“No problem.”
Pookie quickly located an acceptable patch of grass, did her business, and dragged the Frisbee over to Cupid. She was an excellent diversion, this little furball. Cupid could have tossed that Frisbee all morning, and she would have happily obliged. It was easier staying out here than indoors where Zach was, but Cupid had work to do.
By the time Cupid wandered back through the kitchen, Zach was gone, replaced by Ruthie, typing away at her desk. “Morning.”
She spun around, hand on her heart. “Oh! You scared me.”
“Sorry, I’ll make more noise next time.” He glanced at the computer screen. “Working on our sequel?” Before she could answer with more than a blush, Cupid winked and jogged up the stairs.
Cupid’s least favorite of all the odd jobs was changing the basement bulbs. Not that he had a problem with a six-foot ladder or the mechanics of screwing in a bulb, but the fixtures didn’t want to hold still in the flimsy ceiling. Every time Cupid knocked one of the tiles askew, a shower of dust and dead insects rained down on his head. At the sound of Ruthie’s footsteps, he tried to shake the dirt out of his hair, but there was no way to avoid looking as if he’d spent the afternoon toiling at Hephaestus’s furnace.
“Oh, dear. Is everything okay down here?”
“Was there an earthquake recently?”
Ruthie giggled. “Not that I’m aware. Sorry it’s such a mess.”
“It’s fine. I’m almost done, and I plan to have a long, hot shower.”
Something wicked flashed behind Ruthie’s eyes, and Cupid got a quick glimpse of Thea and that shower scene in chapter four he’d read three times last night—just to make sure he had all his facts straight.
“I hope you don’t feel like you have to work all day again tomorrow. Even God took a day off.”
Cupid harrumphed. The gods barely worked at all. “I’m going to bring all your shelving and cabinetry over so it’s ready to install first thing Monday morning.”
“You’re getting close,” Ruthie said. Did he detect a note of sadness, or had Cupid layered his own emotions onto her words?
“Yeah, I should be done by the end of next week.”
“Where will you go next?”
As if he had a clue. Would he ascend? Would Pan take him back? Would he be exiled to the South Side to live alone in one of the anonymous apartments?
“I’m not sure. It’s not your problem, Ruthie, but thanks for worrying about me.”
“You know, someone is always renovating something around here. Kitchens, bathrooms, basements . . . I can get you more work than you could handle. I can’t promise your next customers will provide you a room though.”
No, the last place he wanted to be was down the street from Ruthie. “That’s kind of you, but I think I should try my luck in a different neighborhood.”
“Different neighborhood, same story. Trust me, I’ve invented enough to know truth really is stranger than fiction.”
“Speaking of truth and fiction, do most handymen work without their shirts on? Have I been doing it wrong?”
Ruthie folded her arms across her chest and swiftly changed the subject. “Zach and I are about to head out for dinner and a movie.”
“Have a nice time.” He wanted her to. He needed her to. And yet, ouch.
“There’s leftover spaghetti in the fridge, and I made you a fresh salad.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
She shrugged. “Can’t really help it. You know, you don’t have to stay locked in your tower. Feel free to watch TV in the family room if you like.”
Cupid chuckled. “Oh no, you don’t. I have my evening’s entertainment all lined up. Chapter eight: Power Tools, if I’m not mistaken?” He winked a very Henry wink, which she answered with a very Ruthie blush.
“Good night, Quentin,” Ruthie said.
29
The Future
“You look like shit.”
“Happy Monday to you too, Joan.” Today was going to be a long damn day to start a long damn week.
“You, sir, require coffee.” Click, click, click. Off she went on her serious shoes.
Zach spun his chair to face the windows. The sky was clear as a bell, but Zach couldn’t see much beyond his immediate surroundings lately.
He walked to the east-facing window and pressed his forehead to the cool glass. Bigger was better; more money meant more centers, not for personal glory but for the families they served. To repair the world. Wasn’t Tikkun Olam the whole damn point, or had the bright light of Zach’s ambition blinded him to what was real and right in front of his nose?
