Covet (18 page)

claire

To:
Claire Canton
From:
Chris Canton
Subject:
December

It looks like I’ll be on the road the rest of the month. We’re rolling out the new product line and the sales directors are responsible for making sure the implementation team doesn’t screw it up. We’ll be meeting with clients first thing Monday morning and won’t be done until late on Friday night. I’d only be able to fly home for one day and the company doesn’t think that’s “economical” so they’ve asked us to stay in the field. If we finish by the twenty-third I can take a week off between Christmas and New Year’s.

I’m sorry, Claire.

By now, seven months into his new job, I’m so used to Chris being gone that this news has almost no emotional impact on me. He could be telling me he’ll be gone for the next three months and I doubt it would make much of a difference. We’ve become like the proverbial two ships that pass in the night. No time for connecting, fixing, rebuilding. Just as I’d feared. I wonder how many marriages are fractured and damaged beyond repair by complacency rather than any single traumatic event. One day you wake up and realize that the distance between you and your spouse has grown to such an enormous width that neither of you are capable of clearing the distance. No matter how much speed you build up, or how far you can jump, it’s just there. Gaping and unforgiving.

Surprisingly, the kids understand, in the same way that I do. I break the news to them at dinner on Thursday night. “Dad won’t be coming home for a while, guys. He’s really busy at work, but he’ll be back before Christmas and then he’s going to take a week off.”

Josh shrugs. “Okay.” He’s trying to act like he doesn’t care, but his feigned indifference tells me that it bothers him more than he’s letting on.

“Okay,” Jordan says. But her voice is barely more than a whisper and she squeezes her stuffed gray kitty, the one Chris gave her that never leaves her side, a bit more tightly.

My heart breaks. Though I’m grateful for their adaptability, I wouldn’t mind seeing a little more emotion, a sign that they miss Chris. I know deep down they do, but I also know that it’s amazing what you can get used to if it goes on long enough. Chris being gone has become their normal.

Later that night I talk to my mom on the phone. “Chris will be on the road most of this month,” I say.

“Oh, Claire,” she says. “I don’t like that at all.” She doesn’t think it’s safe for me to be alone so much, because of my diabetes. Her concern and my need for independence have always mixed about as well as oil and water. And I understand, I really do. Especially after what happened at Daniel’s. I’d like to think I could have handled that one on my own eventually, but I’m not so sure. “The holidays are stressful enough,” she says. “How did the kids take the news?”

“They were surprisingly okay with it. Too okay,” I say.

“Oh. I see. Well. Your dad and I would love to keep them overnight on one of those weekends. You can get some Christmas shopping done. Have a manicure. Go out to lunch with one of your friends. It’ll give you a break, Claire,” she says.

“That would be great, Mom. Thanks.”

To:
Chris Canton
From:
Claire Canton
Subject:
Re: December

That’s okay. I’ll handle the Christmas shopping and whatever else needs to be taken care of. The kids understand.

I realize after I sign off and shut down my computer that the brevity of my response, and telling Chris that the kids understand, might have been insensitive, as if none of us really care. Though I chafe at how little time he has for me when he’s here, he’s out there every day, working hard, whether he wants to or not. Away from his home and his family.

And in this particular situation a little more emotion from me might have gone a long way.

claire

Daniel has been running indoors since it turned cold, on a treadmill he keeps in one of his spare bedrooms.

“I’d rather run outside,” he says. “But I’m not a big fan of falling on the ice and breaking my leg.” He usually runs early, but he had to work late last night and had just rolled out of bed when I arrived at twelve.

“Slacker,” I said, when he opened the door and I noticed his sleep-tousled hair, wrinkled T-shirt, and pajama pants.

He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, and I’m still tired.”

He’s had time to eat breakfast and read the paper and now he’s on the treadmill. I brought my laptop today and the whir of the machine, and the cadence of his footsteps, mixes with the sound of my computer keys clicking. When he finishes his workout he walks into the living room, chest bare, wearing only athletic shorts. He’s drying his face off with a towel and swigging from a water bottle.

