Into the Quiet

by Beth C. Greenberg

  “Do you need to go? Sorry, I should’ve asked if you were busy—”

  “It’s fine, Q. I’m happy to talk to you. Patrick can handle the boys for a little while.”

  The image of Patrick and the boys pushing toy trucks through a maze of blocks sent a sharp pang of longing through Cupid. It wasn’t so long ago that Cupid was the one building a pillow fort with Jonah and Eli and tossing baby Luke into the air. He could still hear their throaty giggles.

  “How are they, Mia?”

  “They miss you, especially Jonah. He asks about you all the time.”

  “Please tell him I miss him, too . . . or whatever you think is best.”

  “Of course I’ll tell him,” she said. “What have you been up to, more matchmaking adventures?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Oh boy,” Mia said with a chuckle. “And how’s that going?”

  “It’s”—excruciating—“challenging. Actually, I hoped you might be able to give me some advice.”

  “Me? I thought you were the expert.”

  “My area of expertise is love, not marriage.”

  “Marriage? Oh no. You’re not trying to do marriage counseling now?”

  “For the moment, it seems.”

  “Pfft, good luck with that.”

  “I suspected you might say something like that.”

  “Considering my marriage went down in a fiery blaze, I wouldn’t exactly say I’m the best one to give advice.”

  “I actually need to understand a marriage that’s failing. I want to know how two people who’ve drifted apart might manage to find their way back together.”

  “Aw, Q.” Cupid recognized the pity in Mia’s tone. Pan always softened just like that when he was about to shatter Cupid’s hope. Poor you, having to learn the world doesn’t work that way. “Look, you have to admit that sometimes—many times—it’s best if the two don’t find their way back together.”

  The weight of Mia’s bleak observation would have crushed Cupid if he didn’t know how happy Mia was now with Patrick, how happy Zach and Ruthie would be again if Cupid could get them past their Liminal Point.

  “But these two are meant for each other,” he said.

  “The heartbeats again?”

  “Yes. They are definitely each other’s Right Love.” The truth stuck like burrs to his tongue.

  “Huh. I have to admit, I used to think you were a bit of a nutjob when you started with all that echo beat mumbo jumbo.”

  Cupid smiled despite her dig. “Thanks.”

  “Anyway, you sure made me a believer.”

  “I appreciate that, Mia. There aren’t many mort—people who are willing to trust in something beyond their understanding.”

  “I guess love has a way of making its point.”

  “Until it doesn’t,” Cupid mused aloud.

  “Right. From my brief but agonizing experience with couples therapy, I can tell you most problems come down to sex or money.”

  “Can’t be money. They have tons.”

  Mia huffed. “That doesn’t mean they don’t fight about it. Money is power. Sex can be, too, by the way. Once the balance of the relationship is knocked off-kilter, anything can be used as a weapon to gain the upper hand.”

  “You make it all sound so violent.”

  Mia laughed. “Haven’t you heard the expression, ‘All’s fair in love and war’?”

  “Sure. I just find it disturbing that two people in love can inflict such wounds on each other.”

  “Nobody can hurt you as badly as the ones you love.”

  As if Cupid needed reminding, a blunt stab pushed at his chest. Perhaps he should have heeded Pan’s warning. “I guess that’s true.”

  “Oh, Q, I’m sorry.” There it was again, the pity.

  “Don’t be, Mia. None of that was your fault.” Nor did poking at old battle scars solve Cupid’s dilemma. “Let’s say the problem isn’t money . . .”

  “Sex?”

  The last thing he wanted to think about was Ruthie having sex with her husband. Cupid hadn’t smelled it on her yet, but all that proved was that Ruthie practiced good hygiene. “It’s probably safe to say they’re not having sex, but from what I can see, neither seems to want to hurt the other.”

  “That part usually comes later. Obviously, I don’t know these people, but intimacy is usually the first to go. Don’t get me wrong—two people can have sex without being intimate. It’s just not a very good way to keep a marriage alive.”

