He came down as she was in the middle of making his breakfast. Same one as always. Western omelet, extra bell peppers and onions. It was early, and still not even light outside.
Tracy almost screamed when she turned, and he was suddenly there.
“You scared me!” she said. “You usually don’t come down until around seven.”
Tracy looked at the eggshells on the kitchen counter, the dirty plates and utensils she hadn’t yet loaded into the dishwasher, and the espresso machine she hadn’t yet put to use.
Brendan grinned at her. “Old habits die hard, huh?” he said.
“What’re you talking about?”
“You’re low-key annoyed that I made it down here before you got that omelet on the plate, poured me a glass of juice, made the coffee …” He narrowed his eyes. “I threw you off your game. Admit it.”
“Shut up,” Tracy said, trying not to laugh.
He came up behind her as she tried to get the eggs out of the skillet, and took the spatula from her, turning off the stove, and spinning her round to face him.
“I think I’ll come down earlier from now on,” he said. “So we can have breakfast together. Make it together and eat together.”
“We already do eat together.”
“No. I eat while you watch me eat. And then I leave, and you and Layla probably have all the fun with Eggo waffles and bacon and shit.”
“Dammit, you’ve found us out,” Tracy said deadpan.
“I’m serious … I want to eat together in the mornings from now on.”
“Okay, but you’re not coming down to help me cook. First of all, you don’t know how, and second, having you hover around while I cook drives me crazy. You know that.”
“Fine. But we eat together. Every morning. No more magic housewife shit.”
“Deal.”
Tracy turned to the eggs again, but Brendan didn’t release her. Sliding the omelet onto the plate, Tracy spun around again, and offered him the plate.
“Stop looming over me like that, Brendan. Here’s your food. Let me go so I can make the coffee.”
She tried to move out of his arms, but he still held fast to her, albeit now with one hand.
“Was there something else?” she asked, letting her head fall to one side.
“Yeah.”
She waited but he didn’t speak.
“Brendan …”
“I want to come with you,” he said.
“Come with …”
“To Dr. Greer.”
Tracy’s shoulder sagged. “You do?” Her voice was a squeak. “Want to come with me?”
Brendan considered that for a moment and squinted. “‘Want to’ might be a little strong,” he admitted.
She gave him a flat stare and he laughed.
“I’m being honest. I can’t say it’s something I want to do. But I think it’s something we maybe need to do.” He put the plate with the omelet on the counter.
“Okay, I’ll take that.” Tracy nodded. “So next Thursday you want to …?”
“Yes. You and me. Gettin’ our heads shrunk.”
She smiled.
“Because …” His expression was serious again. “I know it wasn’t just you, Tracy. I know you already know that. I just … I don’t want you thinking that I don’t realize that. It wasn’t just you.”
To hear him say that felt surprisingly good.
“So, maybe I have some work to do, too. And I want to be there to listen, if you want me to be, even when you’re not talking about us. And figure out how to be less terrified about … this.” He dropped a hand and rested it on her abdomen.
Putting her arms up and around his neck, Tracy got on her toes and pulled him down toward her.
Lips pressed against his neck, she spoke. “Y’know what?” she said.
“What?”
“You do make the sun rise for me. And as far as I’m concerned, you even hang the fucking moon.”
Growth
1
You have a visitor.”
Robyn looked up from the contract on her desk, brow wrinkled.
Why was it that the moment she hit her stride with a task, there was always an interruption? Lately, she had been toying with the idea of bringing a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign for her door at work. One of the big drawbacks of working in the legal department of an organization that had an otherwise casual culture was that people took the open-door policy to extremes. Unannounced visitors were a staple of every work day. On the worst days, there were two an hour, making real, focused concentration an impossibility.
“Who now? I’m sure I cleared my calendar just so I could review this agreement by this afternoon.”
But Pam was smiling and had an expression of contained excitement on her face. She only ever got that look for two people—Kendrick Cruise, one of their most popular R&B artists, and …
“Hey.” Chris strode into her office and Pam’s almost giddy smile widened.
