Happily Ever Ninja (Knitting in the City #5)

by Penny Reid

  “The blue tub was already here. But I had to replace the other fixtures, clean the whole thing out. The power runs off a solar generator with backup batteries I installed in mid-February. They’re rechargeable, like a car battery. The solar cells are a mile away in a suitable clearing, so I had to bury the lines and the generator.”

  Greg walked around me as he spoke, moving to what looked like a breaker box next to the shelves and flipped two switches.

  “I just turned on the water heater and satellite hookup. We’ll have hot water in half an hour, and Internet in ten minutes.”

  “Where does the water come from?”

  “There’s a well, behind the shed up top.”

  I stared at him with openmouthed wonder. “You did all this?”

  He nodded, glancing around the space. “Well, I didn’t build it. But I fixed it. I gave up the other house three weeks ago, as soon as this place was finished.”

  It wasn’t fancy. Not at all. It smelled like new paint and Lysol. Except for the big, powder-blue porcelain soaking tub, it looked like a miniature military barracks. It was efficient and tidy. Everything had a purpose and I perceived nothing that could be labeled as extraneous.

  But then my attention snagged on a cluster of photographs stuck to the wall next to the bed. As though pulled, I walked over to it, leaning down so the frame would be eye level.

  I was smiling before I knew it. Grace and Jack’s faces filled my vision. The picture had been taken over Halloween and I’d emailed it to Greg because he was on assignment in Russia at the time.

  Unwelcome and unbidden thoughts bubbled to the surface of my mind: Had he really been on assignment in Russia? What else has he been lying about?

  I batted them away, not wanting everything to be tainted by his recent deceit, not until I gave him a chance to explain. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. I wanted to trust him. I wanted his reasons to be justified.

  Yet, despite my desire to be fair, I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth.

  I refocused on the image in front of me. Grace had no front teeth. Despite being in a Princess Leia costume, she looked a lot like the pumpkin she’d carved. Jack, dressed as Luke Skywalker from Return of the Jedi, was giving her bunny ears; his mischievous grin an echo of his father’s—Greg’s, not Darth Vader’s.

  My gaze moved to the other picture and my grin wavered, but only because I was surprised. The picture was of me, one of his pencil sketches, from the chest up wearing a black dress. I was glancing over my shoulder and smiling at something in the distance.

  I straightened and turned to Greg. “When did you draw this?”

  His answering smile was small and secretive, and his eyes were foggy with remembering. “I took it with my phone over Christmas. Jack was standing at the door telling us knock-knock jokes. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, looking over your shoulder and laughing. I sketched it on the plane back in January. Whenever I see the picture—the photo or the drawing—I can hear your laugh.”

  I studied him for a beat. “You should have showed it to me.”

  He shook his head. “No. I quite like my private memories of you.”

  “Private memories?” I lifted an eyebrow at this. “You mean there’s more?”

  Greg crossed to me, his gaze moving in a slow, cherishing path over my features. “If you knew how I saw you, how I think of you, your ego would become unmanageable.”

  I laughed even though I was exhausted and still enormously angry with him. I had a crying- and Ketamine-induced headache and my thoughts were chaotic. We needed to talk about why he’d kept his assignment in Nigeria a secret. We also needed to discuss his drugging of me rather than listening to and trusting my judgment.

  But for now, because I was exhausted and needed a bath—and he’d just said something funny and lovely—I responded with a fond, “You’re ridiculous.”

  And I loved that he replied as expected. “It’s pronounced remarkable, darling.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Dear Husband,

  Sometimes when you’re at home, you call me on your cell phone just so you can whisper, ‘I’m calling from inside the house,’ like one of those old scary movies. This basically sums up why I love you, and why we’re still married.

  -Lucy

  Email

  Virginia, USA

  Married 17 years

  ~Present Day~

  *Fiona*

  As soon as the Internet was up, Greg sent a message to Alex with the essentials: We were safe; we were together; we hadn’t freed the other hostages.

  I wasn’t ready to give up on the captives we’d left behind. However, based on Greg’s level of vehemence regarding the Dalai Lama, Pope, and Steven Hawking, I decided to bide my time.

  Alex responded immediately: 10-4 good buddy. Glad you’re not dead. Check back in at 06:00.

  “He’s like mini-you.” I smiled wistfully at Alex’s message. “Except, with less tact.”

  “And bigger brains,” Greg added.

  “And weirder.”

  “And less street cred.” Greg then proceeded to bite his bottom lip and made a weird symbol with his hands, as though this would impress me.

  It didn’t. He looked absurd. But then, that was probably the idea.

  “What is that?”

  “It spells nerds. See how my thumb and index finger make the ‘N’?”

  When I didn’t display the appropriate amount of wonder and awe at his demonstration, he said, “Well, I can see when my mad skills aren’t appreciated. I’m going to go grab us some dinner.” He said this like we were in Chicago and he was running out to pick up Italian beef sandwiches from Al’s.

  Before leaving, Greg showed me where the towels and extra clothes were kept. I would have to hand-wash my bodysuit and underthings—which was fine—and don one of his alternate reality sports T-shirts in the meantime.