  Intimacy. The word rolled around in Cupid’s brain. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “That special bond that makes the two of you feel like one. Your shared history, the physical attraction you feel, the ways you crawl inside each other’s minds and feel at home. That’s intimacy, but it’s fragile. There are a million ways to weaken the invisible threads that connect two people: stop communicating, violate a trust, take each other for granted, give up on the relationship.”

  “Yes. This matches up with what I’ve seen. More of a slipping away than an intentional destruction.”

  “But no less poisonous,” Mia said. “If you don’t nurture that sense of closeness, it will die. The outside world intrudes on all of us, no matter how hard we try to control everything. Jobs are lost. People get sick.”

  “You lose three babies before they’re born.” Cupid hadn’t realized he’d said the words out loud until Mia responded.

  “Oh wow. That’s hideous.”

  “Yeah.”

  “When you stop seeing your own light in your spouse’s eyes, it’s an uphill battle to try to get that back, and there’s almost nothing the other person can do to fix it. How many times can you prop up your husband when your energy is sapped from constant rejection? Then he decides his wife can’t possibly love him anymore because he got fired, and he’s a big ol’ loser, so he finds another woman who makes him feel like the man he used to be. And then, his wife really is too good for him because now, he’s a lying, cheating sack of shit.”

  “We’re not being hypothetical anymore, are we?” Funny how that same thing had happened when he’d asked Gail about marriage. Was it possible for anyone to be objective on the subject?

  Mia chuckled. “Sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, Mia. I didn’t mean to dredge up old pain.”

  “It’s fine. Thanks to you, I’ve put the past firmly behind me.”

  “Mind if I ask you something personal?”

  This time, Mia’s laughter was genuinely cheerful. “I believe that ship has already circled the globe.”

  “When you found out your husband was cheating on you, did you ever consider being with another man?”

  “Whoa. Promise me you’re not going there, Q. No matter what’s happened, you cannot be that guy.”

  “What if he cheated first?”

  “Is she telling you that? Do you have proof?”

  “No, she’s not saying anything.” It’s her friend, the one I’m having sex with, who told me. “Ruthie doesn’t have any idea I’m trying to fix her marriage.”

  “Oh boy. Are you doing this whole matchmaker routine again because you’re stuck on her? Is this some kind of thing with you?”

  “It seems to be, for now anyway.”

  “Has she fallen for you as well?”

  Had she? Did it even matter?

  “I don’t know. She keeps her feelings tucked away. All I know is she beats for her husband, not me.”

  “Let me go out on a limb and say this woman at least lusts for you. You’re going to have to be the one to take the moral high ground here.”

  “I understand two wrongs don’t make a right . . .”

  “Here comes a ‘but.’”

  “What if Ruthie’s husband can’t make her see that light right now, but I can? I believe he’s
grown weary of trying to convince his own wife he’s still attracted to her. I’m an objective stranger. Wouldn’t it help if she knew I’m a complete mess over her?”

  “Sounds dangerous. You’re not the easiest man to resist. If you were to show interest in her, it’s not a fair fight, especially if she suspects her husband of cheating. You start out with a little flirting, a harmless kiss on the cheek, and next thing you know, the two of you are doing the Flying Warrior. She has to live with her conscience. And what if the husband finds out? He might never forgive her even if she can forgive herself. You do not want to be the home-wrecker.”

  Basically, what Pan had told him from the start—sleeping with Ruthie was a big, fat no-no. So, where did that leave the God of Love?

  “There must be something I can do,” he said sadly.

  “If it’s not too late, maybe you could help her, as a friend, remember why she fell in love with her husband and why he fell in love with her. If she feels good about herself, she won’t be defensive when he tries to lay a compliment on her. Meanwhile, don’t let the husband start exploring other options.”

  “What if he already has?”

  “Then they better start working on forgiveness.”

  In the silence that followed, the weight of Cupid’s burden bore down upon him. Nothing less than Ruthie’s happiness was at stake.

  “You can do this, Q. You’re a good man.”

  “Thank you, Mia.”

