Into the Quiet

by Beth C. Greenberg

  No, Cupid didn’t mind being the object of pretty much everyone’s desire. Perhaps at some point, the novelty would wear off, but for now, the attention was a definite aphrodisiac, as evidenced by the erection resting against his thigh.

  “Not at all, but”—Cupid slid his hand lazily down his body while Gail watched every move he made—“I’m sure we can think of better things to do than just looking.”

  “Oh, good god!” Gail closed up the water bottle and tossed it and the leftover trail mix onto the floor.

  Cupid rolled on top of her and made Gail forget to worry about covering up. When their energy had left them for good, Gail staggered out of bed, gathered up her clothes, and took them into the bathroom. Cupid followed his cue and pulled on his clothes as well.

  By the time Gail emerged, Cupid was lacing up his boots, yet another human inconvenience he performed under protest. She sat down next to him on the bench at the foot of the bed.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That was the most fun I’ve had in years.”

  Cupid tightened the bow and shifted to face her. “Thank you,” he said, leaning in to give her a tender kiss. “I had a great time, too.”

  “Please. You can be with anyone you want.”

  The sharp blade of Cupid’s predicament sliced into him. “You’d be surprised.”

  Gail couldn’t possibly understand how wrong she was, but she did seem to recognize the pain in his eyes. “Sorry.”

  Cupid leaned back on his hands. He didn’t want to hurt Gail, but they were here for a reason. “How is Ruth?”

  Gail gave him a hard stare. “Ruth.”

  He shrugged. He was being a jerk, but what choice did he have?

  “Of course.” Gail blew out a heavy breath. “You know what? I wish Ruthie could experience something like this. It might make her feel alive again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s been sleepwalking through her life, going through the motions for months, possibly years. Nobody’s paying attention.”

  “But she’s married.”

  “Technically.” Gail grimaced but didn’t elaborate.

  “Surely her husband is paying attention.” Cupid would never take his eyes off Ruthie were she his wife.

  “This isn’t my story to tell.” Gail stood, an air of finality in her tone.

  “Okay—”

  “But I strongly suspect he’s stepping out.”

  “Stepping out where?”

  “You know, dipping his pen in the company ink, if you get my drift.”

  “Sorry, I don’t.”

  Gail sighed and folded her arms across her chest. “He’s screwing his business associate.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Gail repeated Cupid’s question, as if asking it made no sense. “She probably ‘gets him,’ sees how clever he is. What man doesn’t love feeling smart and successful and adored?”

  “And Ruthie doesn’t do that?”

  “Pshhh. Ruthie is married to the guy. Zach isn’t bad looking, but let’s face it, we’re all a little older than when we wore those rose-colored glasses. He’s got less hair on top, and maybe that ‘distinguished’ patch around the temples feels a bit more like plain old gray. He snores and farts—excuse my French—and a wife sees these things. It’s not our fault, but it’s just hard to see the superhero sometimes when you’re the one washing the skid marks out of his tights. Feel me?”

  Cupid didn’t know a damn thing about aging, but Gail wasn’t making it sound very pleasant. “If all that’s so bad, why does anyone ever stay married?”

  Gail slumped back down next to Cupid on the bench. She seemed to be answering him from a long-ago place. “When you love each other, you let those things slide. There’s a shared history. His crow’s feet come from laughing through the bad times. His roll of pudge . . . maybe I put it there with my biscuits and gravy. Our gray hairs sprouted while worrying about our kids together. He visits my mother every week in the nursing home, held my hand at my father’s funeral. You wear grooves into each other after a while; the needle fits into the slot.”

  Cupid nodded even though much of what she’d described was beyond his life experiences.

  “But then the lying bastard cheats, and you hire the most vicious lawyer his money can buy.”

  “Are we still talking about Ruthie?”

  “Same song, different verse.”

  Gail had slipped into another realm. She seemed convinced of what she was saying, but that didn’t mean Cupid was. “Are you absolutely sure Ruthie’s husband is cheating on her?”

