Into the Quiet

by Beth C. Greenberg

  “And you’re not?” Cupid slapped his spoon at the soupy rainbow before shoving the bowl into the middle of the table. He crossed his arms and shot daggers at Pan though he was angrier with himself for getting so damn upset. Was falling for a married mortal not enough to occupy Cupid’s heart?

  Pan stood with a force that scraped his chair along the floorboards. “Shit.”

  He strode past Cupid toward the coffee machine, jammed his mug down on the counter, leaned forward onto his palms, and swore again. Pan’s freckled skin strained across his massive shoulders like Cupid’s bowstring, the intimidating might of the hunter barely contained by his mortal form.

  When Pan finally spoke, his voice sounded strangled and weak. “Do I honestly need to tell you I wished it was you instead of Jagger?”

  Cupid’s indignation was momentarily interrupted by a swell of pleasure he was quick to tamp down. “Jagger? What kind of name is that?”

  “How the hell should I know? Maybe his parents are Stones fans.”

  “Stones?”

  “Ugh!” Pan grabbed his head with both hands and growled. He spun around, his cheeks redder than the bushy beard surrounding them. “Are you trying to be difficult, or is this yet another of your many divine gifts?”

  Was he? “I can’t stand it when you’re mad at me.”

  Pan’s head arced like the sun crossing the sky. He scrubbed his face with both hands, blew out a thick sigh, and braced himself against the edge of the counter behind him. “I’m not mad at you.”

  Cupid wanted to believe him, and Pan’s tone did sound more frustrated than angry. “Good,” Cupid said. “I’m not mad at you either.”

  Pan unclenched his jaw and gave Cupid a tight nod. “Good.”

  Cupid tracked Pan’s movement to the refrigerator. Remembering his hunger, Cupid dragged his bowl within striking range and tucked in. The cereal had gone soggy while the two men were arguing.

  They spooned their respective breakfasts into their respective mouths in wary silence until Pan tested their careful truce. “Even if I had risked making the most colossal mistake of my life last night, it’s not as if you were available.”

  They’d gone around and around on this, agreeing on a powerful mutual desire and a stronger commitment not to act on it. “You weren’t really considering it, were you?”

  Pan huffed as he reached for his coffee. “Not more than once every five minutes.” He raised the mug toward Cupid, gave him a wink, and brought the coffee to his lips.

  “Silly goat,” Cupid said, his smile cutting hard into both cheeks.

  “Whatever. Let’s talk about you for a while.”

  Me. Right. Cupid stirred the spoon around the dregs of the bowl. The so-called rainbow had melded into a color that matched Cupid’s outlook, a grayish sludge most unworthy of the goddess Iris. As much as he hated arguing with Pan, at least the skirmish had temporarily taken his mind off the real problem.

  “I wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but I love Ruthie even more than Mia. Last night when she drove off and left me standing there . . .” The ache tore at his chest from the inside out. “I don’t see how I can bear to go through that whole dating routine with Ruthie. I’m not sure how I survived the first time around.”

  “Something tells me you won’t have to. That rock on her finger isn’t just decoration. She already has a husband.”

  “You think he’s the one?”

  “You’re the expert. All I know is the first murder suspect is always the spouse.”

  “You think her husband wants to murder her?”

  “My point is, you have to rule out the husband first. You certainly can’t go around introducing a married lady to other men if her Right Love is already married to her.”

  “Okay, that makes sense, but what if he’s not the one? What about your rules?”

  “Hmm.” Pan’s bushy eyebrows drew together.

  Cupid’s heart sank. He really hated it when Pan didn’t have the answers. Of course, that hadn’t stopped Pan yet from voicing his opinions.

  “If your punishment requires violating the matrimonial laws of man, we can only assume the gods will back you up.”

  “That’s a horrible assumption,” Cupid replied. If anything, the exact opposite was far more likely.

  Pan sighed. “Honestly, Q, I think it would be best to focus on first things first. Your Worthy is still wearing her ring, so that’s a good sign. She didn’t jump at your offer to take her outside, another plus.”

