Covet

by Tracey Garvis Graves

  Times were hard.

  I walked over to him. “I am so sorry.”

  He set the box down on the island, pulled me into his arms, and gave me a kiss. “I know. But we both knew it was coming.”

  “Why didn’t you call me on your way home?”

  He shook his head. “I had to turn in my cell phone.”

  A woman in my yoga class, who often placed her mat next to mine, had recently confided that her husband lost his job and hadn’t stopped crying for three days. “He just couldn’t stop,” she said. “He parked himself in our home office and every time I walked by he was sitting behind the desk staring at the computer screen with tears running down his face.” I nodded in sympathy although I had no idea why she’d chosen to divulge this information to me because all we’d ever said to each other up until then was “Hello” and “Hard class today, huh?”

  “I’m sure he’ll find something soon,” I said, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder.

  She looked at me hopefully. “Do you really think so?”

  “Sure.”

  She doesn’t come to yoga anymore.

  But Chris didn’t cry. In all the years we’d been together I’d never seen him shed a single tear. In fact, he didn’t even seem that upset. Everything he’d ever undertaken in his life had turned out perfectly. He’d grown up in a household where love was abundant but money was tight. The youngest of four siblings, he was accustomed to working for the things he wanted and he put himself through college, zooming through the University of Kansas with a 4.0. After graduation he landed a series of increasingly lucrative jobs, each one paying more than the one before.

  Headhunters pursued him relentlessly, trying unsuccessfully to lure him away by promising to double his six-figure base salary and provide an uncapped commission structure. They dangled stock options and company cars in front of him to sweeten the deal, but he refused to budge. Loyal to a fault, he’d built the sales department from the ground up and felt personally responsible for his employees. He would never have left on his own.

  None of this prepared him for the possibility that, someday, he might not land on his feet. Chris never once considered, even with the unemployment numbers looking bleaker every day, that he could be one of those left floundering, fighting for a position in a job pool that was shrinking and would end up smaller, figuratively speaking, than the inflatable one his children splashed around in on a hot day. Every man for himself.

  Instead, Chris loosened his tie, smiled at me, and said, “It’s been a long time since we were home alone in the afternoon.” The sun’s rays flooded the kitchen via the skylight above Chris’s head, casting an ethereal glow on his striking features.

  I smiled back. “It has.” Jordan was in kindergarten and both kids were gone all day, but we’d never once taken advantage of it, because Chris was always at work. When I saw that look in his eye, the one I knew well after so many years together, I thought we’d be fine. If you still want to make love to your wife an hour after losing your job, you probably aren’t that affected by the news.

  Chris closed the distance between us, held my face in his hands, and kissed me tenderly, as if I was the most precious thing in the world to him. “What do you say, Claire?”

  He groaned when I answered by putting my arms around him and pulling him closer so that our bodies touched. I took off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, feeling the weight of his stare as he watched my fingers moving. Inhaling the musky, woodsy scent of his cologne, I went right for that spot on his neck, the one just below his jaw that drove him wild every time. Tracing it with my tongue, I sucked and then scraped his skin gently with my teeth. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Right there.” He grabbed my face again and kissed me hard, then peeled off my tank top and pushed my shorts down until they landed in a puddle at my feet.

  We didn’t even make it upstairs.

  Once we dispensed with the rest of our clothes, Chris laid me down right on our kitchen table, the one he’d always joked about being sturdy and large enough to encourage just such an act. And when his orgasm arrived, nipping right at the heels of mine, the force of it slid me just far enough across the smooth, polished surface that I collided with the treat bags, and I can still remember the sound, the rapid pitter-patter of all that candy hitting the terra-cotta tile floor, one piece after another.

  I’m jerked out of my reverie by the rumble of the excavator, even louder and more jarring than before. I look longingly at the sculpture I’m holding, finish dusting it, and carefully place it back on the shelf.

