by Kaira Rouda
“Sounds wonderful,” she says. I hand her the tumbler of brandy and follow her into the family room.
I pull the matches out of my pocket and light the three candles on the coffee table, then take a seat next to my wife on the tan couch. It’s wonderful to be home, alone, sitting on our new luxurious, decorator-selected furniture. Here we are relaxing in the family room of our lake house, sharing an after-dinner drink after an expensive dinner out. We are a successful, enviable couple. I am handsome, Mia is holding up well—although you wouldn’t know it with the outfit she has on.
“Cheers,” I say. I hold up my glass of brandy, clink my crystal tumbler against hers. “To us.”
She takes a sniff and recoils at the smell of the strong alcohol. Her head snaps back as if she saw a ghost. I think the hand holding her glass is shaking, almost imperceptibly. Is it? I drink a sip of my own brandy, careful not to shudder, and smile. Sure, the stuff is strong but she is really overreacting.
“Oh, come on. I know you don’t love brandy, but it’s the only after-dinner drink we had in the cupboard. It’s a special night. Drink up, honey. It will help warm you up, and then I’ll finish the job,” I say with a wink, taking another sip.
She smiles feebly. “Okay, Paul, I’ll try it.” I watch closely as she puts the glass to her mouth.
There is a knock on the door. Mia lowers her drink, places the glass on the coffee table and looks at me with concern. This is odd. No one knocks on your door after ten o’clock at night, not in Lakeside. Not even in Columbus.
Mia’s eyes are wide as I stand up. “Stay here. I’ll get it,” I say. I am brave. I am the man. I make my way to the front door and turn on the front porch lights. Their glare reveals Buck. He has a lot of nerve.
I yank open the door. “I know your wife is dead and you may not remember this, but when a man has a date night with his wife it isn’t okay to come over. Not before. Not after. What part of this aren’t you getting?” I say. My hands are on my hips, and I know my words are cutting and mean. I know this, and I like it. He has crossed me one too many times. “What? Why do you think you can just show up here at all hours? Or is this about the strawberries? They’re fine. Been fine. Don’t need you, Mr. Green Thumb. So, good night.”
I slam the door in his face before he has a chance to respond. Hopefully, I made it clear he wasn’t welcome. He couldn’t take a hint, but now he has got it, surely.
I look out the half-moon window cut into the front door, expecting to see Buck’s back as he is walking away. But he is standing on the porch, looking back at me. He isn’t leaving, it appears.
“What the—” I say, about to yank the door open again. This time I’ll use a fist to get my point across. I like the idea. Mia appears next to me, grabs my hand and pulls the door open instead.
“Buck, so good to see you twice in one day,” she says. “Is something wrong?”
I’m seething, Mia is holding my fist, I want to punch Buck but they are talking on my porch.
“Yes, actually. There’s a burglar on the loose. The sheriff came by earlier, but you guys were out. Thought I’d come relay the message myself,” he says. What a Boy Scout he is.
“Wow, thanks for letting us know. Can you come in for a nightcap and tell us more?” Mia asks.
“I’d love to,” Buck says. He takes a step toward me. He has a lot of nerve. I turn to my wife. This is her fault, too. She needs to stop disrespecting me.
“Mia, this is our special night. The best night ever, for the two of us only,” I say. I yank my hand away from hers like a toddler about to have a tantrum at a crowded mall. I reach for Mia’s arm. I will pull her back inside away from Buck if I have to, but just as quickly she moves out of my reach.
“Yes, it is a special night, Paul. But Buck is looking out for our well-being. If there’s a security concern in the neighborhood, I want to know what to do about it and Buck has the information we need,” she says. She is calm, her face flushed, but her voice is firm. We are in a standoff on our front porch. Mia says, “Come in, please. Join us.”
No, that isn’t it, what you’re thinking. She didn’t mean join us for anything other than talking, an after-dinner drink. We aren’t swingers or “alternative lifestyle” or “it’s complicated” people. No, we’re above average normal people. Well, sexually I’m above average. I have a gift. One woman just isn’t enough to handle all I have to give, but I make each woman feel like she is. Does that make sense?