I watch the rise and fall of his chest, lightly sheened with sweat as he stands a few feet away from the couch, still breathing hard. His shorts are hanging low on his hips and I can see the top of the V muscle that extends from his lower abdomen down to his hip flexors as well as the trail of hair that starts near his navel and runs downward. A scar, two inches to the left of his belly button, puckered and silvery, catches my eye. I can’t tell how long it is because it disappears down the front of his shorts.

I get up and walk toward him. Looking down, I lean forward to get a better look and say, “What happened?”

“Knife,” he says. “I learned the hard way not to take away a man’s cocaine before making sure he’s completely disarmed.” He takes another drink. “Rookie mistake. Never made it again.”

“Oh,” I say, and without thinking, without even stopping to consider my actions, I place my hand flat against his skin and trace the scar with my finger, imagining the knife piercing him. The wound ragged and bleeding. He stands perfectly still, unflinching, as I touch him. “That must have hurt.” My hands are cold and the warmth of his skin sends a wave of heat across my palm. It travels to other parts of my body and even though I know I should move my hand, should stop touching Daniel immediately, I don’t seem to be able to.

Daniel looks at me, his eyes heavy, half lidded. “It was a long time ago,” he murmurs. Grabbing my wrist, he moves my hand away and takes two steps back. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says.

Embarrassed about what I’ve done, I say, “Okay.” I sit back down on the couch and try to concentrate on my work while Daniel takes an incredibly long shower.

Later, when it’s almost time for me to leave, I ask Daniel what his plans are for Christmas. “I’ll go to my parents’ house on Christmas Eve. I have to work on Christmas Day.”

“I wish you didn’t have to work on Christmas Day,” I say.

“It’s okay. I’d rather that someone who has a family gets the day off.” He says it matter-of-factly, but I can’t help but wonder if it bothers him. I’m sure the holidays meant something else to him when he was married.

“Will your brother be in town?” Daniel has a younger brother named Dylan. He told me once that they’re not close.

“Who knows with Dylan?” Daniel says, sitting down beside me on the couch. “That’s just one of the many reasons we don’t get along.”

“What are some of the others?” I ask. Maybe it’s because I’m an only child and always fervently wished I had a brother or sister, but I don’t understand discontent between siblings. Chris is always squabbling with one of his sisters. It perplexes me.

“He’s really smart. Brilliant, even. Charming when he wants to be. He scored off the charts on some IQ test back in elementary school. He had a ton of behavioral problems, but it turned out that he was just bored. They gave my parents the option of letting him skip a grade, but they decided not to because they didn’t think he was mature enough. Even now as an adult, he’s very socially inept.”

“What does he do for a living?” I expect Daniel to tell me that Dylan is a brain surgeon or an actual rocket scientist.

“He does nothing. He has three advanced degrees but no desire to actually find and hold down a job. He’s so worried about making sure his boss and coworkers know how smart he is that he’s a horrible employee. He has a tendency to quit before they can fire him, and believe me, eventually they all would have. The only reason he’s gotten away with his lifestyle for so long is because he refuses to put down roots anywhere. He lives frugally, crashing on friends’ couches, and rolls in and out of town whenever he feels like it. Most of the time we don’t even know where he is. It upsets my mom. She already worries about me, because of my job, and it’s not fair that she has to worry about him, too.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Well. We’re used to it by now. What about you? What are your plans for the holidays?”

I tell him that we’ll split the time between my family and Chris’s. “He’ll be home for a week.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Daniel says, but he doesn’t look at me when he says it. “Kids will be happy about that.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Do you think you can go out for dinner some night before everything gets too crazy?” he asks.

“Sure. My parents want to take the kids for the weekend soon, to give me a break. We could do it then.”

“That would be great,” he says. “Just let me know when.”

claire

A week before Christmas, I drop Josh and Jordan off at my parents’ house and drive to Daniel’s.

The sound of music greets me when he opens the door—something by Coldplay—and he smiles when I cross the threshold. When I shrug out of my coat he looks me up and down slowly, and smiles.

“Whoa,” he says, whistling appreciatively. “Where have you been?”