  “Not from my perspective,” Cupid said.

  As usual, Pan ignored Cupid’s misery and plowed ahead. “For some reason, she gave you her number, which means you might have an opening without resorting to that stalking system in your chest.”

  Cupid heaved out a humorless chuckle. “Tell that to my chest, why don’t you?”

  “I guess that can’t be helped,” Pan answered sympathetically. “Do we agree that job number one is checking for an echo beat with the husband?”

  “Yes.”

  Cupid’s gut was so twisted up, he no longer knew what to hope for. He didn’t relish that moment of hearing his beloved’s heart beat for another. Could there be a more crushing blow for the God of Love? Of course not, which is exactly why this evil punishment had been concocted for him. As long as he lived, Cupid would never forget the hideous twisting of his heart when he recognized the perfect echo beat between Mia and Lieutenant Goode and knew for certain he’d lost her.

  Not that this state of uncertainty was the slightest bit more pleasant. No, Cupid had no stomach for hurting Ruthie as he’d unintentionally hurt Mia by stumbling through the process of locating her Right Love and mucking everything up with his own selfish desires. In all likelihood, Ruthie’s husband represented the cleanest, quickest solution for all concerned. That’s what Cupid would hope for, then.

  No sooner had Cupid finished his deliberations than the challenge jumped out at him. A husband and wife were obviously well acquainted already and had, presumably, experienced the thrum of love at least long enough to decide to get married. Much more would be required than simply giving the two parties a nudge in each other’s direction. Cupid would have chosen the relatively fertile ground of a clean slate like Mia and Patrick’s any day over a Right Love gone fallow.

  “Okay, this can’t be too difficult,” Pan said, “assuming they still live together, that is.”

  “Another assumption.”

  “You know, it would be helpful if you tried a little positivity here.”

  “Easy for you to say.” Pan had spent his night rolling around with a limber angel while Cupid tossed and turned with a broken heart.

  “I believe your stay here on this planet would go much easier for you and me both if you’d kindly retain one minor detail about your situation: you’re the one who shot your magic arrow into the hellhound’s ass. I’m just a guy doing his day job.”

  Cupid sank against the back of his chair and harrumphed as sourly as a person who knew he was in the wrong could do. “Fine.”

  “Moving on. What’s your range?”

  Cupid sifted through his readings of Mia’s heart: all those restaurant dates he’d chaperoned, the tragic one-way beat when that awful Reese had shown up at Mia’s door, the unmistakable echo when Lieutenant Goode and Mia first made contact at the accident scene.

  “About five meters.”

  “What if you were standing in their yard? Could you hear inside the house?”

  “Through the wall? I doubt it.”

  “Hmm, okay, we’ve got to get you inside while they’re both in there too. Breaking and entering is a no-no. Speaking of laws, don’t forget you cannot sleep with her. Wait, let me be more specific. You cannot touch each other’s happy parts. No kissing, no dry humping, no ‘making her feel good,’ no whatever else your little head comes up with for a justificati
on. Just don’t. Understand?”

  “Yes.” Cupid fought the urge to stick out his tongue. He’d had enough lectures for one day, and it was barely eight o’clock.

  7

  Wrong Number

  The engine inside Cupid’s chest revved to life before he finished his second cup of coffee. Probably for the best—he had a phone call to make, and he needed to calm down first. As he had discovered with Mia, his erotic superpowers did not transmit through the phone. If Cupid didn’t win an invitation to meet Ruthie in person with this conversation, he would have to resort to stalking Ruthie with his heart system. How would he ever earn her trust after such a violation?

  Nerves jangling, Cupid retreated to his room and slumped onto his unmade bed. Lying among his tousled sheets to call Ruthie felt wrong on every level. He sprang up and strode to the windows, where the sun filtered in and warmed his skin. Deep breaths. The pleasant memory of dancing with Ruthie washed over him until a stab to the heart set him sharply back on task.