  She rounded on him with narrowed eyes. “Just like a man to defend him.”

  “I’m not defending anyone. I’m just asking if you’re sure.”

  “Never mind, I know how the bro code works.”

  There she went again. “Bro code?”

  “You just naturally take his side because he’s a guy.”

  “Why would I take his side? I’ve never even met him.” Well, not unless he counted the near miss with the car.

  Gail’s tirade barreled down its own track without regard for Cupid’s responses. “Whatever. Look, I love Ruthie, but she refuses to see what’s happening. One very sad day, she’s gonna pull her head out of her books and realize her marriage is in shambles.”

  That explained the frequent visits to the library. “She likes to read?”

  “She lives to read—her escape from reality. That and chatting online with her so-called friends all over the world.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “She never leaves her computer.”

  “But she was at that dance club when I met you . . .” and in and out of her house all day, but Cupid wasn’t supposed to know about that.

  “You have no idea how long Wendy and I had to work on her to get her to come out with us the other night. Weeks. And once she builds this little sanctuary she keeps talking about, I’m afraid she’ll never come out again.”

  “What sanctuary?”

  “A reading nook, she calls it. She’s been planning on converting the nursery for years. I don’t know that she’ll ever pull the trigger. That would put the final nail in the coffin.”

  “Whose coffin?”

  Gail paused and bit her lip before answering. “The babies she could never have.”

  “Oh.” Cupid had seen his share of infertile deities on the Mount, and their stories usually ended very badly for all concerned. He couldn’t bear it if Ruthie turned into a child-stealing monster or sprouted snakes for hair.

  “That’s good they’re redoing the nursery, then. Is she building it herself?”

  “Hell no.” Gail smirked. “Please. Nobody in Tarra Heights actually builds anything. We hire people.”

  Finally—an opening. “Maybe she’d hire me.”

  “You’re a builder?”

  “Sort of.”

  Gail gave Cupid another of those disbelieving frowns he was really growing to dislike. “Mm-hmm. Okay, look. You like her. Ruthie sends out this vibe—I get it. But I have to tell you, Quentin, you are barking up the wrong tree. Ruthie just ain’t that kinda girl. She’s very brave online, basically a different person, from what I gather, but that is the closest Ruthie Miller will ever come to unfaithfulness in her marriage. I love Ruthie, but I don’t want to see you get hurt either.”

  Gail had turned out to be more complicated than Cupid had bargained for, but her heart was in the right place. He set his hand on top of hers and curled his fingers into the spaces. “Thank you for your concern, Gail. If there’s a job to be had at Ruthie’s, I could really use the work. I’m new in town, so I don’t know a lot of people. If you can put in a good word for me, I’d appreciate it.”

  She regarded him gravely. “You know I will.”

  11

  Getting Handy


  “You told this Gail you’re a builder?”

  “More or less.”

  Pan allowed himself a mental pat on the back. It seemed his protégé was catching on to the fine art of truth-bending.

  “One doesn’t grow up in the palace of Hephaestus without learning a thing or two about crafting.”

  “No offense, Q, but you always seemed more the Mother-will-provide type than a do-it-yourselfer.” At the mention of Aphrodite, Cupid’s mouth edged downward at the corners, and Pan instantly felt like a shit for invoking her.

  “Just because I chose not to doesn’t mean I can’t.”

  “I have no doubt you are capable enough if you set your mind to the task. You really believe she’ll convince Ruth to hire you for the job?”

  “I told her I need the work.”

  “Oh boy. I’ll bet you gave her that sad puppy look you’re giving me right now, too.”

  Cupid shrugged. “Ruthie pushed me away, and I need to stay close. I have to make this happen.”

  “Well then, my friend, we better get you some tools and some practice.”

  “What kind of practice?”

  “Hmm, I don’t know. I suppose you could build a new entertainment center for my great room.”

  Cupid’s eyes narrowed a bit. “Oh, can I now?”