I need to focus.
My head is reeling, I’m losing control of my home, and I’m not certain what to do. My busy mind tries to come up with a response as Buck walks through the front door, cutting between Mia and me. I’m glaring at my wife, but she’s ignoring my stare. Mia follows Buck inside. I have no choice but to follow, too. I step inside my cottage, close the front door behind me, and wonder what I can do to get rid of this unwelcome guest.
“Drink?” Mia asks him, following him to the family room. I have no choice but to trail behind her.
“Sure, what are you having?” Buck asks. He’s wearing a LAKESIDE sweatshirt just like Mia’s. His is navy blue. He has washed denim jeans on and the kind of tennis shoes they call boat shoes back East. Very nautical, very annoying package.
“Paul fixed me a brandy, but I’m just not in the mood,” she says, pointing to the drink she didn’t touch sitting on the coffee table.
“That stuff tastes like lighter fluid,” Buck says. “How about a glass of wine? Red or white, I’m easy.”
“Sure,” Mia says. “Paul? Could you open some wine and pour Buck a glass? I’ll have one, too.”
What is happening? Now I am supposed to serve my wife and our unwanted neighbor wine. My hands become fists until I force them into my pockets and stretch a smile on my face. I stare at the two of them as they settle in around the coffee table.
10:30 p.m.
20
No doubt a shift has occurred in the room with Buck’s arrival, specifically between Mia and me, but I cannot put my finger on it. Yes, Mia has invited the man across the street into our house, into our romantic evening together once again. But it’s more than that. I know it is, but I cannot figure it out.
And she isn’t drinking the brandy.
I stride into the kitchen and reach above the refrigerator, extracting a bottle of passable pinot noir. I don’t care if it’s a cheap bottle, it’s for Buck. I unscrew the top—yes, it’s cheap—and pour a glass for Buck. Mia has a drink, one she will enjoy with me. The same as me. Mine.
I walk through the dining room and stop for a moment. My wife and Buck are talking together, their faces close, close enough to have kissed while I was in the kitchen. He is sitting in a chair, one of the ones across from the couch. She is in the other one. Both chairs are blue. Both are being used.
I’m being used.
“Your wine, Buck,” I say, walking into the room. Mia stands quickly, as if she just realized she was nose to nose with another man in my family room. She comes to my side and we sit at the same time on the couch.
“Did you bring me a glass?” she asks.
“You have brandy, Mia,” I say, and I reach forward and hand her the tumbler. She hasn’t even had a sip.
“I really don’t think I can stomach it,” she says. “I’ll just go get some wine.” She’s up and out of the room before I can even react. With her, she’s taken the glass of brandy.
“Allow me,” I say, standing. As I begin to follow her, Buck stands. We are face-to-face, man-to-man. All I can imagine is shoving my fist into his dimple, or his nose, or—
“No, really, both of you sit. I’ll be right back,” Mia says.
Buck narrows his eyes, but a smile forms on his face. “Let’s do what she says, okay?” he says. “Far be it from me to refuse a lady.” He keeps his eyes locked on mine as he sits do
wn on the edge of the blue chair.
“What are you doing here?” I say, sitting lightly on the edge of the couch across from him. The candles I lit for our romantic evening are flickering, contorting Buck’s anchorman looks.
“I came to warn you about the burglar,” Buck says. He takes a sip of the wine. “Lovely.” I can tell he knows it’s cheap, knows it is anything but lovely—the wine, the situation.
“Bullshit,” I say.
Mia walks back into the room, no doubt assessing our standoff. We are, us men, predatory. And we are protectors. Like the guard dog waiter at dinner, somehow Buck has caught a whiff of something, the scent of trouble, and he’s on the trail like a bloodhound. But he’s wrong. And the only person who can tell him how wrong he is would be Mia, the supposed prey, as it were.