They’d talked about this all along, he and Ruthie, taking the playspace concept to the biggest possible market, synergies, leverage. Eventually, their shared vision would move them to that bright, shiny life glittering in the distance—culture, diversity, opportunity. Ruthie had cheerfully and faithfully supported the cause and her husband though she’d never fully embraced the concept of moving. As the vision materialized into bricks and mortar, more bricks and more mortar, Ruthie seemed less and less excited to have that conversation. So yes, it had been a while since the topic had intruded on their day-to-day, and if Ruthie had maybe started to believe the expansions were going to continue without impacting their life in Tarra Heights, Zach hadn’t felt particularly inclined to upset her apple cart—and hence, his own.
Click, click, click.
Joan crossed straight to the windows with his coffee. Boundaries never much concerned her.
“Splash of cream, one Splenda.” Observant, that one.
“Thank you,” Zach said, turning back to the present.
“More trouble with Bob the builder?” All too observant.
“Ah, you mean Henry the handyman.”
“Henry?”
Zach had spilled more than he’d meant to; he wasn’t about to out his wife to Joan. “Did I mention he is now our boarder? Well, not exactly a boarder—that would imply he’s paying rent. He’s more like a really hot exchange student.” Zach also hadn’t meant to explode in sarcasm, but damn, a little edge of cruelty felt good, if he were being honest.
“What? Why would you let him move in with you?”
“That is a long story.”
“Give me the Twitter version.”
Zach smirked, sipped his coffee, and attempted to gain some control over his runaway mouth. “Hashtag: my wife is a softie.” Which made Zach the hard-ass.
In fact, he was starting to feel like the warden in his own home. Quentin stayed holed up in his room. When he occasionally popped his head out for air or to take Pookie out or to work off an item on Zach’s neglected honey-do list, Quentin and Ruthie would talk in that same careless way she and Zach used to, as if the two of them were continuing a conversation with no beginning and no end. Eventually, one or the other of them would sneak a guilty glance at Zach, and Quentin’s prison yard time would come to an abrupt end.
They were all trapped. Only leaving the house offered any measure of relief, but now all Zach could think about was what the two of them were doing in his absence.
“Anyway, bottom line, I haven’t been sleeping very well.”
“How much longer till the home improvement project is done?”
“He’s finishing up the trim and installing the shelves. He’ll hook up the computer, move the books and files, and then hopefully, he is out by Friday.”
“Hopefully?”
Shit. How had Zach gotten caught in this twisted replay of Saturday night’s argument with his wife? He’d finally coaxed Ruthie out of the house, and how had he used their alone time? To pick a fight with her about how Quentin seemed to be vying for a permanent position as their houseboy. Her answers had been vague and unsatisfying, to say the least, but they were also none of Joan’s goddamn business.
“Let’s move on, shal
l we?”
Joan, every bit the intuitive woman Zach admired, wisely changed course. “By Thursday at noon, we’ll have DC locked up, and we’ll all be moving out. I’ve been googling homes in Potomac. We should stay an extra day and have a broker show us around the area on Friday.”
Zach’s gut twisted. “Don’t you think you should wait to count your chickens?”
“By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.” Zach rolled his eyes as hard as he could, to which Joan responded with a tilt of her head, “Benjamin Franklin.”
“Isn’t there a quote about planning for success but preparing for failure?”
“You know, you’re really depressing lately. This”—she waved as if she might be able to make this unappetizing version of Zach disappear—“isn’t the man we need to put in front of the board. How are we going to fix you before Thursday?”
“Hmph. Maybe I should sleep here tonight.” Zach started to laugh, then worried he might not be able to stop. “Hell, they’d probably like that.”
“You don’t really think there’s something going on between them, do you?”
“Something physical? No, of course not. Ruthie would never be disloyal, even if the guy is a constant source of temptation.” A flicker of intrigue passed behind Joan’s eyes, arousing in Zach an inexplicable spike of jealousy. Was he losing his damn mind?
