by Rachel Hauck
Flipping on the bathroom light, she found the marble sink—the one she’d picked out and helped Jett install—arranged with her face wash, hairbrush, and a prepared toothbrush.
Oh, Jett. He really was being so kind and helpful.
The apartment had been a wedding gift from his parents. A place of their own to begin their Wilders Move to New York adventure.
Between his classes and her job hunts, they painted every wall. They ate takeout, laughed, dreamed, and filled their new home with music from Jett’s treasured vinyl LP collection.
Gladys Knight and the Pips. Credence. Fleetwood Mac, America, Foreigner. All seventies all the time. Jett was an old soul.
At night they made love on the floor pallet and fell asleep with Jett on his back, Lexa on her side, one hand lightly touching his arm.
She was his true love, his muse. Until one day she wasn’t and the bliss she knew faded to nothing.
She brushed her teeth and washed her face—soaking her sleep shirt—careful of the still-dark bruise around her eye and down her cheek.
She reached for the hairbrush, then changed her mind. She wasn’t sure she wanted to release the beastly knot twisted and tied together on top of her head.
Turning out the light, she headed back to the bed. Their bed. Short and distant memories surfaced. Of drinking herbal tea and reading, mounds of pillows behind their backs. Sharing a line or two out loud of something clever from the latest bestseller or an obscure author Jett discovered.
Sometimes they discussed their day and planned for the next. Sometimes they said nothing at all. Just rested, hands clasped in the center of the bed.
But by Jett’s second semester in grad school, he was sleeping in the Barcalounger. Or the guest bedroom.
“I didn’t want to disturb your sleep.”
And her days at ZB stretched longer and longer.
Shoving and pushing toward the center of the bed, Lexa settled among the pillows, fighting to find a comfortable position. The long arm cast went from the middle of her hand to just below her shoulder with her arm bent at the elbow ninety degrees.
She felt trapped. Claustrophobic.
And just the simple trip to the bathroom had started her head throbbing.
A shooting pain brought her upright. “Jett?” She listened. Beneath the T-shirt, her belly rumbled. “Jett?” It hurt to raise her voice much louder than a whisper. “You home?”
Lexa breathed through another shard of pain, then inched to the side of the bed and toward the door. She’d have to feed and medicate herself.
After a slow, very slow, journey to the kitchen, she found her meds set out with a bottle of water and a note from Jett.
Meeting with a Gordon Phipps Roth expert. Be home in a couple of hours. There’s cereal in the pantry. Milk in the fridge.
Lexa swallowed her morning pills, then filled a bowl with Cheerios and drowned the O’s in milk.
Sitting at the banquette, she opened her laptop, but the glare of the screen created an aura so she shut it down.
So, this was her reward for doing Zane a good deed? A concussion and a broken arm.
She slurped another spoonful of cereal and scanned the living area. Jett had taken care to draw the shades and make a place for her to lie on the couch instead of being stuck in the bedroom.
He’d left the remote on the end table. Even lined up a few albums he thought she might like.
“Remember driving up from Florida to America’s greatest hits?”
Monday had been awkward, navigating her care as she fought for some form of modesty while Jett treaded over familiar ground that was now off-limits.
Jett knew her. Intimately. There was nothing under her loose T-shirt he’d not seen or caressed.
Lexa spooned another bite of breakfast. She had made him turn around while she tried on the night shirt he fashioned. He’d cut the seams and sewn on ties so she could easily disrobe for her bath.
Once he wrapped her cast, she could handle everything else from there.
However, after five days, she desperately needed her hair washed. And that would simply be too intimate. Last time he washed her hair, they’d been honeymooners sharing a shower.
Lexa jumped when the intercom buzzed, spilling milk onto the table. She was not good with her left hand.
“Lexa? You there?” Zane’s voice sounded from the foyer speaker. “It’s me. Open up.”
Scooting out from the banquette, Lexa eased across the living room to the foyer. Zane buzzed three more times.
She pressed the Talk button. “I’m not decent.”
“Get decent. I need to talk to you.”
“About what?” She hadn’t talked to him since the accident. Jett had called HR Monday morning to let them know she’d be out, on doctor’s orders, for at least three weeks.
“Let me up. I don’t want to talk to you through a box.”
“I’m supposed to be resting.”
“Lex, come on. I won’t stay long. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“You had all week to find out if I was okay.”
“Well I’m here now.”
Lexa glanced toward the couch and the blanket draped over the arm. She could cover up well enough.
“Five minutes.”
She unlocked the apartment, then made her way to the couch and the plaid throw. The short excursion across the room exhausted her.
Truth? She was still mad at him. One, for turning her into his assistant the moment it suited him. Two, for waiting five days to check on her.
The door opened, and Zane appeared around the foyer wall, producing a bouquet of flowers.
“Ah, Lex, look at you.” He set the arrangement on the hearth. “I hate to see you like this. Did you really run into the street without looking?”
“Who told you that?”
“The doorman at the Waldorf.” Zane perched on the other end of the couch. “He said you were running from some guy.”
