Brick by Brick

by Maryn Blackburn

  What?

  The four of us crowded the single room. A double bed filled the alcove formed by the wall of a spartan bathroom with bold tile. The decor was as nicely done as the main house, but with a more masculine feel and less humor.

  “I checked out of the hotel.”

  For a studio apartment instead of a desert house of his own? Maybe Rowan wasn’t as strong and well as she seemed. Maybe Gage alone witnessed moments of weakness and wanted to be there to help her past them, at least some of the time.

  When he wasn’t screwing James.

  “There’s cable and a minifridge. I’m ready if I get snowed in.”

  “Mrs. Ruiz must have cried,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “The realtor who wanted to sell you a big house in the desert.”

  “Oh. Right. Maybe someday.” He surveyed his room with evident satisfaction. “I have everything I need right in this room. And everybody.” He hugged Rowan and me, one on each side, but his loving eyes were on my husband.

  James looked back with equal fondness. I don’t know which of them looked at the bed first, but anyone could tell they both already imagined a sexual romp there.

  Was I the only one to see it was just a double and couldn’t possibly accommodate three?

  “Okay, we’ve seen it clean, which may never happen again,” Rowan said. “Who wants dessert?”

  “Me,” I said.

  James patted my behind as we all went inside the main house. “Come on, babe; let’s go get fat.”

  Was he saying my bottom was fat? Maybe he was. Maybe it was. I kept my sigh internal.

  “The question,” Rowan said, “is not ‘Who wants ice cream on their brownie’ but ‘How many scoops?’”

  “Looks terrific, Rowan,” James said. “Do you do birthday cakes? Mine’s coming up.”

  “I don’t even do cake from a box. I bought these.”

  “Natalie always does birthdays just fine, even if it does mean there’s way too much cake for the two of us.”

  “We somehow manage to eat it all,” I said.

  Rowan lifted big brownies onto turquoise plates. “You don’t get together with family or friends?”

  “Not family, anymore,” James explained, serving himself two scoops atop a big brownie. “It’s been a couple of decades since my idea of a great time was cake and ice cream with family.” He put a miserly scoop of ice cream on Gage’s smaller brownie. “I stuck it out until I left home, but it still felt selfish to leave my parents out of it completely. We’d go over for cake and presents and pretend we didn’t resent the hell out of it. And I’d try not to get into it with my dad or my brother.”

  “They were a real fun bunch at birthdays,” I said.

  “Not as fun as Stuart,” Gage said. “He gave a birthday spanking that would—”

  “Not now, Gage.” Rowan seemed weary rather than angry. “This is a celebration of my new life in my new place.”

  “Right. So what do you do for birthdays, James?”

  “First birthday after my dad died, I took Mom out to lunch at a nice restaurant. Even though it was a workday, we had a drink, and I toasted her, thanking her and my dad for having me and raising me right.”

  “Isn’t that sweet?” Rowan said.

  “She thought so. Apparently there was some heavy pressure on Mark—he’s the next birthday up—to do the same thing, and he caved. That set a pattern, so now it’s what we all do, fancy lunch with Mom and the evening our own, with whoever you want. Of course that means lunch with Daniel, but still.”

  “Daniel’s his twin,” I explained.

  “Fraternal. Think night and day,” James said.

  “So I won’t be meeting your mother at any birthday celebration,” Gage said.

  “No. Natalie doesn’t even come. Oh, stop with the face. I’m sorry it’s taking so long, but it’s not like I’ve met your mother.”

  “The round goes to James,” Rowan said.

  “Touché,” Gage said. “So what do you want for your birthday?”

  “I don’t know. Natalie keeps a list, sort of. Surprise me.”

  And he did.

  Chapter Thirty

  On James’s birthday, I got up early to make waffles, an indulgence he rarely enjoyed. Gage had stayed over even though there’d been no sex, but he only accepted half a waffle and was miserly with the syrup.

  “Are you going to have cake tonight?” I asked.

  “Of course. I’ll do a salad for lunch.”

  “What time’s the reservation?” James asked.

