Covet (20 page)

daniel

I call Claire at eleven thirty. It’s a Tuesday night, so I know her husband won’t be home.

“Too late?” I ask when she answers.

“No. Not too late,” she says.

I love her voice when we talk late at night. It changes. Gets softer. Like she reserves it just for these calls. She sounds sleepy but she also sounds happy to hear from me.

“Are you in bed?” I ask.

“Yes. I was reading. I just closed my book and turned off the light. What are you doing?” she asks.

“Same thing you are,” I say. “Just lying here.” I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. She was on my mind all day and now that I’m in bed I’m really having trouble getting her out of my head. I picture her under the covers, wondering once again what she’s wearing even though I know I shouldn’t be thinking about that, because it’s torture and it’s pointless. “How are you feeling?” I ask. She’s had a bad cold and hasn’t stopped by in more than a week because she said she didn’t want to give it to me.

“Much better,” she says. “The kids will probably bring home more germs soon. I better enjoy the respite while I can.”

“I’ve missed having you around.”

“You have?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” she says.

“I’ve gotten used to seeing you sitting on my couch.” I like stealing looks at Claire when she’s got her head down, reading or typing, with my blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Like she belongs there.

“I like sitting on your couch. I like it when you make me lunch,” she says.

“That’s because I’m an excellent cook,” I say.

“It’s not usually a
hot
lunch,” she teases.

I laugh. “Details.”

“I can hear the wind outside my window. The meteorologist on the news said that we might break the record for a January low.”

“I’m sure you’re plenty warm. Something tells me you’re all bundled up.” What I wouldn’t give to be able to put my arms around her. Heat her up so that she wouldn’t want anything covering her.

“I’m in flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt.”

“I’d be sweating.”

“You run warmer than I do.”

“You aren’t going to ask me what I’m wearing?”

“I’m pretty sure I know what you’re wearing,” she says.

Of course she does. She’s got a husband who’s sometimes home. One who probably also sleeps in his underwear, or naked when she’s beside him. I’m wearing boxer briefs, but being specific with her will accomplish nothing. As much as I’d love to really let loose and tell her—explicitly and in full detail—what I’m thinking about when I call her late at night, I can’t. Crossing any kind of line, even on the phone, is up to Claire, and not me. And there’s no one here to help me with the hard-on I already have, so I should probably stop while I’m ahead. “I’ve got Monday off. Come over?”

“Sure. I’ll come over after yoga.”

“Okay. Go to sleep,” I tell her. “Stay warm.”

“I will. You, too,” she says.

For the first time in months, I think about calling Melissa. But that would be a real dick move, so I disregard it immediately. Even if she agreed to come over, I still wouldn’t be satisfied. I’d only be pretending that it was Claire’s hands stroking me. Claire’s lips on mine. It’s easier if I just take care of this solo, because in my mind Claire can do everything I desperately want her to do, and I can imagine it in full Technicolor, without the distraction of another woman.

It isn’t quite the same. But it’s less complicated than calling Melissa, and it’s almost enough.

claire

To:
Claire Canton
From:
Chris Canton
Subject:
Awards banquet

The annual awards banquet is Saturday, February 12th. It’s black tie. Buy yourself something new. Anything you want.

To:
Chris Canton
From:
Claire Canton
Subject:
Re: Awards banquet

Okay. I’ll go dress shopping. Would you like me to rent you a tuxedo?

To:
Claire Canton
From:
Chris Canton
Subject:
Re: re: Awards banquet

That would be great, thanks. I’ll get fitted while I’m on the road and e-mail you my measurements.

I miss you guys.

Chris’s confidence is at an all-time high since his promotion and this event is important to him. He’s still waiting to come in from the field, though. “Any day now,” they tell him, but they haven’t hired his replacement and Chris doesn’t think they’re working all that hard to find someone else. He tries not to let his disappointment show. I try not to ask him about it. We’re both glad we didn’t say anything to the kids.

