Wife for the Weekend

by Ophelia London

  “Is this Basie?” His voice made her nearly jump out of her chair.

  “Sammy Davis Jr.,” Jules said, looking up from her sketch pad when Dexter came in.

  He filled a glass of water at the sink. “I know who’s singing, but is it with Basie’s orchestra?”

  “Oh. Yes.” Jules tilted her head. “You know Count Basie?”

  “I do.” He took a long drink. “My parents’ country club was my day care. When I was a kid, I used to sneak into the ballroom during classes.”

  “You liked big bands?”

  “It was more that I liked when the women’s dresses flared out.”

  “Started out early, did ya?” She was trying to play it off like she didn’t care what he did with his life, but the dig was forced and made her feel hollow.

  Not replying to her comments, he moved to where she’d dragged a chair close to the window. “Why didn’t you come outside to…” He dipped his head to see what she was doing. “Thought you were a painter.”

  Jules flipped to a blank page, self-consciously. No, not self-consciously. She’d never been insecure about her art, but Dexter would probably stare at it and call it a mess. His expression earlier hadn’t been hard to read.

  He knelt behind her, his body warm, as he studied the various brushes and pencils over her shoulder.

  “I’m both,” she replied, standing up, needing space. “I do both. Can do both.” Crap, stop being so floopy! “I’m a painter, but before I start a new piece, I like to free-sketch, to get the creativity flowing.”

  Or to avoid the fact that I haven’t been inspired to paint in months. If she wasn’t inspired, how could she move forward?

  “While playing Basie?” Dexter said.

  “Grams has records I’ve listened to forever.”

  “His version of ‘April in Paris’ from the Live in Sweden album is my favorite.”

  “That’s…” Jules put down her pencil. “That’s my favorite of his songs. But I prefer it on the Brunswick studio album.”

  Dexter leaned against the table. “No way. Live versions are always superior. No mixing, nothing overproduced. Just the count’s piano, the orchestra, and heart.”

  Heart? The things she learned about Dexter when they weren’t even trying… Did he discuss his love of big band music with anyone else? Those other women?

  “What about the studio version of ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’?” she asked as she walked to the fridge.

  “I’ll give you that one, but you’ve got Sinatra on vocals. Nothing touches that.” He grinned and swayed back, gaze drifting into the middle distance, like he was hearing the song in his head. “I’ve always wanted to dance to it,” he said. “But it was a rare album, never made it to CD or digital.”

  “I have the record.”

  “Really?” Dexter smiled out the window, then looked at Jules. “Want to—”

  The words stopped dead in his mouth as he scanned her outfit. While he’d been outside on the phone, she’d changed out of her yoga clothes. Okay, some of her friends had referred to the flesh-colored material that barely reached midthigh as her “naked” dress, but she hadn’t worn it on purpose. And yes, she’d taken an extra second to pull her hair back on one side and pin in a flower. But that wasn’t because of Dexter.

  “It’s on the shelf over there.” Jules pointed to the stack of albums.

  “Oh, um, cool.” He looked away and cleared his throat. “Think I’ll go for a run instead.” Without another word, he left, wearing the same clothes he’d been in all day.

  Puzzled, Jules returned to the table and sat before her sketch pad. But her gaze found Dexter as he trotted across the deck, then onto the path toward the lake. His movements were smooth and elegant. It took less than a minute for him to reach the shore. He bent, touched a bolder, then turned to run back the way he’d come, only to stop at the far end of the deck, touch it, then turn again, like he was running wind sprints.

  For a while, she just watched, mesmerized by his movements, concentration, the line of sweat spreading down the back of his T-shirt. Without thinking, she pushed her sketch pad aside and reached for a paintbrush.

  It wasn’t the literal re-creation of an athlete framed by a blue lake that she painted, but the abstract images representing how she felt as she watched that tireless athlete. Reds and bright blues, swirls of green, happy yellows. She couldn’t stop until she filled the entire canvass.

  Sitting back, she exhaled a long, stale breath that seemed as though she’d been holding it for months. Only then did she notice it was dark outside; one light came from the living room.

  “Dexter?”

  “Who else would it be?”

  Jules stood, feeling achy from sitting in the same position for so long, but happy and relieved—inspired, finally inspired after all this time. As she turned on the stove and filled the kettle, she also felt light-headed. When was the last time she’d eaten? While the Elliotts were here? She looked at the pig clock on the wall. It was seven o’clock.

  Dexter lounged on the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table under a stack of hot pink pillows, computer open on his lap, head resting on one of Grams’s hideous crocheted blankets. Her fingers twitched for a paintbrush and miles of canvass.

  “Want some dinner?” she asked.

  “I already ate.” He was wearing glasses, and looked quite comparable to one of those sexy nerds in a magazine. “There’s some for you, too, in the fridge.”

  “Some what?”

  “Sushi. I went into town. Decent food for being in the sticks. Hope you like California rolls. I figured they’re safe.”

  The desire to paint, to cling to her new inspiration, was momentarily replaced by need of sustenance. “Wow, thanks.” She might’ve broken the sound barrier by how fast she bolted to the fridge. A little brown bag sat on the empty top shelf. She really did need to go on a proper grocery run soon. Which reminded her of something.

