Cycles (3 page)

     
"I'm sorry," I say softly, "the spirit is willing but the body's beat."

     
"That's okay," he says, "I'm about dead, too."

     
"This is ridiculous." I suddenly want to cry.

     
"No, this is just life, Darla," he says with a smile meant to comfort. "Don't worry, we'll get around to it."

~:~:~:~:~

     
The creases in his forehead say it's been a rough day. The gruff “hello” means it was worse than usual.

     
I ask, "What happened?"

     
"Damn tourists, skiing where they shouldn't and with a horse in tow, if you can believe that kind of stupidity."

     
"Ah." I let him be. It's the best thing to do or we'll be scrapping like infants in no time, because he'll take it out on me. Not that I don't use him the same way sometimes. I know it's not personal, it's just you're there, y'know?

     
He eats dinner in silence, occasionally acknowledging the boys' yakking. Every time he looks at me, I smile, encourage him to unwind without words.

     
I keep Bryce and Joel occupied with Scrabble while he reads by the fire. By the time I've checked behind the boys' ears and am sure they're tucked snug, the living room is empty and the fire banked. I find Cole already in bed, blankets to his ears.

     
Easing in, I kiss the curve of his shoulder, stroke his arm. "Are you all right?"

     
"Yeah, I'm just worn out—and cranky."

     
"How about a little stress relief?" I kiss his neck, slide a hand under his sweats to play with the springy curls below his abdomen. "I'll even do all the work." I brush the root of his penis for enticement.

     
"Darla," he rolls toward me with a frustrated huff, "I'm sorry, I really am. I'm just not up to it. Tomorrow?"

     
"Town meeting."

     
"Oh. Yeah, I forgot."

     
I explore a little more to see if I can get any rising indication he isn't as worn out as he thinks. He lets me try, I'll give him that—but when he said he's not up to it, he wasn't lying. Which makes me feel guilty for pushing. With a sigh I pull the blankets around us in cocoon comfort and listen to his heartbeat until I fall asleep.

~:~:~:~:~

     
Rory smiles. "Thanks, Darla. Are you sure you only want ten bucks?"

     
"I'm sure. It wasn't anything too involved."

     
"You have the most beautiful hair I've ever seen."

     
What? Did the kid say what I think he said? Even though Cole is a few feet away, I see his attention snap toward us, ears practically sticking out of his head.

     
"I'm sorry," I try not to laugh like a nervous school girl, "but pardon me?"

     
"Nothing, never mind." He's blushing again. Don't tell me he has a crush. It's nice to know I'm not as much of an old bag as I feel these days, but I don't need any puppy adoration right now.

     
Two steps and Cole is beside me, brawny arm draped around my shoulders. He is so full of presence when he wants to be—and right now he's all Dr. Garber. "Rory, are you trying to sweet-talk my wife?"

     
"No, I just—" Rory stammers, "I mean, yes, but—my mother always said a gentleman should compliment a nice woman if she—I meant no offense, Cole."

     
"Your mom's right," Cole says with a grin. Devilish bastard. I can tell he's pleased with himself, having made his point so easily. "She does have beautiful hair," he adds, kissing the top of my head like I'm his pet woman or something.

     
I narrow my eyes. If Rory wasn't still standing here, I'd stick my tongue out at the boy I'm married to. "Thank you," I say to Rory and accompany it with a polite smile, "it's sweet of you to say."

     
As Rory retreats, Cole says for my ears only, "Yeah, he wants you."

     
I thump his chest. "Like you have anything to worry about, stud."

     
He angles his head and studies me, gaze denim-blue and serious. "Are you sure about that?"

     
My chest aches with love. "Yes, I'm sure."

     
But his eyes are troubled. He feels the undercurrent, too. And he doesn't know what to do about it any more than I do.

     
He keeps hold of me for half an hour—a possessive strangulation that makes me antsy. While it's also nice to know he still wants to make sure everybody knows who I belong to, it's pretty annoying when he thinks he has to prove it to some young buck.

