Dry as Rain (11 page)

All smoke and shadows, the Speak Easy Lounge lived up to its name. I lagged behind Danielle, my dark mood mirroring the dreary atmosphere. As though mocking me, Sade's “Smooth Operator” played. I gave the dimly lit surroundings a cursory glance, relieved to find no familiar faces.

The young hostess we followed stopped and laid down two plastic menus on a table in the center of the dining room. I shook my head and pointed to the corner booth at the back of the restaurant. With an eye roll, she plucked the menus back up and headed for the booth. I started to thank her, but she was off.

Under normal circumstances, I'd be a gentleman and gesture for my date to sit first, but today anonymity won out over chivalry. Brushing past her, I quickly claimed the seat that put my back to the door.

Danielle frowned as she slid into the booth after me.

I made a deliberate point of looking her over. “I figured looking as lovely as you do, you should be the one people see.”

Wearing a blue strapless dress and matching shawl, she did look pretty, but embarrassingly overdressed. She had wanted to go to Soho's, but with that being one of the hottest and busiest spots in town, being seen there with her would have been suicide.

She tightened the shawl around her shoulders and looked around. “Well, this is, um . . . nice.”

I knew of course she was disappointed. She had dressed to be seen, not to hide out in this hole-in-the-wall. I winked at her. “Wait til you taste their crab cakes.”

She picked up a menu. “I'm allergic to shellfish, remember?”

I didn't recall her ever offering up that information and felt fairly certain I wouldn't have asked, but saw no benefit in saying so. “That's right.” I picked up my menu. Its plastic jacket wore a tacky coating of grease and alcohol.

Rubbing her finger and thumb together, she wrinkled her nose at the one she held. When she noticed me watching her, she faked a smile.

I closed my menu without having read it and set it down. It didn't matter what I ordered. My nerves would make it impossible to eat.

Wisps of blonde from her upswept hair cascaded down the sides of her face and neck, falling on bare shoulders. “It's so good to be away from work. I can't tell you how much it means to me that you took off just to—”

Before she said anything we would both regret, I blurted, “Danielle, we need to talk.”

Her hand froze as panic flashed in her eyes. The waitress appeared before she could question me. She wore all black, a small amber stud in her nose, and a look that made it clear she would rather be elsewhere. “Can I get y'all something to drink?” She tapped the point of her pen on her pad, waiting for Danielle to answer.
Tap-tap. Tap-tap.
It was all I could do not to grab the pen from her hand and fling it across the room.

Danielle ordered the house red. The waitress's eyes lingered on her a moment as though debating whether or not to card. Finally, she directed her attention to me. I regretted my new resolution to abstain in Danielle's presence. A nice stiff drink would do wonders to help me stomach the emotional bloodbath I was about to inflict. “Coke, please.”

After the waitress traipsed off, Danielle touched the turquoise charm dangling from the thin silver chain around her neck. “What do you want to talk about?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

My original plan had been to take her to a public but low-key place where if she decided to hurl drinks and accusations, at least there'd be few witnesses, hopefully none of whom would recognize us. My intent was to be direct and tell her how I'd made an awful mistake, that I tried to put a toe tag on a marriage that was apparently still breathing.

“What is it?”

Before I could plunge the knife, an idea to spare us both came to me. I gathered her hands, soft and shaky, into mine.
Please let this work.
“I have some good news.”

Fixed on mine, her eyes had never looked so green . . . or vulnerable.

“We haven't posted it yet, but there's a job for a senior sales associate in Leesboro. It pays almost double what you're making now.” My enthusiasm sounded manufactured, even to me.

The waitress reappeared with our drinks on a round, cork-lined tray. She dealt us two cocktail napkins printed with a vodka logo, before setting down the glasses.

I gave her a quick glance. “We're going to need a minute.”

Danielle's troubled eyes never left mine. “Leesboro? That's like three hours away.”

Perspiration dampened my undershirt. I slid my suit jacket off and laid it over the back of the booth. “I know it's far. I was going to be selfish and not tell you, but that wouldn't be right.” I hated myself at that moment and kind of hoped she'd hate me too. It would make this all so much easier.

Her fingernail scraped my thumb as she snatched her hands from me. I rubbed at the mark she left. “I'm just thinking of you.”

Her expression hardened. “Me?”

It was all I could do to keep my hand steady as I sipped my soda, peeking over the rim at her. “You're young, beautiful, and smart. You ought to be moving up.”

Her chin quivered. “I'll move up at Thompson's.”

I lay my hands palms up onto the table, inviting hers back into them. “It's a man's world there. You've got to know that by now.”

She looked at my hands but made no move toward them. “Are you implying the management practices sexual discrimination?”

“Look, I'm just being honest, as your friend. Off the record, Thompson will never let you get far there. It's a boy's club all the way.”

She lifted her head, looking both defiant and hurt. “You're not saying that as my friend.”

I felt like the world's biggest jerk but reassured myself that the job really was an upward move for her, and a promotion beat getting dumped any day. “Of course I am.”

She touched her fingertips to her forehead. “You want me to move away?”

“Of course not. I just want you to be successful.” It was hard to believe that just a year ago I prided myself on being an honest man. On going against the stereotype most thought of when they heard I was a car salesman. Still, what I was doing here wasn't exactly lying. I really did want her to be successful.

“What did I do wrong?”

I wrapped my hand around her wrist, trying to offer what comfort I could. “It's nothing like that.”

The waitress passed by, slowed to consider us, then kept going.

Danielle covered her mouth, as though she were about to be sick. “I thought things were good between us.”

