Into the Quiet

by Beth C. Greenberg

  “Oh, sure, that’s fine. Obviously. I mean, I wouldn’t want to interfere with your shower.” Ruthie ended her word-tripping with a nervous laugh that made Cupid rethink his shower reference. It didn’t bode well for his mission if the two of them couldn’t manage a conversation without dying of awkwardness.

  “Do you know the diner out on Route 58?” he asked.

  “The one with the great pie?”

  “Yes. How about meeting me there in, say, thirty minutes?”

  “Okay. And while you’re, um, getting ready, I’ll pull together my drawings.”

  “Looking forward to it, Ruthie.”

  Her name lingered on Cupid’s tongue, the delicious flavor of it following him into the shower stall. He worked a generous dollop of gel into a lather along his arms and chest, massaging his fatigued muscles, spent in the best possible way, bettering himself for Ruthie.

  His sweet, shy Ruthie. He pictured her standing in her future study, gazing out the elegant French doors onto her garden. Would she let go, just a little, enough to feel the heat of Cupid’s body pressing against her from behind? Imagine his lips grazing her shoulder or a “careless” bump of their hips?

  How Ruthie would blush right now if she knew what he was doing to himself at the thought of her. Would she see the evidence in his eyes as they sat across from each other inside the safe, well-lit diner?

  For all his worry over Ruthie’s response, Cupid could barely endure his own wild chest-banging when she pulled into the diner’s parking lot.

  She stepped out of her car. He fought the urge to pounce.

  Ruthie turned toward him with that same google-eyed swoon Cupid had chalked up to drunkenness the night they met. He tested the air around her with a subtle sniff, but there was no alcohol on Ruthie’s breath. She was under the influence of Cupid as he was very much under hers.

  He took her shaky hand between his. “Hello again.” Cupid didn’t trust himself to say her name out loud. “Thank you for giving me this chance.”

  She blinked back at him as if surprised to find herself there. Her hand fell away as she reached into her back seat. “I’ll just grab my bag.”

  Cupid fumbled behind her, attempting to open and close doors Ruthie seemed determined to manage on her own. He tried to relieve her of the tote bag, but when she insisted on carrying everything, Cupid stuffed his useless hands into his pockets and followed her inside the diner.

  One nod from the owner’s daughter told Cupid she remembered him though her obvious attraction seemed to confuse her. Last time, it was Pan she’d desired.

  Ruthie wielded her laminated menu like a shield, studying the offerings for several long minutes before ordering a decaf, black.

  Cupid peered over his menu. “That’s it? No pie?”

  “I shouldn’t,” Ruthie said, pushing the menu into the waitress’s hand as if she’d gain five pounds just from reading it. Cupid wasn’t sure he’d met anyone quite as good at denying herself, certainly nobody he knew on Mount Olympus.

  “I’ll have a regular coffee and slice of key lime pie with two forks, please.”

  Ruthie gave Cupid a reluctant smile that reminded him of Mia’s “maybe,” which lifted his spirits. Perhaps Ruthie could be persuaded to let down her guard after all.

  Ruthie dashed that hope soon enough, with anxious eyes darting around the diner until their coffees and pie arrived. Cupid slid the plate to the middle of the table, stabbed the fork into the stiff meringue, and brought the first taste to his tongue. Ruthie palmed her coffee mug with two shaky hands.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked. Gods, how he longed to crowd next to her on her side of the booth and wrap his arm around her shoulders, but he couldn’t imagine she’d find the gesture the least bit comforting.

  She focused her gaze on Cupid. “It’s just, it’s a small town, you know? People like to talk.”

  So, Ruthie knew the gossip about Zach. Did she believe it? Did she know Cupid had pumped Gail for information? This was all so tricky. Ruth was as skittish as a new filly, and the next wrong move might get Cupid bucked for good.

  “Aren’t two people allowed to share a piece of pie?”

  Her eyes narrowed at his challenge. Cupid bit back his smile as Ruthie reached for her fork and brought the tiniest morsel of pie to her tongue.

  “Oh god, that is really good.” She giggled with pleasure, and Cupid vowed right then and there to do everything in his power to bring forth that sound again.

