“I hope you have something else to look forward to,” Cupid answered, slightly anxious about the idea of Ruthie spending three whole days in that empty room.
“We’re going out for our anniversary on Saturday, so there’s that.”
“That’ll be nice.”
She shrugged. “I hear you’ll be busy, too.”
“I will?”
“Aren’t you taking Gail out again?”
“Oh. Right.” He’d quite forgotten the plans they’d made before all this construction education began. “Yes.”
“Well, it sounds like you’re in for a good time, too.”
Ruthie’s false cheer fell flat, and Cupid couldn’t decide which part seemed more forced—the part about him having a good time with Gail or the “too” she’d tacked on at the last second. Either way, it seemed best to pretend not to notice.
16
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY
Zach’s troubles began with the doorbell gong, sending Pookie into a yippy tailspin he kiboshed with a stern, “Quiet!”
Ruthie shot Zach a sly glance as she dabbed away the bacon crumbs at the corner of her mouth. Was it his imagination, or was she hiding the beginnings of a smile behind that napkin? She stood, cinching the thick terry cloth robe around her waist.
“Zach? What did you do?”
“Nothing,” he answered honestly. Here, he’d been so damn pleased with himself all morning. He’d abided by their longstanding rules: no gifts, flowers, or—God forbid—chocolates. Just the painstakingly selected, cheesy drugstore card he’d set at her place at the kitchen table, a cursive “R” scrawled with a loving hand on the cheery yellow envelope.
Morbid curiosity drew Zach to the front door a few steps behind Ruthie. Who was going to make him look like a schmuck this time? Both sets of parents leaned more toward practical than romantic—where else would Ruthie and Zach both have inherited the tendency?—but his sisters had been known to express themselves florally on occasion.
Well, whoever it was had gone overboard this time. Two dozen red roses? Jesus. Ruthie could barely manage the vase while hip checking the door closed. “Oh, Zach, you really shouldn’t have.”
He wanted to take her dismissal at face value, but the flush in her cheeks made Zach wonder if perhaps he really should have—not that it mattered now. “I really didn’t.”
She studied his serious expression for the several seconds it took to be convinced. “No?”
Zach shook his head. He considered reminding his dear wife how she’d bitten his head off the last time he’d broken their pact and spent two hours of his day picking out the exact right tennis bracelet (the tasteful midpoint between scrawny and ostentatious) and how quickly said bracelet had found its way back to Robinsons’. But no good would come of that. After twenty-three years, a husband knows when to keep his mouth shut.
“Huh.” The hint of a smile persisted as Ruthie passed the arrangement to Zach and plucked the miniature envelope from its plastic pitchfork. All traces of joy evaporated as she read the card aloud: “Twenty-three roses, one per year of wedded bliss. Thank you for sharing Zachary with us. Happy Anniversary. Fondly”—Ruthie fluttered her eyelids at Zach before delivering the final blow with a frightening snigger—“Joan.”
Uh-oh.
With surgical precision, Ruthie returned the card to its envelope and tucked the package between the prongs as if undoing the whole unsavory event. She pivoted on her slippers and marched toward the kitchen.
“Wait, where do you want me to put these?”
Her pace barely slowed. “Wherever you’ll enjoy them, dear. I’m pretty sure they were meant for you.”
Zach could have debated the point; after all, the card was clearly directed at Ruthie, a barb about as subtle as the thorns pricking through his T-shirt. Zach was no fool. He sensed the growing animosity between the two women though both sides of their rivalry struck him as silly.
Joan operated as if she believed that only the pesky wife stood in the way of her complete possession of Zach’s leisure time, his passions, and all those wrong places on his body where he felt her eyes lingering too long—places Ruthie barely lingered anymore. But what frustrated Zach even more was Ruthie letting Joan make her feel like the third wheel in her own marriage. Ruthie still made Zach weak in the knees—how corny was that, after all this time?—but what good was his attraction if Ruthie didn’t believe him? Instead, she avoided the whole issue and burrowed ever deeper into the online world of her own making.
