Into the Quiet

by Beth C. Greenberg

  “Let me feed you something, please. I’m Jewish. It goes against my DNA to let anyone go hungry under my roof.”

  “Actually, a quick bowl of cereal might be nice.” Quentin set the brush across the top of the paint can and followed Ruth downstairs. Pookie trotted after them.

  “Coffee’s made.” Ruth filled the waiting mug on the counter while Quentin checked his phone, then stuffed it into his pocket. “No word from Pan?”

  “Not yet.” Quentin wrapped his hands around the mug and brought it to his lips. “Mmm.”

  “Cream or sugar?”

  “No, thank you. You don’t have to wait on me.”

  She pulled out the least fibrous cereal choices from the cabinet, placed a bowl and spoon down next to them, and reached into the refrigerator for the milk. “I’ll stop if you promise to help yourself.”

  Quentin took the hint. He chose a box and poured some cereal into the bowl. “So . . . how was everything this morning?”

  “You mean is Zach still being an ass?”

  Quentin grabbed the milk and turned away so she couldn’t see the smile he was doing a poor job of hiding.

  “He left before my alarm went off, but that’s not unusual. I’m hoping the three of us can sit down to a civilized meal tonight.”

  “I think it might be better for everyone if I just stay out of his way.”

  “I want you to feel at home here. That reminds me, what kind of snack foods should I pick up for you? Do you like a cold beer at the end of the workday?” Zach never had, but Ruth was game to provide whatever Quentin needed—foodwise.

  “I am not a fan of beer,” he said, tucking into his cereal as if to banish the taste of the imagined beer. “Please don’t worry about feeding me. I have a credit card and a car, and that microwave and refrigerator upstairs will be more than enough for me.”

  “Ohhhh, I get it. You don’t like my cooking.”

  His huff made Ruth smile. “What? No. I loved your barbecue chicken last night. I just don’t want to make any more trouble for you. I should get back to work. Thank you again for breakfast.”

  He wolfed down another couple of spoonfuls, tipped back the rest of his coffee, and placed his dishes in the dishwasher. Even performing the most mundane human activities, Quentin moved through the kitchen with an elegant ease and subdued strength that sent Ruth’s head reeling to that other space she’d been fighting so hard to ignore: What’s going on under those bulky coveralls?

  Shame on you, Ruthie. Objectifying is so, so wrong.

  —True, but I admire so much more than his body.

  As if that makes it better. This man is a guest in your home.

  —Yes, a ridiculously hot guest, showering just down the hall . . .

  Quentin tapped her computer monitor on his way out, popping her internal dialogue like soap bubbles. “Don’t forget, Ruthie, I’m waiting for our love story.”

  “I was kind of hoping you’d forgotten about that.” In fact, Ruth hadn’t hoped that at all.

  Quentin turned back and shot Ruth a panty-poofing grin. “I never lie, and I never forget.” And just because her heart was still beating, though barely, Quentin zapped her with a killer wink.

  She debated—should I or shouldn’t I?—for all of ten seconds before her decision was made. It had been almost two years since Ruth had written Fixer Upper, before she’d learned the perils of dialogue tags and nuances of narrative voice, but she still genuinely liked this story—probably because she loved the Henry she’d created so much.

  Fixer Upper weighed in at fifteen thousand words, one of her heftier stories. Ruth knew exactly where to find the racier passages—both inside her characters’ imaginations and after, when all erotic hell broke loose around the three-quarters mark—and she searched and destroyed without mercy. Where the chunks removed were too large to easily substitute with something tame, Ruth simply dropped in an ellipsis and left Quentin to fill in the blanks.

  After the most egregious scenes were sanitized, Ruth searched for incriminating mentions of body parts, any and all conjugations of “fuck,” and overly dramatic gazes, kisses, or touches. She couldn’t help tinkering a bit with the phrasing, but she didn’t allow herself to go overboard with nitpicks. Once she’d finished all her edits and saved the file under a new name, “FU4Q,” she reread the whole story from the beginning.