  “At seven, for three, under ‘Bedwell.’ By the way, I’m going to meet you there. I’ve got a phone conference this afternoon.”

  “Fine. Rowan’s not coming?”

  “She has a date with Dave,” Gage said. “I think she wants to give us some space, instead of turning the three of us into the four of us all the time.” He smiled. “It’s good, her having her own friends and stuff.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “but I’m still going to invite her over a lot. We like her.”

  After James left for work, Gage asked what the plan was for the evening. “Listen, if it’s not cool for me to stay after, just say so. I can sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ eat some cake, give him his present, and disappear.”

  “He’ll want you to stay for the evening. Overnight, I don’t know. What did you end up getting him?”

  “A surprise, just like he asked for.”

  “You can tell me.”

  “I can, but I won’t. I gotta go. See you at Scapaletti’s?”

  “Seven. Don’t be late.”

  Late that afternoon I set a fancy table for dessert. Even though we didn’t celebrate with family, I felt their presence. My sister and I didn’t see eye to eye on anything, but she gave me Mom’s blue tablecloth simply because it matched James’s eyes. The silver-plated ice bucket in which the wine chilled had been a wedding gift to his grandparents, inscribed The Lundgrens in curling script. The birthday cake awaited us on a fancy cut-glass cake stand James’s mom had loaned me and decided she didn’t want back. I set out the dessert plates from our good china, a wedding gift from my mom, and last, Grandma Felluca’s crystal.

  It seemed odd to set three places. Until today, the fancy stuff had always been for a family gathering or just us two.

  Gage had made himself a part of our day-to-day lives. He returned old Mrs. Webb’s trash can to her carport when he retrieved ours. He changed the bed and washed the sheets. When he couldn’t sleep, he did the dishes, by hand so the dishwasher wouldn’t wake anyone. Maybe it was time I changed my thinking to “just us three.”

  Maybe not too. Gage would be leaving for months at a time, to work. James and I would remain a unit, with him or without him.

  I hoped. A part of my mind was too aware of the many times doubt had nagged me: Did James prefer Gage? Not that he loved me any less, but I was soft and comfortable, as easygoing as old jeans. Gage was hard-bodied, his face striking as hell. A tuxedo of a man? The thought made me laugh, loud in the silent house.

  I put on the linen dress, hated it afresh, and failed to hide my hideous-me blues from James when he came home.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Not really. I just feel like the ugly stepsister in this dress.”

  He peered at me the way glasses people do when they’re barefaced. “You look fine to me. Buy something you like better, if you want.”

  “I tried.”

  “Well, you look fine,” he repeated and headed toward the shower. He didn’t get it.

  Dinner at Scapaletti’s was delicious, attentive, and unremarkable. “I’ve grown accustomed to fine dining,” I said.

  “Yeah? Good, because you’re going to get a lot more of it.” Gage paid the check without a murmur, except from the waiter, his gratitude in Italian.

  In the parking lot, Gage opened the passenger door of my car for James. “Here you go, birthday boy. Just another service we offer.”

  “Thanks. Speaki
ng of service, how much did you tip, anyway?”

  “James!” I said.

  “It’s okay. I tip plenty. People remember their brushes with celebrity. I want waiters and maids to tell people Gage Strickland is generous. Which I’m glad to be, since I can afford it.”

  I worried again that his gift to James would make mine seem small and too practical. Why had he refused to tell me what it was?

  “Good for you.” James’s sarcasm stung Gage.

  After a long, uncomfortable moment, my husband said, “I didn’t mean it to come out like that.”

  “It’s nice that you’re a good tipper,” I added.

  “But not so nice that I brag about it. Also not so nice that I do it to look good. Me, me, me, huh?” He paused, then said to James, “Does she do that to you too? Make you see yourself differently?”

  “All the time. It builds character. See you at the house.”

  We didn’t try to stay together on the drive back, but Gage’s Porsche pulled up behind my car before we had the door unlocked. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  It was more like three. “Let’s wait on the cake,” James suggested as we trooped back in. “I’m too full. Can you both stop sulking over nothing long enough to give me my presents?”

