, what does she need you for?”

  She’d hit the nail right on its damn head. Ugh, and now Zach couldn’t help but picture a larger-than-life, hammer-wielding handyman, flexed muscles on full display, much to his wife’s delight. Who’s making the garbage face now?

  Joan lit up with recognition. “Ohhh. This ‘someone’ happens to be hot?”

  If only Zach had thought to say he’d never met the handyman, he could have easily thrown Joan off before she realized she’d struck a vein running rich with pure gold. He busied himself with the pile in his inbox, praying she’d take the hint and back off.

  No such luck. Joan’s tenacity was legendary. It’s why the big bucks came flying into their coffers. Zach was screwed.

  Joan’s no-nonsense pumps clicked across the walnut floorboards to his desk. She perched on the edge of the seat opposite Zach’s, raised one elegant, stocking-clad leg across the opposite thigh, and hooked her foot nearly full-circle around the ankle. Zach couldn’t look away from those legs, twined together like two strands of strawberry licorice, begging to be peeled apart.

  Joan caught him staring, which was, of course, the entire point. The performance resumed. She slid her folded hands along her skirt until they came to rest over her kneecap. Balanced just so, on the ball of that one foot touching the floor, Joan pressed forward and teetered precariously over the edge of the chair.

  “Zach, you cannot seriously be worried about your wife looking at another man.”

  He froze. Who says these things out loud? “Joan—”

  “Wow. You are.” Her disbelief might have been flattering had she not crossed so many lines. “C’mon, Zach. Be real. Do you not have any idea how attractive you are?”

  “This conversation is wildly inappropriate.” Yet there he sat, having it.

  Joan eyed him carefully as she processed the new data. She was nothing if not adaptive.

  “You know I’m here for you, Zach. Whatever you need.”

  Zach had no clue what he needed, but he was certain whatever that was should not be supplied by Joan.

  22

  Showdown

  Despite Pan’s warnings to “slow down and try to behave like a human,” Cupid made remarkable progress his first week. By day, he worked harder than any servant at his mother’s palace, ripping up old carpet, stripping wallpaper, repairing
trim, and priming the walls for their first coat of paint. Each night, Cupid returned home, inhaled his dinner, and headed straight to the garage-workshop, where he spent the next four hours measuring, cutting, and assembling bookcases.

  More importantly, Ruthie was moving forward. She’d wandered in and out of the former nursery over the course of the week, sighing less and less and smiling more and more.

  Bright and early Friday morning, with two cans of freshly mixed Cornsilk Yellow paint hanging from one hand, Cupid knocked on the back door of the Millers’. Through the windowpane, Cupid watched Pookie tumble down the stairs first. Seconds later, a pair of low-heeled ladies’ shoes appeared, then gray dress slacks flapping around Ruthie’s ankles, and finally, a pretty lavender sweater that bounced up and down in time with her footfalls. Ruthie was dressed for something other than watching Cupid work.

  “Morning, Quentin,” she said as she opened the door. After sixteen hours apart, it was both wonderful and terrible to be so close again.

  “Good morning. You look nice.”

  Her blush made Cupid blush, too. “Thank you.” She stepped aside to let him pass. “I’m just heading out, and I won’t be back till at least two. Would you mind letting Pookie out around noon?”

  “Sure. Does she need anything else? Food? Water?”

  “Nope, she’ll probably drive you nuts, wanting to play every second, but other than that, she’s low maintenance,” Ruthie said with a chuckle. “Thanks again.”

  “No problem. Have a nice day.”

  Cupid peered through the second-story window as Ruthie’s car snaked down the driveway. On the one hand, Cupid was pleased Ruthie trusted him enough to leave him alone in the house for six hours. He’d make the most of this opportunity to earn her faith by taking the best possible care of Pookie and being super productive today. Maybe he’d even surprise Ruthie with the first coat of paint when she returned home.

  On the other hand, he already missed her.

  Having viewed hours of paint instruction on YouTube, Cupid was more than eager to try his hand. He made three trips out to his car for rollers and drop cloths and brushes and paint and his ladder, each time carefully navigating the two flights of stairs with overfilled arms and a dog running circles around his feet. With the last of his supplies organized on the floor, Cupid crouched down for a heart-to-heart with Pookie.

  “Okay, girl,” Cupid said, giving her a good scratch behind the ears, “I’m going to open the paint now. Can I trust you to sit right there for me?” She plopped onto her bottom, and Cupid interpreted her cheery yip-yip as a yes.

  Keeping one eye on the dog, Cupid popped the lid off the first can. Pookie panted and shook but stayed put.

  “Good girl,” Cupid crooned. “Now, stay . . .” He lifted the can and poured it into the tray. So far, so good. Cupid reached for the roller. In the split second he turned away, Pookie jumped into the tray and hopped around like a child playing in a rain puddle.

  “No! Bad girl!” Cupid tossed the roller away and scooped up the messy dog before she could track paint all over the house. “I thought we had an agreement.”

  Clutching Pookie tight against his coveralls, he sped to the nearest bathroom. She yelped and squirmed, but Cupid wasn’t about to be outmaneuvered by the little monster again. He stuffed her paws into the sink, turned on the cold water, and washed off the paint. Grumbling at the naughty girl as he dried her paws with the hand towel, Cupid caught their reflection in the mirror. How silly was he to be angry at a dog for playing?

