Plain Jayne

by Brea Brown

  Soon, it does take all of my brainpower not to eat like an animal, because I’m ravenous. It isn’t until I no longer feel faint that I notice Luke has his iPad next to his plate, and he’s occasionally reading something on it and then typing. Since it’s preventing us from suffering through stilted dinner conversation, I don’t mind, but when Paulette comes in from the kitchen and takes in the two of us, she rebukes him after inquiring about my health, “Luke! It’s horribly rude to faff around with that… that… contraption at the table!”

  He looks up and scowls at her. “I’m working.”

  “That doesn’t make it any less rude!” she maintains, looking over his shoulder. “And anyway, you’re not working; you’re chatting with Blanche.”

  Unrepentant, he chuckles. “She’s a work colleague.”

  “I don’t mind,” I interject after chewing and swallowing my last forkful of mashed potatoes. However, now that I know he’s been chatting with Blanche, I mind a little bit. I’d almost forgotten about that busty, highly-educated siren of Thornfield Publishing.

  “She says the place has gone all to hell since I’ve been away,” he grouses. “I’m not surprised.”

  “Maybe you should go back,” I suggest mildly, closely examining the peas cradled on my fork.

  “I plan on it,” he replies, pulling the cover over the tablet’s screen. “Possibly Sunday, for a few hours.”

  I don’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed by this news.

  Then he adds, “I have to go into the city to pick up some stuff at my apartment to bring back here.”

  My fork falls from my hand and lands with a muffled thunk on the carpet next to my chair. “Oopsy!” Paulette trills. “No worries, dear. I’ll go get another for you.” She disappears into the kitchen.

  “Y-you’re coming back here?” I inquire, fingering my earlobe.

  He drains the wine in his glass. “I’m sure as hell not staying at my apartment while Caroline’s there. We’d wind up killing each other.”

  “B-but… Don’t you have to get back to the office? You said you hated working from here.”

  Staring steadily at me, he answers, “It’s only a forty-minute commute. I’ll drive back and forth until Caroline can go back to the Beacon Hill house.” He stands and picks up his plate. As he gathers his dirty dishes, he mutters, “Paint fumes, my ass. I know she wants to snoop around the apartment. Well, there’s nothing to discover, unless you count my recent addiction to Magnum ice cream bars.” Before pushing with his butt through the kitchen door, he asks, “Have you ever had one?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh, dear God. They’re orgas—I mean, they’re awesome. There’s a freezer full of them at my apartment. I won’t have to worry about Caroline eating them, though. Even in her ‘condition.’ She’d rather eat a cow pie. Fewer calories.”

  With that, he backs into the kitchen. I hear him say, “What’s taking so long with that fork, Paulette? The poor woman hasn’t eaten all day. I could have forged one out of silver for her myself by now.”

  “Oh, you!” Paulette squawks at him. “I merely got distracted!”

  She returns to the dining room with my eating utensil and says, “So sorry, Jayne. My kettle was about to boil over.” She leaves me alone again before I can utter a single syllable.

  “Get out of that dishwasher!” I hear her cry on the other side of the door. “You’ll be putting me out of a job, you will!”

  While they bicker about division of labor, I push my food around on my plate and try to calm myself at the news that Luke’s not going back to Boston to stay. It’s not as bad as it sounds. Yes, he’ll still be here. But only to sleep. He’ll be gone from very early in the morning until fairly late in the evening. I may never have to see him at all, if I plan things out just so. Sleeping when he leaves in the morning; working… somewhere isolated… when he returns at night.

  Silly me, I thought once Caroline was no longer here, he wouldn’t feel the need to stay here to protect me from her (or whatever he was doing). I didn’t take into account that they can barely co-exist in a seven-thousand square-foot beach house, much less an apartment a tenth of that size. I wasn’t necessarily looking forward to him leaving, but I was hoping I’d be less distracted and get more work done.

  And I still will, I firmly tell myself now. That workaholic will never be home.