  Both men took off their jackets and loosened their ties.

  I made my voice cheerier than I felt. “Oh, you think you got some presents?”

  “Mom gave me a CD and some movies.” He grinned, lopsided and every bit as handsome as Gage. “You’re in one of ‘em.”

  “How weird is that?” I asked.

  “Not very,” Gage said. “I’ve been in twenty-four movies. Not many anybody should own, though. Which one?”

  “Airspace. It’s cute. You’re cute.”

  “Thanks. I was young.”

  “You’re still young,” James said.

  “And you’re a year older. How ya doin’, gramps?”

  “Gittin’ by, sonny boy, gittin’ by. So where’s my gol-dang presents, you whippersnapper?”

  “Behind the sofa,” I told him, but it was Gage who upended himself for a display of nicely shaped backside as seen through summer-weight suit trousers. I didn’t see any lines suggesting underwear.

  James oohed and ahhed over his smaller presents, especially the short stack of Levi’s, and beamed at the biggie: new steel-toed work boots exactly like his decrepit ones that were no longer being manufactured. He’d better be impressed; they cost over two hundred dollars, and I’d had to visit my sister in Casa Grande to get them.

  I loved her, of course, but the list of subjects we could talk about without disagreement was short. She didn’t approve of James and truly believed we would spend all eternity burning in hell. She did, however, have a computer, plus some account for online purchases, and knew how to find new boots for sale and to verify that the person selling them hadn’t cheated other buyers. It took so little time that I treated her to lunch.

  “Thank you so much,” I said when I left, to what I assumed was our mutual relief. “I feel safer doing it here than at the library. We talk about getting a computer, but— Anyway, I’m glad to have had not just your computer to use but your expertise too. I’d probably have messed up, doing this by myself.”

  “Like the Hummel I bought? It was made in China, and the seller wouldn’t give me a refund. She had terrible feedback. I should have known. You learn.”

  “I bet. Anyway, I really appreciate it so much. Thanks again.”

  “You call me if they don’t come by Friday,” she said. “Or just to talk.” We both knew I wouldn’t, and that she didn’t really want or expect me to.

  My gifts to James exhausted, and apparently appreciated, I turned to Gage. “Better get yours.” To James I added, “He refused to tell me what it was.”

  Gage handed over a very small blue foil box. Jewelry? James rarely wore anything but a cheap watch, not even his wedding band. Bricks and mortar were hard on soft metals and precious stones.

  Still, he tore the wrapping off and lifted the lid with an excited expression that turned to puzzlement. “A key?”

  I leaned over to look. “A Ford key.”

  “Want to see what it fits?” Gage asked.

  “No,” James said.

  Gage must not have heard him, because he plowed ahead. “It was a toss-up which was the best you can get. I started with Dave—Ro’s boyfriend?—because he drives this monster, but he didn’t pick it. His brother did, only the brother’s pulling all this overtime, so it was hard for him to meet with me, and later go to dealers, test-drive ‘em with somebody who knows. I almost got the Dodge, but he convinced me that—”

  “Shut up!” The lightning bolt between James’s brows was so deep it could have been stamped.

  “What?”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “I want you to have it. Please, take it. For me?”

  “Not for anybody.”

  “Hey, come on, it’s something you can really use. It’s a good truck. Yours is falling apart.”

  “I like my truck.”

  “You’ll like this one better. Come look at it.”

  “I don’t want your big fancy truck.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, James, it’s a gift.”

  “What part of ‘I don’t want it’ don’t you get?”

  “I can’t believe this. I was a kid when Stuart gave me a carton of cigarettes for my birthday. Who gives a fourteen-year-old Winstons? But I knew to at least pretend to be grateful.”

  “Because it kept you from getting your ass beat.”

  “Because that’s the right thing to do. Jesus, don’t you have a grandmother or something who gives you ugly shirts?”

  He had my sister, but I knew to keep quiet.

  “You say fucking ‘thank you,’” Gage said, “even if you give it away the first chance you get.”

  “That’s family and a goddamned shirt. This is a truck. I don’t need it, and I don’t want it.”