  “Hey, you should be thanking me. You remember all those cars you crashed on your phone while you were learning to drive? I’m giving you the chance to work out the kinks before you make a fool of yourself with your new girlfriend.”

  “She’s not my—”

  “Get in the truck, Q. You are about to experience Home Warehouse.”

  The bright yellow awning drew Pan’s truck like a giant magnet. Come hither. I have lumber and macho tools and muscle-bound men inside, waiting for you.

  “Where on earth do we begin?” Cupid asked, his voice filled with awe as he spun a 360 inside the store.

  Pan surveyed the signs suspended over the aisles by thick chains. “Power tools. C’mon.”

  “Wow. Daedalus would lose his mind in here.”

  It had been years since Pan had purchased any tools, and he didn’t have time right now to sort through all the new technology on his own. “Yeah, uh, I should probably find someone to help us. Don’t touch anything while I’m gone.”

  Now, where were all those aggressive sales associates who would never leave him alone when he wanted them to? Pan slipped from one aisle to the next, scouting for a yellow apron. Huh. Must be celebrating a birthday in the break room or some damn thing.

  Whatever. How hard could it be to choose a nail gun?

  He returned to Cupid, speeding his steps when he picked up a chorus of voices. How could Pan have missed the obvious? Open a jar of honey, the flies will come. Chuckling out loud now, Pan rounded the endcap and took in the sight: five Home Warehouse employees waving power drills in Cupid’s face.

  “The impact driver is going to get you more speed and better control. This Ryobi P1891 has 1600 inch-pounds of torque and one-handed loading—”

  “If you’ve got a tight space, you’re going to want a right-angle drill. This baby right here has a sweet three-eighth-inch, single-sleeve ratcheting chuck—”

  “You can’t beat this variable speed reversible hammer drill with a 6.2-amp motor—”

  The only one to notice Pan’s entrance was Cupid, who telegraphed a desperate Help! from the bullseye of a tight circle of bodies. Pan parted the yellow sea with two firm arms and struck a protective stance at Cupid’s side. Several of the drills were running, the bits spinning a whole lot closer to Cupid’s body than Pan could stomach.

  “Could we have a little breathing room, please? If you could all take a couple steps backward? Thank you.” Pan shot an eye roll at Cupid though they both knew full well this wasn’t his fault. “Now, who here has actually used one of these things?”

  Pan narrowed the field to two qualified associates, then chose the more fuckable. Rayne. It took Pan less than three seconds to mentally strip down the silver fox to his hypothetical Scruff profile picture—warm, wise eyes set off by salt-and-pepper hair and sideburns, a tuft of matching chest hairs subtly highlighting hard-won pecs, just barely visible in the modest head shot. Yum, and let it Rayne down on me.

  The three of them set off on a treasure hunt through the warehouse with Cupid walking alongside Rayne and Pan wheeling the yellow plastic cart behind them. Pan half listened as Rayne rattled off an impressive collection of know-how while Cupid absorbed every word. That Rayne only had eyes for Cupid didn’t trouble Pan. If Cupid had the hots for anything, it was whatever tool Rayne was holding—and only because he needed to equip himself for Ruthie’s sake.

  Pan followed them dutifully to the register and emptied the cart while Rayne made his big play for Cupid, a cell number printed on his business card and delivered with a wink and a corny line: “Call me if anything comes up.” Before the chip reader had finished with Pan’s Amex, he had a plan to capitalize on the horny haze Cupid had so generously cast.

  At home, Cupid and Pan unloaded the truck, neatly piling the precut plywood along the wall of the garage and arranging the new tools on a makeshift table. For the next several hours, Cupid threw himself into the task of learning carpentry with that same determination he’d brought to learning to drive. He wielded his T-square like a pro and created an impressive set of preliminary drawings. Whatever instruction he failed to glean from his detailed interrogation of Rayne, Cupid located and devoured on YouTube. Watching from a distance, Pan couldn’t help but wonder what Cupid might have made of himself if he’d attacked his academics with such rigor. Surely, he would’ve been way less fun.