My father—he was a wonderful role model as I mentioned—loved this game. The standoff. Come to think of it, I like it, too. I liked it when I had to pretend to police that I was shocked to discover my parents dead in their bed when I dialed 9-1-1. But by now you know pretending was easy. I simply reminded myself it was their fault. They should not have said no to babysitting the night before. It was their one role in life, supporting my children, treating them better than they’d treated me. How hard could that be? When I had to face Rebecca in the Thompson Payne office, I played the game. Amateurs. People try to look at me as a suspect, but I’m good, I’m not easy to catch. I honed my skills at an early age, allowing me to withstand the scrutiny of Donald Pilmer, although, truth be told, there was no stopping Mia from marrying me, no matter what her old man said or dug up.
I sat calmly on the other end of the phone line from Donald, a situation much like this, with this sort of underlying tension, and told him I was marrying his daughter. I didn’t so much ask for his blessing as tell him that it was happening. I didn’t flinch when he yelled about it being too soon, dishonorable and the like. My voice was calm and strong. I was confident. I was raised to handle tests, to outsmart everyone. My mom told me I was special, even when my dad tried to beat it out of me. So I thrive in situations like this one. The only problem tonight is, I don’t understand what is going on. Why is Buck here?
“Mia,” I say without turning to look at my wife. I hold Buck’s gaze. “This is not about a burglar, is it? Why is he here?”
“All right, Paul,” Mia says, and then I hear a drawer opening and I see out of the corner of my eye that she has opened the drawer of the coffee table. I didn’t even know there was one. Interesting. “I agree it’s time to talk. I should start by telling you I’ve made a decision.”
“And this so-called decision needs an audience, beyond me?” I ask. I’m still staring at Buck but I can feel Mia’s eyes on me.
“Yes, it does. Buck is here to support me, as a neighbor and as my friend.” She takes a breath, lets it out while an eternity seems to pass. “I’ve done a lot of thinking, soul-searching. But still, this is so hard,” she says.
Across the table from me, Buck smiles and then catches himself and clenches his handsome jaw. His hands are both flat on his thighs. His fingers still.
I don’t look at my wife. I stare into the candle flame reflected in Buck’s eyes.
“What are you trying to say, Mia?” I ask. I don’t turn my head to look at my wife. I continue staring at Buck.
11:00 p.m.
21
“This is hard, even though you’ve lied to me, about so many things, for so long, Paul.” Mia’s voice cracks and I believe she may be crying. But I cannot break my stare-a-thon with Buck.
“For God’s sake, look at your wife,” Buck says. He shakes his head and loses our match, shifting his gaze to Mia.
I win. I always win.
“Of course. Mia, honey, what are you talking about? What’s so hard? We have a great life,” I say. Now I shift on the couch so I can face her. She is crying—I knew it—and I still don’t know what she’s holding in her hand, but I suppose I’m curious. “What lies are you referring to exactly?”
Mia meets my gaze squarely. “Uncle Derrick? Just tonight. At what was supposed to be our special dinner, you lied. I know you stole that letter, Paul. I know you are investigating the mineral rights. You’re trying to steal them from me.”
Hmm. Mia as Sherlock Holmes. How interesting. The role doesn’t suit her, though; she simply isn’t clever enough.
Well, perhaps she does know more than she lets on, but that’s fine. I was doing what I did for both of us. For the kids. For the future.
I need Buck to leave. Now. “I will not discuss private family matters with a stranger here,” I say. I’m calm, but in charge. The man of the castle. The one in control, as always.
I wait for Buck to move, to leave. But of course, he has his primitive guard dog juices flowing, and he’s not budging.
“I want him to stay,” Mia tells me. “I feel more comfortable if he’s here.”
“‘I feel more comfortable if he’s here,’” I say, mimicking my wife and her miserable weak tone. “Come on. Are you a child? These are private matters, family matters, between a husband and wife, and I refuse to discuss anything further until he’s gone.” I take a sip of brandy and it burns my throat.
“Paul, you need to calm down and allow Mia to speak,” Buck the widower asshole garden gnome says.