  5

  chris

  The first thing I notice when I walk out of the Albuquerque airport is how hot and dry it is. I locate my rental car, place my suitcase in the trunk, and lay my jacket on the passenger seat. When I start the engine I adjust the vents so that the stale air doesn’t blast me in the face.

  Using the GPS, I drive to the potential client’s office, where I spend the day pitching my company’s software solutions and overcoming the objections of a conference room full of people. The more they resist, the more I persevere, and the momentum builds until I know just when to pull back and let them convince me that my product is exactly what they need. At the end of the day, I’m the last one to leave and I pack up my materials and laptop and drive back to my hotel, ordering a sandwich from room service so I can eat with one hand while I enter the data for my daily sales report. Adrenaline courses through me and I ride the high from the events of the day. This has happened three times now, and Jim is already showering me with accolades, which is like a balm for my badly shredded ego.

  And I want more.

  Around midnight, I check my phone and notice that I missed the text Claire sent at nine o’clock this morning, asking if I made it here safely. I also missed the one she sent at noon and the one that came in at 4:00 P.M. It’s way too late to call her now, so I text her that everything is fine, reach for the other half of my sandwich, and turn back to my spreadsheet.

  6

  claire

  At 6:00 A.M. the coffee finishes brewing and the sizzle of the last drop reverberates through the quiet kitchen when I remove the carafe and grab my favorite mug from the cupboard. I let Tucker out and then boot up my laptop and sit down at the island to check my e-mails, sipping slowly so I don’t burn my tongue and wishing there was a way to get the caffeine into my bloodstream faster. The first one, from Chris, was sent at 3:13 A.M., so either he stayed up late working or woke up extra early to get a jump on the day. Both options are equally possible.

  To: Claire Canton

  From: Chris Canton

  Subject: Schedule

  Leaving Albuquerque by 3 p.m. then heading to Santa Fe. When is the sign-up for fall soccer? Josh told me he definitely wants to play. Repairman coming to look at irrigation system Thursday morning at nine.

  To: Chris Canton

  From: Claire Canton

  Subject: Re: Schedule

  I already signed Josh up for soccer. Will make sure to be home on Thursday morning.

  I pour a second cup of coffee, check the rest of my e-mails, and work on my computer until Bridget knocks softly on my front door at 7:00 A.M. We decided a couple of weeks ago that we’d walk four miles every morning this summer, before Sam leaves for work and while Josh and Jordan are still sleeping.

  Sebastian stands beside her. His hair sticks up in crazy spikes and he’s wearing a Rolling Stones T-shirt and pajama pants. At fourteen, he’d rather sleep in during his summer break, but Bridget strong-armed him into babysitting because she knows Chris’s travel schedule makes it impossible for me to leave the house without someone here to watch the kids. Despite my protests, she won’t let Sebastian accept any money either, because it’s an easy gig and we’re gone only an hour. I keep an endless supply of Pop-Tarts in the cupboard for him and he’s usually sitting on the couch watching TV, covered in crumbs when we return, but I don’t car
e. He’s a good kid.

  Bridget’s full of energy this morning, fueled by a caffeine addiction that would give me heart palpitations if I drank even half as much. Cheerful and upbeat, she wears a constant smile and reminds me of a sprinter, poised, waiting for the crack of the starter pistol. Throughout the day her children wear her down until she drops into bed only to rise and do it all again. Before she started her family, Bridget worked as a nurse in a pediatric oncology unit. She told me once that she missed it terribly, and sometimes wondered if giving it up to stay home with the boys was the right decision. “You can go back someday,” I assured her, and I meant it.

  Bridget’s short blonde hair peeks out from under her baseball cap and she’s wearing a sweatshirt and capri-length workout pants. Cooler weather has finally blown in from the west and the gray sky threatens rain. We’ll be lucky if we don’t get poured on before we make it back home. I grab a sweatshirt of my own and we head out, power walking our way to the corner and turning left toward the bike trail that winds for miles through our tree-lined neighborhood.

  “How are you getting along with Chris traveling all the time?” she asks.