  It was . . . awful. And it barely resembled her story. The exercise had proven what Ruth had always hoped: the sex scenes were not gratuitous but integral to the story. Take away the graphic bits, and you lost Henry’s sheer joy in expressing himself physically, the unhurried tenderness in every touch, and the way his sense of humor bridged the awkwardness of their first time. Without that, he was a watered-down, one-dimensional cliché. Is that how she wanted Quentin to experience her writing?

  Screw it. Before her better judgment could overrule her brash decision, Ruth printed out the original, unabridged story, punched holes, and snapped the pages inside a bright red binder. She floated upstairs with all the wild anticipation of hitting the “Post” button—for an audience of one this time.

  At the doorway of the former nursery, Ruth’s hands extended the binder toward Quentin as if she no longer controlled her own limbs. “I can’t really believe I’m doing this, but . . .”

  Quentin’s attention shifted to Ruth, his eyes lit with glee. He dropped the paintbrush into the open can and jogged toward her as if he, too, recognized Ruth’s reckless offering might be retracted at any moment. Holding Ruth in his gaze, he gently pried the plastic binder from her grip. A rush of giddy pleasure washed over her as Quentin flipped open the cover.

  A smile spread across his cheeks as he read aloud: “Thea should have turned tail and run from the dilapidated house, but there was something about the ramshackle exterior that drew her in. ‘Needs a little TLC,’ the real estate agent said. Maybe Thea did, too.”

  “Whoa there, pal. You’re gonna have to read this to yourself . . . after I get far, far away.”

  He chuckled but respected her wishes. “How do you expect me to get any work done when I know Thea and Henry are waiting for me?”

  “Should I hold on to this for you until 4:01?” Ruth made to grab it from him, but Quentin tucked the binder tight against his side.

  “Ohhh no. There is zero chance I’m letting this story out of my sight.” With the utmost reverence, he cleared a space on his worktable and set it down. “It’ll stay right there until I’m done with my work for the day”—he turned to waggle his eyebrows at Ruth—“and then Henry, Thea, and I are gonna get busy.”

  Ruth moaned into her hands. “You have to promise me we will never, ever, discuss this.” The die was cast; Ruth turned to leave.

  “Ruthie.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Thank you for trusting me. It means a lot to me.”

  28

  Honey-Do

  The moment the garlic reached Cupid’s nose, he knew he’d made a grave mistake. There was no chance his slab of meatloaf from the prepared foods case could possibly compete with whatever Ruthie had simmering on the stove. Nevertheless, he’d made a promise to stay out of Zach’s way, and Cupid was a god of his word—but, curses, did Ruthie have to cook spaghetti tonight? It made his mouth water.

  He buried his sigh in the brown paper grocery bag and bounded up the garage stairs into the kitchen. There stood Ruthie with her back to him, angled over a pair of thick loaves splayed open on the counter like a girl with her skirt pushed up too high. Ruthie’s shoulders dipped and swayed with the rhythm of the brush, slathering the surface of the bread with the pungent spread. Above the music pouring through the ceiling speakers, a sweet sound arose—a singing voice so carefree and uninhibited, Cupid was shocked to realize it was coming from Ruthie.

  She had never let down her guard like this in front of Cupid, and she would surely be mortified to know
he’d caught her unawares. Let me just witness this beautiful abandon a few more seconds, he gambled, but the risk of discovery quickly overtook his selfish inclinations.

  As if just cresting over the top step, Cupid trod forward heavily, adding extra ruckus by crinkling the paper bag cradled in his arm. “Something sure smells good in here,” he called out over the music.

  Ruthie spun around. “You’re back. That was quick.”

  Cupid plunged his hand into the bag and presented Ruthie with a bunch of orange tulips wrapped in cellophane. “These are for you. A small token of my appreciation for letting me stay here.”

  Back to her carefully composed self, Ruthie busied her fingers with the cheery yellow ribbon tied around the stems. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “It doesn’t feel like nearly enough, to be honest. If you can think of other ways I might repay you and Zach for your hospitality—finish up any other projects around the house, put a fresh coat of paint somewhere, build shelves—I’d really like to do that. Obviously, your study is my top priority. Anything else would take place after my workday is finished.”

