Covet

by Tracey Garvis Graves

  “Hey, how are you?”

  I let Tucker out and then open the fridge to grab a bottle of water. “I’m fine.”

  “Great. I got your e-mail. Can you meet me tomorrow?” he asks. “I’m working the afternoon shift, but I take a break to eat around seven.”

  “Sure.” Since I don’t rent office space and work out of my home, I often meet with my clients at restaurants and coffee shops. “Where?”

  “Panera? On Mission Road.”

  “That’ll be fine,” I say. “See you then.”

  I arrange for a babysitter and the next day I arrive at Panera a few minutes early. Daniel is already there, waiting just inside the front door, and he smiles when he notices me walking toward him.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi.” We order and when the cashier rings up our food Daniel insists on paying. “Thank you,” I say. I follow him to a table and notice the other patrons glancing his way. “Do people always look at you when you’re in uniform?” I ask, sitting down and putting my napkin in my lap.

  “Yes,” he says. “It’s why I don’t usually eat in restaurants. It’s easier to take something back to the station.”

  “I could have met you there,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “No, this is fine. I thought you might be hungry, too.”

  “My husband travels during the week, so I let the kids take turns selecting the menu. It was my daughter’s night to choose. You saved me from a dinner of chicken strips and Tater Tots. It’s her favorite.” Before I pick up my fork, I pull my pump out of my pocket and check the reading, then adjust my insulin.

  “What is that?” Daniel asks, looking curiously at it.

  “It’s my insulin pump,” I say. “I’m diabetic.” I slip it back into my pocket and take a bite of my salad.

  “I noticed your tag the other day, but I didn’t know what it was for.”

  I pull my medical alert necklace out from under my T-shirt and show him the back, where it says DIABETES in capital red letters. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to switch to a bracelet so I can wear a necklace that I actually like.”

  “How long have you been diabetic?” he asks.

  “Since I was twelve.”

  “How does the pump work?”

  I pull it back out of my pocket and show him. I’ve learned that it’s best just to get the tutorial out of the way, especially with men. “See this?” I point to the numbers. “This tells me my current blood glucose level. Then I program it to give myself the right amount of insulin for what I’m about to eat.” He turns it over in his hands, fascinated by the intricacies of it. They always are.

  He hands it back, and I slip the pump into my pocket and go back to eating my salad. When we’re almost done with our food, Daniel says, “Can I see the designs?”

  I pull my portfolio out of my shoulder bag and place three designs next to Daniel’s plate. He wipes his hands on his napkin and picks them up one by one. “These are really good.”

  “This one is my favorite,” I say, pointing to the one in his hand. “I simplified your existing logo and gave it an updated look.”

  “I like it, too,” Daniel says. He slides the designs back into the portfolio and sets them on the table. “I’ll show these to everyone and we’ll take a vote. I think they’re really going to like them.”

  “I hope so,” I say. “Let me know which one you decide on and I’ll send over the master files. You’ll need them if you want to order promotional materials. I can suggest some vendors if you want.”

  “That would be great,” he says.

  I take one last bite of my food and push the plate away. “How long have you been a police officer?” I ask.

  He thinks about it for a second and then says, “About fifteen years. I started right after college.”

  “I thought policemen went to the academy.”

  Daniel takes a drink of his iced tea. “We do. But I went to school and got a criminology degree first. I always wanted to be a crime scene investigator.”

  “I don’t know if I could handle a crime scene.”

  “They’re not for the faint of heart,” Daniel agrees. “Do you remember when Alex Green was abducted?”

  “Yes,” I say, as goose bumps break out on my arms and a chill runs through my body. Twenty-five years have passed, but everyone in the tristate area who is over a certain age knows that name. Alex Green was a twelve-year-old boy who had been abducted one afternoon on his way home from school. He was last seen talking to a man who had pulled his van over at the corner. There were signs with his picture up everywhere, for years. They never found him.

  Daniel finishes his sandwich and crumples the paper wrapper. “He was my best friend.”

  “He was?” I ask. “Oh my God. You were so young. That had to be very traumatic for you.” I can’t even fathom the thought of someone abducting one of my children. And even though it was a long time ago, my heart still goes out to the missing boy’s family.

  Daniel nods, looking somber. “It was a difficult time. It actually bothers me more now because I can fill in the blanks about what probably happened to him, the way I really couldn’t back then. I always think about Alex when we get an AMBER Alert.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. I take a drink of my iced tea. “So how did you end up becoming a police officer instead?”

  “There are lots of options for a criminal justice career path. I thought I’d try law enforcement for a year or two and then move on. I discovered I liked trying to prevent crimes as much as I thought I’d like solving them.”

  He glances at his watch. “Do you need to get going?” I ask. I check the time on my phone, and I’m surprised to see that almost an hour has passed. I’ve enjoyed myself. I can’t remember the last time Chris and I shared a meal together, just the two of us.

  “Yeah, sorry. I need to get back to work.”

  “No, it’s fine. I told the sitter I’d only be gone an hour.” Daniel grabs the designs and we gather up our trash and throw it away. He holds the door for me and follows me to my car. “Thanks again for dinner,” I say.