I knew this was going to be difficult but had no idea she would take it this hard or how contagious her pain would be. “Things were fine.”

Anger ignited her eyes.
“Fine?”

Panic coursed through me as I scavenged my mind for the words to make my last ones right.

Her mouth spread as though she were about to smile, but when she scrunched her eyes I knew she was on the verge of tears, not laughter. “Just fine? Just the other night you told me I was amazing; now, I'm just
fine
.”

“You're reading too much into what I'm saying.”

When she crossed her arms, the shawl slipped from her shoulders. “I don't think so.”

A woman cackled nearby. I threw a glance over my shoulder, relieved to discover her amusement was directed at her male companion, not us.

Danielle reached out, took my face in her hand and turned my head so that I was looking at her. “Since I've known you, you've been miserable with Kyra. For the last six months you were together, all you talked about is how she changed. How she doesn't want you. How lonely you are.”

I took a sip of my drink, but the bitter taste in my mouth remained. “Things have changed,” I whispered.

Her eyes welled again. “They sure have.”

Thirteen

Though I'd never admitted it, I had always dreaded the night. I didn't mind the ominous shadows, the eerie stillness, or the feeling that the world, like the sun, had deserted me, half as much as the silence. On my occasional day off, while it was still light, there were enough dogs barking, car doors slamming, and ambulance sirens to distract me.

Nighttime was a different story. After all the domestic chores were done, the lawn mowed, bills paid, and phone dormant, the house became obscenely quiet—hushed enough to hear every last one of my rampant thoughts. Worse still, I had all night to entertain them.

I thought about my father, work, my IRA, but mostly about Kyra. When and why had she stopped loving me? Why couldn't I do the same, so her rejection wouldn't hurt so much?

I tiptoed up the stairs to check on her, hoping I'd stayed out late enough that she'd gone to bed without me. Deep, rhythmic breaths came from the partially closed door. I inched it open and peered in. Dressed in a lace-rimmed nightgown, with her hair draped over her shoulders, she looked angelic.

Folds of silk fell in gentle waves across her contours, while the comforter lay in a heap at the end of the bed we once shared. I glanced at what used to be my side. Next to it stood a square mahogany table that my father had made. Besides my black hair, angled eyes, and last name, it was the only thing I'd inherited from him. He left us when I was four and died two years later. “What goes around comes around,” my mother had said. Most days I felt the same. Others . . . well, I just wanted to know him.

The small table looked naked without one of my books resting on it. Usually, it would be holding some volume on the history of the world, Japan, or World War II, along with a pair of reading glasses that no one except Kyra was allowed to see me in.

Beside her side of the bed sat a round glass table, on which rested two candles, that stupid romance novel, a bottle of lotion, and something that hadn't been out this morning—a four-by-six framed photograph of the two of us in front of Niagara Falls, taken on our fifth anniversary. Even though I couldn't make out the details in the dim lighting, I didn't need to. I knew the picture by heart. We were sunburned, disheveled, and tired, but there was something about the way she lay against my chest, grinning at the camera that made my heart ache every time I looked at it.

I slid her cell phone just under the bed to make her think she'd dropped it. As I pulled back the top sheet to climb in, the oil painting above the bed caught my eye. I'd looked at it a million times, but tonight, I actually saw it. The painted mother kissed the rosy cheek of a little girl whose pigtails spilled from her bonnet.

I'm not sure why, but the child made me think of Benji. I hadn't heard from him since the other night and hoped that was a good sign that things were going well.

I looked down at Kyra one more time, fighting the urge to touch her face. Her lips were slightly parted, and her eyelids fluttered. I'd give anything to know what she was dreaming about.

Careful not to wake her, I climbed into bed, cringing as the mattress leaned under my weight. She moaned softly and turned on her side. I held my breath until she settled again. As I lay there looking at her back, feeling the warmth of where she'd just been, I let my mind wander with possibilities of the way things might go from here and found myself hoping for the hopeless.

I must have fallen asleep because a noise jolted me awake. Confused, I blinked open my eyes and waited for the fog of slumber to lift. I felt for Kyra, but my fingertips touched only cool sheets. Across the room, the alarm clock numbers were blurred, red streaks atop the dresser.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I threw back the sheet. My ears strained to catch any movement. Maybe I hadn't heard anything after all. Maybe it had been a dream.

Slowly, I stood. Kyra was probably in the living room, reading or watching TV, but until I knew for sure, trying to sleep would be futile.

As I tiptoed down the hall, I cupped a hand to my ear trying to decipher the muted television voices, to make out what she was watching. Knowing her, it was either one of the music channels or a decorating show. The noise was too low and muffled to tell.

I peered around the corner, hoping first that she was there and second that she wouldn't see me. On the couch, she lay with her head propped on one of the fancy round pillows I was forever picking up off the floor. Her face glowed and dimmed with the flickering light from the TV. When I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, the floorboard squeaked beneath me. My stomach dropped, and my gaze flew to meet hers.

One side of her mouth curled up in what looked more like a grimace than smile. “Hi,” she said dully. Gone was the spark in her eyes that had burned so bright earlier in the day.

Unsure what to do, I just raised my hand in a sort of half wave. She patted the couch, inviting me to join her. I sat beside the place her knees bent. She pushed herself back into the cushions to give me room.

“How was your day?” she asked with an expression I couldn't read. Before I could answer, something on TV caught her attention. When I turned to see what she was looking at, I felt a little slighted to find it was nothing but a shampoo commercial. After a few seconds, she turned back as though suddenly interested in my answer.