  Ruthie pulled the bouquet to her chest. “Oh, Quentin, you don’t have to sing for your supper.” His singing voice was nowhere near as lovely as Ruthie’s, but he couldn’t tell her how he knew that. “You’re our guest.”

  A guest. Right. No doubt, Ruthie had intended to make Cupid feel welcome, but her choice of words reminded him in no uncertain terms this wasn’t his home. Ruthie was neither his wife nor his mother. Cupid was a visitor in this house—on this planet, in fact—and he had a vital job to do.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to head upstairs. I’ll see you in the morning, Ruthie.” Her wistful gaze followed him out of the kitchen.

  Tucked away in his spacious suite, Cupid closed the door, as if the potent swirl of home and hearth could somehow be barred from entry. He filed away his groceries, setting aside one of the red apples. He checked his phone one last time before giving up on hearing from Pan for another day.

  Cupid’s self-inflicted solitude did provide one consolation: he could now freely dive into Ruthie’s story without fear of interruption. He rubbed the apple on his sleeve until it gleamed, took the binder from his nightstand, and sank into the deep armchair.

  “Needs a little TLC,” the real estate agent said. Maybe Thea did, too.

  There it was, right there on page one, impossible to miss: Ruthie’s cry for help. Could he bear to read the rest?

  Cupid sighed, lifting his eyes from the words. If he could see through the ceiling and roof, would he find answers in the clouds? Who better than the God of Love himself could solve the puzzle of how to put this couple back together?

  He bit into the apple and slurped up the sweet juices. The apple tried its best to curb Cupid’s hunger, but a mere piece of fruit could no more be expected to satisfy the craving inspired by the aroma of Ruthie’s homemade Bolognese than the occasional, brief conversation with Ruthie could satisfy Cupid’s cravings of the heart. He sank his teeth into the soft apple flesh again and again until there was no more to consume, and still, he was famished. Putting his hope in the meatloaf, Cupid rose from the recliner and crossed the room toward the kitchenette.

  Downstairs, a door opened and closed. A pair of voices rose and fell beneath the din of Ruthie’s playlist. Zach was home early, and Cupid had a feeling he might be the reason.

  Eavesdropping lived on that thin line between honesty and deceit. For the sake of his mission, Cupid forced his attention to the conversation downstairs.

  “Everything is fine. Can’t a guy leave work at five?”

  “Of course. It’s a lovely surprise.”

  “Flowers? Do I even need to ask?” Was that irritation in Zach’s voice?

  “He’s just expressing his gratitude, Zach. He feels terrible for causing a fight.”

  “We’re not fighting.” Squeak, squeak, squeak, pop! “Can I pour you a glass?”

  “Thanks.”

  “It smells amazing in here, by the way.”

  “I can have dinner on the table in fifteen minutes.”

  “Should I set the table for three?” Zach’s tone was unreadable.

  “No. He’s keeping to himself.”

  Drawers opening and closing. The clink of plates and silverware. “At least when I’m home.”

  Ice cubes falling into a tumbler. The whir of the water dispenser.

  “He asked me for a list of odd jobs he could do around the house. He feels guilty for imposing, wants to pay us back the only way he knows how.”

  “You should do it, Ruthie. Make him a list. A man needs his pride.” An accusation lobbed at his wife?

  Table-setting noises were replaced by the clang of pots and pans, tap-tap-tap of a knife on the chopping board, the buzz of the timer.

  “Dinner’s ready.”

  Dinner—as if Cupid’s belly needed the reminder. He spooned the mashed potatoes onto a plastic plate, slid the cold, gray slab of molded meat on top, and slipped the plate inside the little oven. The rattle and hum of the microwave muted the voices downstairs to where Cupid could barely make out their conversation without straining, and that suited him fine. He’d heard enough civil discourse between husband and wife to eat his dinner without worrying about the imminent collapse of their marriage.