  “Have some more.”

  She set down her fork. “It’ll look better on you.” She froze as the blush covered her cheeks. Time to change the subject.

  “Tell me more about this project.”

  Visibly relieved, she answered. “I’m converting a spare room into a study where I can read and write.”

  “You’re a writer?”

  “Oh gosh, no,” she said with a dismissive wave that sloshed her hot coffee perilously to one side. She righted the mug with both hands and brought it to rest on the table. “I write. Nothing published.”

  “Gail didn’t mention your writing to me.”

  “She doesn’t know.” Judging by the anguish in Ruthie’s eyes, she already seemed to regret telling him. “Nobody in my real life knows, besides my husband, I mean.”

  “Real life?”

  “I don’t share my writing with anyone I actually know, just the strangers who come across my words on the internet.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.” Cupid sealed his promise with a solemn nod. “What kind of things do you write?” Serious, important articles, Cupid guessed.

  “Oh.” Ruthie’s gaze dropped to the pie between them. “Fiction,” she said.

  Cupid searched his memory for the last fiction book he’d read. Not for the first time since his fall to Earth, he regretted not taking his schooling more seriously. And he definitely regretted not doing anything to improve his mind since leaving the academy.

  Cupid couldn’t hope to make up for his deficit all at once, but perhaps he could fill in some of the key gaps. Look how quickly he’d picked up driving and carpentry. Meanwhile, he’d just have to fake his way through. “Fiction, huh? That’s great. What do you like to write about?” Cupid braced himself for the worst—science fiction had always confused him.

  Ruthie huffed and shook her head. “Nothing you’d be interested in.” Her ears turned bright pink at the tips.

  Cupid longed to see the lovely blush reflected in her cheeks if only she’d look up for a second. Whatever this was, Cupid was most definitely interested.

  He ventured one hand across their table, boldly breaching the midway line marked by the pie. Before she could pull away, Cupid brushed the delicate fingers curled around the handle of her mug and smiled when she looked up with a startled gasp. “Try me,” he said, nailing his gaze to hers.

  “Romance.” She released the word as if someone had dared her to say it, then snapped up her coffee and watched from a safe distance while Cupid’s finger trailed back to its own side of the table.

  “Romance?” Cupid could scarcely believe his luck.

  “See? I told you.”

  “That’s amazing. I love romance.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. Who doesn’t? It’s universal. I mean, who hasn’t known the thrill of falling in love?” Though Cupid was a newcomer to the experience, his feelings could not have been more vivid.

  “I guess.” So modest, this goddess of his.

  “I’d love to read something you’ve written.” He needed to read every word she’d ever written.

  “Oh god, no.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’d be mortified.”

  “But you post your stories on the internet for the world to see. Why would you be mortified if someone who”—the dreaded L-word nearly flew out of Cupid’s mouth—“if someone who already like
s you were to read them?”

  Ruthie set down her mug and pulled one of the long scrolls from her bag. “So, basically, I want to add bookshelves along this wall, incorporate a built-in desk here,” she said, pointing to an opening below a large window, “and update the colors. Can you do it?” Ruthie lifted her gaze from the page to Cupid’s openmouthed gawp. There she was again, drawing a hard line he’d be a fool to ignore.

  Sharing time was over for now but not forever. An ordinary man might have missed the speck of desperation—See me!—nearly choked out by Ruthie’s tight grip, but Cupid was no ordinary man. He’d spent his whole immortal lifetime finding the weak link in the palace patrol, and he would absolutely find his way inside Ruthie Miller. For now, he’d toe the line and pretend to be a patient man.

  “Sure, I can do that for you.”

  “Are you a builder?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Exactly what do you do?”

  “I’m versatile.”

  She gave him a hard stare, but he took it as a good sign that she hadn’t left yet.

  “Ruthie.”

  “Yes?” Her eyes softened. Sitting here, under the influence of his otherworldly charm, Ruthie wanted to choose him, Cupid could tell. The problem would come later. She’d need something solid to justify her decision. He thought of the bookcase drying in Pan’s garage, one sad, little project to his name. How could she understand it was all the experience Cupid needed?

