Into the Quiet

by Beth C. Greenberg

  Ruth stood to refill her mug with lukewarm coffee when the email came in from Zach:

  We got it! $15MM for 50 new centers over 5 years.

  Still reeling!

  Holy shit! Ruth collapsed into the chair. They’d gone for the full package. Zach had to be over the moon.

  Wow! That’s amazing! So proud of you.

  Can you call? Can you even speak?

  Not right now—heading over to office for a tour. Also, sorry for short notice but Langston wants to trot me out on the stage at the annual black-tie shindig tomorrow night to stir up the crowd for the live auction. Obviously, they’d love you to be here. I know getting here’s a hassle and it’s not your scene (pantyhose, heels, and a bunch of rich white folks pretending we can dance). Please don’t feel bad if you can’t make it. Joan’s gonna stick around so I won’t be sitting here all alone looking like a tool in my rented tux. :)

  “Ruthie?” Quentin rushed to her side. “Hey, what’s wrong? Bad news?”

  “Hmm? No. Great news, actually. Zach got the grant.” She gestured toward the screen and reread the email while Quentin caught up.

  “Wow, that’s great. Congratulations! You’re going to Washington.”

  “No, Quentin. Zach doesn’t want me there.” He already had a date—the perpetually ready, willing, and able Joan.

  Quentin squinted and moved closer to the screen to reread the message. “What do you mean? He asked you to come.”

  “Look at the language. That’s not an invitation. It’s an un-invitation. ‘They’d love me to be there,’ not Zach. I don’t fit in with his fancy new crowd. I’m not the woman he wants to ‘trot out.’ He’ll take Joan and forget all about me.”

  “Wow.” Quentin pushed away from the desk as if he’d touched hot coals. “You know, you sound an awful lot like Thea.”

  “Thea?” Ruth moaned into her hands. “What about our agreement?”

  Surely, Quentin would respect her feelings and go away now. He’d go upstairs and do his job and leave her alone with this misery, and they wouldn’t speak of it again.

  But he didn’t. Not this time.

  Quentin grasped the arms of her chair and spun her around to face him. He waited for her to meet his ridiculously blue eyes. “I finished your story last night. I liked it. A lot.”

  “Thanks?” Dear god, had they been reading the same words at the same time last night, separated only by a few yards of hallway? “And your point is?”

  “My point is Thea doesn’t see herself clearly.”

  How did he turn her to mush with that earnest routine every damn time? She had to be the world’s biggest sucker. Occupational hazard of the romance writer, don’t you know?

  “I hate to break it to you, Quentin, but Thea’s not real. The story is not real. It’s just a dumb fantasy.”

  “Fantasies aren’t dumb. They’re a window into hidden desires, a way to start a conversation.”

  “A very embarrassing conversation I definitely should not be having with you.” She hated to be so harsh with him, but he’d never been quite so thick or pushy before.

  He shook his head, and Ruth breathed a sigh of relief, but it was premature. Quentin dropped into a crouch at her feet. “Ruthie, I’m sorry if I’m embarrassing you, but what if Henry hadn’t spoken up? Thea would never have realized how beautiful she was.”

  “I’m not Thea.”

  “And I’m not Henry.”

  “And that’s why it’s called fiction, folks.”

  “Yes, but you have to admit you share a few qualities with Thea.”

  Thea, the sex-crazed, head-in-the-clouds cougar with a heart of gold. “Maybe a couple.”

  Quentin smiled tenderly. “And please tell me you realize you endowed Henry with the traits you admire most in your husband? He’s smart, confident, good, generous, doting . . .”

  Please don’t mention his enormous penis.

  Ruth huffed. “Zach doesn’t see himself in Henry at all.”

  “He’s read your stories?”

  “Yes. Every word.”

  “What does he think of your writing?”

  “He’s sweet, supportive. ‘Nice chapter, hon.’ He thinks it’s a nice hobby, gives me something to do while he’s out saving the world, being someone else’s hero.”

