Текст книги "Covet"

Автор книги: Tracey Garvis-Graves

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

2

chris

On Monday morning, I stop for coffee on the way to the airport. The line for the drive-through at Starbucks reaches clear around the building and tapping impatiently on the steering wheel does nothing to make it move faster. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’ve allowed plenty of time to get to the airport, and I’m in no danger of missing my flight.

Stopping at this Starbucks has become part of my new routine, and worrying about my rapidly increasing caffeine consumption accomplishes nothing, so I don’t. I don’t let myself worry about all this travel, either. I didn’t have any choice. Claire understands; she gave me her blessing. Reluctantly, but still. The kids, though. That’s another story. I try my best not to think about it.

I’m grateful to be able to spend one day at company headquarters, but my cube’s chest-high walls provide zero privacy. I loathe open-plan offices, but a lot of the big software companies have embraced it like it’s the next big thing. Whoever said it was better for company morale and collaboration has never tried to get anything done. The constant interruptions are a productivity killer, at least for me, which is why I don’t arrive at the office earlier than 8:00 A.M. on Fridays; I get more done at home.

I miss my old company, which had one thousand fewer employees than this one. I miss my old office, with its four real walls and a door that closed.

I miss my kids and my house, and even though she probably wouldn’t believe me if I told her so, I miss Claire.

I miss a lot of things.

3

daniel

Traffic is light on the parkway a little after 10:00 A.M. on Monday morning. Drivers who aren’t speeding slow down anyway, and the ones who are going too fast slam on their brakes when they notice my police car in their rearview mirrors. I pull them over and listen to the same worn-out excuses before I write them a ticket. A man wearing a three-piece suit and driving a BMW rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath when I hand over the citation for speeding. I stand there until he looks at me. “Slow down,” I say, and I don’t smile when I say it.

The next car I pull over has a woman behind the wheel. She gets pissy almost immediately, exhaling loudly and glancing at her watch like I’ve ruined her morning on purpose. “Do you have any idea how fast you were going, ma’am?” My guess is no, because using her rearview mirror to apply her makeup and talking on the phone probably used up all her awareness. “The speed limit on this stretch is fifty-five. I clocked you going seventy.”

She opens her mouth, ready to protest, but then hands me the documents I asked for and sighs loudly. “I’m going to be late,” she says. She pulls a lipstick out of her purse and goes to town on her mouth as I walk back to my car.

I patrol the parkway until lunchtime and then pull into Subway to grab a sandwich and a Coke to take back to the station. Later I’ll head toward the suburbs, hoping that it’s quiet and that there are no unpleasant surprises waiting for me, like a missing child or a domestic dispute.

I think back to the woman I pulled over the other day. The pretty blonde in the SUV with a burned-out taillight. I remember her smile and how nice she was.

And how for the rest of my shift I kept picturing her face because she reminded me so much of Jessie.

4

claire

I’m dusting the built-in bookcases in the family room when the rumble of construction machinery, so loud and foreign in my neighborhood, startles me. I look out the window, in the direction of Justin and Julia’s backyard, which abuts mine, and spot a bright yellow excavator fifty yards away. The man operating the controls lowers the bucket and metal slams into dirt. They’re digging the hole for the swimming pool today.

I run my cloth over a picture of Josh and Jordan, set it down, and then smile when I pick up a hand-carved wooden sculpture Chris and I bought on the beach in Hawaii a month after he lost his job. The trip had been his idea. He bookmarked the websites for several resorts and asked me to pick one. “I may never have time off like this again, Claire,” he said. “When I start a new job I might not be able to get away for a while.” That was back when he thought it would be only a matter of weeks before he found another job. Before either of us knew just how bad things would get.

I’d been begging him for years to take a vacation, and it would be only the second time we’d gone away by ourselves since Josh and Jordan were born. My mom and dad took the kids for a week while we drank margaritas and swam in the ocean. We walked on the beach holding hands, and spent hours having vacation-caliber sex in the giant king-size bed in our room. If unemployment bothered Chris, he didn’t let on, at least not then and not to me.

