Into the Quiet

by Beth C. Greenberg

  “Sorry, friend. Management frowns on entertaining company in the back of the house. Besides, I don’t want your eyes wandering. You’re mine.” Jagger sealed the deal with a hard kiss that left Pan breathless and thrilled.

  He had to admit it felt pretty fucking fantastic to be singled out among the crowd, especially by the hottest guy in the room, not counting Cupid.

  Fucking Q, get outta my head!

  “Hurry!” Pan yelled down the hallway.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” Jagger called back.

  Wouldn’t think of it.

  5

  Waiting for Zach

  Ruth’s eight-year-old cockapoo greeted her with eager, chirpy barks and full-on body wagging, the sheer joy in the dog’s entire body tempered only by desperation to go out. Zach hasn’t come home yet.

  “Hang on, Pookiedoo. Mama’s feet are killing her.” Ruth kicked off her ridiculous heels with a groan and sank her feet into the woolly mules she kept by the door. “Okay, little marshmallow. Let’s get you outside.”

  Pookie loped across the yard to her favorite tree and squatted. Every floppy white hair quaked as Pookie emptied her bladder. She pushed her front legs forward and arched her back in a luxurious stretch before trotting to the nearest bush to investigate. Ruth followed her all around the yard, conjuring the beautiful boy at the club to keep her company under the cover of the black night.

  Away from Quentin, Ruth could think again. Her head shook by itself, remembering how she’d accidentally torn off that stripper’s G-string. Gawd, the mortification and then the giddiness when Quentin broke her fall—a fall he’d caused, and not just by banging into her. A girl didn’t stand a chance against sex personified, certainly not an old married lady like Ruth Margolis Miller. Her silly self could hardly be blamed for mentally undressing the boy. They were in a strip club, for goodness' sake.

  Still, Ruth could’ve shrugged off the attraction to yet another of the hardbodies lining the room (albeit one with a dazzling smile and dreamy bedroom eyes) if he hadn’t gone to all the trouble of noticing her, too. How did it make any sense that someone so young and sexy was looking at Ruth with actual hunger in his eyes? Or was that her overly active imagination at work again? This certainly wouldn’t be the first time Ruth’s fantasy life intruded on reality, as Zach would have been quick to point out with a subtle arch of eyebrow. But dancing with Quentin was no illusion, and neither was his request for her number.

  Could she have ever summoned the courage to give it to him? No, that would not be courage. The word you’re searching for is “infidelity.” You did the right thing—the only thing.

  A slippery tongue at Ruth’s ankles snapped her out of her musings. “Ready for bed, girl?”

  She left the mules by the door and plucked up her stupid sandals by the straps. Her friends seemed to manage their impractical heels without complaint. Why was Ruth such a fuddy-duddy?

  The kitchen was a detour that would cost her precious minutes—who was she kidding, at least an hour—of sleep, yet Ruth couldn’t resist the pull of her internet world, the universe of her own making, where she could be bold and sexy and exciting and anyone. I need to hydrate, she told herself.

  She jiggled the mouse as she sank into her desk chair. The monitor sprang to life at her touch, the way Ruth had responded to Quentin’s, she remembered with a giggle and a sigh. She typed “male stripper g-strings” into the search bar and scanned the results. A picture’s worth a thousand hits, even if the image falls far short of reality. This one would have to do unless she could happen upon a Quentin selfie stash. Maybe he had an Instagram account. Be still my heart.

  Ruth tapped out her vignette, not too long or she’d lose her audience. She still had enough alcohol in her system to tease out the embarrassing highlights—the sexy stripper she’d accidentally stripped and the real-life god who’d asked for her number.

  Facebook friends of her “ShouldKnowBetter” alias would “You go, girl!” all over her night-on-the-town post. They’d surely have some LOLs and crude remarks to share over her grab at the dancer’s package. But it would be the encounter with Quentin that would earn her the most social currency because the more dangerously Ruth put herself out there, the more vicarious pleasure she provided. And if old, past-her-prime Ruth could catch the eye of a hot, young stud, there was hope for everyone.