  “He’s not your hero?”

  “It’s so much more exciting to impress someone new.”

  “You think he wants to impress this Joan woman?”

  “Oh, she laps up every word. If only I’d paid attention, made more of an effort.” She remembered with a fresh pang of guilt how Zach complimented her the other morning, just for putting on lip gloss. “It should be me sitting next to him at that table.” Shit, and now I’m crying. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but—”

  Quentin lifted her out of the chair and pulled her into his arms. “Shh, it’s okay, Ruthie.”

  Damn, it felt good to have a pair of strong arms to hold her up again, a safe person to vent to without worrying everything she said would be thrown back in her face. Someone she could trust with all those fears she’d been clutching with such a tight grip, they were strangling the life out of her. Quentin held her while she purged the venom from her system.

  “That barracuda has been trying to get her fangs into Zach since the night they met. I made it so easy for her to steal him away.”

  “Oh, Ruthie. You don’t know that.”

  “She sent him flowers on our anniversary.”

  Quentin pulled back suddenly. “What?”

  “I know. It’s crazy, right?”

  “Ruthie.” His hands slid up her arms, kneaded her shoulders. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would she do that?”

  “I think . . . they might . . .” She gasped, sucked an air bubble into her lungs, and coughed.

  Quentin cupped her cheek. “What?”

  “I think they’re sleeping together.”

  His eyes filled with pain, her pain, as if taking it upon himself could relieve Ruth of her burden. “No,” he said. “No, he wouldn’t.”

  Ruth would never know who moved in first or which set of lips crossed the halfway point between them. He was so close she could taste his sweet breath on her tongue. God, how Ruth wanted those lips on hers. It was a miracle she’d resisted as long as she had.

  Because you’re married.

  “Oh god.” Ruth turned her head just in time, placing her hand on Quentin’s chest to hold the space between them, but also, if she were honest, because she wasn’t quite ready to let go. “I’m so sorry. That was completely my fault. I send out signals.” How many times had her friends warned her about this?

  “No, Ruthie. That was me. One hundred percent.” His pretty mouth twisted into a terrible grimace. “I know better. And I promised both of us I would not do that again. Please forgive me.”

  “It doesn’t even matter who did what. That’s not the point. My heart strayed, and . . . it’s not the first time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve met people—men—online.” She couldn’t tell if Quentin felt confused or betrayed. When the almost-lover you almost-kissed feels cheated on by your imaginary lovers, your life is officially surreal. “It’s intoxicating when a total stranger falls for whatever persona I put out there.”

  “You mean ‘you.’”

  “Well, some version of me that doesn’t have cellulite or stretch marks or a mansion in the suburbs. Just the parts I want someone to fall for, I guess.”

  “Don’t we all share just what we want with the world?”

  “You can’t exactly hide when you’re married, living twenty-four seven in plain sight. Maybe there are some parts of ourselves we just can’t handle being exposed.”

  “To your husband or yourself?”

  She let out a harsh sigh while she
pondered his question. “Both, I guess. That’s why just chucking it and starting over seems so alluring. Picking up the shiny new toy. Being the shiny new toy. It’s a turn-on. And it’s a hell of a lot easier than trying to hold someone’s attention for twenty-three years.”

  “Something tells me you fully have your husband’s attention. Did you see him that night I showed up here?”

  “Oh yes, what a treat. Angry and possessive and disgusted with his wife, and you got to see all of that.”

  “Ruthie, that’s not what I saw at all.”

  His gentle tone brought her up short. She wiped her tears and met Quentin’s tender gaze. “You know I’m afraid to ask, but what did you see?”

  He took her hand from his heart and held it in his own, wove their fingers together to let her know he wasn’t running away. As much as Ruth didn’t want to admit it, she drew great comfort from Quentin’s touch.

  “I saw a man desperate to hold on to his wife. He’s seen me as a threat from the first time we met.”