  “Hmph. Some responsible pet-sitter you are.”

  He carried Pookie back to the nursery and set her down just outside the door. “Give me a minute, girl.” She whined when he shut the door.

  Working quickly, Cupid cleared the floor of all dangerous and potentially messy obstacles. When he was sure the room was Pookie-proof, Cupid opened the door. The dog bounded inside and sprinted from one end of the room to the other, looking for trouble and not finding any. Pan would tease him mercilessly if he ever found out, but Cupid had to admit he enjoyed the little critter’s company, especially once she finally settled down for a snooze inside a beam of sunlight.

  Setting his mind to the paint job, Cupid grabbed the roller and started in. Straight stripe up, zigzag down. He made efficient strokes, quickly mastering the pattern he’d studied. Occasionally, Cupid would hear the soft tinkling of Pookie’s tags and turn to see her head lifted as if to supervise. “What do you think, girl?” he’d ask. “Am I doing a good job?” She’d blink at him until her eyelids grew heavy, then flop down and fall back asleep.

  The soft swish of the roller soothed Cupid’s nerves. In fact, he’d thoroughly enjoyed all aspects of the construction project: drawing plans, fashioning the pile of wood planks into cabinetry and trim, and now this, adding a splash of color to the walls. If not for his punishment, Cupid might have completely missed out on this pleasure of creating with his hands. Perhaps he would redecorate his bedroom at the palace when this was all over and he ascended home. The thought of returning to his old life filled him with melancholy.

  Pookie let out a low woof, scurried onto her paws, and trotted to Cupid’s side.

  “Easy, girl,” Cupid said absently, climbing the ladder with a brush in hand so he could tidy the ceiling line.

  He worked the end of the bristles into the corner and drew a steady line of paint along the molding. Pookie’s chirps turned into urgent, full-body barks directed up the ladder.

  “Hey, Pookie, what’s got you all riled up?”

  “That would be me.”

  Cupid whipped his head around toward the doorway of the nursery, where Zach leaned against the doorjamb. A cold shiver ran down Cupid’s back where his wings once hinged. What was Zach doing home in the middle of the workday?

  “Sorry,” Zach said. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

  “No problem,” Cupid answered, though Zach definitely had snuck up on him, and Cupid couldn’t believe he’d accomplished such a feat by accident.

  Cupid scurried down the ladder and lifted Pookie into the cradle of his arm. “Shh, it’s okay.” Cupid petted her head and murmured comforting noises, unclear if he meant to calm Pookie or himself.

  The two men regarded each other warily, Cupid waiting for Zach to state his purpose and Zach watching with awed fascination as Pookie calmed against Cupid’s chest. “Wow, Ruthie was right.” Whatever Ruthie was right about caused Zach’s expression to sour. “You seem to have all the females in this house wrapped around your little finger.”

  Not good. Cupid braced for a punch, though honestly, he had no clue how to defend himself. On the Mount, nobody would have considered physically harming the son of Aphrodite. Cupid made a mental note to ask Pan for some lessons.

  “If you’re looking for Ruthie, she’s not here.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of my wife’s schedule. She volunteers at the playspace from nine to noon, followed by a manicure.”

  So, Zach had come for him, then. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Yes, actually. My wife seems intent on keeping you to herself. I wanted to stop by and get a sense directly from you of how the project is going.”

  “Sure. Give me one second?” Cupid gingerly set Pookie onto the floor, replaced the lid on the paint can, and set the brush on top. “Everything is moving along. We’re right on schedule. Ruthie seems happy.”

  Zach nailed Cupid with a sneer. “Yes, isn’t she though?”

  “Is that bad?” Mortals could be so confusing.

  Zach shook his head and stepped all the way into the room. Cupid’s gaze chased Zach’s around the walls. Every raggedy edge and errant paint streak jumped out at Cupid. “I’ve only applied the first coat. I’ll even it all—”

  Zach pivoted to face him. “How did you talk Ruthie into getting rid of the baby furniture?”

  How on
Earth did Ruthie keep up with this man? Zach changed direction faster than Mercury running from a winged boar.

  “She said she was ready.”

  “Huh.” Zach’s focus drifted to the walls again. “Why yellow?”

  “Ruthie and I researched colors that inspire creativity.” Cupid also happened to know Erato’s favorite color was yellow. It never hurt to appease the Muses.

  “When will you be finished?”

  “Three more weeks ought to do it.”

  Zach nodded, and Cupid allowed himself to believe he might just escape unscathed after all. “My wife is”—Zach turned to glare at Cupid—“very trusting.”

  “I’m keeping track of my hours, and I can assure you, I’m not taking any liberties.” Cupid wouldn’t have considered charging Ruthie for the hours he spent honing his skills late into the night.

  “I wasn’t referring to the work. My wife,” Zach said, then paused in case Cupid had missed the unmissable the first time, “likes to help people. Sometimes they draw incorrect conclusions from her kindness.”

  “Incorrect conclusions?”

  “I don’t think Ruthie realizes she sometimes comes off as flirty. She’s basically a lover of people.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that. I mean the lover part, not the flirting. Not that she loves me . . .” A sick feeling came over Cupid. This conversation was getting away from him. Confident it would bolster his case, Cupid added, “She’s very shy around me.”

  “Despite your advances.”