  “You’re welcome.” He gives me that smile, the same one that gave my insides a little flip at the parade. “I’ll let you know what we decide, okay?”

  “Okay.” I open my door and slide behind the wheel. Daniel closes it and when I’m waiting to pull out of the parking lot, I glance in my rearview mirror and watch him get into his car. Feeling happier than I have in days, I turn up the radio and sing all the way home.

  24

  claire

  I position my chair at the end of the driveway so I can supervise the lemonade stand the kids have set up. An old, dusty card table brought up from the storage room in the basement bears a handwritten sign taped to the front informing customers that drinks are twenty-five cents. Josh and Travis insisted on making the lemonade themselves, and I’d almost bet they didn’t wash their hands first like I asked them to. Jordan desperately wants to help and the boys tell her she can be the server, thus proving that gender stereotypes among the elementary school set are alive and well in the suburbs. I whisper in her ear. “Tell them you’ll only do it if you can also be their accountant.”

  The warm weather on this late afternoon in early September results in a steady stream of customers, and the boys do a brisk business; the quarters pile up in the empty pickle jar they’re using to collect the money. Daniel calls a half hour later. He informed me a few days after our dinner at Panera that his fellow police officers had voted unanimously on the logo design, choosing the one that had been my favorite. I e-mailed the master image and they’d moved forward on their own, ordering an assortment of promotional materials. It’s been two weeks since I last spoke to him or had any e-mail contact, and I smile when his name pops up on the screen.

  “Hi, Claire,” he says when I answer. “I’ve got temporary
tattoos with the new logo. I thought your kids might like them.”

  “They’ll be thrilled,” I say. “Are you on duty? They’re selling lemonade at the end of the driveway right now if you want to stop by.”

  “Sure. I’ll swing by in about fifteen minutes,” he says. “I’m not far from you.”

  “Great. See you soon.” I tell the kids that Daniel is coming. “He’s got something for you.”

  “What, Mom? What is it?” Josh asks.

  “Tattoos.”

  “Aw, cool,” he and Travis shout in unison. Temporary tattoos are the ultimate accessory in my household. “Does he have stickers, too?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “You’ll have to ask him when he gets here.”

  When Daniel pulls up and parks his police car at the curb, Travis and Josh run over and lean in the open window, shouting in their excitement. “Officer Rush, do you have any stickers?”

  Daniel leans over and reaches into the glove box and hands each of them a sticker in the shape of the new logo.

  “My mom made these,” Josh brags.

  Daniel can barely get out of the car, but the boys finally move back and he opens the door. He hands each of them a tattoo and they run past me, into the house to retrieve damp paper towels. When they return, they each press a tattoo to their cheek while I hold the paper towels in place. When they peel off the backing, the logo I designed shows up in full color.

  “Wow. Those turned out great,” I say.

  “Yeah, they did,” Daniel says.

  “Officer Rush, do you want some lemonade?”

  The boys look at him expectantly and Daniel replies, “Sure.”

  The boys’ excited smiles tell me they’re too revved up about making money to possibly consider giving Daniel a glass on the house in exchange for the stickers and tattoos.

  He approaches the table and the boys pour the lemonade into the glass. Daniel drops a quarter in the jar and takes a drink; the boys are watching his every move. He smiles and says, “Wow.” Another car approaches and the boys forget all about their current customer. Waving their arms, they try and entice the car to stop. It works and soon they are busy with another transaction, Daniel all but forgotten.

  “How is it?” I ask.

  “It’s very . . . potent.”

  Oh no. I pick up the pitcher and pour some into a glass, then take a drink. I nearly gag. “That’s awful.” The drink mix is sugar-free, but the boys have used way too much. Upon closer inspection, I notice that the liquid in the glass is quite murky.

  “Boys,” I say. “How many packets of drink mix did you use?”

  “I don’t know,” Josh says. “Like, seven?”

  “That’s way too many. Didn’t you read the directions?”

  “Officer Rush said it was good. Police officers don’t lie,” Josh says accusingly, as if I’ve engineered some kind of smear campaign to force them out of business. “Right, Officer Rush? You’re going to finish it, aren’t you?”

  Daniel looks at me and I shake my head, smiling, because I know what he’s going to do. He looks at the boys and drains the glass, coughing a bit and muffling it with the back of his hand.

  “That was impressive,” I say, laughing as I remove the empty glass from his hand. “I’m going to make a fresh batch, boys.” I grab the pitcher and disappear into the house.

  When I come back outside, Julia is standing in the driveway talking to Daniel. She’s giggling and tossing her hair, and taking sips from a large plastic tumbler full of ice and God knows what. She won’t be interested in the boys’ virgin lemonade, that’s for damn sure. I walk up to them and make the introductions. “Julia, this is Daniel Rush.” I look at Daniel. “Julia is my neighbor.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he says, shaking her outstretched hand. I turn to Julia. “Daniel is the one who told me about the design job for the police department’s new logo.”

  “Oh, really,” she says, raising her eyebrows as if I’ve been withholding a juicy secret.

  “Yes. I mentioned it twice, remember?”