  Still, everything about this industrious Cupid stirred Pan. The humble way Cupid approached the unfamiliar task, still very much a stranger in a strange land yet somehow radiating complete confidence that he could and would master every new challenge. The absent-minded tuck of the drafting pencil behind his ear. The intensity of Cupid’s focus as he absorbed the expert advice with his whole being. And holy hell, the power tools humming in his hands as he practiced. Pan had to get the hell out of there.

  “Hey, I really should go check on Euphrosyne. Do you have everything you need?”

  “Huh? Oh, let me see . . .” Cupid’s fingers traced over the lines on his paper. “I’m good. Just waiting for your decision on the finish color.”

  Exactly. “I’ll pick up the stain on my way home. Try not to bring down the roof while I’m gone.”

  Cupid turned right back to the computer screen without registering Pan’s remark. If he kept this up, Q would be winging his way home in no time flat, which would truly suck for Pan. No time like the present to start consoling himself.

  Pan tapped out a quick text to Rayne:

  Remember the 2 guys who bought out the store this a.m.?

  Coming back for stain. Will need help loading truck ;)

  Rayne’s message lit up Pan’s phone seconds later.

  At your service :)

  Pan considered hinting he’d be alone but thought better of it. If Rayne didn’t seem into it, Pan would play innocent and let the guy off the hook. There were plenty of fish in that yellow sea.

  It turned out Rayne was more than happy to see Pan. They each carried two cans of stain to the truck, which Pan had conveniently parked at the far end of the parking lot.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Rayne asked with a definite twinkle in his eye.

  “Not with your clothes on,” Pan answered.

  Rayne required little coaxing into the cab, where he proceeded to service Pan with a smile. Afterward, as Rayne was straightening his apron, he inquired about Cupid. “I got the impression your friend had never so much as hammered in a nail. That circular saw has a vicious kickback. You sure he’s safe going from zero to sixty?”

  “Q
’s a quick study,” Pan answered, to which Rayne waggled his eyebrows and said, “Lucky you.”

  Yeah, as if we would have just done that if I could have had Q.

  Pan’s tension eased for the moment, he drove across town to do some actual concierging. The goddess of mirth had fallen two days ago, and Pan had done little more than settle her into the South Side Apartments with a promise to return soon. He hadn’t known Euphrosyne well on Olympus—the Graces kept mostly to the Underworld and held little sway over the beasts of the hunt. Still, Pan recognized that the fragile creature weeping outside her apartment building was not her usual self.

  Euphrosyne rose and wrapped her arms around Pan, melting his heart with her desperate embrace. He took one look at her bleary, bloodshot eyes, set deep into flawless porcelain skin, and spirited her off to the nearest bar.

  He passed her two tequila shots, which she downed like a champ while sobbing through her story. Zeus had summoned Euphrosyne to cheer Hera from one of her famous sulks. Euphrosyne had pulled every trick in the book, including enlisting the help of her two sister-Graces and all the Muses, but each attempt had only dragged Hera further into her foul mood. Hera had become more and more irritated with Euphrosyne’s increasingly frantic ploys. Next thing she knew, Euphrosyne found herself tumbling through the clouds.

  “You have to help me get home, Pan. I’m not meant to be separated from my sisters. There is no singular ‘Grace.’ Please.”

  She was right. Aglaia and Thalia could hardly be expected to continue producing splendor and good cheer while their triplet sister suffered her punishment. Pan could only imagine the bleakness on Olympus right now. A shiver tore down his spine.

  “Of course I’ll help. That’s what I’m here for.” Pan covered Euphrosyne’s delicate, marble-white fingers with his own craggy hand. “Now, tell me everything you remember about your judgment.”

  Euphrosyne lifted her napkin to the corners of her eyes and dabbed at her tears. “It was all Hera. She waved her arm as if shooing away one of her gadflies and yelled, ‘Go now, and amuse someone else for a while, why don’t you?’”

  “Oh. I see.”