  “I promise, if I didn’t think I could do the job, I would tell you.”

  Ruthie’s mouth turned down at the edges. “That’s what my irrigation guy said right before he flooded my basement.”

  “Ouch.” Damn these Earth men for breaking promises and making Cupid’s job so much harder. “But I’m not him.”

  “No, you are definitely not.” She folded her hands together, and the plans snapped closed with a jarring finality. “I’m guessing you don’t have any references.”

  He didn’t suppose Pan’s word would provide much credibility. “If I could just sit down with you and your husband . . .” and listen for your echo beats.

  “I don’t need his permission, Quentin.” The sudden shift threw Cupid. “It’s my room. My project. I write the checks.”

  There went that chance, but Cupid had his foot in the door, and he needed to keep it there. “Sure, you’re the boss. All I need is one chance to prove myself.”

  The moment she sighed, Cupid knew he had her. “I must be crazy.” Mia had said the same, he remembered.

  “You’re not.”

  “Could you stop by one day next week?”

  No, he couldn’t give her that much time to reconsider and use his inexperience as her latest excuse to talk herself out of this.

  “Why don’t I come by first thing tomorrow morning, ready to go?”

  “Oh.”

  “Look, Ruthie, if you decide you don’t want me to do the job, I promise I’ll leave and not give you a hard time, but there’s no reason to waste time, right?”

  “No,” she had to agree, as he’d effectively called her bluff. “I guess not.”

  14

  On the Job

  The door chimes jolted Ruth’s heart like the blare of an alarm intruding on a deep sleep. Pookie shot out from under the table, tore through the kitchen, and skittered across the marble foyer, where she slammed face-first into the heavy mahogany door, then yipped and scrambled to get her paws underneath her. Pookie’s hysteria was like a triple espresso poured over Ruth’s already frazzled nerves.

  Eight o’clock on the dot. Of course Quentin would be punctual, on top of every other perfect thing about him. This was really happening.

  “Hush, Pookie. Sit!” The poor dog was panting like she’d just run a marathon. Even for Pookie, this level of agitation was exceptional. “Calm down, girl.” When all her verbal commands failed, Ruth leaned down and scooped up Pookie into the crook of her elbow before reaching for the doorknob. “It’s okay, Pooks. Look, he’s harmless.”

  Yeah, right.

  The romance writer in her immediately screamed “strapping young man,” but the tired cliché didn’t begin to do him justice. Yes, obviously Quentin was a fine physical specimen, but his true magic lived below the skin, bursting outward from his flawless form in barely tolerable doses: the deep blue eyes, shimmering with every secret from his past; the childlike smile stretched wide at the mere act of seeing her again; the warmth-oozing voice as he melted her with a simple, “Good morning.”

  “Morning.” Ruth forgot her grip on Pookie for a split second, long enough for Pookie to lunge at Quentin and take a full-tongued slurp across his cheek. “Pookie, behave. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Quentin said with a chuckle. “Pookie, is it?” He reached out and swept his fingers through the wavy hair at the crown of her head. The dog calmed instantly, but Quentin’s petting—those long, beautiful fingers fluttering so close to Ruth’s chest—produced quite the opposite response in Ruth. What the hell was she thinking, bringing this temptation into her home—especially now, when things with Zach were so, er, shaky.

  She was giving a worthy man an honest day’s work, and in the process, getting herself that writer’s study she’d been putting off for years, that’s what. Would she not be a sexist pig if she were to deny Quentin the job because he was hot? For goodness’ sake, she was a grown-ass woman, not some damn lapdog who couldn’t control her impulses.

  Anyway, Quentin had made his pass at her that first night, and she’d rebuffed him. Case closed. If he were still trying to seduce her, would he have shown up in those baggy, bile-colored coveralls? Quentin looked like a man who was serious about carpentry, not inspiring an affair. Though if Pookie had anything to say about it, Quentin would stand right here and scratch her ears for the rest of eternity.

  “Okay, girl, I think we better give Quentin his hands back, huh?” Ruth stepped aside and pressed her back against the open door. “Come on in.”