Bit by bit, Zach had stopped sharing details with both women. It was easier for everyone that way. Ruthie didn’t have to pretend to be enthralled by the minutiae of running a nonprofit, Joan didn’t have to acknowledge that Zach was still very much in love with his wife, and Zach didn’t have to referee. His lifeboat rocked gently this way and that, but as long as the water didn’t rise too high on either side, Zach could weather the turbulence until life settled down again.
With a sigh, he retreated to his study and plunked the vase down next to his monitor, where the Trojan horse would not cause further damage. Ruthie rarely breached the man-cave other than by intercom.
The faint clatter of kitchen cleanup filtered down the hallway. Zach had planned to do the dishes today, but housework was Ruthie’s therapy. The more troubling the issue, the bigger the muscle groups engaged. Six months earlier, during a serious argument, Ruthie had torn through her closet, thrown every single piece of clothing onto their bed, and reorganized her entire wardrobe. Zach dropped off four fully stuffed garbage bags at Goodwill the next day. Right now, he guessed, Ruthie was more annoyed at herself than anyone else for letting Joan get to her. She’d be fine once she finished off the breakfast dishes.
Zach poked his nose out of the gopher hole and crept toward the kitchen. Ruthie’s fingers clacked away at her keyboard, Pookie snoozing at her feet. On the kitchen table behind her sat Zach’s half-eaten pancakes, the only evidence of their breakfast in an otherwise spotless kitchen. A spiteful woman might have left the plate as a “Fuck you! Do your own damn dishes,” but that wasn’t Ruthie’s way.
He passed quietly behind her chair, respectful of the invisible boundary of her not-so-private office. Ruthie’s fingers paused over the keys. “Hi,” she said without turning.
Zach stopped, gave her shoulder a squeeze, and echoed a gentle “Hi.” The moment held long enough for the silent acknowledgment to pass between them that neither was going to let Joan ruin their day. The steel band around Zach’s heart loosened.
The rest of the morning passed very much like any typical Saturday, a study in parallel play: Ruthie typed away in the kitchen while Zach worked his way through the DVR queue—hours of testosterone-loaded, made-for-cable shows Ruthie wanted no part of. Zach handled lunch, a panini assembly line that would have impressed Henry Ford. Ruthie awarded his effort by watching an episode of Strike Back with him before returning to her writing.
Ruthie showered first so she’d have time to blow-dry her hair. Getting dressed had become an increasingly complex (more so for Ruthie) choreography of obligatory checkpoints in the separate silos of their shared dressing room. Punctuality was Zach’s deal, whereas Ruthie would usually gallop downstairs a few minutes late, just enough to cast a shadow on Zach’s mood but not enough to mention without making himself out to be a jerk. So, when Ruthie appeared at the garage door with four minutes to spare, Zach gave her a grateful smile.
“You’re early.”
“I believe that’s what you asked for last year as your anniversary gift.”
Zach nodded and held his tongue. Listing her numerous transgressions in the past twelve months wouldn’t win him any points. “I’d like to officially renew my subscription.”
“Sure, if you’ll renew mine.”
“Perfect.” Zach beat her to the passenger door and opened it for her. Was it sad his wife had to ask for this mo
rsel of chivalry as her gift?
“Thank you, dear.” Ruthie’s kittenish smirk awakened his inner Neanderthal man. Big, strong caveman open door for woman. If Zach was sometimes bewildered by how little it took to upset their delicate peace, he was all the more amazed by how little it took to set things right again.
He started up the car, grabbed the gearshift, and glanced over at his bride. She’d chosen his favorite cream-colored top and the suede boots she wore when she was feeling good about herself.
“You look beautiful.”
“You don’t look so bad yourself.”
Zach chuckled. Jeans and a button-down. Woohoo. At least Ruthie hadn’t deflected his compliment. Their ride to dinner was quiet but not uncomfortably so. They’d moved beyond the need to fill every moment with conversation at least eighteen years ago. Besides, their date stretched out luxuriously ahead of them, two hours alone together at a restaurant with happy history, lubricated by alcohol and absent of technology. Zach was starting to like his chances.