  “It’s not you, Quentin. Our problems started long before you showed up.” All those nights she pretended to be asleep, gave Zach less attention than her computer world, stopped making plans to go out as couples, complained about Joan, whined about getting dressed for those rubber chicken dinners.

  “I guess the important question is, do you want him back?”

  “Yes, of course. He’s my husband, and I still love him with all my heart.”

  “Even if he has . . . done something?”

  Well, now. There was a question to make a wife suck in her breath and pause. “I’ve always liked to think I’d be the kind of person who could forgive and move on.”

  Cupid nodded. “I suppose none of us really knows what we’d do unless the situation arises.”

  “I guess I found out I wouldn’t kiss you if I had the chance.” Ruth allowed herself a smug grin, and he gave her a crooked smile back.

  “You sure did.”

  “You probably would have stopped first.”

  “No, Ruthie. I’m ashamed to say it, but stopping wasn’t on my mind. That was all you.”

  “I’ll be kicking myself over this one day.”

  “No, you won’t.” He squeezed her hand, and she knew he was right.

  “Do you think it’s too late for Zach and me?”

  “Absolutely not. If you want him, you should go to that event.”

  “It’s tomorrow!”

  “I understand airplanes can travel great distances in short periods of time.”

  “Very funny. I don’t have anything to wear.”

  “What time do the stores close?”

  “I don’t know, nine?”

  “That gives you”—he checked his phone—“eight hours to find something.”

  “But I can’t just . . .”

  “Ruthie, breathe.”

  Sigh. “Okay, but how can I . . . with her there?”

  “How can you not?”

  “What about Pookie?”

  She woofed, and Quentin picked her up. “Lucky for you, you have a live-in pet sitter.”

  31

  Memo from the Gods

  Hephaestus’s crappy Monday just got a whole lot crappier. Thankfully, visits from Ares were rare, but whenever he deigned to drop in on his “favorite goddess and her absurdly fortunate husband,” he arrived without warning.

  “Did you see?” Ares burst into the solarium where Aphrodite and Hephaestus sat huddled together over the gaiascope.

  Aphrodite turned too eagerly from the glass between her husband’s hands. “We did.” To imagine his wife in Ares’s thrall was agonizing; to see the evidence before him, in the flesh—Aphrodite’s flushed, supple flesh—was downright intolerable.

  Hephaestus rounded on Ares. “How did you get here so fast?”

  Ares’s smug smirk widened. Damn him. If seducing Aphrodite delighted the God of War, then taunting the cuckolded Hephaestus doubled the bastard’s joy. “I had my team hitched when the Worthy’s husband left town yesterday. Something was bound to happen.”

  “Oh, fie!” Hephaestus waved his hand over the gaiascope. “What’s the big deal?”

  Ares arched a confident brow. “Cupid crossed a line. He violated the law of the land.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  A knowing glance passed between would-be or possibly-already-reunited lovers. “Heph, he was going to kiss her,” Aphrodite said. “He would have, if not for the wife’s pushing him away. He said so himself.”

  “So now Cupid is to be punished for his intentions?”

  “Intentions are the gateway to virtue,” Ares remarked, as if lecturing to the populace.

  “Really, Virgil? Who among us could live up to those standards?” Hephaestus made a point to stink-eye his wife.

  “Fortunately, we are not the ones on trial, darling.”

  “Does saving the mortals’ marriage not mitigate Cupid’s guilt?”

  Aphrodite nodded to Ares, who took his turn answering as if the two had rehearsed. “We’re teaching a lesson in ethics, not military tactics.”

  Hephaestus tensed. “Ironic.”

  Aphrodite set her palm on Hephaestus’s chest though her full body weight would have been as effective as a water reed in the path of a charging bull had Hephaestus decided to lunge.

  “Dearest,” Aphrodite said through clenched teeth, “we don’t know yet if the marriage is saved. The couple has not reached their Liminal Point.”

  “I’d wager the palace treasury on it,” Hephaestus answered.