  “Okay, okay,” he mumbled to the impatient gods. With shaky fingers, he tapped the number Ruthie had given him, held the phone to his cheek, and closed his eyes for maximum concentration. As the phone rang in his ear, he realized that he should’ve rehearsed.

  “Hello?” That brittle voice . . . Gail.

  Disappointment came at him like a crashing wave, but Cupid had a job to do. Wallowing was not an option. “Hello,” he said.

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Quentin.”

  “I think you have the wrong number.”

  Yes, did he ever. “Wait, don’t hang up. Ruthie gave me your number last night.”

  “Oh my god! You’re that gorgeous hunk from the club.”

  Cringing, he tipped the phone away from his ear. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Wait, you asked Ruthie for my number?”

  A lie might have served him better, but Cupid still hadn’t gotten the hang of it. “Um . . .”

  “Oh. Got it.” Gail sounded as disillusioned as Cupid felt. “She pulled the ol’ bait and switch on ya, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  “I’m sorry you got stuck with me.”

  “It’s not like that, Gail.”

  “Sure it is. Look, I’m sure she was just trying to help out a friend. I’ve been kind of a mess since my divorce. They took me to the club to cheer me up. I guess Ruthie thought I needed a little bit more help. You got caught in the crossfire.”

  No, Gail. You did.

  A loud, dramatic sigh filled Cupid’s ear. “I suppose the graceful thing to do would be to let you off the hook,” she offered half-heartedly. “Unless, of course, you had any interest in getting together?”

  No, Cupid had zero interest in Gail. But then, Ruth seemed not to want anything to do with him. A god had to do what a god had to do. “Sure, that’d be great.”

  “Really?”

  Cupid forced out a chuckle. “You sound surprised.”

  “I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday, pal. I saw the way you were looking at Ruthie.”

  “Yeah.” He should probably work on that. “Well, I guess she wasn’t looking back. In any case, she gave me your phone number, not hers. I know how to take a hint.”

  “The only hint you got is that Ruthie doesn’t know what’s good for her.”

  “You think I’m good for her?” Cupid’s spirits lifted only long enough to remind himself there was no echo. It didn’t matter what this woman thought. It didn’t matter what Cupid thought. It didn’t even matter what Ruthie thought.

  “Sure, honey. Absent the marital vows, Jewish guilt, and I’m guessing about a twenty-year age difference, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to her.”

  Right. Rub my nose in it. “Those things don’t matter to you?” he asked.

  “I’m a divorced, agnostic cougar, so hell no.” The lady had spunk, at least.

  “I’m sorry about your divorce.” Cupid had watched the ordeal play out far too many times from his vantage point on the Mount, and it was rarely anything short of horrific. Standing here now with his own two feet on the planet, Cupid couldn’t even imagine the depth of emotional pain involved in the dissolution of a marriage. From the little Mia had shared, Cupid had to wonder if the gods didn’t have it right after all: keep the marriage and sleep wherever you want.

  “Don’t be,” Gail answered. “I’m not. The bastard cheated on me with his hygienist. Can you believe it?”

  “Uh . . .” Having no clue what a hygienist was, Cupid could hardly be expected to form an opinion. He didn’t know what agnostic meant either. He might need a dictionary to keep up with this woman.

  “Oh.” Gail laughed. “I should probably have mentioned my ex is a dentist. The hygienist was his assistant, not some random person he saw twice a year though I wouldn’t put it past Angelo to work that quickly.”

  “Sorry,” Cupid repeated. What else was there to say? He doubted he could have named one Olympian who hadn’t cheated. Awesome powers did not equate to self-control. In fact, in Cupid’s experience, the opposite was usually true.

  “Eh, I’m over it. I mean, it sucks for the kids, especially our son because poof! There goes his role model, right?”

  “I guess.” Cupid was reminded of Mia’s sweet son Jonah, the oldest of the three boys. So trusting, so innocent, so thirsty for a good man in his life. Cupid missed the little guy something fierce, missed them all so much, but Mia and the boys needed space to let Patrick into their lives.