His compliment puts a smile on my face. I’m wearing a black pencil skirt, very high heels, and a tightly fitted, feminine version of a man’s white button-down shirt. “I went to a holiday open house today. One of my bigger clients. Very swanky. Champagne in the afternoon. I had half a glass.”

“You look very nice,” he says softly.

“Thanks.”

“How long has it been since you ate?” he asks.

I glance at my watch. It’s a little after six thirty. “A while.”

“Should we go now?” Daniel asks. “I know it’s early, but we’ll probably be able to get a table somewhere without too much trouble. I would have made a reservation, but I wasn’t sure what time you’d need to eat.”

I’m glad he didn’t make a reservation. That would have made this feel too much like a date. And it is certainly not a date. But how would I feel if Chris went out to dinner with a female friend? It suddenly occurs to me that there’s a good chance that Chris
is
going out to dinner with a female, maybe a coworker, someone on his team. He’s never mentioned it, but I’ve never asked. This possibility simultaneously consoles and worries me.

“Bella Cucina?” I ask. I’m in no mood for a crowded, noisy chain restaurant.

“I was going to suggest that,” he says, smiling at me.

Daniel is wearing a black V-neck sweater. He’s paired it with jeans but they’re nice jeans, dark, not the faded and worn kind that he prefers. He grabs a coat and helps me back into mine and we drive to the restaurant. The light dusting of snow that meteorologists have been excitedly predicting all day has started to fall and after Daniel parks the car he extends his arm for me to hold on to so I won’t slip in my high heels. “Maybe I should have insisted that I drop you off at the door again,” he teases.

“Not necessary,” I say. Besides, it’s nice holding on to Daniel’s arm.

There are more patrons tonight than there were when Daniel and I came here for lunch. Thankfully we don’t have to wait long and soon the maître d’ leads us to one of the wedge-shaped booths in the corner that allow diners to sit next to each other instead of across from one another.

“Would you like me to take your coats?” she asks.

We hand them to her and then a waitress takes our drink order—a glass of wine for Daniel and sparkling water for me—and we open our menus.

“What sounds good to you?” Daniel asks.

“I’m not sure.” After a few minutes I decide on the salmon and Daniel chooses the shrimp and linguini. The ambience is more romantic tonight, with dim lighting and candles burning on every table. A quick scan of the room yields no familiar faces, and I relax a bit. I won’t have to introduce Daniel and have any “it’s not what it looks like” conversations.

The waitress brings our drinks, and when she leaves, I lean back against the low, padded leather seat rest. Daniel takes a drink, looks at me, and smiles, resting his arm along the back of the booth, near my shoulders. There’s a small jazz trio in the corner and the sound of instruments being tuned rises above the diners’ conversations and the clinking of silver and glassware.

Our entrees arrive and while we are eating, a well-dressed gentleman approaches our table. The proprietor, I presume.

“How is everything?” he asks. “Is there anything I can bring you?”

Daniel and I praise the food and tell him that we don’t need a thing.

He smiles and says, “Wonderful. Enjoy your evening.” Before he goes he turns to Daniel and says, with a slight bow and flourish of his hand, “Your wife is very lovely.”

Daniel’s smile falters, but he recovers almost immediately and says, “Yes, she is. Beautiful, in fact.”

I could say the proprietor was being assumptive, but I
am
wearing a wedding ring. To an outsider, Daniel and I look like a married couple, and I am, perhaps, enjoying the quintessential best of both worlds: husband, albeit absentee, and handsome, attentive companion.

I look at Daniel and whisper, “Thank you.”

He nods and turns away to take a drink of his wine. The waitress returns, clears our plates, and asks us if we want dessert. We both say no and she leaves the check.

“Please let me get this one,” I say.

Daniel shakes his head and smiles. “No.” He pays the bill and we walk through the restaurant toward the glass doors of the entrance, Daniel’s hand resting heavily on the small of my back. The weight of his touch sends a delicate shiver up my spine. We retrieve our coats and he helps me into mine, and when we step outside the cold night air almost diffuses the romantic vibe we had going in the restaurant. Almost, but not completely. Large snowflakes are still falling and once again Daniel gives me his arm to hold on to. He opens my car door, waits until I’m seated, and then closes it. He walks around to the driver’s side and slides behind the wheel, then starts the car and turns the defrost on high.