“So, what are you worried about?” she asked. “Doesn’t matter where she gets her appetite as long as she eats at home, right?” Joan tossed in a wink she probably meant to lighten the mood, and perhaps it would have worked if Ruthie’s last “meal with Zach” had been more than a compulsory anniversary screw, and not a particularly inspired one at that.
“You’re a walking Bartlett’s Quotations today.”
“Sorry, motivation isn’t exactly my area of expertise. I’m trying here.”
“I know you are. I appreciate it. I’m sorry I’ve been so morose.” Zach exhaled heavily and dropped his face into his hands.
“Zach?” The tremor in Joan’s voice shook him.
“What?”
“You do want the Glover grant, right?”
“Of course I do. It’s absolutely the next logical step for Brighter Tomorrows.”
“And for you as well, no?”
“Sure.” Not that Zach was entirely sure that mattered anymore. Langston had climbed out on a limb, agreeing to let this unknown regional fledgling company make their case to the board. As he’d made clear early on to Zach, they weren’t about to throw money at Brighter Tomorrows without securing the hotshot CEO and his dynamo of a fundraiser.
Maybe Zach had fooled himself as much as he’d fooled Ruthie, believing that once they reached this point, momentum would carry them both right across the finish line. Ruthie would see there was nothing holding her here, not really. No family, no kids in school, no job to tie her down. Frankly, it was a wonder they’d stayed here this long. Tarra-fucking-Indiana.
Uprooting a life was never easy, but he could see them moving forward together as a couple in ways they couldn’t here. An exciting new start in a world of possibilities, devoid of ghosts. Ruthie could make new friends in a new city, plus now she had all those online fans who’d find her just as easily in Washington. In his most optimistic scenarios, Zach had Ruthie taking a significant role in opening the new playspaces, the two of them working side by side.
If only Zach had known a wild card named Quentin would drop into their lives, he could have told Ruthie the conditions of his deal with Glover before she committed to repurposing the nursery. Whether they’d recover their investment in this nursery conversion depended on what the new owners had in mind for the room. Ironically, they’d most likely sell to a young couple looking to fill the rooms with children. The money didn’t matter, but he could have saved Ruthie from getting so invested in that writing sanctuary he was about to rip her from.
How could Zach break the news to her now? How could he not? Every day was another lie.
“We are going to knock ’em dead at the board meeting, and then you can tell your wife the great news. It’s all gonna work out.”
“Of course it will.”
Zach gazed at the blank wall just beyond Joan’s tense figure. The blur of his future sharpened into a chillingly clear picture: he and Ruthie on opposite sides of a deep, yawing chasm.
30
Convincing
The loud whir of a drill overhead answered Ruth’s question: Quentin was up and hard at work, er, working hard. Screwing, drilling, nailing . . . Damn you, Henry! Rereading her naughty story until three a.m. might not have been the smartest idea, but with Zach out of town and nothing on her calendar for Thursday, there was no guilt in staying up into the single-digit hours.
Ruth didn’t love that Joan had accompanied Zach for the Glover presentation, but what could she do? It’s just one night. Zach would surely win them over and secure that grant, and Ruth would have her husband back.
Now, if only she could grab a battery-operated tool of her own to relieve this delicious ache. Even with Quentin’s power tools buzzing, she couldn’t risk it. That man was always seeing and hearing things Ruth would not have thought humanly possible. No, there would be no diddling with her toys while Quentin was underfoot, and no more late-night erotica sessions until he moved out—which might be tomorrow, she realized with a heavy heart.
Of course, the silver lining to losing Quentin’s company was a finished writing sanctuary. Ruth couldn’t resist a peek before heading downstairs.
“My desk!”
Quentin craned his neck toward Ruth’s voice and shot her a brilliant smile. “You like?”