  Quentin accepted her invitation with a modest dip of his chin, then breached the threshold Ruth had been guarding with her body and her ferocious cockapoo. She held her breath, ever so careful not to brush the bare skin of Quentin’s arm as he passed through the doorway and came to an abrupt halt just inside. Ruth followed Quentin’s horrified gaze to the floor, his heavy work boots reversing as quickly as humanly possible off the Turkish rug.

  “I’m sorry. I should take my boots off.”

  Quentin bent forward, and Ruth shot her hand out to grasp his wrist. He blinked up at her with surprise. She imagined he was met by the same expression.

  “It’s fine, Quentin. It’s a rug. It’s made to be stepped on.” She remembered to release him.

  “Okay.” He straightened slowly but didn’t step onto the rug again. He swiveled around the spacious foyer with his jaw hinged open as he took in the recessed paneling, the hand-dyed silk wallcovering, the intricate crown molding.

  Ruth’s cheeks heated. Whatever Quentin knew or did not know about custom finishes, there was no disguising the opulence. Ugh, why hadn’t she brought him in through the back door where both of them would have felt more comfortable?

  Why? It simply hadn’t occurred to Ruth that she could still feel embarrassed. The Millers lived in a well-to-do neighborhood, attended events hosted by peers with comparable bank accounts, enjoyed extravagant vacations with their friends, shared interior designers and personal trainers and caterers. Ruth’s “normal” needle had moved in sync with those around her, gradually enough that eyebrows rarely lifted anymore. They were fortunate people surrounded by other fortunate people. The Millers had nothing to be ashamed of. They were genuinely grateful and disproportionately charitable. Unlike a few of their third-generation wealthy friends, they’d worked hard for every penny. Zach had, anyway.

  Ruth hadn’t worked in ten years; even then, her annual salary wo
uldn’t have paid for the window treatments in their dining room, let alone the intricate mosaic Quentin was studying with great wonder. She flinched, prepared for the inevitable platitude. The plumber had hit her with, “Do you need a live-in fix-it man? I’m housebroken” last year, and Ruth hadn’t been able to call him since. Zach couldn’t understand why they were still jiggling the toilet handle in the powder room after months had gone by; Ruth was too embarrassed to tell him the reason.

  “This compass rose is just like Poseidon’s.”

  Well, that was unexpected on so many levels. “You’re a fan of the Greek gods?”

  Quentin’s nose crinkled. “Not lately. Poseidon’s okay, but—” He looked up suddenly from the floor. “Wait. Are you?”

  “Of course. They’re fascinating.”

  Something flashed behind Quentin’s eyes, excitement at their common interest in mythology? Every time Ruth tried to write him off as just another pretty face, Quentin revealed a new dimension, and the lasso tightened around her heart, drawing her closer to something she could never have. Not that it stopped her fantasies. She pictured the two of them, sprawled lazily on a picnic blanket in the backyard, enjoying a pitcher of fresh lemonade and a plate of homemade cookies while Quentin read The Iliad aloud to her. Or wait, no, he’d convince her to read to him while he worked, a wide, contented grin on his face while he painted as slowly as possible to draw out their time together until they’d finished The Odyssey too.

  Quentin’s gaze swept up the wrought iron rail of the curved stairwell, his eyes opening wide at the faux-sky mural overhead. Ruth would never forget the look on Zach’s face when she broke it to him how much the decorative painter was charging for “a few puffy clouds.”

  “Who the hell does he think he is, Michelangelo, for chrissakes?” Zach’s outrage faded quickly into a long-running private joke. From that point on, anytime Zach deemed one of Ruth’s design choices extravagant, he would tease, “Well, I don’t know, Ruthie. Are you sure this knob/carpeting/faucet is grand enough for the Miller Chapel?”

  Quentin gawped at the ceiling, his Adam’s apple bobbing hard. “Reminds me of home,” he said quietly. His eyes filled with a sorrowful longing that seemed out of place on Quentin’s easygoing features. Before she could question him further, Quentin changed the subject. “Should we take a look at your project?”