The expense of a vacation didn’t worry him at all. If he found a job right away, he’d be pulling in a double income due to the eight months of severance pay his employer had agreed to pay him. We had no debt other than the house, a healthy balance in savings, retirement accounts that we told ourselves not to worry about because they’d certainly recover when the economy turned around, and college funds for the kids. On paper, we looked pretty good. I was also employed. Granted, my freelance graphic design projects didn’t bring in a tenth as much as Chris’s lucrative commissions had, but it supplemented our income nicely and I was able to work from home. More importantly, I enjoyed it.

We were also able to extend our health insurance benefits for eighteen months, albeit it at a very steep price. That was the only thing that really worried me back then. I’m a type 1 diabetic—I was diagnosed at age twelve—and without health insurance my disease could severely derail our careful financial planning. I wear an insulin pump, which greatly improves my quality of life, but it doesn’t come cheap. There are frequent doctor visits to my endocrinologist and medical supplies that must be purchased each month. We had eighteen months before those benefits would run out.

Plenty of time.

It wasn’t like the downsizing had come as a complete shock, either. It was May 2009 and we’d spent the better part of the previous year listening to the nightly news reports of the plunging stock market and the housing bubble bursting in front of everyone’s eyes. The experts claimed the recession was coming to an end, but the lingering effects of high unemployment could plague the nation for months—maybe years—to come. We knew lots of people who had already lost their jobs and it seemed that everywhere we went someone was networking, leaving no stone unturned when it came to ferreting out a job lead.

The privately owned software company Chris worked for held on as long as they could, but they’d expanded quickly and relied too heavily on external funding and product revenue. Drowning in debt, they laid off their employees in waves, first the support staff and then the highest-paid executives. Chris had time to mentally prepare for what was coming. He didn’t know exactly when it would happen, but he knew the sales department would be next. “Then who will sell their product?” I asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” Chris said. “No one’s buying it right now and they won’t stay afloat long enough to ride this out. I’ll be surprised if the company is still in business in six months.” In the end, it took only three before they shut their doors for good.

I was sitting at the kitchen table assembling the treat bags for Jordan’s upcoming birthday party—pink cellophane filled to the top with assorted candy—when I heard the garage door go up that day. My first thought was that Chris decided to knock off early, but that was wishful thinking. Chris loves to work and it isn’t in his nature to stop unless he has to. He had held the position of sales manager for eight years, but when he walked into the kitchen holding a cardboard box containing the contents of his office, and a folder outlining the details of his severance package, it didn’t matter that his team—under his relentless guidance—had shattered every prior sales record in the company.

Times were hard.

I walked over to him. “I am so sorry.”

He set the box down on the island, pulled me into his arms, and gave me a kiss. “I know. But we both knew it was coming.”

“Why didn’t you call me on your way home?”

He shook his head. “I had to turn in my cell phone.”

A woman in my yoga class, who often placed her mat next to mine, had recently confided that her husband lost his job and hadn’t stopped crying for three days. “He just couldn’t stop,” she said. “He parked himself in our home office and every time I walked by he was sitting behind the desk staring at the computer screen with tears running down his face.” I nodded in sympathy although I had no idea why she’d chosen to divulge this information to me because all we’d ever said to each other up until then was “Hello” and “Hard class today, huh?”

“I’m sure he’ll find something soon,” I said, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder.

She looked at me hopefully. “Do you really think so?”

“Sure.”

She doesn’t come to yoga anymore.

But Chris didn’t cry. In all the years we’d been together I’d never seen him shed a single tear. In fact, he didn’t even seem that upset. Everything he’d ever undertaken in his life had turned out perfectly. He’d grown up in a household where love was abundant but money was tight. The youngest of four siblings, he was accustomed to working for the things he wanted and he put himself through college, zooming through the University of Kansas with a 4.0. After graduation he landed a series of increasingly lucrative jobs, each one paying more than the one before.