  *****

  While finalizing plans for Gus to come out to Marblehead next weekend, the door to the sitting room flies open, and Luke pokes his head through.

  “Honey, I’m home!” he bellows. “And traffic was murder. Pour your old man a gin and tonic.”

  “Who the hell is that?” Gus wonders. I can practically hear him drooling.

  I blush and look down to hide my grin at seeing Luke, who’s holding one of his hands over his mouth now that he realizes I’m on the phone. “It’s just Luke. Being silly.”

  “Luke-Ass?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait a minute. The man who ‘has a broomstick shoved so far up his ass that you can see the tip of the handle every time he opens his mouth, which is often, because he loves the sound of his own voice’ is being silly?”

  I glance up. Luke mouths, “Sorry” and plops into the chair perpendicular to the sofa I’m occupying.

  “Yes,” I succinctly answer. “Hey, listen. I’ve gotta go. But you’ll be here next Friday night, right? Do you need a ride? I could probably ask Luke to have a driver bring you out here.” Luke, himself, verifies this is true by nodding before letting his head fall and rest against the back of the chair.

  “Uh, yes please! I’d have to be the King of the Dingleberries to turn down that offer. Oh, girl! This is gonna be so much fun! Mmm-hmm!”

  Before he sprains his southern belle tendon, I let him go. As soon as I say bye, Luke magically revives.

  “The irrepressible Gus, I presume?” he inquires.

  I set my phone on the table next to my laptop. “The one and only. It’s still okay for him to come stay next weekend, right?”

  “Absolutely. He’s welcome to come out every weekend. Or whenever. Mi casa es su casa.”

  I pull my laptop onto my lap and keep my eyes pinned on the screen while I lie, “He’s busy this weekend.” I clear my throat and change the subject. “You’re home early.” I try not to make it sound like an accusation. Or like something a wife would say to a husband.

  “Am I?” he replies innocently.

  “It’s only 2:30,” I point out as I back up my work and prepare to shut down my computer.

  He stares into space and says, “I dunno. I was sitting at my desk at work, and I looked at my schedule and saw I didn’t have any afternoon meetings, and I got this restless feeling, like if I sat there another minute, I was going to scream. And I thought, ‘Why do I have to sit here? I don’t.’ I never take all my vacation in a year, so Thornfield owes me a shit-ton of time. I don’t have any tight deadlines. So I left.” Now he blinks at me as if he can’t believe he did it. He chuckles nervously. “I just walked out.”

  I raise my eyebrows at him.

  “I’ve never done that,” he explains. “Ever. I’m usually the first one there and the last one to leave. Sally looked at me like I’d lost my mind when I told her I was leaving for the day.” He laughs harder at the memory. “Her gum fell out of her mouth.”

  “Well, good for you. Everyone needs a break now and then.”

  Before I can stop him, he snatches my laptop from me and says, “What have you got here? It’s been a few days since you’ve shown me anything. I’m beginning to think you’re lurking on Facebook and playing Words with Friends instead of writing.”

  “Hey!” I object to all aspects of this scenario. I don’t like that he’s commandeering my computer or that he’s accusing me of slacking off. “Don’t read anything I wrote today. It’s… not right. Yet.”

  He systematically ignores me as he opens the file on my desktop that he already knows is my manuscript. When
it asks him for my password, he turns the laptop toward me and says, “Password, please.”

  I hesitate but ultimately type it in for him. It’s not that anything I’ve written is horrible—or features him, thank God—but it’s not… there. And he’s going to know right away that it’s not.

  Sure enough, after scanning through once, he scrolls back to the beginning of the new portion and starts typing comments in the margins.

  “What are you saying?” I ask, craning my neck to try to read it.

  Instead of answering, he continues typing at lightning speed. Then he highlights an enormous section of text and hits the delete button.

  “What the fuck are you doing?!” I screech, grappling for the computer.

  “Saving us both some time later when we have to make cuts. I can tell you right now, that’s not going to make the final cut,” he answers, relinquishing my laptop to me.