  The hot bath was heavenly. My body was sore and sweaty, my face tight and puffy. Taking my time, I allowed my mind to rest and wander.

  Unfortunately, when it wandered, my thoughts invariably turned to his lie about being stationed in South Africa instead of Nigeria. And also drugging me instead of listening. And also, strangely, the dishes he didn’t do last week. And the clothes he’d left on the floor in our bedroom. And the mess in the living room, most of which would still be there when we returned. And the retirement documents he hadn’t signed.

  I decided I was going to make him clean up the mess in the living room when we returned to Chicago. It was the least he could do after drugging me with Ketamine.

  These were my thoughts when Greg returned, carrying a canvas bag over his shoulder, and pulling his dirty boots off near the ladder. He set them neatly next to the wall. I frowned at his boots, wondering why he could put his shoes away in his man-cave bunker in Nigeria, but he couldn’t be bothered to do so in Chicago.

  “I have dinner. I hope you like giant snails. And sardine sandwiches.” He gave me a winning grin, which immediately fell when he saw my expression.

  It wasn’t the snails.

  I could deal with giant jungle snails.

  It was him.

  He was the cause of my acerbic mood.

  Greg and his tidy bunker verses his epic Chicago messes, and his not listening to me or trusting my judgment.

  I didn’t try to temper my glower. Instead, I gave into it. Perhaps it wasn’t the best time to be angry, but then . . . it never was. I was always choosing to suppress my inconvenient feelings, and I didn’t want to do it anymore.

  “What’s wrong?” He stared at me with wide eyes.

  “I don’t know where to start.”

  “How about at the beginning?”

  “Last Saturday, you made muffins,” I blurted.

  So, maybe not the beginning, or the most important of my grievances. But it’s a start.

  His gaze moved from side to side, like he was searching for a trap. “Yes?”

  “You didn’t do the dishes.”
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  His frown was immediate. “Yes, I did.”

  “No, you didn’t. You left the dirty muffin tin on the counter. And you left several dishes in the sink to soak. And then, the counters weren’t wiped down.”

  “Oh my God. You’re right.” He clutched his heart like he’d just been stabbed. “How can I ever make it up to you? What will be the appropriate restitution? What will we do? How can you possibly go on?”

  I ignored his sarcastic dramatics, which usually would make me laugh, and stayed my course. “And wiping down the counter—not sprinkling it with Comet and leaving it overnight. That’s just making more of a mess. That’s not doing the dishes.”

  “This should have been your thesis topic in college.”

  “And then the dishwasher—”

  “Here we go.” He rolled his eyes and turned away from me, crossing to the cot and taking off his socks. I’d brought up how to load the dishwasher before, so his reaction didn’t surprise me.

  “Everyone knows plates go on the bottom and glasses go on the top.”

  “Everyone? Really? Every person in the world knows this?”

  “Everyone but you.”

  “You are harboring an unhealthy amount of dish-related resentment.” Greg tossed his socks into a bucket by the shelves and stripped off his shirt, throwing it into the bucket as well.

  “There is no magical dish fairy,” I grumbled. But I knew my anger wasn’t really about the dishes.

  Well, it was. And it wasn’t.

  It was about . . . a lack of respect for my time.

  I was just about to voice this conclusion when I realized Greg was approaching the bathtub. And he was shirtless.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What do you think I’m doing?” He unbuttoned his pants and unzipped them.

  Perhaps it didn’t make any sense, but I didn’t want Greg to see me naked. Not when I was still furious with him. Not when he was angry with me. Even though we’d been together for eighteen years, married for fourteen, and made two children together, when we were arguing I didn’t like the vulnerability of bare skin.

  “Oh, no. No, no, no.” I sat forward in the tub, hiding my nakedness. “We haven’t talked through everything yet. I’m angry with you, and I know you’re still upset with me.”

  He shrugged. “Then we’ll have angry intercourse.”

  “We’re not having intercourse.”

  “Then I’ll give you angry cunnilingus.”

  Damn him, but that made me laugh.

  Greg’s eyebrows bounced once on his forehead and he grinned, his pants falling to the ground.

  “I don’t want any of your angry oral sex, thank you very much.” I crossed my arms over my chest, endeavoring to keep my expression stern . . . and failing.

  “Of course you do. Angry oral sex is the best kind of oral sex. And we are so rarely angry with each other. We should take advantage of this opportunity.” His thumbs hooked into his boxers with the intent of pulling them down.

  “Do not take off your boxers.”

  Greg didn’t remove his boxers, but he didn’t withdraw the threat of his thumbs either. “You know, I’ve heard it’s a good idea to fight while naked. I think I read that in a very important medical text book written by Albert Einstein’s cousin, Dr. Olga Einstein.”

  “You are a dirty liar. You did not read that in a medical book and you did not tell me that your assignment was in Nigeria. I’m not ready to forgive you for lying to me.”

  “I didn’t ask for your forgiveness, Fe.” His expression and voice hardened, losing its trace of teasing.

  “I noticed.” My tone was equally harsh. “And that’s why I haven’t given it to you.”

  Greg crossed his arms over his bare chest, gritting his teeth, his eyes flashing fire. “Okay. Fine.”