  “I’m doing okay,” I say. Bridget is my closest friend next to Elisa, and I could certainly admit that so far, despite my concerns, Chris’s travel schedule has had little impact on any of us. He spent most of the previous year holed up in our home office with the door closed while he networked over the phone or searched employment sites on his laptop. Half the time the kids didn’t even realize he was home, and when they did, they didn’t care, which broke my heart. His, too.

  It isn’t that I don’t trust Bridget; I do. And God knows she’s got her own problems to deal with. Sam’s prowess—or luck, depending on who you ask—at the casino and the racetrack is legendary, and Bridget knows what it’s like to be alone because Sam spends all his time at work and the rest of his waking hours betting on the horses or playing poker. She admitted to me once, somewhat sheepishly, that Sam didn’t really connect with the kids until they were old enough to do the things he liked to do.

  “Like gamble?” I asked. I was only half kidding.

  She grimaced. “Yes. He takes them to Chiefs games. They know all about point spreads.”

  I wouldn’t have a problem telling Bridget everything, but the truth is, I’m tired of talking about it—the recession, the horrible job market, Chris’s depression, and the resulting emotional upheaval that ripped through my household. I’m just done.

  After a mile we pick up the pace. I strip off my sweatshirt and tie the sleeves around my waist, glancing up at the darkening sky.

  “Ready for bunco tonight?” Bridget asks.

  “Almost. I still need to make a Costco run.”

  We discussed starting a neighborhood book club, but Elisa and I are the only ones who like to read, so we decided bunco might be more our speed. A simple dice game, a drink or two, and an excuse to leave the kids at home suited everyone just fine. Tonight the teenage girl who lives at the end of our street and occasionally babysits for me is taking Josh and Jordan to the park and then back to her house to swim in her family’s pool and eat hot fudge sundaes. The kids consider this the ultimate trifecta of summer fun and wish I’d host bunco more often.

  We’re less than a quarter mile from home when the sky opens up and pours. We sprint, laughing, not really caring that we’re getting drenched. I shout good-bye as Bridget dashes into her house, and I burst through the front door of mine, wiping the water from my cheeks. Josh and Jordan are still asleep and Sebastian is watching an episode of Family Guy that’s been on our DVR for more than a year. He rises from the couch looking so tired, I tell him to go home and go back to bed. At the front door I press a five-dollar bill into his hand. “Don’t tell your mom,” I say, ruffling his spiky hair.

  He grins. “Thanks, Claire.”

  Later that day the kids and I jump in the car and drive to Costco. Josh and Jordan gorge on the best samples while I load up my cart. At home I put everything away and give the house a quick once-over to make sure it’s still clean. The kids play in the backyard with Bridget’s youngest son, Griffin, stopping occasionally for Popsicles or to use the restroom. I sit at the kitchen island, sipping iced tea and working on some graphics for a local car dealership advertisement until Griffin goes home and the babysitter comes to collect Josh and Jordan. “Be good and behave,” I say, bending down to kiss each of them good-bye. I caution the babysitter to keep a close eye on the kids when they’re in the pool. “Make sure you’re in the water with them, okay?”

  “I will, Mrs. Canton,” she says. “My parents will be there, too.” I shut the door and turn off my laptop, then pull the fruit and cheese I picked up at Costco out of the fridge. After arranging the wedges of Brie and cheddar on a platter, and surrounding them with grapes and chunks of melon, I set a small bowl of crackers next to the platter. I have exactly five more minutes of quiet before the girls show up.

  Julia arrives first, holding a bottle of chardonnay, and—I’ll be honest—she looks rough. She’s only thirty-two, but already there are deep grooves in her face, as though her skin is never fully hydrated. Her eyes look tired and her hair isn’t as shiny as it usually is.

  “Hi,” I say, and I reach out and give her a spontaneous hug. She feels tiny and brittle in my arms, like she’s not eating enough.

  “Well hello to you, too, Claire,” she says, surprised by my greeting. She’s not an overly affectionate person unless it’s the end of the evening. When she’s really drunk, she tells me how much she loves me, accompanied by hugs and sloppy kisses.