“Thank you, Pam,” Robyn said, getting up from behind her desk.
When the receptionist was gone, she shut the door behind her and Chris leaned against it, arms folded.
“Now you’ve gone and done it. Gotten all the associates out there in a tizzy, I bet,” Robyn said.
“Most of them look new. I don’t even know who they are,” Chris said.
“But they know you. Give it ten minutes and Frank will be down here, then he’ll call Jamal, and they’ll both say they want to ‘pick your brain for a minute’ on something, spirit you off to the conference room on the twentieth floor. And the next thing you know, you’ll be putting in a full work day.”
“Nope. The only reason I’m here is to take my wife to lunch.”
Robyn glanced at her watch. “It’s just past eleven-thirty.”
“You’re the boss’ wife. You can take lunch whenever you want,” Chris said.
“No, Jamal Turner is my boss. Frank Casey is my boss. You’re … my ex-boss.”
“I’m still your boss at home.”
Robyn gave him a look. “You wish.”
“C’mon. I’ll have you back in an hour and a half.”
Robyn did a mental time-check. An hour-and-a-half meant she would be back by one, but more likely one-thirty. She had a two o’clock meeting, and a conference call at three-thirty to discuss the contract on her desk which she had yet to fully review.
But Chris was not likely to be persuaded to leave without her.
“You could have told me about lunch when I was leaving the house this morning,” she said, though she was already going behind her desk to grab her purse.
“Didn’t know I’d even be in the city,” Chris said. “Deuce called. Said he was coming to town and asked to meet up. Was more than halfway here when he called and told me he had a change of plans. Met up with a school friend instead.”
“Ditched by our own kids,” Robyn said. “Ouch.”
Chris smiled at her. “You’re a way better date than he is, so it worked out.”
“He is coming by the house before he goes back to school, though, right?”
“Don’t know.” Chris reopened her office door. “Says he’s only here for the weekend, so maybe not.”
“He has to come see the other kids …”
“Other kids. He’s not a kid anymore, Robyn …”
“But he’s not the grown man you and he seem to think he is either, Chris.”
“Grown enough. You know what I was doing when I was his age?”
“Here we go …”
“Boss Man!”
They both turned at the sound of the Jamal’s unmistakable booming voice, and watched as he walked toward them, taking the long strides of a man used to getting loads of attention. And he did, even here at Scaife Enterprises where he had worked for longer than almost anyone else in the company. Just a year earlier, Jamal had taken over the helm as CEO, while Chris stepped down and stepped aside.
Robyn believed Jamal had been the perfect choice, not only bec
ause of his capabilities but because despite the egos of both men—which were considerable—they had known and worked together for so long that the transition process had been almost seamless.
“How you gon’ just walk in and not come up to the twentieth floor?” Jamal demanded, giving Chris a hug and some dap.
“Funny thing about that,” Chris said. “My elevator code to twenty didn’t work.”
“Well you know how it is, we can’t just have riff-raff off the street wandering into the heart of the kingdom,” Jamal said. Then he laughed and clapped Chris on the shoulder. “I’m messin’ wit’ you. We change the master codes ever quarter now. It’s a pain-in-the-ass, but people be givin’ it out to their friends and … you know. Robyn will give it to you.”
Chris waved that off. “I don’t need it. Just wondered what was up.”
“We wouldn’t ever lock you out, Boss Man. You think I’m crazy? Anyway, I got somethin’ I need to holla at …”
“Nah,” Chris said. He put an arm around Robyn’s waist. “I’m here on other business, so whatever you need to holla about will have to wait.”
“A’ight. Well let me ride with y’all down to the lobby. Maybe I can pick your brain that way.”
Robyn gave Chris a triumphant look.
“When you said you wanted to take me to lunch, this was not what I had in mind,” Robyn said, as she and Chris unloaded their heroes and fries onto kitchen counter.