  Post.

  When her excuse for staying awake expired at the bottom of the tall glass of water, Ruth pulled out the big guns: I’ll wait up for Zach.

  The initial responses flew in. Her night owls and friends on the West Coast jumped all over it, bringing a predictable but comforting smile to Ruth’s face. She felt a little less silly for all of it. Hey, whatever doesn’t kill you makes a good story, right?

  When her eyelids started to droop, Ruth made a liar out of herself again. Rather, Zach made a liar out of her by not coming home before she started up the stairs. 2:07 a.m. Wow.

  She filed away her impractical shoes into their individual drawstring bags, where they would stay until her blistered feet lost their power over her memory. The black sequins scraped her cheeks as she peeled off her tank top. She tossed it onto the pile for the dry cleaner, quickly followed by the trying-too-hard skirt.

  An audible moan of relief accompanied the unhooking of her strapless bra. For one unselfconscious millisecond, Ruth imagined Quentin standing there in her dressing room, watching her take off her clothes. The titillation lasted only long enough for reality to crush her fantasy. Boy, did I do that kid a favor sparing him this spectacle.

  Focusing on Quentin’s body was a far better plan. She felt only slightly guilty fantasizing about licking her way up—no, down—those washboard abs beneath the surface of his skintight tee. After all, what did it matter where her mind traveled as long as her body stayed inside the marriage?

  And could her husband say the same? Ruth could only imagine the details of Zach’s late nights at the office with his lusty associate. Unfortunately for all involved, Ruth’s imagination left no blank unfilled.

  She blamed herself. If not for her passion for those kids at the Brighter Tomorrows playspaces, she and Zach never would have donated a sponsorship-level gift to the organization, never would have attended the annual gala, and never would have stimulated the salivary glands of the VP of Development.

  Of course Joan would seek out this “generous couple” among the crowd of twelve hundred to thank them in person. Her persistence didn’t surprise Ruth; Lord knows she and Zach had been shaken down by too many fundraiser types to count. Ruth couldn’t even fault the woman for skewing her attention toward Zach. His business acumen deserved every word of praise Joan heaped upon him, even if her delivery was about as subtle as a tub of glitter. Joan would have been a fool not to offer Zach a board position, and Joan was no fool.

  No, what set off Ruth’s Oh shit! alarm was Joan’s too-intimate, “I’d just love to set up a time to learn more about your philanthropic priorities.” She didn’t fool Ruth with her offhand, “Both of you, of course.”

  Joan didn’t relent till all three of them had pulled out their phones and calendared their get-to-know-you lunch for the following week. Ruth called her bluff and joined them at Bistro Le Coeur—really?—though Joan seemed completely uninhibited by Ruth’s presence. Anything Zach said that was even remotely funny earned him a big, horsey laugh and a squeeze on his arm. Ruth had started to wonder if she’d become invisible when Joan rounded on her and asked, “And what kind of work do you do?”

  Oh, she would’ve loved to have clipped the bitch’s superior attitude with, “I’m a stay-at-home mom.” How delicious it could have been to lay claim to the issue of Zach’s loins—and by extension, the rest of his body—but that childbearing gig hadn’t quite worked out. “Stay-at-home nothing” described her better, a barren nest where their dreams of raising a family together had gone to die.

 
“Homemaker” worked for the town census, but the title wasn’t exactly a big fluffy feather to stick in her cap. Besides, Ruth was more general contractor to the hired homemakers—housekeeper, gardener, architect, and interior designer—than someone who produced anything herself.

  Sure, she could have reached back to what she used to be, a highly capable accountant, sought after by the partners at her firm. That opening, though, would only steer the conversation to the “indefinite leave” to start a family, which became permanent after several failed attempts at IVF and Ruth not being well enough physically or emotionally to keep up appearances. “Professional volunteer” described Ruthie best, but twisting the lid off that jar would only set Joan gushing over how she and Zach were going to make beautiful organizational magic together. Zach didn’t help Ruth’s confidence any with his hangdog expression and unspoken, Sorry, hon, I know you hate this question.