  Ares rushed to Aphrodite’s side, shot her a meaningful glance, and tenderly removed her hand from Hephaestus’s chest. “Your point is moot, brother. The boy’s inappropriate behavior is enough to warrant another punishment. I’ve already drafted our report to the Council.”

  “How convenient.” Hephaestus huffed, then turned on his wife. “I know what you’re doing, Aph. You’re not fooling anyone.”

  “What do you accuse me of, husband?”

  “At the very least, wreaking havoc on your own son’s life just for the excuse to sniff at Ares’s robes. It’s beneath you.”

  Aphrodite’s delicate hands balled into fierce little fists. Oh, she was livid. “I require an excuse to move about Olympus? Am I your prisoner now?”

  “No, just my wife.” Hephaestus heaved a sigh. “Frankly, sweetheart, I thought we were through with all this. Do you plan to cuckold me again? Have you already?”

  “No, of course not.” That she’d only answered one question did not escape Hephaestus’s notice. “This is not about you or me or Ares. This is about my son.”

  “I see. So, this is about creating new tortures for Cupid at every turn, celebrating his slightest misstep with utter glee, rushing to persuade the Council to rule against his ascension?”

  Aphrodite attempted a softer approach. “I miss the boy as I’d miss my right arm, but we all agreed, Cupid must be properly vetted before he can return. You have to admit, he mastered his desires much better this time despite his close quarters with the human.”

  “Until she gave him that story she wrote.” Ares nudged Aphrodite and had himself a hearty chuckle.

  “Oh, Heph, don’t you see? The punishment is working. He’s maturing, gaining respect for the idea of love. The kiss was an impulse. He was weak. That only means he has more work to do.”

  Hephaestus had lost, but he could still twist the knife. “You do realize the longer he stays down there, the less he will want to come home again.”

  “My son will come home when I tell him to come home.”

  “Of course he will. What choice does he have? But have you considered what eternity will feel like with a mopey adolescent underfoot?”

  “He’ll get over it. He’ll get his wings and his arrows back. I’ll throw in an extra
servant to fix his favorite dishes.”

  “Your big plan is to replace sex with a plate of souvlaki?”

  “Oh dear,” Ares piped up, “I certainly hope you’re giving it to her better than that, old man.”

  Hephaestus leveled Ares with a dangerous glare. His temper was getting the best of him, and Hephaestus could ill afford to draw first blood on the God of War.

  Aphrodite’s decision made, she turned to Ares. “Deliver our recommendation to the Council. In the meantime, we should begin strategizing Cupid’s next Worthy.”

  “I cannot wait to begin that conversation with you,” Ares said.

  Hephaestus could take no more of their nauseating collusion. “I will not have a hand in this. Cupid’s misery will not be on my conscience.” Gaiascope in hand, Hephaestus turned on his heel as gracefully as he could manage with his shriveled foot and limped out.

  32

  Making Up

  Cupid had a dilemma. For five long days, despite the pain of being cut off from his best friend and only liaison with home, Cupid had faithfully obeyed Pan’s direct order and refrained from contacting him. But Cupid had made an equally vital promise to Ruthie to care for Pookie while she was away. The trusting little creature balled up in Cupid’s lap was counting on him for food and water and trips to the yard, basic needs Cupid could easily manage—unless he suddenly ascended. With Ruthie on her way to Zach with the express purpose of mending her marriage, Cupid had every reason to believe the couple would reach their Liminal Point in the next twelve hours, casting his immediate fate into the hands of the gods who’d punished him.

  Though Cupid tried mightily, he could not come up with a solution that didn’t involve Pan. And so it was, with heavy heart, Cupid put the welfare of Pookie before his pride and sent a desperate message to Pan: Please call me. It’s an emergency. If their final exchange of words had to be a fight, so be it.

  Pan’s call came swiftly. “What?” His voice was terse, but a rush of affection swept through Cupid. He knew Pan could never turn his back on him.

  “I might need your help.”

  “What have you done now?”

  “I, um, might have messed up. Or I might have fixed them. I don’t know.”