  “Did I tell you Patrick is taking all of us to dinner at his parents’ next weekend?”

  A disturbing image popped into Cupid’s head, bringing Mia and her boys to Mount Olympus to meet the folks. Just your average family, the Goddess of Love and the God of Fire sitting down for a five-course meal accompanied by lutes and lyres in the Grand Dining Hall, maybe the God of War popping his head in to stir up trouble.

  “I’m sure Patrick’s parents will love you all.”

  Mia huffed into the phone. “Well, it’s all or nothing. Insta-family, here we come.”

  The miracle of Mia’s family rumbled through Cupid’s chest, dragging with it the shadow of his own brief glimpse of life inside the frame, the space he’d only been holding for Patrick.

  “Hey,” Mia asked gently, “are you gonna be okay?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ve resisted temptation before.”

  20

  Playing Spy

  “C’mon, girl, let’s get you outside.” Ruth’s heels clattered into the kitchen, and Pookie trotted behind.

  “I let her out already.”

  Ruth gasped at the sight of her husband, hunched over his iPad at the kitchen table. “What the hell, Zach? You scared the crap outta me.” Unless the clock over the sink needed a new battery, it was 7:20. “What are you doing home? I thought you left an hour ago.”

  “And good morning to you too.” Zach chuckled as he looked up from his iPad. “Wow, you look nice.”

  “Thanks.” While Ruth wasn’t one to lie around in sweatpants, she also didn’t make a habit of blowing out her hair or applying lip gloss before her first cup of coffee, two things she had done this morning.

  “Lunching with the ladies today?” he asked.

  “No.” She couldn’t bear Gail’s gloating or Wendy’s interrogation right now. “Just the usual excitement. My car needs gas, I have to return a book to the library, and I thought I might get really wild and do the grocery shopping.”

  “You look awfully nice for the grocery store.”

  “I guess I’ve lowered the bar so far, a pair of nice jeans is cause for alarm.”

  “Not alarm . . . it’s just, if I knew you looked like this in the morning, I might never leave home.”

  “Very funny. Why haven’t you left yet?” Zach was clearly dressed for work, all crisp and creased and suited up for his day. “What’s going on?”

  “What time does your guy start?”

  “My guy?” Were they seriously doing this again right now? “Quentin?”

  “Yes, Quentin. Kyewww, wasn’t it?”

  Ruthie held her eyes still in their sockets though it took all her might not to roll them. “He’ll be here by eight.”

  Zach checked his watch. “I think I’ll stick around.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to ask him a few questions.”

  “Why?” She hoped he caught the warning in her tone.

  “I’m not allowed to ask a man in my employ a few questions?”

  “Your employ? What is going on with you?”

  “Look, all I know about this guy is that he materialized out of thin air, hit on you at some sex club—”

  “It’s a dance club. My God, Zach.”

  “And he pumps out lust like a plug-in air freshener.”

  Heat rose to Ruth’s cheeks. Yes, she had another of her famous crushes again, and this one wasn’t just some hot model half her age to ogle through a screen. This guy was real and sexy as sin and on his way over as she stood here arguing with her husband.

  “I get it. You don’t think I can refrain from throwing myself at him.”

  Zach sighed heavily, hitting her with the full measure of his long-suffering-husband-of-a-woman-with-an-overactive-fantasy-life routine. “What if he’s dangerous? You’ll be alone in the house with a man with power tools. Don’t you think I have a right to be concerned for your safety?”

  “What are you going to do, ask him if he plans to murder me?”

  “Yes!”

  His reply was so outrageous, it snapped the tension between them like a brittle twig. They passed a grin back and forth. If there was one thing Ruth loved about her husband, he almost always knew when he was being an ass.

  She sat down next to him at the table and put her hand on his arm. “Oh, Zach. Quentin is a pussycat. If you don’t believe me, ask Pookie. She loves him.”

  “Great,” he grumbled. “I feel so much better now.”

  Encouraged by the grin escaping from Mr. Serious, Ruth gently cajoled him. “She happens to be an excellent judge of character.”