  He glanced around the space; finding the chair, he dragged it to the side of the tub. He sat on it, leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and glared at me.

  “I couldn’t tell you about the assignment in Nigeria. I accepted it on the condition that I wouldn’t be able to divulge my whereabouts or the purpose to anyone, even you.”

  I stared at him, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, I connected the dots. “So you lied to me.”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “And you don’t see anything wrong with that?”

  “Of course I see something wrong with that. Do you think I wanted to lie to you? Do you think it was easy for me?”

  “So you, what? Hoped I wouldn’t find out?”

  “In a word? Yes.”

  I smacked my palm against the surface of the water. “No! That’s the wrong answer. You shouldn’t have lied to me, especially not about something so important.”

  “Fe, how can you—” He growled, cutting himself off. “You did the same thing to me.”

  I stilled, bracing myself for his next words. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your headaches?”

  I released a silent sigh of relief because he was referring to the headaches.

  Once upon a time, early in our marriage, I’d lied to my husband about something huge. He’d forgiven me. But more than that, he’d promised to forget as well. Right now, this argument would’ve been the perfect time for him to wield this weapon of my past mistake.

  And yet he didn’t. And I loved him for it.

  I drew my knees to my chest and refocused on our present debate. “Nigeria ranks fifth in the world for kidnappings of oil workers. Accepting this assignment was dangerous and you should have discussed it with me first. The headaches are completely different.”

  “Are they?” His eyebrows shot upward expectantly. “It’s the same thing. You don’t think the headaches are a big deal even though I see them as dangerous.”

  “You didn’t see this assignment as dangerous? Somehow I doubt that.”

  “It was triple the money, Fe.”

  I was about to launch another volley, challenge his assessment of the situation, when the meaning of his last statement crystallized.

  I gaped at him, staring at his grim expression. “Triple the money?”

  “Yes. Triple. This assignment was going to give me the ability to stay home for longer periods, maybe two months at a time for the next few years.”

  I blinked at that. I realized my mouth was hanging open, so I shut it. Of course I wanted him home for longer stretches of time. The kids would be ecstatic. But a little voice, a desperately angry voice, in the back of my mind whispered, Two months isn’t long enough. I need him home.

  I watched his chest expand with a large inhale, and as he released it a good deal of his anger dissipated, leaving him looking remarkably tired.

  “When I was home this last time, last week, do you know what Grace asked me?”

  I shook my head, studying him, his desolate tone causing my chest to constrict.

  “She asked me if next door neighbor man-child, Professor Matt, was her new dad.”

  I flinched, felt the corners of my mouth curve into a startled frown.

  “And Jack answered before I could. He told her that just because they saw Matt more than they saw me, it didn’t make him their dad.” Greg paused, holding my gaze for a moment before finishing hesitantly. “He said it made Matt their stepdad.”

  I couldn’t help it, I laughed because Jack’s conclusion had been so innocently logical and ludicrous; then covered my mouth with my fingers. “Oh no.”

  “Oh no is right.” He gave me a commiserating, sad smile and scratched the back of his neck.

  “You took this assignment so you could be at home more?”

  He didn’t precisely respond to my question, instead admitted, “I hate being away from you and Jack and Gracie. I hate watching you do everything on your own and pushing me away all the time—because you don’t want to be a burden.” He said burden as though it were the most repugnant word in the English dictionary. “We are not your parents, Fe. Everything I have is yours. You are not a burd
en.”

  “I know, I know.” I reached forward and grabbed his hand, needing to touch him. “But you work so hard, Greg. I never wanted you to think I don’t recognize that. I know you still enjoy the work, and I know you make a real, tangible difference, but I also know it is work. You provide for your family, so we can live in a nice neighborhood, in a beautiful apartment, in my favorite city. And I appreciate you, what you do for us.”

  He held my hand in one of his, and traced the lines on my palm with a fingertip. “I know . . . but it’s nice to hear you say the words.”

  I gave him a slight smile. “I should say them more often.”

  “You should. You should hire a skywriter and write me a song.”

  I laughed lightly. “Ode to Greg Archer, Earl of Cynicismshire.”

  “Technically, I’m the seventeenth Earl of Cynicismshire. The fourth Earl was a cannibal; did I ever tell you that? He used to eat his housemaids, or so the legend goes.”

  I shook my head at him and his silliness, and I realized just how much I missed him. Really and truly missed him. This version of Greg, this man I married when I was far too young to be making such important decisions. The man who challenged me to do backflips, called me a misogynistic hermit, and teased me about liking lentil soup.

  Even when he was home, between assignments, I missed him. We never caught our breath. We were hardly ever a couple, because we were too busy being a family. Selfishly, I wanted more than two months at a time.

  But, I reminded myself, two months would still be a vast improvement.

  Greg’s tone was considerably less teasing and considerably more contrite as he stated, “I should tell you the same, shouldn’t I? I’m not terribly good at expressing my appreciation for all that you do, for me, for our children.”

  Feverish warmth blossomed in the vicinity of my heart and claimed my cheeks; I felt myself smile widely. “Thank you. I think . . . I think I needed to hear the words, too.”