“You need to go back to your empty life and leave my wife alone,” I correct him. I am so close to hitting him I can feel it, feel the throbbing pain in my knuckles as they remember the blow for days after like they did when I dropped Greg Boone, another nosy neighbor. I’d aim for his nose, but be happy with knocking out the stupid dimple. “Unless you’re fucking my wife. Then we have other things to discuss.”
“Don’t be crude,” Buck says. He picks up his wineglass and drinks. He doesn’t appear to be leaving.
I should have seen this all along. They are having an affair. And now she is coming clean, telling me everything, even though it was supposed to be our best day ever. That’s fine, though. I suppose I knew it somewhere deep down. Best to air the dirty laundry, get readjusted, and then figure out next steps. I have my plan, and now I know she has one, too. Impressive. Mia has played me perfectly. I’ve fallen into her trap, even as she slipped out of mine. I will not allow her surprises to end the night, though. I will win.
But what exactly does she know?
Mia slides a piece of paper in front of me. I recognize it, of course. It’s the letter from her uncle. The one I opened and hid.
“Recognize this?” she asks. The cottage seems very quiet. I feel Buck lean forward, looking at the document.
“I do. But again, why is he here?” I say. “Why are we discussing a letter from your crazy uncle in front of our neighbor? This is a private family matter, nobody’s business but ours.”
I see Mia send a look to Buck. A look she should be giving me. We’re the team here.
“Look. We can talk about everything once we’re back home,” I say. “It’s late, past eleven. We never stay up this late. I’m calling it a night, and that means you are too, right, honey?” I stand up, feign a yawn and pop my knuckles. It’s a bad habit, a low-class habit, I know.
“Paul, I know you tried to claim my mineral rights, the ones Uncle Derrick wrote to me about,” Mia says, her voice quavering. This is hard for her. Poor Mia. Maybe I’ll tell her a little story, just to calm her down.
“I was just researching things for you, but if you’d like to paint me as a criminal, go ahead,” I say. I walk around the seating area until I’m standing directly behind Buck. His neck is exposed, just within reach if I take a step forward. I can feel his flesh in my hands, his neck snapping nicely.
Mia has become unrecognizable. It’s as if she changed overnight into a sneaky, manipulative woman who hides things from her husband. Meanwhile, Gretchen always treats me nicely. She is
the perfect woman for me, I realize at this instant. It all starts with chemistry, which we had that day at her store in the mall. And then it deepens as I test her to see how receptive she is to my rules, my way. Will she pick me over a movie night with her girlfriends, for example?
Gretchen does not disappoint. She’s a better listener than Mia even. She wears skirts and dresses, as I request. She’d never wear ridiculous sweatpants that made her look like a hog. Whenever I spend time with her, she treasures it. Sometimes, after a particularly intimate lovemaking session, she cries when I must leave and go back home. She’s hooked on me like crack. I know she wants more, deserves more of me.
I tell her I love my wife, but Gretchen knows there are issues between Mia and me. I mean, I’m with Gretchen every day, as long as possible. When we aren’t making love, we’re cooking a gourmet lunch together because unlike certain people she’s actually a great cook, or plotting vacations to faraway lands. I tell her stories about television commercial shoots in Hollywood and assure her she’ll come with me the next time I’m on location. I see how her eyes sparkle with those promises. We both know it’s just a matter of time, I guess.
Gretchen is the reason why I’m more comfortable letting Mia go now. I often wonder what she’d think of raising the boys with me, although I haven’t asked her yet. She’d be great, I know. She’s very patient. I’d get her a large home in the suburbs, a different suburb, and we would raise the boys there together. Mia would never see them again.
Oh, I don’t mean that. Don’t worry; it’s the tension I’m feeling with this stranger in our home.
“Paul,” Mia says. “Sit down. Please.”
“I’m tired, Mia. I’ve tried to make this the perfect day, the best day ever, but you’ve insisted on ruining it, every single step of the way. I’m over it. I’ll see you upstairs,” I say. “And he should leave. Now. I’m finished with this little ménage à trois.”