  I shut the door and follow her into the kitchen. I hand her a corkscrew, feeling like a giant hypocrite but knowing she will drink tonight no matter what I say or how gently I suggest that she abstain. She pours a large glass and takes a drink.

  The doorbell rings and I yell for whoever it is to come in. Elisa and Bridget walk into the kitchen together. Bridget holds a giant bowl of tortilla chips and has a jar of her homemade salsa tucked under her arm. Elisa balances a cheesecake in one hand and holds a six-pack of Amstel Light in the other.

  “We’ll never be able to eat all that,” I say. I clear some space on the counter and take the bowl of chips from Bridget. Standing on my tiptoes, I open the cupboard and reach for a small bowl on the shelf and then pour the salsa into it. I love Bridget’s salsa. She uses the freshest ingredients and it’s spicy enough to make my lips tingle. I dunk a chip into it and groan when I pop it in my mouth. “This batch is excellent,” I tell her. Elisa sets down the cheesecake on the island next to the wine bucket. I’m definitely going to have a bite or two of that.

  When I first met the girls and they found out about my diabetes, they went overboard trying to accommodate my disease. They’d show up with sugar-free cookies and platters of carrots, celery, and broccoli until I explained that my pump does most of the work for me and there’s nothing I can’t have in moderation as long as I pay attention to my readings and adjust my insulin accordingly. I sensed their relief when I assured them they could bring whatever they wanted, especially since no one ever touched the horrible cookies, and the veggies went right into the trash.

  “Where’s Chris this week?” Julia asks, topping off her glass and settling herself onto a stool next to the island.

  “Santa Fe and Albuquerque.”

  “It must be so hard with him on the road all the time,” she says. “Aren’t you lonely?”

  I was lonely long before Chris went out on the road, but she doesn’t know that. “Yes,” I say, answering honestly. “But he really needed that job, so the kids and I will just have to make do.”

  She snaps her fingers, like she’s just come up with the best idea ever. “You should go to one of those Pure Romance parties.”

  “What’s Pure Romance?” Bridget asks.

  “You know,” Julia says. “Like Pampered Chef but for vibrators. Instea
d of bunco, one of us could host a party next month.”

  Bridget laughs. “Why am I not surprised that you know this?” Julia loves to talk about her sex life, and we’re used to her oversharing.

  “Don’t knock it, Bridge,” Julia says. “They’ve got a fantastic product line.”

  Bridget opens a bottle of beer and sits down beside Julia. “I’ve got four kids and a husband who wants to have sex every night. How, exactly, am I supposed to make time for a vibrator?”

  “I’m just saying it doesn’t hurt to have a backup,” Julia says. She turns toward me. “Are you even paying attention, Claire?”

  “Not really,” I say, taking a sip of my iced tea.

  “But you’re the whole reason I brought it up,” she says.

  “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I can get the job done without a sex toy.”

  “How very boring, Claire,” Julia says.

  I shrug. “I’m not that fancy.” I’m ready to change the subject. We usually save this kind of talk for later in the evening, after the girls have had a few drinks, but apparently we’re starting early tonight. Maybe because Julia is already a few drinks ahead of everyone. The subject matter doesn’t embarrass me, but it does remind me that, technically, I am in need of a replacement for Chris.

  The temperature has climbed significantly since this morning and the rain has moved on, so we’re going to sit on the deck to play our game. I turn on the stereo and try to remember which button activates the outdoor speakers. “Can someone pop their head outside and tell me if they hear music?”

  We play several rounds of bunco and Bridget wins the pot every time. “Sam will be so proud,” she says with just a hint of sarcasm. “Maybe he’ll win big tonight, too.”

  Bridget will have to give her babysitter most of the money because her two oldest boys are at a sleepover and she had to hire someone to watch the two youngest. Sam is no more likely to stay home on bunco night than Chris is to share his feelings with me.