I drop Josh and Jordan off at Chris’s parents the day of the banquet. His mother greets me with a kiss on the cheek and a hug. She smells like Shalimar. Chris once told me that his mother is one of the hardest women to buy a gift for. “I have everything I need,” she always claims. “Four healthy and happy kids and now all these beautiful grandchildren.” Finally, under duress, she mentioned once that she loved the scent of Shalimar and she received so many bottles of it on her next birthday and for Christmas that she says she’ll never run out. It’s a smell I’ll always associate with her.

“Be good for Grandma and Grandpa,” I tell the kids, kissing them and giving each of them a hug.

“Why not?” I sit perfectly still as she cleanses my skin, removing what little makeup I’m wearing, and starts over. She applies foundation and blush and lines my eye in blue and silver. These are colors I would never have chosen on my own, but when she holds up a hand mirror in front of my face I’m taken aback at how good it looks. She’s smudged it a bit so the line isn’t too harsh and she’s painted my lips in a pale pink to offset the dramatic eye makeup. My lashes have been lengthened with three coats of mascara and then curled; I hardly recognize myself. I thank her and pay, adding a nice tip.

Chris’s car isn’t in the garage when I return home and a silent house greets me when I walk in the door. I pin my hair loosely on top of my head and run a bath, careful not to let the water get too hot and steamy so it won’t ruin my makeup, then sink into the warm water. I should have remembered to light a candle or bring a book, but I don’t have much time, so I wash and then close my eyes and relax. When I get out of the bath I pat myself dry and soothe my skin, parched by the cold air of a lingering winter, with a thin layer of my favorite scented moisturizer.

In our bedroom, I walk to the dresser and pull out a strapless bra, thong, and thigh-high stockings. I’m just about to step into the thong when Chris bursts through the bedroom door, startling me. He’s already dressed in his tux. The black looks striking against his blond hair and the cut of the suit flatters his build. He stops in his tracks, a surprised expression on his face.

“Where were you?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer me. Although it’s been a while, Chris has seen me naked thousands of times. His hands and mouth are more than familiar with my most intimate places, and he’s had an up close and personal view of both children being born. But as I step into the thong and fasten the bra his eyes track my movements as if he’s seeing my body for the first time. I stop what I’m doing and look over at him.

“Chris?”

He clears his throat. “I went to fill the car up with gas. Then I ran into the office for a minute.”

Chris watches as I sit down on the bed and carefully pull the stockings on. I slip my pump inside one of them. I take my dress off its padded hanger and step into it. It’s knee length, fitted, and black, with a bit of shimmer. It hangs open as I step into my shoes and locate my earrings. Chris walks across the room and stands behind me. He zips me up, slowly, and rests his hands on my shoulders. “You’ll be cold,” he says, his voice husky.

His touch stirs something inside of me, and suddenly I can’t breathe. “I’ll wear a wrap.”

His hands slide down my shoulders, along the bare skin of my arms where they linger. He finally steps back. “I’ll let you finish getting ready.”

“It won’t take long.” Chris retreats and I grab my evening bag and spritz myself with perfume. I pull the wrap off the hanger and drape it around my shoulders. Downstairs, Chris and I shut off lights and lock the door. In the garage he holds the car door open for me and we go.

 • • • 

The evening begins with cocktails and hors d’oeuvres outside the banquet room of the Westin Crown Center in Kansas City. Chris brings me a flute of champagne and then fills a small plate of food for us to share; in his other hand he swirls whiskey around in his glass, the ice clinking. I scan the crowd, admiring the fancy dresses. Soon, the doors to the banquet room open and we make our way inside, finding the place cards with our names at a table elegantly set for eight.

A tall, gray-haired man makes his way toward us and Chris leans down and whispers in my ear, “This is Jim, my boss.”

Jim beams when he reaches us and we both stand. He shakes Chris’s hand. Turning to me, he introduces himself and then says, “You must be Claire. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Perhaps it’s just banter, but Jim’s heard my name enough to remember it, and his expression is sincere. It never occurred to me that Chris might talk about his family at work. There’s no hiding the warmth that emanates from Jim as he shakes my hand. “Your husband has become an invaluable member of my team. We’re lucky to have him.”