     
He should let it go. But alone in the truck, wedged among his traveling vet gear, he has to bitch about it. Like it's some kind of personal affront to his masculinity that another man finds me attractive. I bite my tongue. I know this 'tude. There's nothing to be gained by contradicting him and I'll tease him for it later. But he's still glowering as I open the front door and huskily asks if I'm coming to bed as soon as I check on the boys—and that ticks me off.

     
I let him go ahead and I'll wait until he's asleep. It has been too long, but I'll be damned if he's going to make love to me just to prove I'm his. I've never given him any reason to doubt my fidelity—and I resent having to prove it with sex on demand.

~:~:~:~:~

     
"...so I don't know when I'll be home."

     
Cole sounds tired even through Mr. Bell's wire filter.

     
"Where are you meeting him?" I ask.

     
"Bill's. You know the sheriff, it's his night out. And I really have to—it's the only day this week I can talk to him about something."

     
"Okay. Be careful—and don't let him get you too drunk."

     
"I will. Be careful, I mean." He pauses. "I love you, Darla."

     
"I love you, too."

     
"Very much."

     
"Yeah, me too."

     
I hang up the phone more adamantly than necessary—and find Carol and Lindsey frowning at me from the table.

     
"You guys really are in a slump, aren't you?" Lindsay says sympathetically.

     
"Look," Carol takes charge, "you need to do something about this right now. Send the boys over tomorrow after school. Brian's coming home from college and the four of us will have a great weekend. You can pick them up Sunday afternoon. That will give you and Cole plenty of time to work on things."

     
Lindsay looks me over critically. "Maybe you should wrap yourself in Saran Wrap or something..."

     
Carol strangles a laughing snort. "Oh that'll work, Lindsay, squash her boobs flat as a pancake—that's sure to turn him on."

     
"No, seriously."

     
"I am not wrapping myself up like hamburger."

     
"I'm telling you, drop the boys off, don't tell Cole the house is empty—and when he gets home, jump his bones. Then you have two days to go at it until you get it right."

     
"She has a point," Lindsay agrees, "no quality time is your worst enemy here. He worships the ground you walk on, Darla—and you damn well know he does."

     
"But having time doesn't really help." I'm whining but can't help it. "It's still the same old thing—do this, do that, rub this, rub that, slam-bam, over and done, what do we got to eat in the fridge?"

     
"Crisp on a cracker," Lindsey barks, "then do something outrageous! It's sex, woman, not physics. Do something Darla Miller would have done that Darla Garber's forgot she likes."

     
"But I can't think of anything we haven't done a hundred times!"

     
"No," Carol smiles faintly, "I guess you've probably covered all the bases—lucky thing. So do something unexpected then. Even if it's stupid, just so it's out of the ordinary. Put a note on the door. Tell him to strip in the mud room, that you're both going to be naked for forty-eight hours."

     
Lindsey agrees. "She's right, you know—it's the effort. It might be all the jump start you need."

     
"Right," Carol says. "What you guys need to do is talk about this honestly—and there's something about being naked and silly that makes it easier. Do it, leave him a note. But for God's sake, do something proactive or else stop crying about it!"

     
I gape. They're talking good sense and my mind is flooded with ways to improve upon their suggestion. I have to laugh. "You guys are so smart, sometimes I want to kiss you both!"

     
"Well control yourself, please," Lindsay says with mock indignity, "'cause baby don't play that way."

~:~:~:~:~

     
I'm standing in the middle of the Garber Love Shrine. Cole is going to laugh himself sick. I can't even look at it without grinning like an idiot. It's silly, but it's romantic. I think so anyway, because I can safely say there's not a picture taken of us before we were thirty left in the crawlspace—they're all here, taped to every available vertical surface.

     
I check my scene. The wine is cold. I tried to wedge it into the refrigerator, but it wouldn't fit, so I put it in a bucket of snow—and it looks a lot nicer than I thought it would next to the bed. Although dragging the mattress down the hall wasn't as easy as I thought it would be, it's in front of the fire and dressed to the nines in fresh, air-dried sheets. I even aired out the down comforter and used the Egyptian cotton duvet I was saving for next winter.