  I immediately hit “Control” and “Z” to bring the text back. Reading through it, I suppose he has a point, but I, and I alone, have delete privileges. And I don’t delete anything. I cut it and put it in a separate file labeled “Cuts,” in case I ever want it back again. That’s what I do now, while he smirks at me. Then I read his comments.

  Comment: This is pedantic.

  Comment: I like this, but I’m not sure it goes here.

  Comment: This is good.

  Comment: Move this to the end of Chapter Two.

  Comment: This is not-so-good.

  Comment: It’s obvious you don’t have anyone here during the day to force you to take breaks when you go on your Kleenex rants.

  I look up at him and narrow my eyes. “Very funny.”

  Again, he confiscates the computer, but this time he closes it and sets it on the coffee table. “Come on. Let’s go swimming.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “It’s gorgeous outside. I couldn’t believe it when I walked out to the gazebo only to find it empty.” He stands and offers me a hand up.

  I don’t take it.

  Using my own power, I rise from the couch and avert my eyes when I tell him in a tone that’s as blasé as possible, “Sometimes, especially after lunch, it’s too hot out there. I’d rather work in here.”

  What I don’t tell him (and never will, because it’s pathetic) is that I start to miss him in the afternoons, and there are more reminders of him in this room than out there. Plus, it does get hot in the afternoons.

  He readily accepts my explanation. “Race you to the pool?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so? You mean no racing, but you will go swimming?”

  He looks so hopeful that I can’t stand to tell him no.

  “I’ll go swimming,” I allow, like it’s the biggest imposition ever.

  As he leads the way upstairs to the bedrooms, he says, “Oh, good. Because I was going to throw you in, no matter what.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gus isn’t busy this weekend. Unless you count staying out of my way and giving me some quiet alone time with Luke. That sounds bad. Or like I have shady motives. I don’t. But… Paulette has weekends off, and last weekend, after Caroline’s departure, it was nice when it was only the two of us. I got a lot of writing done. Good writing. Writing that made Luke smile.

  And today, after several hours of isolation in the gazebo, the work I presented to him made him grin and say, “You’re so close. So close. Next week, let’s talk about blending the old with the new and figuring out where we can get the most emotional bang for your buck. It only needs to be one sentence. That’s all it takes. One sentence that knocks the wind out of the reader and says, ‘You’re my bitch, now.’”

  I laughed at that, but he wagged his finger at me. “I’m serious. Did you read that Womack excerpt I sent you?”

  “Yes,” I replied dully, rolling my eyes.

  “Admit it; it made you cry.”

  “It stung my eyes and nose a little bit,” I allowed.

  “Liar. You wept like a baby.”

  He was right, but there was no way I was going to give him the satisfaction of saying so. Because so what? We all know Womack is a master manipulator of emotions. You can see it in the self-satisfied expression on his face in his author photo. If pictures could talk, his would say, “That’s right. You’re gonna bawl when you read this, so have your hankie ready, because I’m about to own you. But first I have to go to the bank and count some of my money…”

  The point is, I delayed Gus’s visit, because I wanted another weekend like last weekend. I wish every weekend could be like that. I do miss Gus, though, so by next week maybe I’ll be ready for an interruption to the routine that’s probably becoming a mite too comfortable. I’m not yet ready this week.

  “Why doesn’t anyone call you ‘Dr. Edwards’?” I ask Luke now while we’re cutting up vegetables to put on the homemade pizzas we’re making for dinner.

  He pops a raw mushroom slice into his mouth and then spits it promptly into the kitchen sink with a “Blaaaagh!” before wiping his lips and calmly replying, “I’ve only had my doctorate for a few months. I guess it hasn’t stuck yet.”

  “It never will, if no one ever calls you ‘Doctor,’” I point out while chopping a green bell pepper and precisely placing the pieces on top of the first layer of mozzarella on my pie.

  “That’s fine. I don’t want anyone to call me that.”

  His indifference is puzzling to me. “Why not? You earned it.”