As soon as they were in the car, he had directed his driver, Rick to take them to a corner deli he used to get his lunch from, and then to the apartment on W. 73rd. It had been Chris’ crash pad when he was a bachelor. Occasionally, if they were in the city with the kids, they used it as a place to hang out until traffic died down and they could head back to Jersey, or Chris and Robyn used it when they had nights out in Manhattan, or events to attend that ran late.
What it never got used for—because Chris had forbidden it—was a place for Robyn to sleep because she’d worked late at the office.
My wife is sleeping with me, he’d said in his trademark imperious fashion. Every night, unless it’s unavoidable.
And to Chris, working late and not coming home was—at least for her—was always avoidable.
“You don’t have a lot of time, right? Thought this would be better than sitting around in a restaurant and having to wait.”
“They never make you wait,” Robyn said, teasingly. “Eating out with you always accelerates the speed of service. Like they think you might flip over the table or something if they don’t bring everything out quickly.”
She stepped out of her heels and shoved them aside, climbing onto the stool opposite Chris’ and reaching for one bundle of the deliciously salty and greasy French fries wrapped in wax paper. Chris reached for his sandwich and sat as well.
“I might,” Chris said. “On a bad day, I just might flip over a table.”
“I would love to see that,” Robyn said. “Chris Scaife losing his cool.”
“It’ll never happen.”
“This works out better anyway.” Robyn stuffed a few fries into her mouth. She hadn’t planned on telling him this until later, but why wait? “Because I actually have some sort of news.”
“What’s ‘sort of news’ mean?”
“You know Frank is retiring at the end of the month, right?”
“Yeah. And?”
“Well, Jamal asked me to be acting general counsel.”
She knew she didn’t imagine it. Chris’ hand, about to lift his sandwich to his mouth, hitched a little.
“They’ve started an executive search process, apparently. I’m guessing that’s part of what Jamal would have talked to you about if he had the time. I think they want to see who they can poach off some other company and you may have some names.”
“I might be able to think of some folks,” Chris said. He bit into his meatball parmesan.
“Any names come to mind now? Just offhand?”
He had to know what she was waiting to hear him say. But she knew he wouldn’t say it. Chris was probably laboring under the idea that if he didn’t mention her as a prospect, she wouldn’t mention it herself. Sometimes she just wanted to … strangle him.
Anyone, anyone who was appointed as an interim anything had to be capable of doing the job on a permanent basis. And anyone who accepted an interim appointment had to have at least entertained the idea.
“Can’t think of anyone right now. But I’ll give it some thought,” Chris said finally.
“Are you at least going to congratulate me on the appointment?” Robyn asked.
He looked up at her. “Congrats.”
“That sounded heartfelt,” Robyn said dryly.
She stood and went to the refrigerator. Mrs. Lawson always kept it stocked with bottled water, and white wine. Perishables and real food had to be either brought in or requested in advance since they didn’t use the place much.
Taking out two bottles of water, she slid one in front of Chris, and was about to go back to her stool when he held her wrist. Putting down his sandwich, he wiped his mouth.
“Hey,” he said. “If I don’t sound excited, it’s only because it was a commonsense move. Who else would Turner appoint acting GC? You’re the best they’ve got. Frank knows it, and Turner knows it. And of course, I know it too.”
He pulled her in for a kiss, his forearm around her waist, and pulling her against him.
“Don’t get marinara sauce on my suit,” Robyn said against his lips. “I don’t want to look all … pawed over when I get back to the office.”
Chris released her and looked her over. “Then take off your suit then,” he said.
Robyn stepped back and looked at him evenly. “Think I won’t?”
Reaching behind her, she found the button at the waist of her skirt, unfastening it, and then beginning to pull down the zipper. Chris watched her with rapt attention.
And then, from the front of the apartment there came the sounds of voices, and keys being fidgeted with. Then there was a loud peal of feminine laughter and another, deeper, more familiar voice.
Chris looked at Robyn then up at the ceiling and exhaled, shaking his head.