“Thank you for dinner,” I say.

He puts the car in gear and says, “Anytime, Claire.”

When we return home Daniel lights a fire in the fireplace. It’s wood burning, not gas like the one at my house.

“I love that smell,” I say, inhaling deeply and listening to the tinder crackle as it ignites.

“Can you stay for a while?” Daniel asks.

“Sure.” There’s nowhere I have to be. No one waiting on me. I kick off my shoes, which have begun to hurt my feet, and sit down on the couch, tucking my legs up under my skirt. The logs catch and the flames grow higher.

“Do you want something to drink?” Daniel asks. “I’ve got some Snapple in the fridge.”

“I’ll get it,” I say. I walk into the kitchen and take a glass out of the cupboard, then fill it with ice. Daniel opens a drawer and removes a corkscrew. There are two bottles of wine on the counter, both red, and he selects one and opens it, then pours himself a glass. I grab a diet peach Snapple from the fridge and follow him back into the living room, setting down the bottle next to his glass of wine on the coffee table. He leaves the room and when he comes back in he’s holding a gift bag.

Oh, shit.

“Is that for me?” I ask. I didn’t buy him anything. Why didn’t I buy him something? I should have seen this coming from a mile away.

“I saw it in the store window when I walked by. It reminded me of something you said once, so I bought it.” He sits down beside me and hands me the bag.

I open it. Inside are two wrapped presents. One is wrapped in gold and the other in silver. The small boxes are roughly the same size and I don’t know which one to open first. Daniel does, though, because he points to the silver one. “You shouldn’t have,” I say.

“Just open it,” he says.

I tear off the paper and smile when I lift the lid of the box. It’s a rubber bracelet, like the Livestrong ones and the hundreds of copycats that followed. It’s pink and it has the medical alert symbol and says
DIABETES
in capital letters. “You remembered.” I slip it onto my wrist.

I open the second box. It’s a small round sterling silver pendant hanging from a silky black cord. It’s exactly what I would have chosen if I’d been asked to pick out a gift for myself. Large chunky jewelry looks out of proportion on my small frame, but the dimensions of the delicate silver disk fit me perfectly.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“I love it.” I take it out of the box and undo the clasp, then hand it to Daniel. “Take the other one off and put this one on me, please.” Turning around, I lift up my hair and Daniel leans in, removing my medical alert necklace and replacing it with his gift. The disk rests in the small dip between my breasts and when I turn back around his gaze lingers there. “It’s beautiful,” I say. “Thank you.” I hug him, the way I always do when someone gives me a gift. It catches him off guard and he finally realizes what I’m doing and tries to hug me back at the exact same time that I pull away. Really, it’s almost comical. You’d think that we don’t know how hugging works.

“You’re welcome,” he says, gathering up the scraps of wrapping paper. He goes into the kitchen to throw it away and when he returns he says, “Music or TV?”

“Music, please.”

Daniel crosses the room and hits the button on the stereo, scanning through the channels. “Holiday favorites?”

“Yes,” I say. “That would be perfect.” He sits back down beside me, takes a drink of his wine, and places the glass on the coffee table. I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re sitting, and how completely alone we are. I’m slightly worried that my active participation in our late-night phone calls has given him the wrong impression, some kind of green light. But he’s been a perfect gentleman this evening and my instincts tell me he will continue in the same manner. Daniel doesn’t seem like the type of man who would lay his cards on the table without knowing exactly what the outcome would be.

I take a sip of my drink and place the bottle back down on the table next to his. A yawn escapes before I can stifle it with the back of my hand.

“Tired?” Daniel asks.

“A little. It’s been a long day. And it’s so nice and cozy in here. Makes me sleepy.” Daniel’s house reminds me of the starter home Chris and I bought when we were newly married. Ours was also a ranch and had the same arched entryways and hardwood floors. I love my current home, but sometimes I miss that first house and all that it signified: the untarnished and unchallenged beginning of my life with Chris.