  “Tough shit. It’s yours.” He glared at James. “You may control what time we eat and which side I sleep on, and you own the remote control. Hell, you decide when I get to fucking come! But a gift is one thing you can’t control. Live with it.”

  “Take it back.”

  “Is it because it’s expensive? James, I love you. It doesn’t matter what it cost. I can buy you anything you want. I’m happy to.”

  “Why don’t you just shit a pile of steaming cash and rub my nose in it?” My husband’s face had gone a dull red.

  “Goddamn it!” Gage’s hands balled in fists, and he bounced on his toes. Was he going to hit James? He wouldn’t!

  “Stop it! Stop!” I hadn’t shrieked like that in years.

  No reaction from either of them.

  “Where the fuck do you get off, telling me to take back a gift? Or is this what you get off on? You don’t just control me. That’s not enough. You want to control how I spend my own fucking money. Is that it? Christ, it is. You gotta be in complete control or you’re not a man.”

  Lips clamped shut in an angry line, James puffed through his nose like a locomotive. His coloring had progressed to an ugly purplish hue.

  Gage had flushed deeply pink, and a vein in his forehead throbbed visibly. Equal rage. “That’s it, isn’t it? Turning it down makes you a bigger man. You just don’t have the balls to let me control anything.”

  James put one calloused hand on Gage’s chest and pushed, using all the muscle he’d built in many years of lifting bricks. Gage stumbled backward two steps before regaining his balance enough to throw a punch.

  As an actor, Gage had won a few carefully choreographed fights, but the reality was that the blow hurt his fist more than James’s jaw.

  “Fuck!” Gage cradled his injured hand, shook it hard, then cradled it again, while James looked on with an amused sneer.

  James hadn’t been in a fight since seventh grade, his first day at the new school in Arizona. He simply looked like he could pound a p
erson into jelly, with those thick forearms and that cool, quiet assessment of the other guy.

  Gage spent hours at the gym and ate with care, but his muscle was camera ready rather than capable. He didn’t stand a chance.

  James shoved Gage again, at the shoulder, hard enough to spin him off his feet entirely. He landed on his butt, hard.

  “If you had balls enough to be a real man,” Gage said from the floor, his voice breaking like a teenager’s, “you’d see I’m a man too.”

  “Fuck you,” James said, adding a sarcastic, “man.” He stepped over Gage.

  “Yeah, fuck me. A man wouldn’t want to!”

  Gage hadn’t yet gotten up when glass crashed in the dining room, immediately followed by the kitchen door slammed so hard it shook the windows. The truck wheezed, then sputtered to life.

  “Damn. Damn! I should try to catch him!” Gage said.

  “No, don’t. He’ll go to the gym, work it off, and come home ready to talk in an hour or so.” Or go drink beer and come home reeking and horny.

  “He’s not going to drive like a maniac?”

  “Not in that truck.”

  He rubbed his rear through the seat of his suit trousers. “I guess we should go see what broke.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  James must have bumped the dining table in his haste to leave. “The Lundgrens” ice bucket lay on its side, a cornucopia of ice. Water flooded the table, and the wine bottle had rolled as far as the glass cake stand, cracked off its base. A white-frosted avalanche, the birthday cake had skated far enough to knock over two of Grandma Felluca’s crystal flutes. They lay in sparkling shards.

  My eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh, man. What a mess. Don’t be mad at him, okay? It’s my fault. I should have backed down. Look, we’ll go out tomorrow, find a new cake thing and some new goblets, anything you want. Most expensive thing in the store.”

  “You can’t fix everything with money.” I felt dull, almost numb with the loss. “I don’t want new crystal. These were really old when Grandma Felluca brought them from Italy.”

  Gage seemed to deflate. “Oh. Maybe eBay?”

  I don’t know why, but that made the tears flow. I turned my face away.

  Gage pulled me to his chest. “I’m so sorry, Natalie, so sorry. I fucked up an important day, in every way I could, and I still don’t quite see how; plus I can’t fix anything. I’m sorry. What a fuckup. I can’t even buy a birthday present.”