“It’s gorgeous.” Ruth crossed the room quickly, nearly tripping when Pookie ran between her legs. “Wow, this came out great.” She ran her palm over the mahogany top and tested each drawer, admiring the smooth glide and perfectly squared lines. Ruth Miller knew quality work when she saw it.
“Can you picture writing your best seller here?”
“Best seller might be a stretch, but plugging away at my keyboard? Definitely.”
Quentin shook his head and added one of his I-give-up grins. “Whatever you say, Ruthie.”
“I say, ‘Carry on.’” Ruth set her hands on her hips and regarded her dog. “I don’t suppose you want to come downstairs with me, Pooks?”
Pookie panted, wagged her tail a couple times, and plopped back down in her sunny spot. Poor Pookie. You are going to miss Quentin even more than I am, aren’t ya, girl?
“Nah, didn’t think so. You two have fun, now.”
The drill hummed again before Ruth reached the doorway, and the comforting reminder of Quentin’s presence followed her all the way into the kitchen. She sat down in her well-worn leather chair, leaned onto the cool, black granite desktop, set her fingers atop the old, familiar keyboard with the rubbed-off n, and angled her body unergonomically toward the off-kilter screen.
8:40 AM, read the clock at the edge of her taskbar. A sympathetic chill ran down Ruth’s spine. Zach would be called into the board meeting any second now. If public speaking didn’t come so easily to him, Ruth might have worried for him. But that husband of hers was cool as a cucumber. Still, it couldn’t hurt to send some good karma Zach’s way:
I’m sure you’re wowing the board.
Can’t wait to hear. Love you. xoxo
Love you. Easier written than said. Why the hell was that, after twenty-three years of marriage? Probably something else Ruth should avoid thinking too hard about. What better escape from thinking than ShouldKnowBetter’s Facebook page? Ruth held her coffee mug in one hand and the mouse in the other. Rabbit hole, here I come.
Truth be told, Ruth had basically been living her fantasy—minus the mind-blowing sex—since Quentin slammed into her at Versailles. Ironically, Ruth hadn’t written a word since.
Too close? Too soon
? Too real?
It’s not that she’d ever intended to write a sequel to Fixer Upper, but when characters jumped around in Ruth’s head, she tended to let them out to play. Good old Henry had plenty to say these days, no matter how hard Ruth shushed him and that damn dimple of his. Fiction and truth were a confusing blur lately, but with Quentin’s imminent departure, all would soon be sorted out. The line between reality and fantasy redrawn with a fat, black Sharpie. Until then? Repression, avoidance, and coffee.
To post or not to post . . . and about what? Those were the questions.
Ruth was sitting on a gold mine: the gorgeous young man with a disposition to match, talented with his hands, generous with his time, flirty and eager to please. A single stealth photo of Quentin would earn her over a hundred likes, more if he showed that dimple or bared—Ruth fanned herself—what were sure to be amazing abs. She pictured the romance book covers that graced her newsfeed every day; how about that oh-so-natural pose where the model just happens to have the edge of his slightly grimy undershirt pulled way up over his shoulder for reasons that could only be understood by buying said book? Hell, Quentin would pose for the photo in a heartbeat if Ruth asked him to.
She let that fantasy swirl around in her head for a few happy minutes but kiboshed it again before the idea could gain any traction. They’d never understand Ruth’s undefinable relationship with this stranger, and she didn’t want to explain it. Screw the social media currency to be gained if the cost was giving away pieces of Quentin.
Scroll, scroll, like this post, angry-face-in-solidarity that one. Scroll, scroll, leave a heart-hug-wink. Scroll, scroll, click. Take the Buzzfeed quiz to find out which cartoon princess I am.
A toasted English muffin later, Ruth had caught up on the news of the world as curated by her newsfeed. She watched the tiny clock with one eye and tried not to worry, but shouldn’t she have heard from Zach by now?
“Excuse us!” Quentin called as he barreled through the kitchen with Pookie at his ankles. “Somebody’s got an emergency.”
Yeah, this is your life.
Into the Quiet Page 18