The hostess at Ambrosia, a young woman who must have been a toddler on Zach and Ruthie’s wedding day, led them to their table. “Happy anniversary, Mr. and Mrs. Miller. Enjoy your dinner.”
Ruthie shook her head as she fluffed out her linen napkin, but her smile didn’t fade. “Oh, Zach. Now they’re going to sing.”
“God, I hope not.”
A tall, good-looking kid with a cocky glint in his eye came by to introduce himself and take their drink order. Ruthie could barely look at the boy as she ordered her cosmo, and Zach had a good idea why.
With the waiter out of earshot, Zach leaned forward. “Actor wannabe, Brandon Cullinane the third, scrapes together a living waiting tables until one fateful night when a ravishing casting agent sits down in his section.”
Ruthie huffed. “Ravishing, huh? I think you have a best seller there. You should totally write that.”
“I’m not really feeling the man bun. It reminds me of those hairnets the cafeteria ladies used to wear in high school.”
“Way to kill the fantasy.”
He continued to tease her, drawing out the awful plot until neither of them could take any more. This was good. They were having actual fun.
He caught the approaching waiter out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t look now, but here comes your fantasy.”
Zach continued to waggle his eyebrows at Ruthie while Brandon delivered the cosmo with a theatrical pour into her chilled martini glass. Maybe Zach hadn’t been so far off with the actor bit after all. Zach’s boilermaker was placed in front of him with a cheerful, “Happy anniversary,” that sent a pleasant buzz through his body.
It struck him suddenly that their anniversaries were always something Zach had taken for granted. Sure, the pageantry of the actual wedding day made sense: the chuppah topped with Ruthie’s zayde’s bar mitzvah tallis, the breaking of the glass, the semi-choreographed chaos of the hora, the seven circles his bride had walked around him. Zach fully supported celebrating the milestone of marriage in front of God and witnesses in the time-honored traditions of their ancestors, but did they deserve a medal for maintaining the status quo every year? Before this moment, Zach had never considered staying married to be an accomplishment—or a challenge. The realization scared the shit out of him.
Now who’s being dramatic, hmm?
Zach shook off the melancholy and lifted his drink to offer his traditional anniversary toast. “To my beautiful wife, the best partner I ever picked.”
Their story was relationship lore, told and retold so many times her version had fused with his, and now neither could remember anything different. September 9, 1989, Freshman Econ, day one. Professor Windbag-with-his-name-on-the-textbook ended his lecture with the most useful wisdom imparted that entire semester or, for that matter, Zach’s entire life: pair up with a study buddy. Zach scanned the room for the prettiest girl in the packed hall. He made a beeline for Ruthie, “cutting off at least five other guys with the same idea.” (Here, Ruthie would always roll her eyes, but Zach knew it was true.) That Ruthie turned out to be a great student was icing on his happy cake. By midterms, they were hot and heavy. At Christmas break, she went home without her virginity.
Ruthie’s eyes glistened as she tipped her martini glass to her lips. Shit. Those weren’t moved-to-happy-tears. “Partner” had become a loaded term, and now he’d gone and plopped Joan in the middle of their table. A swift change of subject was in order.
Zach reached across the table for Ruthie’s hand and threaded his fingers with hers. “So, what’s going on in your world?”
Ruthie blinked at him, swallowed a hefty swig of cosmo, and set down her drink. She rolled the delicate stem between her fingers. “Well,” she began, piquing his curiosity with a ghost of a smile, “I’ve started a new project.”
“Oh yeah?” These days, Zach had no idea whether she was about to tell him about some new story she’d started writing or the latest rabbit hole she’d slipped down or some fundraising effort to lift up one of her internet friends. Zach certainly wasn’t expecting the answer she gave.
“Or rather, it’s an old project, but I’m really going to do it this time.”