  He set the binder open on the small dining table and tucked into both story and meal. Oh, Ruthie. It was no wonder she’d spent so much time blushing in Cupid’s presence. By the end of chapter three, Thea had inspired a burning physical desire that was overpowered only by Cupid’s need to learn Ruthie’s mind. He finished off his meal, pushed the dishes aside, and dragged the words closer.

  Henry’s perspective was no less tame, Cupid was delighted to learn. The fictional fix-it man had a thing for cougars, the term Gail had used to describe herself.

  A soft knock at the door pulled Cupid out of the story. “Quentin?”

  He closed his finger inside the binder to mark his spot, stood, and opened the door. Despite a vivid description of Thea quite distinct from the woman standing in front of him, Cupid realized he’d read every word of the story with Ruthie in mind—her gentle smile, her melancholy eyes, her fiercely restrained passion. He stared for a beat longer than usual while, right before his eyes, Thea merged with the Ruthie familiar to him.

  “Hello, Ruthie.”

  Ruthie gave him a puzzled look, then seeing the binder in Cupid’s hand, blushed madly. “Oh boy.”

  He had a hundred questions, but remembering their pact, Cupid eyed the slice of pie Ruthie was holding and asked simply, “Is that for me?”

  “Oh. Yes. Here.”

  “Thank you. It looks delicious,” he said, setting the pie down on the table. “Would you like to come in?”

  “Just for a second. Zach and I discussed your offer, and we decided to give you this. Only because you asked.” She pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket and unfolded it. “I can go over these with you tomorrow if you’d like.”

  Kitchen faucet leaks.

  Laundry rm door sticks.

  Light bulbs – basement . . .

  “Thank you, Ruthie.”

  “Also, this.” She handed Cupid a slip of paper with his name and $4,000.

  “Oh. No, I couldn’t possibly take your money for fixing these things. That’s the whole point. It’s a gift to repay your hospitality.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t clear. This check is for the study.”

  “But you’ve already paid for my supplies.”

  “It’s a progress payment. You’re nearly finished. It’s the least we can do.”

  “Ruthie, I don’t want—”

  “Hush. It’s either take the money or start eating my cooking.”

  “Oh, gods, no.” He swooped away the check and folded it into his pocket. Teasing aside
, Cupid had earned a paycheck for the first time in his life, and it felt good. Besides, he owed Pan for that wine.

  Ruthie glanced once more at the binder before turning away. “Have a relaxing evening, now.”

  Fixer Upper was more agitating than relaxing, but hearing Cupid say so would only embarrass Ruthie further. “See you in the morning, Ruthie.”

  When Saturday morning rolled around, Cupid found himself in a quandary about what to wear. His weekday coveralls seemed a bit extreme for changing a lightbulb. Luckily, since his clothes were mostly brand new, even his T-shirts and jeans were respectable enough for hanging around the Millers’.

  Thanks to Jagger’s casual morning-after strutting, Cupid knew to keep his face out of Zach’s first cup of coffee. The laundry room project would do, well out of the way and not loud enough to disturb anyone downstairs. Cupid spread a clean drop cloth and set to work on the hinges. He should have known Pookie would find him, yapping and jumping at Cupid’s ankles as he grabbed the door with both hands and lifted.

  “Hey, girl. Watch out, now. Don’t wanna clomp you on the head.” He set the door down, carefully avoiding tiny paws. Pookie took Cupid’s empty hands as an invitation to play. She made him laugh, nuzzling her nose right up into his crotch and running back for more each time he tossed her away. Best not to get too attached, Cupid reminded himself with a sigh.

  Pookie watched with great interest as the plane swept across the bottom edge of the door, sending thin curls of wood onto the cloth. When Cupid was certain he’d worked off enough, he set the door back into its hinges, tested the swing, and tightened up the screws.

  Pookie sniffed at the edges of the cloth, prancing in circles—dead giveaway. “Need to go out, girl? C’mon!” He jogged down the stairs and into the kitchen with Pookie tumbling along beside him.

  Zach looked up from the device resting on the counter and attempted a smile. “Morning.”

  Cupid wanted to ask where Ruthie was but didn’t want to risk upsetting the peace. “Morning. Okay if I take Pookie out?”

  “Sure. Thank you.”