  “Actually, she’s not,” he said with a grimace aimed at the dog.

  “Okay, true.”

  Zach’s expression softened as it met Ruthie’s. “But you are.” A sigh left him, a leak in the pressure valve. Always a good sign. “Look, Ruthie, the guy has no experience and no references. I just don’t want him to take advantage of you.”

  “I hired him to do a job, and he’s already doing it beautifully. Not for nothing, he’s also insisted that I not pay him one cent until the job is finished to my satisfaction—and yours too, if you’d like. Please don’t embarrass all of us by giving him the third degree when he gets here.”

  Zach held her gaze, the gold flecks of his intense, hazel eyes catching the morning sun behind his glasses while he mulled over his decision. “Okay.” He stood and straightened his tie. “You know where I am if you need me.”

  “Yep. At work.” Ruth hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but that’s what repression would do.

  Zach’s head turned sharply toward his wife. He seemed to be calculating whether to accept her invitation to fight or let it slide. They both pretty much knew where this one would go. The conversation wouldn’t be productive or even interesting.

  Ruth had called Zach’s bluff years ago about his long hours. They had enough money, more than ten enoughs. She couldn’t have cared less about the huge house in a fancy neighborhood, especially once the school system became a nonissue. All she’d ever wanted in a house, after babies had been ruled out once and for all, was this writing sanctuary. When Zach had decided to make his move into the nonprofit world, Ruth could not have been more proud and supportive. She’d never begrudged Zach his time settling into the new role as CEO or tried to make him feel guilty, despite numerous trips out of town to open new playspaces across the Midwest. It was that
bitch, Joan, with her invented reasons for Zach to work late, that got under Ruth’s skin.

  Judging by the look on her husband’s face right now, she’d done a poor job of hiding her frustration. Ruth regretted the low blow. Where was that delete button when she needed it?

  Zach took the high road first, leaning in to give her a soft kiss on the cheek, which might have been a kiss on her lips if Ruth hadn’t just glossed. If only she’d known he’d be waiting for her in the kitchen this morning.

  “Have a good day, darling,” he said. “I’ll text you later about dinner?”

  “Sure.”

  Ruth blinked after her husband as he descended the stairs to the garage.

  21

  Fending Off Joan

  The unbridled power of his M-5 never failed to bolster Zach’s mood, but even the rumbling hooves of 520 horses couldn’t outrun the haunting truth: all was not well at home. All marriages had their highs and lows, and Zach wasn’t so naïve or arrogant to believe his was immune.

  In the beginning, Zach had imagined Ruthie and himself as two ends of the same rope, their individual trajectories inevitably meeting and, in doing so, forming a circle. Both families were overjoyed—a nice Jewish boy/girl—and careers skipped along down two separate but perfectly compatible paths. Conflicts were rare and quickly resolved. The knot tightened.

  Then came the miscarriages, three sharp blades hacking away at the fibers until the circle opened into a flimsy line with the two of them holding on to opposite ends, floating toward an unanchored, unimagined future with only each other as a tether. With compassionate guidance and time’s inevitable march, Zach had buried or at least successfully compartmentalized his dreams of fatherhood: nuzzling his face into warm folds of baby pudge; tossing a son over his head and reveling in the tiny bundle’s absolute faith that his father would catch him; chasing a giggling toddler up and down the beach; tucking in his daughter with homegrown fairy tales and lingering at the bedroom door, just to absorb the rhythm of her soft snores; teaching his son to tie his shoes, offering patient encouragement when the loops slipped through clumsy fingers; playing catch in the backyard, hotbox when two kids were coordinated enough to run and throw; cheering them on through dance or piano recitals or swim meets or karate competitions with his heart in his throat; hosting noisy, messy, multigenerational holiday dinners where kids were interspersed with adults, not sequestered at a folding table with separate platters of gefilte fish; straining to understand his children’s lively debates about the newest technologies and medical advances; and later, much later, opening his and Ruthie’s circle to absorb significant others and spouses and grandchildren.