I wander over to the built-in bookcase that reaches from floor to ceiling on one wall of the living room. If it were my home, I’d fill the shelves with decorative accessories, my collection of hardback books, and framed photos, but Daniel doesn’t utilize the space much. There’s a clock and a few pieces of mail. A magazine. His home lacks a woman’s touch, but maybe he likes it just the way it is. I look up and three photo albums on the highest shelf catch my eye. I have to stand on my tiptoes to reach them and I pull down one of them, its cover dusty, and crack it open. The album must be from Daniel’s college days because the first picture I see shows him wearing a sweatshirt with the letters of his fraternity house on it. He’s holding a beer, surrounded by at least ten other guys doing the same. I sink to the floor, the album in my lap, and smile. “Fraternity brothers?”

He nods his head. “I did some serious partying with those guys.” He sits down on the floor beside me, drinking his wine, and watches me flip through the pages. There aren’t many pictures and most of them are shoved in haphazardly, as if he couldn’t be bothered to slide them into the individual pockets.

“Are there any pictures where you’re not drinking beer?” I ask. “Or holding a beer? Or standing beside a keg of beer?”

“Probably not,” he answers.

I laugh when I notice Daniel’s floppy, middle-part hairstyle, and I can’t help but tease him. “Tell me, how influential were the Backstreet Boys in shaping your look back then?”

“Very funny,” he says. “I’ll have you know I got a lot of attention from the girls with that hair.”

“I’m sure you did,” I agree. The truth is, it didn’t detract from his looks, not in the least. But if anything, he’s more attractive now, as if each year that passes only improves his appearance.

I stand up and swap the first photo album for the next—this one even dustier. The first picture is of Daniel and a girl. She has blonde hair and she’s wearing it in a shoulder-length, fully layered style just like I wore in the nineties and that neither of us would be caught dead in today. Her eyes are blue, not brown, yet the resemblance is such that we could be sisters. She’s sitting on Daniel’s lap with a red Solo cup in her hand. They appear to be laughing, as if the photographer snapped the photo at just the right time. Midjoke. Page after page of Daniel and the blonde girl follow: pictures of them in formal attire, in jeans and sweatshirts, and two full pages of them enjoying a tropical vacation.

When I reach the end of the album the blonde girl is still in it. In one photo they have their arms around each other and she’s wearing a diamond ring on her left hand. Engagement photos. It hits me suddenly that I’m looking at Daniel’s ex-wife. “Is this her?” I ask.

He nods, his eyes a bit glassy. I’ve never even seen him tipsy before, but he’s well on his way.

“What’s her name?”

“Jessica. Jessie.”

I come to the end of the album and stand to retrieve the last one. The cover of this one isn’t dusty at all. Daniel goes and sits on the couch, knocking back a big drink of wine. I sit down on the couch next to him and open to the first page. There’s a picture of Daniel in a cap and gown at his college graduation, and several more when he completed his training at the police academy. One of him as a rookie policeman, in full uniform. The next photos are from his wedding. I look at them silently. Jessie looks beautiful, the big hair now smoothed into a low chignon with flowers surrounding it. Daniel’s wineglass is empty and he heads to the kitchen for a refill. I flip past the wedding photos and think that maybe this was a bad idea. He probably doesn’t want me looking at pictures of his other life, but he’s too polite to tell me not to.

I flip to the next page and the pictures on it take my breath away.

Jessie is very, very pregnant. She’s smiling and Daniel is sitting beside her, his hand on her stomach, fingers splayed as if he’s trying to encompass all that’s inside of her in one handful, which would be impossible because she is clearly full-term. Time stands still and yet speeds up as I turn the pages, and my sense of foreboding increases. Daniel sits back down on the couch, but he’s not watching me; he’s staring off into space, very still.

On the next page a smiling baby, cradled in Jessie’s arms, wears a blue cap and looks minutes old. Now I know whose photo is in the frame on Daniel’s dresser. The images that follow—Jessie holding the baby, Daniel holding the baby, and one of Daniel kissing the baby’s forehead—bring tears to my eyes because I know where this is heading. Feel it in the pit of my stomach and yet I can’t look away.