Yeah, you. She dragged the blanket up under her chin. “I didn’t run into the street, I tripped hailing a cab. Jett said I came out of my shoe.”
“He was the guy?”
“No, I didn’t even know he was there.”
“Look, Lex, I tried to get you to stay. I don’t know why you left.”
“Because you insulted me. Believe it or not, Zane, I’m not at your beck and call twenty-four seven.”
“Sorry, I was just trying to help out Sabrina.”
“Be her hero?” Lexa straightened the bottom of the throw over her foot.
“No, I don’t know. Maybe.” He motioned to her right side. “How’s your arm?”
With care, she moved it from under the cover. “Painful.”
He glanced at her cast, then at her face. “Jett said you have a concussion.” He stretched toward her bruised cheek. “This looks nasty.”
“You should’ve seen it five days ago.”
“I can’t help but feel like this is my fault.”
“Good,” she said but not really meaning it.
Zane frowned. “I thought you were going to exonerate me. Tell me it was all your fault. Or better, Jett’s.”
Of course. Because she’d always covered for him, fixed his mistakes, picked up all the balls he dropped.
“It was an accident. No one’s at fault. Except maybe the shoes.”
His Nebraska-boy grin made her smile. “Are we okay? You and me?”
As much as she wanted to say no, Zane was the most constant person in her life. Her first job out of college. Her stability when her marriage was ending. Her boss and her friend.
“We’re fine.” She pointed her finger at him. “Don’t think this lets you off the hook on the CEO conversation.”
He raised his hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Pushing up from the couch, he followed Lexa’s directions to find a vase, which he filled with water and then the flowers.
Setting the arrangement on the hearth, he turned to her. “Are you sur
e you want to be here with him?”
“It’s temporary.”
“I could always—”
“What? Pay for someone to help me? Would you do that for any other employee?” If she was going to be CEO, she needed to behave like one. “I’m fine here. It’s weird but fine.”
She hadn’t told Zane about the story society. How she’d seen Jett twice before she woke up in the hospital to find him sleeping in the chair next to her.
“I mentioned you in my speech. More than what you wrote. I said how you took the bull by the horns and got the Forty-Sixth Street store open.”
“Thanks. How’s it going with Sabrina?”
He blushed a little. “Good.”
“Lois called to check on me. She said Quent was at my desk.”
“He’s no Lexa Wilder but he’s doing a good job.”
“Perfect. You’ll get used to him while I’m out, and he can stay in the position when I become CEO.”
“You are not going to let me forget, are you?” He half laughed and half sighed.
“Are you trying to forget?”
He glanced at his watch. “I should go. Let you rest. Everyone said to tell you hi and hurry back. Don’t be surprised if you start getting cards and gifts. Lois is getting it organized.”
Lois. The HR manager was a former talent agent who mastered the art of schmoozing. She excelled in winning people over, making them feel a part of the team.
“I’ll come in as soon as I can. Say hi.”
The front door opened and closed. “Lex?” At the foyer doorway, Jett removed his bike helmet. “Zane.”
“I came to check on my girl.”
“She’s not your girl.” Jett hoisted his bike to a hook behind the wall, then crossed the room with a takeout bag. “I brought you an egg croissant, Lex.”
“I just ate cereal.”
“You need some protein.” Jett handed her the brown paper bag. “You want some tea?”
“Green, please.”
The microwave door slammed, then beeped as Jett set the timer. “Good, you took your meds.” At the banquette, he unloaded his computer. “Don’t you have a burger kingdom to run, Zane? People to make fat?”
“I’ll call you later, Lex.” Zane reached out to touch her head, then pulled back and headed for the door.
“Don’t call her with work. She’s resting.”
As the door slammed, Lexa peered up at Jett. “He was just being nice.”
“Nice. Making sure you didn’t blame him for your accident and sue him? Or file workman’s comp.”
“Sue him? For what?”
“Emotional distress.”
“If I wanted to sue anyone for emotional distress it’d be you.” She unwrapped the croissant as the words fired from her mouth. Bold and unapologetic.
“Me?” Jett glared at her, then toward the microwave as it beeped.
“Forget it.” She bit into the hot sandwich. The gooey cheese burned her tongue.
“Forget it? You just accused me of emotional distress.” He set the tea on the end table’s coaster.
“Which is why we’re divorced.”
“How? How did I cause you emotional distress? I was the one in grad school. The one with the dead brother. You were never here for me to distress.”
The pounding began at the back of her head and rolled forward. “I said forget it.” She rewrapped the sandwich. “I’m going to lie down.”
“Lex, wait—”
Head down, eyes covered from the brilliant light of the banquette’s chandelier, she moved toward the bedroom.
“I mean it, Jett. Forget it. Let’s not talk about the past, go around digging up old bones. It is what it is. Let’s try to be friends. If possible. I need to lie down.”
She crawled into bed and breathed, quelling the nausea. “What?” she said, sensing his presence.
“Can I get you anything?”
“No, but thank you.” Lexa opened her eyes to find Jett at the door. “I’m sorry, okay?”
“About what?” He made a goofy face and she chuckled.