  He preferred to dwell on Gail’s problems. “How many kids do you have?”

  “Three. My son is fourteen, sandwiched between two sisters, seventeen and twelve.”

  “How did the girls handle the divorce?”

  Gail’s voice took on a wistful quality. “The older one, not too well. Her teenage years have been a horror show. This was just the latest excuse for her to act out, and she’s not one to let an opportunity slide. The younger one still thinks her daddy walks on water. I have no idea how he spun it for her, but she punched the ticket for the whole show. You can imagine she’s been a joy to live with.”

  Cupid was tempted to apologize again but held his tongue before a third “sorry” slipped out. “Sounds rough.”

  “Let’s just say we’ve had our fill of ‘teachable moments.’ You want to hear the worst part?”

  Fairly certain he didn’t, Cupid walked back over to his bed, straightened the comforter over the messy sheets, and sat down on the edge. “Sure, if you’d like to tell me.”

  “I have to pay for all my dental work now.” She dissolved into a fit of laughter. “Enough about me. If I don’t save a few secrets, we won’t have anything to talk about on our date. Tell me about yourself, Quentin.”

  Danger prickled at Cupid’s skin like a blast of cool air after a hot shower. “What about me?” He hoped his lame stall tactic would hold her while he scrambled to gather up the scraps of his invented backstory.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said with a chuckle. “Do you have any slutty exes running around town you want to tell me about?”

  “No.” Mia was not a slut, and he most certainly did not want to tell Gail about her under any circumstances.

  “Any slutty exes you don’t want to tell me about?” She laughed at her own joke, but Cupid didn’t find it any more amusing the second time around.

  “No again.”

  “Lucky you.”

  Luckily charmed, just like his cereal. “I guess.”

  “Hey, you mind if I ask you a serious question?”

  Probably. “Okay.”

  “What do you want with a couple of ladies old enough to be your . . . aunts?”

  The answer spilled out as easily as milk from a carton because it was the truth, at least where Ruthie was concerned. “Honestly, I hadn’t noticed.”

&
nbsp; Gail snorted into the phone. “Seriously? That’s what you’re going with?”

  For an honest guy, Cupid constantly seemed to find himself at the receiving end of a whole lot of mistrust. Was it his fault he shared a gender with the bums who had deceived the women he’d met on Earth? “I’m actually a terrible liar.”

  “Well, I think that’s an excellent quality in a man.”

  “I just find that sticking to the truth is safer.”

  “Huh.” A few seconds of silence stretched out between them before Gail spoke again. “Since we’re being all sincere here, may I be very honest with you, too?”

  “Of course.” Cupid braced himself again. Gail seemed to say exactly what was on her mind, which was both extremely helpful and utterly terrifying.

  “You seem like a nice boy, and lord knows, you’re handsome enough. Okay, understatement of the century there . . .” She trailed off with a giggle. “Thing is, if you’re looking to get a sugar mama out of this deal, you can pack up those big blue eyes and that come-hither smile and every last one of those delicious muscles, and just go on looking somewhere else. Feel me?”

  Crap. There she went again, speaking a language Cupid most definitely was not taught at the academy. Sugar mama? Whatever that meant, Cupid felt comfortable the term did not describe his goal of uniting Ruthie with her Right Love.

  “That’s not at all what I want,” he answered.

  “Good, because every penny my lawyer squeezed out of my sleazeball ex is going to my kids’ education, and if you think you’re gonna prey on Ruthie, you better just think again.”

  Cupid found himself grinning into the phone. “Good.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m glad Ruthie has a friend like you to protect her from sleazeballs. And by the way, I am not one of those, I promise you.” A twinge of guilt reminded him of the mistakes he’d made with Mia and how he’d hurt her, despite all his honorable intentions.

  “I didn’t really think you were, but I felt it was worth mentioning before we go any further.”

  Cupid picked up the thread where she’d left it hanging for him. “Does that mean you’ll go out with me?”