Jim’s sentiments are shared by others, and throughout the evening, after the meal is served and the plates have been cleared away, several of Chris’s coworkers congratulate him on his latest accomplishments. His direct reports flatter him, and I marvel at the posturing going on around me. This necessary hierarchy, and the relentless pursuit of the next rung on the corporate ladder, never fails to both amaze and exhaust me. It has the opposite effect on Chris. He draws incredible energy from it, and I can see why its absence has had such a negative effect on him. The golden boy radiates with happiness; it’s Chris’s night.

There’s a dais near the front of the room, complete with a microphone stand. Chris does not receive an individual acknowledgment, but he’s asked to rise when his team is honored. I clap loudly and smile for my husband. When they’re done handing out the awards, a DJ begins playing a variety of music suitable for this kind of occasion. There are plenty of slow songs: Frank Sinatra, Etta James. Michael Bublé for a more modern selection.

“Do you want another glass of champagne?” Chris asks.

“No thanks.”

“Then let’s dance,” he says. He leads me by the hand and we join the swirling couples on the dance floor. Chris clasps my left hand with his right and rests his other hand on my waist. We move to the music; he seems happy, and it’s been so long since I’ve seen him this way. He looks into my eyes and says, “You look stunning tonight. You always do.” He puts both arms around my waist and pulls me closer, and I rest my head on his shoulder. When the music ends we walk back to the table. The evening is winding down and the crowd in the banquet room is starting to disperse. “Are you ready to go?” Chris asks.

“Yes.”

He holds my hand as we walk outside and wait for the valet to bring the car. He used to hold it all the time, but he stopped holding it during the months he was out of work. Maybe because we didn’t go many places together or maybe because we just didn’t feel all that loving toward each other. But I’ve always loved the feel of his hand holding mine. I still do.

My wrap is worthless against the freezing temperature, and my feet are like blocks of ice. Chris notices my shivering and takes off his tuxedo jacket and places it gently over my shoulders. “Put your arms in.” I do as he says. He stands with his arm around my shoulders, impervious to the chill in his white dress shirt. My eyes are drawn to his wrist, and the onyx cuff links I gave him for our tenth wedding anniversary.

On the way home I say, “Your boss seems really nice.”

Chris turns up the heat another notch and the warm air blows, filling the interior. “He’s a giant asshole. You saw the good side, but believe me, I’ve seen the bad. It’s unsettling. I’m just waiting for him to turn on me the minute I make a single misstep, which is why I don’t.”

“Seriously?” I try to envision Jim without a smile on his face. His tone harsh instead of welcoming. He had me snowed, that’s for sure.

“Oh, yeah. It’s like watching an anger bomb detonate.”

“Why haven’t you said anything?”

Chris shrugs slightly, hands firmly on the wheel. “What difference would it have made? I can’t do anything about it.”

“Because I would have known what was going on. You would have had my sympathy, Chris. All this time, I’ve thought that the job was going so well, and that you loved it.” That the sacrifices our family made were worth something.

“I should never have taken this job, but at the time I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t think they have any intention of bringing me in from the field. They know that in this economy there aren’t many of us who can afford to make waves. I’ve been networking again, surfing job sites late at night in my hotel room. So far nothing has come up. There just isn’t much out there.”

Why, why couldn’t he talk to me like this before?

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “We’ll get by.”

“You keep saying that, Claire, and I appreciate it. But it isn’t okay.” He takes his eyes off the road for a second to look over at me. “I miss my family. I miss you.”

His words warm me like nothing else can. “Try and hold on a little longer. It’ll all work out eventually.” I have no idea if it will, but I don’t know what else to say.

At home, Chris locks up and sets the alarm. I leave my phone tucked inside my evening bag and for the first time in a long time, Chris doesn’t disappear into the office. Instead, he lets Tucker out and tells me he’ll be up in a minute. In our bedroom, I put on my warmest pajamas in an attempt to offset the lingering chill, then remove the elaborate makeup and brush my teeth. I burrow into the bed feeling drowsy, the warmth and softness lulling me into a state of relaxation.

Chris makes his way upstairs. He doesn’t turn on the lights but the water runs and the toilet flushes in the master bathroom. Silently, he pulls back the covers and slides between the sheets. Before I drift off completely I’m aware of a shifting of weight, of movement that encircles me. I teeter at the precipice between wakefulness and sleep, and then I fall, wrapped tightly in the arms of my husband.