Headhunters pursued him relentlessly, trying unsuccessfully to lure him away by promising to double his six-figure base salary and provide an uncapped commission structure. They dangled stock options and company cars in front of him to sweeten the deal, but he refused to budge. Loyal to a fault, he’d built the sales department from the ground up and felt personally responsible for his employees. He would never have left on his own.

None of this prepared him for the possibility that, someday, he might not land on his feet. Chris never once considered, even with the unemployment numbers looking bleaker every day, that he could be one of those left floundering, fighting for a position in a job pool that was shrinking and would end up smaller, figuratively speaking, than the inflatable one his children splashed around in on a hot day. Every man for himself.

Instead, Chris loosened his tie, smiled at me, and said, “It’s been a long time since we were home alone in the afternoon.” The sun’s rays flooded the kitchen via the skylight above Chris’s head, casting an ethereal glow on his striking features.

I smiled back. “It has.” Jordan was in kindergarten and both kids were gone all day, but we’d never once taken advantage of it, because Chris was always at work. When I saw that look in his eye, the one I knew well after so many years together, I thought we’d be fine. If you still want to make love to your wife an hour after losing your job, you probably aren’t that affected by the news.

Chris closed the distance between us, held my face in his hands, and kissed me tenderly, as if I was the most precious thing in the world to him. “What do you say, Claire?”

He groaned when I answered by putting my arms around him and pulling him closer so that our bodies touched. I took off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, feeling the weight of his stare as he watched my fingers moving. Inhaling the musky, woodsy scent of his cologne, I went right for that spot on his neck, the one just below his jaw that drove him wild every time. Tracing it with my tongue, I sucked and then scraped his skin gently with my teeth. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Right there.” He grabbed my face again and kissed me hard, then peeled off my tank top and pushed my shorts down until they landed in a puddle at my feet.

We didn’t even make it upstairs.

Once we dispensed with the rest of our clothes, Chris laid me down right on our kitchen table, the one he’d always joked about being sturdy and large enough to encourage just such an act. And when his orgasm arrived, nipping right at the heels of mine, the force of it slid me just far enough across the smooth, polished surface that I collided with the treat bags, and I can still remember the sound, the rapid pitter-patter of all that candy hitting the terra-cotta tile floor, one piece after another.

I’m jerked out of my reverie by the rumble of the excavator, even louder and more jarring than before. I look longingly at the sculpture I’m holding, finish dusting it, and carefully place it back on the shelf.

5

chris

The first thing I notice when I walk out of the Albuquerque airport is how hot and dry it is. I locate my rental car, place my suitcase in the trunk, and lay my jacket on the passenger seat. When I start the engine I adjust the vents so that the stale air doesn’t blast me in the face.

Using the GPS, I drive to the potential client’s office, where I spend the day pitching my company’s software solutions and overcoming the objections of a conference room full of people. The more they resist, the more I persevere, and the momentum builds until I know just when to pull back and let them convince methat my product is exactly what they need. At the end of the day, I’m the last one to leave and I pack up my materials and laptop and drive back to my hotel, ordering a sandwich from room service so I can eat with one hand while I enter the data for my daily sales report. Adrenaline courses through me and I ride the high from the events of the day. This has happened three times now, and Jim is already showering me with accolades, which is like a balm for my badly shredded ego.

And I want more.

Around midnight, I check my phone and notice that I missed the text Claire sent at nine o’clock this morning, asking if I made it here safely. I also missed the one she sent at noon and the one that came in at 4:00 P.M. It’s way too late to call her now, so I text her that everything is fine, reach for the other half of my sandwich, and turn back to my spreadsheet.

6

claire

At 6:00 A.M. the coffee finishes brewing and the sizzle of the last drop reverberates through the quiet kitchen when I remove the carafe and grab my favorite mug from the cupboard. I let Tucker out and then boot up my laptop and sit down at the island to check my e-mails, sipping slowly so I don’t burn my tongue and wishing there was a way to get the caffeine into my bloodstream faster. The first one, from Chris, was sent at 3:13 A.M., so either he stayed up late working or woke up extra early to get a jump on the day. Both options are equally possible.