  She ignores me and proceeds to talk Daniel’s ear off. Unfortunately, she also sounds pretty tipsy, and I’m embarrassed for her. The period of sobriety Justin enforced must have come to an end.

  “Mom,” Josh yells. “Can you get me some change, please?”

  I go into the house and grab a handful of quarters out of my wallet. After I give them to the boys I sit back down in my chair.

  Daniel finally breaks away from Julia and walks over to me. “I have to go.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Thanks for stopping by.” Travis and Josh run up and Daniel thanks them for the lemonade. They give him a high five. “Don’t you have something to say to Officer Rush?” I prompt.

  “Thank you for the stickers and tattoos,” they say.

  “You’re welcome,” Daniel answers. He turns back to me and says, “Thanks for everything with the logo. You did a great job.”

  “Thanks for giving me the opportunity,” I say. I realize at that moment that I probably won’t see him again. I’m done with the project and there’s really no need for any additional follow-up. The boys have their stickers and tattoos. My invoice has been paid.

  He pauses, and I think he’s going to ask me a question, but then he says, “Well. Have a good evening.”

  “I will. You, too,” I say. “Bye, Daniel.”

  He nods and gives Julia a friendly wave, then gets into his car and drives away. I grab another chair out of the garage and Julia sits down. Her glass is nearly empty. “Can you watch the girls for a minute while I run to the store?” she asks.

  “Why do you need to go to the store?”

  She rattles the ice cubes in her glass as if it should be obvious. “I’m out of vodka. Justin said he had to work late,” she mutters. “Or something.”

  There’s no way I want Julia on the road. And would she endanger her daughters’ lives by taking them with her if I said no? “Just stay here, Julia. I’ve got vodka.” There’s nothing like giving someone with a drinking problem a loaded gun, but the alternative is much more worrisome. I take her glass, go inside the house, add fresh ice, and pull a bottle of Absolut out of the cupboard. Chris drinks only beer or whiskey, but sometimes I mix vodka with a diet mixer if I feel like having a drink. The bottle is more than half full.

  I bring it outside, hand her the glass, and start filling it with lemonade from the pitcher. “That’s good,” she says, when I’ve filled it halfway. She grabs the vodka bottle and pours until the contents of the glass reach the rim. A drink that strong would make my eyes water. Does she not feel any remorse for her behavior that day at her pool? Does she even remember?

  Julia sips her drink and I keep a watchful eye on all the kids, reminding them not to get too close to the street. I don’t have to worry as much anymore though because the speed limit sign has made a world of difference. I should have said something to Daniel while he was here. Thanked him again. Thinking about the sign reminds me of how much I like talking to him.

  I shouldn’t be thinking about him.

  I have no reason to be thinking about him.

  But I am.

  I’m thinking about how happy it made me, how I felt a momentary thrill, when my phone rang and I saw his name. I’m glad he stopped by. I wish he’d stayed longer. I wish I knew if I’d ever get the chance to talk to him again.

  I look over at Julia, her glass already half empty. Maybe that’s how it starts. You stumble upon something that helps you cope, fills a void. Makes you feel something different than what you currently feel. You know in the long run it probably won’t be good for you, but you do it anyway. Tell yourself you can handle it.

  And before you know it you’re in so deep that you can’t find your way back out.

  25

  daniel

  I pull away from the curb,
looking at Claire in my rearview mirror. I almost asked her if she’d ever want to get together, for lunch or something, but then I stopped myself. It’s not exactly the kind of thing you can ask a married woman without it coming out all wrong. I like talking to her, though. And I don’t know if she realizes it, but when we talk I get the sense that she likes having a conversation with me. It’s the way she looks at me. But maybe she looks at everyone that way.

  There are plenty of women in this town who are just as pretty and nice as Claire, so I should probably spend some time talking to them instead of spinning my wheels with someone who’s already taken.

  Maybe I want her because I know I can’t really have her.

  Maybe she wouldn’t have minded staying in contact.

  Maybe I should have asked to see her again, because she kind of looked as if she might have said yes.

  26

  chris

  My meeting in Dallas runs so late on Friday afternoon that I miss my flight. I manage to get a seat on a later flight, but it’s canceled, too. It’s been a long, grueling week and all I want to do is get home so I can see Claire and the kids and catch up on some sleep in my own bed. I pull out my phone and when Claire answers I say, “Hi. I’m still at the airport. My meeting ran late and I missed my flight. The one after it was canceled, so I’m on standby for the next two. They’re both pretty full so the chances of me getting home tonight are slim.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asks, and I can hear the concern in her voice. “Are you going to check back into the hotel?”

  “I don’t know. I booked myself on the 7:10 A.M. flight tomorrow morning, just in case. Something tells me that might be the one I’m on. I’ll probably just stay here.”

  “You sound really tired.”

  I take a deep breath and exhale. “I’m okay. How are the kids?”

  “They’re missing you. They’ll be disappointed if you don’t make it home tonight, but they’ll understand.”

  I don’t think they’ll understand. Claire told me a few weeks ago that they start watching the door a half hour before I’m due home. Nothing will make them happy but the sight of me actually walking through it.