  “So, the party tomorrow?” she said as she unloaded the bag. Two California rolls were untouched in individual clear wrap. Her mouth watered, and she wanted to thank him again for being considerate. “Have you thought how to get out of it? I’m assuming by how late it is, that you’re not flying out tonight, but you will tomorrow?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that.” Dexter walked to the kitchen and refilled his mug. It had faded cartoons of the Flintstones on it. Jules had given it to Grams about a million Christmases ago.

  A silly thing like seeing Dexter with it made her heart swell.

  “I have a new plan,” he said. “The party is the perfect opportunity to get out of our situation completely.”

  Like a dummy, Jules’s silly, silly heart sank.

  “Oh yeah?” she said, biting the inside of her cheek. “How?”

  He took off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, then put them back on. “We’ll have an argument in front of them.”

  “They see us bicker all the time. Thanks to you, Quent thinks it’s foreplay.”

  “This will be different. We’ll make it a real fight—I’ll storm out and…can you cry on cue?”

  “I don’t think so. And why would I cry?”

  “Because our marriage is over. We’ll stage a big fight and everyone will know we’re on the rocks—maybe we have been for a long time and thought getting married would fix it, but it didn’t and now we’re tired of pretending we’re not miserable.”

  Just keep on sinking, silly little heart.

  “You’ve thought a lot about this.” She went to the record player, putting the albums back in their cases. “I hate fighting. I hate lying. I hate everything about this.” She put the last album away, then looked at Dexter wearing glasses and drinking from her Flintstones mug. Well, maybe not everything… “But it’ll probably work. If that’s what you want.”

  “It’s what we both want. Right?”

  Jules nodded, but inside she felt like crying.

  “I’ll complain that you’re a workaholi
c and your job always comes first, even after you promised you’d changed. It’s true, you know—the work thing.”

  “I’ll complain how you never take anything seriously. You’re always floating around, doing your own thing, and that you can’t even focus enough to paint—your big dream, right?—the first thing about you that I fell in love with. I mean, the fake me and the fake you.”

  How could he be so cold? Apparently, to Dexter, everything they’d been through really had been make-believe.

  It was a fake fight over fake feelings, but still, his comment about her not painting stung. Up until a few hours ago, it was true.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’m a free spirit and you can’t handle it. That’ll sell itself.”

  “Totally. If we stage the fight early enough in the evening, I’ll be able to catch the red-eye.”

  “Hallelujah,” Jules said, picking up a coffee table book about horses and flipping through it without seeing the pages. “The sooner the better.”

  …

  Dexter was coming in from the deck after finishing a quick call when he found Jules in the kitchen. At least she’d pulled an oversize sweater over that non-dress. It’d been difficult to concentrate on work earlier with her sitting there, lounging on a pile of pillows, eating sushi, while looking all chill and half naked.

  “Are you a late-night coffee drinker?” she asked.

  “I am.”

  “Thought so.” She passed him a steaming mug, then slid over the half-gallon carton of chocolate milk. He took it and splashed some in.

  “How did you know I take it with chocolate milk?”

  She took a sip from her own mug. “I’m very observant. Plus, I know your mother.”

  “This is true.” He picked up a spoon. “Although I would rather have some of that peppermint drink of yours.”

  “I showed you how to make it.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Dexter Elliott.” She shut the fridge. “Do not give me the line that it tastes better when I make it.”

  He couldn’t not grin. “Isn’t a line if it’s true.”

  Jules laughed indulgently and shook her head, handing him her bottle of peppermint oil. “Three drops, babe. You can do it. I’m pulling for you.” She winked before disappearing into the living room.

  Dexter made a fist and pressed it over his chest, unable to remove the smile from his face.

  He liked this girl. A lot.

  After concocting his new beverage, he went to the couch, sighing on his way to sit as he eyed his computer.

  “You’ve been working on the same thing all evening,” Jules said as she perched on the other end of the couch.

  “Yeah,” he said, trying to banish unhealthy thoughts by squeezing the bridge of his nose. “I’ve got this meeting on Friday and—”

  “So you’ve mentioned.”

  When she winked over her mug, he smiled and eyed her soft sweater, wondering how it and she would feel in his arms.

  “What’s the big deal about this meeting? You have a million of them.”

  He waited a beat, but felt Jules’s gaze, so curious and open. “This isn’t a meeting with or about Elliott Technology.”

  After a moment, she set down her mug. “You’re thinking of leaving your job?”

  The question made him exhale a dark chuckle. “I’d be a colossal moron to do something like that, wouldn’t I? Just ask my father.” He shook his head and stared across the room. “A colossal moron.”

  “That’s what your meeting’s about? Something else.”

  Dexter looked at her, at her head tilted to one side, her sweet eyes. “Yes. Something else.”

  Jules adjusted her position on the couch to face him, pulling in her knees. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Luke and Vince were his usual go-tos. But other than his father, he hadn’t breathed a single detail to anyone about leaving the family business, or his meeting with Three Jacker Media.

  Yes, he wanted to talk about it. But not with his parents or brothers or therapist. He wanted to talk to Jules.