To:Claire Canton

From:Chris Canton

Subject:Schedule

Leaving Albuquerque by 3 p.m. then heading to Santa Fe. When is the sign-up for fall soccer? Josh told me he definitely wants to play. Repairman coming to look at irrigation system Thursday morning at nine.

To:Chris Canton

From:Claire Canton

Subject:Re: Schedule

I already signed Josh up for soccer. Will make sure to be home on Thursday morning.

I pour a second cup of coffee, check the rest of my e-mails, and work on my computer until Bridget knocks softly on my front door at 7:00 A.M. We decided a couple of weeks ago that we’d walk four miles every morning this summer, before Sam leaves for work and while Josh and Jordan are still sleeping.

Sebastian stands beside her. His hair sticks up in crazy spikes and he’s wearing a Rolling Stones T-shirt and pajama pants. At fourteen, he’d rather sleep in during his summer break, but Bridget strong-armed him into babysitting because she knows Chris’s travel schedule makes it impossible for me to leave the house without someone here to watch the kids. Despite my protests, she won’t let Sebastian accept any money either, because it’s an easy gig and we’re gone only an hour. I keep an endless supply of Pop-Tarts in the cupboard for him and he’s usually sitting on the couch watching TV, covered in crumbs when we return, but I don’t care. He’s a good kid.

Bridget’s full of energy this morning, fueled by a caffeine addiction that would give me heart palpitations if I drank even half as much. Cheerful and upbeat, she wears a constant smile and reminds me of a sprinter, poised, waiting for the crack of the starter pistol. Throughout the day her children wear her down until she drops into bed only to rise and do it all again. Before she started her family, Bridget worked as a nurse in a pediatric oncology unit. She told me once that she missed it terribly, and sometimes wondered if giving it up to stay home with the boys was the right decision. “You can go back someday,” I assured her, and I meant it.

Bridget’s short blonde hair peeks out from under her baseball cap and she’s wearing a sweatshirt and capri-length workout pants. Cooler weather has finally blown in from the west and the gray sky threatens rain. We’ll be lucky if we don’t get poured on before we make it back home. I grab a sweatshirt of my own and we head out, power walking our way to the corner and turning left toward the bike trail that winds for miles through our tree-lined neighborhood.

“How are you getting along with Chris traveling all the time?” she asks.

“I’m doing okay,” I say. Bridget is my closest friend next to Elisa, and I could certainly admit that so far, despite my concerns, Chris’s travel schedule has had little impact on any of us. He spent most of the previous year holed up in our home office with the door closed while he networked over the phone or searched employment sites on his laptop. Half the time the kids didn’t even realize he was home, and when they did, they didn’t care, which broke my heart. His, too.

It isn’t that I don’t trust Bridget; I do. And God knows she’s got her own problems to deal with. Sam’s prowess—or luck, depending on who you ask—at the casino and the racetrack is legendary, and Bridget knows what it’s like to be alone because Sam spends all his time at work and the rest of his waking hours betting on the horses or playing poker. She admitted to me once, somewhat sheepishly, that Sam didn’t really connect with the kids until they were old enough to do the things he liked to do.

“Like gamble?” I asked. I was only half kidding.

She grimaced. “Yes. He takes them to Chiefs games. They know all about point spreads.”

I wouldn’t have a problem telling Bridget everything, but the truth is, I’m tired of talking about it—the recession, the horrible job market, Chris’s depression, and the resulting emotional upheaval that ripped through my household. I’m just done.

After a mile we pick up the pace. I strip off my sweatshirt and tie the sleeves around my waist, glancing up at the darkening sky.

“Ready for bunco tonight?” Bridget asks.

“Almost. I still need to make a Costco run.”