“H-how was your meeting? With the other Roth expert?” The pounding began to ebb. The pain pill was doing its job.
“He doesn’t think Gordon used a ghostwriter.”
“Isn’t that good? Don’t you want Gordon to be the writer America knows and loves?”
“Yeah, of course, but . . .” He leaned against the wall, arms folded. “I keep thinking of the book Tenley Roth published posthumously for Birdie Ainsworth. The voice, the writing, the story is so much like GPR.”
“Then talk to Tenley.”
“She’s a steel door. Can’t get through. The Roth Foundation won’t even acknowledge Birdie and Gordon were friends, even though it’s documented they were. I think they’re keeping a tight leash on Tenley.”
“How could they do that?”
“I don’t know, appeal to her family loyalty?”
“Are they really looking for your published dissertation to stop all suspicion?”
“Yes, because it would be the first complete work on Gordon since the rumors.”
“Hmm, then publish. Sorry, but I’m starting to fade.” She rolled onto her good side, her focus landing on the notes from Monday night’s story society.
“Get well.” Written by Chuck with a bold script.
“We miss you.” Sweet Ed.
“Call if you need anything.” This from Coral, and Lexa believed her.
Everyone wrote to her but Jett. She wanted to ask but changed her mind. She didn’t have the strength for the conversation.
“I’ll be at the banquette if you need anything.” He reached for the blanket at the end of the bed. “I have a class at four. I’ll be gone a couple of hours. I’ll check on you before I go.”
“Thank you.” She forced her eyes open one last time. “I am grateful.”
“I know.”
He pulled the door to as he left, leaving it slightly ajar.
As she slipped toward slumber, Lexa raised her head to see a thick, brilliantly covered book on the top shelf of the bookcase against the wall.
“Rites of Mars.” Suddenly awake, she pushed up and kicked her legs over the side of the bed, waiting for her equilibrium to settle before retrieving Jett’s book.
It was heavy. She almost needed both hands to carry it to bed. Crawling back against the pillows, she looked inside.
She’d seen the book online but never read any of it. In many ways, she resisted the novel that he loved more than her. At least for a time anyway.
Using her left hand and elbow she turned past the copyright and title pages, her gaze landing on the dedication.
To Lexa, with all my love.
Chapter 13
Chuck
Friday afternoon he parked his car outside Riley and Jakey’s school, paused his Uber app, and ducked down in the seat behind the wheel.
The restraining order prohibited him from being within five hundred feet of the kids’ school. But he was fed up. He had to see his babies.
All efforts to have the temporary restriction removed got him nowhere. He’d run out of money, so his lawyer stopped working the issue.
He drove the limo for his buddy on the weekends, using the pay and lavish tips to build up his “Get My Kids Back” account.
After the incident, he stayed away from them. His first mistake.
But he was ashamed, wondered if the little tykes were better off without him. He’d sort of scared himself with his outburst.
However, driving a car all day gave a man time to think, gain some perspective.
He’d screwed up, but he’d changed. And his kids needed him.
Since the recess bell hadn’t rung yet, he distracted himself with the little black Moleskine book he’d picked up from a bookstore yesterday afternoon.
He didn’t think it mattered much, but all the talk Monday night about their lives, their stories, their friendship, got him to thinking about his magic book idea.
> Already he’d forgotten some of the elements. Jotting them down might jog his memory. For what purpose, he didn’t know, but where was the harm?
Taking the pen from the elastic holder on his sun visor, Chuck stared at the book’s first page, all pristine and white. Absent of his sloppy, angular handwriting.
With an inhale, he wrote the date in the top right corner and Magic Book Stuff.
The sudden crash of children yelling and screaming caused him to toss the notebook into the passenger seat, his pulse energized.
At last, recess. He felt like he was in first grade racing to freedom.
He had his mother to thank for this little vignette of his kids.
“Jakey loves the monkey bars,” she said the other day. “Riley is the jump rope champion. Recess is at two. Don’t let anyone see you.”
His eyes stung with emotion. His beautiful Riley and handsome Jake, both of them smart and strong, were fifty yards away. Of course, they had inherited the hearty Mays genes.
His grandfather Mays was a longshore fisherman who survived a hurricane at sea only to join the navy when Hitler invaded Poland. He stood on the deck of the USS Arizona when the Japanese dropped their bombs and became one of the lucky survivors.
His grandmother Mays grew up in the Oklahoma Dust Bowl, raising her little brother and sister after her father died of a severe asthma attack and her mother walked off the farm one night never to be seen again.
Years later it was rumored she worked in Hollywood as an actress, but it was never confirmed.
The Mayses were colorful, larger than life. Survivors and thrivers.
He pumped his fist when Jakey swung from monkey bar to monkey bar. Look at him go! He could probably do a couple of pull-ups.
Chuck scanned over to the basketball court, where a couple of girls were hopping up and down, their hair floating and falling.
Riley was holding court, jumping rope while a passel of girls looked on.
Show ’em how it’s done, baby.
She was so graceful, a flower in perpetual motion.
Chuck scribbled in his notebook, “I love my kids.”