  He removed his glasses and set them on the coffee table. “A while ago, I had an idea that I took to ET’s R-and-D team to see if something like it already existed in the marketplace. Which it did—in a way, so I came up with a unique twist, which doesn’t exist. I ran the idea by my father.” He paused and rubbed the back of his neck, feeling knots of stress. “I don’t think Dad really got it. Maybe it’s too out there, I don’t know. The idea wouldn’t go away, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and since it’s not in competition with anything at ET, it wasn’t a conflict of interest if I worked on more developing.”

  “And you did?”

  He nodded. “It got bigger, took on a life of its own. Without realizing it, I’d built a team of software developers, engineers, graphic art techs—all from outside ET, though my assistant moonlights a bit for me, keeps me organized. After a business lunch a few weeks ago, I hung back with one of the guys who’s involved in start-ups. I pitched him the idea over beers and pretzels, and…”

  “He’s interested.”

  “Very. But I didn’t agree to move forward with it—not right then. I couldn’t.”

  “Because you’re loyal,” Jules said. “You love your father and you’re respectful. I’m not a businessperson, but even I know that kind of loyalty is rare, impressive. Desirable. Probably makes your start-up guy want to work with you even more.”

  Like a dam being released, Dexter felt a tidal wave of gratitude toward Jules, the woman on the other end of the couch who didn’t wear shoes. The woman who got him, understood, held his hand when he needed it.

  “Thank you,” he said, feeling choked up and lame. “That means a lot.”

  Their gazes held, and once more, his head and mouth filled with words he wanted to tell her. Words his tongue couldn’t form. Before he could do anything, Jules slid over next to him, their shoulders bumping.

  “Tell me about it.”

  For a second, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t swallow.

  “On your computer,” she prompted. “You’ve been glaring at the same page for hours. Show me or talk through your idea. Since technology is my archenemy, I probably won’t understand much, but if it’ll help you…”

  Dexter might have zero personal experiences with relationships, but he also wasn’t dense. Jules couldn’t care less about his new business. But she would sit and listen because she thought it might help. Because she was caring. Because she was Jules. The most caring person he knew.

  Besides his family and close friends, Dexter couldn’t think of a woman in his life who wanted nothing from him. Not an expensive dinner, or a ride down Fifth Avenue in a flashy car, or a night with him at the Plaza.

  Their relationship—he didn’t even stumble over the word—might’ve begun as a Vegas mistake that turned into a business arrangement, but it was different now. He felt it, and he knew she did, too.

  Taking a moment to let that sink in, run through his brain and his bloodstream, Dexter opened his laptop. “We’re past the idea phase now, still developing the final software, but we have an introductory prototype.” He stopped and looked at her. “You know what, now that I think about it, you might be the perfect person to run this by.”

  “Really?” She sat up straight and flashed a proud little smile. “That’s so cool.”

  “Can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.” He removed the screen from his computer, turning it into a tablet, handing it to Jules. “For frame of reference, you’ve used Corel Painter, right?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “You’ve heard of it, though?”

  She frowned. “Is it something to use in the ocean? Painting coral or rocks? I think that might be illegal.”

  “It’s a computer program, kind of like ArtRage.”

  “Haven’t heard of that, either.”

  After realizing he was barking up the wrong tree, he smiled. Why would she know of computer programs about ma
king art? She was charmingly old-school. “Okay, well, the concept is making pictures on the screen—on the computer. Tracing, drawing freehand with anything you can think of, lead, chalk, crayons, pens, and painting in all mediums, oil, acrylics, watercolor, even a mixture. Our technology is advanced and specializes in combinations, collages, and framings.”

  “Making art on a computer,” Jules said, drawing out the words.

  “Exactly. It’s just one of the applications—there’re dozens.” He flipped to a screen showing the PowerPoint presentation, then to the example of what their program’s operating system will look like. “Touch the screen,” he said. When she didn’t, he drew a line down the center, then clicked an icon, making the line look like a brushstroke of thick red oil paint. “Now you try.”

  Hesitantly, she made a zigzag over his line, touched an icon, and turned her line into light blue acrylic.

  “Awesome, right?” he said. “And this is nothing. Practically every artistic tool is right here. Any size or type of brush, any color combination. You can save your work on one device then reopen it from anywhere. Completely mobile. After you’ve done all the editing you want—and those tools are in the thousands—you print it. It can go on any type of paper, even canvas. It’s literally virtual art.”

  “Virtual art,” she repeated.

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  “Like it?” She stared at him. “It’s awful.”

  The comment made him flinch. “Why?”

  “This”—she tossed the screen on his lap—“is exactly what’s wrong with the world. You want to take art, something that requires open space and time and air movement and freedom, and confine it in a computer? You turned it into technology, cold science.” She stood from the couch and paced to the other end of the room. “You’re clipping its wings, putting it in a cage.”

  “I’m making it accessible.”

  “Are people too busy these days to carry a sketch pad if they feel like drawing? Instead they just pull out their baby computer thing, draw a tree with one finger, press a button, then print it out and call it art. No, sorry, virtual art—because it’s not real.”