  He makes my fastidious topping placement look haphazard as he concentrates on making his pizza perfectly symmetrical. After several seconds of silence, he finally answers, “I got my Ph.D. for one reason and one reason only: to keep me too busy to spend any time with my… with Caroline. Career advancement was a decent bonus, but… I needed an excuse to be away from her on weekends and to avoid family functions. My thesis was an excellent diversion.” He looks up and takes in my open-mouthed expression. Testily, he says, “Don’t judge me, alright? You have no idea.”

  “I’m not judging!” I insist.

  “Yes, you are. You’re thinking that a doctorate degree is a lot of effort and expense to put forth, when I could have simply gotten a divorce. And you’re right.”

  In his defense and in an effort to soothe his temper, I mention, “Well, there was a professional advantage, too.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But you didn’t care about that as much.”

  He sighs. “No. Okay? I didn’t. Actually, I did the math and figured out that it was cheaper to get my Ph.D. than it was to divorce Caroline. There. Happy?”

  I toss another layer of cheese over my veggies. “No. Why would that make me happy?”

  “Because I’m confirming your belief that I’m a whore.” He looks out the kitchen window at the pool. “I stay married to someone I don’t love because I don’t want to give up the comforts I’ve become accustomed to as a member of her family. I don’t want to give up this house or my apartment or my car or the Patriots season tickets or… or… the reserved tables at my favorite restaurants.”

  “I’m sure you make enough to support yourself comfortably.”

  He laughs bitterly. “Not like that. And anyway, she’ll bleed me dry. I’ve tried to leave before. It never works.”

  “Are you done?” I ask, nodding toward the pizza on the stone in front of him.

  Blinking, he looks at me and then down at it. “I guess.”

  I take both of the pies over to the double oven, which is already pre-heated and ready to bake our dinners. With my back to him, I say, “It sounds like you’ve explored lots of different ways to try to end things with her.”

  “I have!” he eagerly confirms. “I truly have. And I want you to see that.”

  After sliding both pans into their respective ovens and closing the doors, I remain turned away from him when I say, “It doesn’t matter what I know or assume or think, though, does it? I mean…” I nervously chuckle. “…do you explain your li
festyle choices to Tom Ridgeworthy?”

  He makes a frustrated noise close to a growl. “Why the fuck do you keep comparing yourself to Tom fucking Ridgeworthy?” he explodes, making me flinch and whirl around.

  My mouth dry, I answer, “I-I don’t know. Because he’s a big fucking deal! And he gives you gifts. And… and…”

  “Is a high-maintenance pain in my ass!” he finishes hotly. “Oh, and hunting buddies with my father-in-law! And an opinionated son of a bitch. Do you want me to go on?”

  I look down at my feet and mumble, “No. I get it.”

  “Good! Because I’m sick of you bringing him up all the time and implying that you’re not as good as he is, when he’s half the writer you are and even less of a person.”

  Gulping and blushing, I keep my eyes on my toes and say, “Oh.”

  “Yeah. ‘Oh.’ So shut up about Tom Ridgeworthy.”

  “Fine!”

  “Thank you!”

  Feeling myself dangerously close to crying, and knowing I have about thirty minutes until our pizzas are ready, I cross the kitchen to the door, muttering, “Excuse me,” on my way past Luke.

  He snags my arm. “Wait.”

  When I refuse to look at him, he says gruffly, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

  “It’s okay,” I lie, trying to smooth things over as quickly as possible so he’ll let me go. His grip loosens just enough for me to take advantage of it and jerk my arm away from him. I push through the kitchen door and hurry down the hall, shutting myself in the library. Fortunately, he doesn’t follow me.

  *****

  To say the next few hours are tense and chilly is an understatement of epic proportions. I didn’t even eat my dinner at the table with Luke; I took it down to the basement and ate in front of the TV. I’d like to make an important distinction here, though; I’m not pouting. Did it sting that he shouted at me? Maybe. But it would be ridiculous to pout about what he said, even if his delivery left much to be desired.