“Deuce!” he yelled. “C’mon in here!”
A muttered curse was audible from the front room. Robyn righted her clothing and made her expression neutral, though part of her wanted to laugh. How Scaife-esque, that both father and son were planning late morning sexual liaisons.
Moments later, Chris Scaife, Jr. was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking a little sheepish, but handsome as ever. He had just turned twenty, but Robyn did have to admit, he looked fully-grown. Fairer in complexion than his father, he had the same square jaw, and intense eyes. But unlike his father’s, his eyes had none of the world-weary knowingness that comes only from having lived through some tough times as an adult, and a hardscrabble childhood.
Wearing a white t-shirt under a button-down that looked just the slightest bit disheveled, Robyn could only guess that the girl standing at his side was responsible. She was a petite blonde, with eyes so dark, it called the provenance of her blondness into question. A color-job most likely, but not a cheap one.
And when she stepped forward from behind Deuce and extended confidently extended a hand, Robyn recognized her immediately from her diction and posture. Not her, exactly, but her type. Upper East Side. Old money, Manhattan prep school-educated.
“I’m Isabella Sanyal,” she said.
Robyn wondered whether her father was Ahan Sanyal, the billionaire hedge fund guy who had recently been sentenced to federal prison time for insider trading.
Chris wiped his hand on a napkin and briefly shook Isabella Sanyal’s hand. Robyn did the same, then hugged and kissed Deuce.
Deuce and his father exchanged only nods of acknowledgment, and Robyn could see Deuce squirming a little.
“Bella, this is my Dad and stepmom, Robyn,” he said.
Robyn turned and indicated the sandwiches and fri
es.
“Why don’t you two join us for lunch?” she said. “There’s plenty for two.”
“I’m not sharing mine,” Chris said, looking directly at Deuce.
“Isabella, you can have half my sandwich and Deuce, you take the rest of my fries. Or you two can order something, if deli sandwiches aren’t what you’re feeling like.”
“I’d love to share your sandwich,” Isabella said. “Thank you, Mrs. Scaife.”
She unselfconsciously pulled out and climbed onto one of the two remaining counter stools, taking the half turkey and muenster that Robyn handed her.
Deuce was much slower to take a seat, but when he did, Robyn smiled and winked at him reassuringly, and shoved her remaining fries in his direction. He was probably going to get yelled at, but not while Isabella was there. Among strangers, Chris always wore his poker-face.
“So, Isabella, you’re at Penn State too?” Robyn asked to break the silence as everyone began to eat.
“Nope. I go to Columbia,” she said, looking at Deuce. “But Deuce and I go way back. Way back.”
“Oh. Nice.”
This was only going to get more interesting. But given that Chris and her plans for a noontime quickie had been inadvertently thwarted by the younger Scaife, who seemed to have had similar plans in mind, she could escape now, and head back to finish that contract. No doubt, Chris would give her the full blow-by-blow in colorful detail later at home.
“I’m sorry that I’m going to have to eat and run,” she added, trying to suppress a smile. “Work. You know.”
2
Against his better judgment, Chris left Deuce and his little friend in the apartment and headed home after eating lunch. Ultimately, it wouldn’t have made any difference. From the way that girl looked at his son, they probably weren’t about to do anything they hadn’t done before. Chris just hoped Deuce knew that whatever happened, it better not happen on the sole bed in the apartment—the bed where Chris made love to his wife, where she changed the diapers of their infant son. Where their baby girl sat and watched cartoons and ate ice cream.
Except, who was he kidding? Plenty of fucking had happened on that bed back in the day. Most of it long before he had either Robyn, Caitlyn or Landyn. That thought gave him pause. Damn. Maybe it was time to switch out the bed. Chris made a mental note to tell Mrs. Lawson he wanted it replaced. Maybe he would even pick it out himself. Because he had that kind of time these days. He could do things which for the past fifteen-plus years, had happened because he asked someone else to do them for him.
Four: Stories of Marriage Page 38