  Flashing her brightest, tightest smile at the woman spewing competence and confidence all over her husband, Ruth had settled on, “I’m a kept woman.”

  “Well, aren’t you the lucky one?” Joan had volleyed back, her tone and phony smile a dozen shades of condescension.

  “Yes, I sure am.” Ruth had squeezed Zach’s hand under the table, lest he forgot to which woman he was connected by ketubah, moral obligation, and the state of Indiana.

  Two years later, Zach was still bouncing back and forth between the women—Joan by day, Ruth by night, and the weekends a wrestling match between the two.

  There he was now, the quiet purr of his engine rolling into the garage bay before cutting out. Zach would sit in the car for a few minutes, Ruth knew, transitioning as well as he could, attempting to leave his professional half outside but failing as usual. The work permeated his being, and how could she complain? He was a good man working to repair the world.

  If the work were his only mistress, Ruth could’ve lived with that. She would’ve been lonely, but she didn’t depend on Zach to fulfill her every need. That’s where her friends and her volunteer work and her writing came in, not to mention the whole world of intimate strangers who lived inside her computer. Problem was, Ruth couldn’t quite set aside her suspicions about the woman who cheered Zach on and worshiped him with slavish devotion.

  Of course, Joan didn’t have to overcome the daily ho-hum of managing a household, of slogging through unsexy discussions about the ravages of ice dams and clogged septic lines. Nor did she share the burden of failure and loss of the hopes and dreams a man had every right to: a son or daughter to follow in his footsteps, a precious toddler to twirl around.

  And lest Ruth forget, Joan was glamorous (something Ruth would never be), a big-city girl with perfect posture and high cheekbones. Flawless skin expertly made up nonetheless with just the right shades of concealer and blush and lipstick and eyeliner, the professional but also miraculously sexy drape of auburn hair decades from graying, and the ideal figure in—and no doubt, out of—her wardrobe of expensive business suits. The effortless wearing of stockings and high-heeled pumps, showcasing what Ruth’s father would’ve called “a great set of gams,” toned from early morning treadmill runs while boning up on the day’s headlines. God, Ruth hated her.

  Zach had perfected the art of climbing the back stairs without making a sound. A muffled jangle could be heard as he set his keys into the leather tray on his bureau. The belt whooshed through its loops, and he hung it on the first peg with all the other black belts, she knew without seeing. He let out a sigh while loosening his “noose,” an activity Zach relished as much as Ruth appreciated shedding her bra, and unfastened his cuffs and the buttons lining his chest. Twist right, twist left, he shrugged out of his jacket and shirt.

  Ruth followed him in her mind’s eye to the dressing room bench, which let out a soft squeal as he sat. He untied his shoes and set them down on the carpeting too quietly for her to hear. He stood again, unzipped his trousers, and let them hit the floor. If society would allow it, Zach would walk around like this all day, in just his white briefs. Wouldn’t have bothered Ruth any; he was nicely built from tip to tail, and their generous travel schedule allowed for a year-round tan despite the harsh change of seasons in Indiana. Sturdy on top with a nice smattering of hair on his chest and not too much on his back, Zach had just enough flesh to grab hold of where other men his age had a serious pair of love handles. Years of personal training sessions afforded Zach pleasingly muscled arms and lean runner’s legs. As for the parts concealed by his briefs, Ruthie had no complaints there.

  Just as he’d done every work night regardless of the hour, Zach painstakingly matched up the creases of his trouser legs, folded them over the hanger, and filed them with the matching jacket into their color-appropriate slot in the closet. Finally, he freed himself of the last of the trappings of his indentured servitude by stepping out of his briefs and tossing them into the wire laundry cart. After a particularly long day, he’d scratch his balls for a few distracted minutes, a pleasure Ruth never begrudged him.

  The one noise he couldn’t stifle was the whir of his electric toothbrush. He emptied his bladder and saved the flush for the morning so as not to disturb his sleeping wife. He washed his hands and tiptoed into the bedroom.