We discussed starting a neighborhood book club, but Elisa and I are the only ones who like to read, so we decided bunco might be more our speed. A simple dice game, a drink or two, and an excuse to leave the kids at home suited everyone just fine. Tonight the teenage girl who lives at the end of our street and occasionally babysits for me is taking Josh and Jordan to the park and then back to her house to swim in her family’s pool and eat hot fudge sundaes. The kids consider this the ultimate trifecta of summer fun and wish I’d host bunco more often.

We’re less than a quarter mile from home when the sky opens up and pours. We sprint, laughing, not really caring that we’re getting drenched. I shout good-bye as Bridget dashes into her house, and I burst through the front door of mine, wiping the water from my cheeks. Josh and Jordan are still asleep and Sebastian is watching an episode of Family Guythat’s been on our DVR for more than a year. He rises from the couch looking so tired, I tell him to go home and go back to bed. At the front door I press a five-dollar bill into his hand. “Don’t tell your mom,” I say, ruffling his spiky hair.

He grins. “Thanks, Claire.”

Later that day the kids and I jump in the car and drive to Costco. Josh and Jordan gorge on the best samples while I load up my cart. At home I put everything away and give the house a quick once-over to make sure it’s still clean. The kids play in the backyard with Bridget’s youngest son, Griffin, stopping occasionally for Popsicles or to use the restroom. I sit at the kitchen island, sipping iced tea and working on some graphics for a local car dealership advertisement until Griffin goes home and the babysitter comes to collect Josh and Jordan. “Be good and behave,” I say, bending down to kiss each of them good-bye. I caution the babysitter to keep a close eye on the kids when they’re in the pool. “Make sure you’re in the water with them, okay?”

“I will, Mrs. Canton,” she says. “My parents will be there, too.” I shut the door and turn off my laptop, then pull the fruit and cheese I picked up at Costco out of the fridge. After arranging the wedges of Brie and cheddar on a platter, and surrounding them with grapes and chunks of melon, I set a small bowl of crackers next to the platter. I have exactly five more minutes of quiet before the girls show up.

Julia arrives first, holding a bottle of chardonnay, and—I’ll be honest—she looks rough. She’s only thirty-two, but already there are deep grooves in her face, as though her skin is never fully hydrated. Her eyes look tired and her hair isn’t as shiny as it usually is.

“Hi,” I say, and I reach out and give her a spontaneous hug. She feels tiny and brittle in my arms, like she’s not eating enough.

“Well hello to you, too, Claire,” she says, surprised by my greeting. She’s not an overly affectionate person unless it’s the end of the evening. When she’s really drunk, she tells me how much she loves me, accompanied by hugs and sloppy kisses.

I shut the door and follow her into the kitchen. I hand her a corkscrew, feeling like a giant hypocrite but knowing she will drink tonight no matter what I say or how gently I suggest that she abstain. She pours a large glass and takes a drink.

The doorbell rings and I yell for whoever it is to come in. Elisa and Bridget walk into the kitchen together. Bridget holds a giant bowl of tortilla chips and has a jar of her homemade salsa tucked under her arm. Elisa balances a cheesecake in one hand and holds a six-pack of Amstel Light in the other.

“We’ll never be able to eat all that,” I say. I clear some space on the counter and take the bowl of chips from Bridget. Standing on my tiptoes, I open the cupboard and reach for a small bowl on the shelf and then pour the salsa into it. I love Bridget’s salsa. She uses the freshest ingredients and it’s spicy enough to make my lips tingle. I dunk a chip into it and groan when I pop it in my mouth. “This batch is excellent,” I tell her. Elisa sets down the cheesecake on the island next to the wine bucket. I’m definitely going to have a bite or two of that.

When I first met the girls and they found out about my diabetes, they went overboard trying to accommodate my disease. They’d show up with sugar-free cookies and platters of carrots, celery, and broccoli until I explained that my pump does most of the work for me and there’s nothing I can’t have in moderation as long as I pay attention to my readings and adjust my insulin accordingly. I sensed their relief when I assured them they could bring whatever they wanted, especially since no one ever touched the horrible cookies, and the veggies went right into the trash.