The study. Zach knew better than to exhibit eagerness. The cycle was all too familiar—enthusiasm, a creative burst, determination, hope—but when it came time to pull the trigger, Ruthie’s crippling guilt inevitably led to a change of heart, followed sharply by paralyzing regret. Pregnancy, loss, and grief, over and over again. What was Zach supposed to say?
“Huh.”
Undeterred, she pressed on. “No, really. The whole room is designed. All that’s left is choosing the paint color.”
“Wow, Ruthie. That’s great.” At the risk of ruining their evening, he probed to see how committed she was this time. “Sounds like you’re ready to put out feelers for estimates.”
“Actually,” she paused, licked her lips, and glanced up to meet his gaze, “I’ve already hired someone.”
Zach bolted upright in his chair, snapping his hand away from Ruthie’s. “You what? When did all this happen?”
“We made it more or less official on Wednesday.” Wow, she was serious.
“You’re not using George again . . . I thought you had some reservations about his workmanship.”
Ruthie was looking awfully sheepish all of a sudden. “Um, no, not exactly.”
“So, exactly who did you hire?” Zach’s confidence in Ruthie’s choice faded as quickly as her smile. “I assume you’ve checked references?”
“What’s with the twenty questions? You’ve been after me to do this for months. I finally take some action, and you criticize every decision.”
How the hell had this become a fight? “I am not criticizing. Just asking a few questions, same as I would for any project I was managing at work.”
Something terrible flashed behind Ruthie’s eyes. Zach had just fallen overboard into shit creek.
“This isn’t work,” she said through clenched teeth, “and I am not asking you to manage the project, dear.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.” They both let out a deep breath, sipped at their drinks, and eyed each other like two boxers waiting for the other to throw a punch. The waiter approached; Zach waved him off.
He needed to turn this around right now and switch Ruthie out of defensive mode. Zach dug deep for the most unthreatening tone he could manage. “Ruthie, is there some reason you’re not telling me where you found this guy?”
Ruthie met his gaze, then looked away. What the hell? “I met him the other night at Versailles, if you want to know the truth.”
“So, he’s gay?” Did she really think that would matter to Zach?
“Not according to Gail.” A hollow laugh left her. “They’re seeing each other.”
“Wonderful. A random stranger Gail pic
ked up at a gay bar is going to be working in my house?”
“Not exactly. I fixed them up.”
This was all spinning out of reach. “How?”
“He asked me for my number, and I gave him Gail’s.”
Neanderthal man reared his big, fat head again. Easy, now.
Zach folded his hands and slid them forward along the white cloth. “A strange man at a club hit on you?”
“Is that so shocking?” Oh, she was pissed now.
“It’s not shocking that someone would be interested in you, but did he not see your wedding ring?”
Ruthie glanced down at the 3.15-carat diamond Zach had placed on her finger. On bent knee. With sweaty palms and his heart straining against his chest and the sweetest rush of elation when she’d said yes.
“He definitely saw my ring.”
“And asked for your number anyway.”
“Yes, but I didn’t give it to him.”
“No, instead, you invited him to be alone with you in our home for hours at a time, a man who’s already blatantly disregarded your marital status once.”
“He’s apologized, and we’re past all that.”
Zach wasn’t past any of it. “We must know a dozen other contractors already vetted by people we trust. Any one of them would be more appropriate than this, this—” Ruthie raised her chin ever so slightly, preparing to absorb the blow. Whoever this guy was, Ruthie seemed to feel he was worth defending. “This wild card,” Zach finished calmly.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right, but Quentin really needs the work, and he’s already built a scale model of the whole project, with moving parts and tiny little details that must have taken him hours to put together.”
Quentin? “You already have a contractor and a model, and you didn’t think to say boo to me until now?” And what if Zach hadn’t asked? How long would Ruthie have kept this secret?
She slouched in her chair like a discarded jacket. “This all happened so quickly. I didn’t want to say anything until I knew I was ready to follow through. I was afraid your doubts might cripple me if I wasn’t one hundred percent sure.”
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