  Her side of their king bed barely registered his weight as he sat on the edge to set his alarm for tomorrow’s rise-and-shine. With minimal jostling, Zach scooted between the sheets, stretched out, and pulled the covers neatly across his chest. He was a back sleeper and a sound one at that.

  Any second now, Zach would reach over, run an experimental fingertip along Ruth’s arm to see if she was awake. They might have a pillow-talk version of “How was your day, dear?” and if he had the energy and the optimism, he might even see if she was game for a little action. Tonight, thanks to Quentin, Ruth just might give in.

  She waited in the dark for a sign, any sign at all that Zach wanted her. She inhaled and exhaled in measured breaths, waiting for the touch that never came. She trained her ears extra hard for his usual whispered, “G’night,” but the only sound that penetrated the silence was Zach’s soft snore.

  6

  Strategizing

  A tightness in his chest woke Cupid from a fitful sleep. Ruthie. Versailles. Love. Married. Not a dream. “Wonderful,” he muttered to himself and whoever happened to be listening in from above.

  The heart message compelled Cupid out of bed to the conversation he needed to have with Pan. Cupid hopped into his sweatpants and shuffled into the kitchen. In just two weeks on Earth, he’d already developed a strong appreciation for the dark brew worshiped by mortals. He filled the water reservoir to the top and poured the ground coffee into the filter; he had a sinking feeling this was going to be a full-pot day.

  Cupid trudged to the cabinet where the cereal boxes stood in a row. Too many choices stared back at him. With no patience for decisions, Cupid grabbed the box of Lucky Charms, not that he placed stock in luck, but the colorful box at least promised a high sugar content. He poured a mound of cereal into a bowl, floated the colorful shapes in a sea of milk, and sliced a banana over the top. The coffeemaker stopped churning just as Pan lumbered into the kitchen wearing a pair of tight black boxers and a huge grin.

  “You smell like sex,” Cupid declared with a wrinkle of his nose. “A lot of sex.”

  Pan chuckled as he pulled two mugs down from the shelf. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

  “That’s not Cheri’s scent.”

  “Nope.” Pan offered nothing further but filled the two mugs with coffee, set them down on the table, and plopped down into his regular seat. He closed his eyes and sucked down half the mug before glancing up at Cupid again. “What?”

  Cupid tipped his chin toward Pan’s room. “Is someone here?”

  “Just you, me, and the lamppost.”

  Cupid set his bowl onto the table and sank into the chair opposite Pan. Fine. If Pan didn’t want to tell him wh
o he’d—

  “I made a new friend last night, too,” said Pan.

  Cupid scooped up a spoonful of cereal while his mind replayed the events of the night: catching Ruthie’s fall with his body, their all-too-brief chat, the crushing blow when he discovered the resounding absence of the echo beat. The winged dancer.

  “You had sex with that stripper?”

  “I did. Is that a problem for you?”

  “No. Why would it be?” Cupid hurried another spoonful of cereal to his mouth while Pan stared him down.

  “I don’t know, Q. Why would it be?”

  “It’s not.”

  “Good, because I distinctly recall your saying, ‘You can have him.’ Remember that?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t think you’d go and have him.” Cupid released a heavy breath. “Never mind. I’m being a jerk.”

  Pan kicked Cupid’s foot under the table. “Yeah, a little bit.”

  Cupid kicked him back, and they sipped their coffee in silence while Cupid gathered his emotions. Could he help it if he was being irrational? It hadn’t bothered Cupid in the least when Pan slept with Cheri, but this was . . . well, obviously this was different. But hadn’t they gone to Versailles so Pan could hook up with a guy? That didn’t mean Cupid had to like it.

  “What was he like?”

  Pan’s head jerked up, and he gave his friend a soft smile before answering. “You really wanna know?”

  He did and he didn’t. Cupid rolled his eyes. “I asked, didn’t I?”

  Pan studied him a few seconds longer before delivering his answer with an unnecessary swagger. “He’s quite limber.”

  “How nice for you.” Under different circumstances, Cupid would have been more than pleased to show Pan exactly how limber he could be.

  “You’re being a jerk again. Just sayin’.”