“Where’s Chris this week?” Julia asks, topping off her glass and settling herself onto a stool next to the island.

“Santa Fe and Albuquerque.”

“It must be so hard with him on the road all the time,” she says. “Aren’t you lonely?”

I was lonely long before Chris went out on the road, but she doesn’t know that. “Yes,” I say, answering honestly. “But he really needed that job, so the kids and I will just have to make do.”

She snaps her fingers, like she’s just come up with the best idea ever. “You should go to one of those Pure Romance parties.”

“What’s Pure Romance?” Bridget asks.

“You know,” Julia says. “Like Pampered Chef but for vibrators. Instead of bunco, one of us could host a party next month.”

Bridget laughs. “Why am I not surprised that you know this?” Julia loves to talk about her sex life, and we’re used to her oversharing.

“Don’t knock it, Bridge,” Julia says. “They’ve got a fantastic product line.”

Bridget opens a bottle of beer and sits down beside Julia. “I’ve got four kids and a husband who wants to have sex every night. How, exactly, am I supposed to make time for a vibrator?”

“I’m just saying it doesn’t hurt to have a backup,” Julia says. She turns toward me. “Are you even paying attention, Claire?”

“Not really,” I say, taking a sip of my iced tea.

“But you’re the whole reason I brought it up,” she says.

“Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I can get the job done without a sex toy.”

“How very boring, Claire,” Julia says.

I shrug. “I’m not that fancy.” I’m ready to change the subject. We usually save this kind of talk for later in the evening, after the girls have had a few drinks, but apparently we’re starting early tonight. Maybe because Julia is already a few drinks ahead of everyone. The subject matter doesn’t embarrass me, but it does remind me that, technically, I am in need of a replacement for Chris.

The temperature has climbed significantly since this morning and the rain has moved on, so we’re going to sit on the deck to play our game. I turn on the stereo and try to remember which button activates the outdoor speakers. “Can someone pop their head outside and tell me if they hear music?”

We play several rounds of bunco and Bridget wins the pot every time. “Sam will be so proud,” she says with just a hint of sarcasm. “Maybe he’ll win big tonight, too.”

Bridget will have to give her babysitter most of the money because her two oldest boys are at a sleepover and she had to hire someone to watch the two youngest. Sam is no more likely to stay home on bunco night than Chris is to share his feelings with me.

When we come inside, Julia tries to convince us to go back to her house. Justin and Skip are hanging out with the kids and are probably knocking back a few drinks of their own.

I beg off even though it’s only nine o’clock. The babysitter has brought the kids home and they’re upstairs taking showers. I’d have no one to watch them, and I’m tired and looking forward to relaxing with a DVD after I get them in bed.

Julia stands and sways slightly as she pours the last of the chardonnay into her glass. She makes her way through my kitchen, sipping the wine, and heads toward the front door. “I’ll bring your glass back tomorrow, Claire,” she says over her shoulder. But she won’t. I always have to retrieve them.

Elisa pecks me on the cheek and gathers her things. “Thanks, Claire. I’ll see you later. Bye, Bridget.” She hurries out and I know it’s because she wants to follow Julia and make sure she gets home okay.

Bridget yawns. This morning’s caffeine boost has been eclipsed by the sedating effects of a few beers and the cumulative fatigue brought about by a day’s worth of parenting.

“See you tomorrow at seven?” I ask as I walk her out.

She leans over and gives me a quick hug. “Sure. Thanks for hosting.”

“You’re welcome.”

It takes me fifteen minutes to clean up the kitchen and the deck after I tuck the kids into bed. Before I head upstairs to slip between my own sheets, I check my e-mail.

To:Claire Canton

From:Chris Canton

Subject:Kids

I got your message. Tell the kids I’m sorry I missed them—I was on a conference call, but it was nice to hear their voices on the recording. Busy day tomorrow. I’ll try to check in when I get back to the hotel. Closed the deal in Albuquerque. Hope I can do the same in Santa Fe.