Текст книги "Covet"

Автор книги: Tracey Garvis-Graves

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

27

claire

“Best behavior, please,” I remind the kids when I pull into my parents’ driveway. I carry their bags into the house and give my mom a hug. “Don’t let them talk you into buying a bunch of souvenirs at the circus,” I say. “And don’t give them too much candy unless you want one of them to throw up.”

“I think your dad and I can handle it,” she teases. She takes the kids’ bags and places them at the bottom of the stairs. “Meanwhile, you get to spend some time with your husband tonight. Any plans?”

“Just dinner at home. It’s in the oven, so I better go.” I kiss Josh and Jordan good-bye. “They’re all yours,” I say. “Good luck.”

The smell of baking chicken greets me when I walk into the kitchen. I throw my keys and purse on the counter and prepare the rest of the meal. It takes me a half hour to make the risotto, but it’s Chris’s favorite. Rummaging around in the fridge, I locate a fresh bag of salad. Perfect. It occurs to me suddenly that the house is rather quiet. I call out to Chris. No response. He’s not in the office or the family room, so I walk upstairs. He’s passed out on our bed, wearing only a towel.

When he’s asleep he looks so calm, like the demons that once plagued him are finally gone. I try to rouse him. “Hey,” I say, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. “Chris.” He doesn’t even flinch. Sleep is a basic human need, and I can hardly fault him for requiring it, especially when it’s been in such short supply, but the selfish part of me, the lonely part, wants him to wake up. I run my hand over his chest; it’s been so long since I’ve touched him, or he’s touched me, and the warmth of his skin brings back memories of a happier time. I shake him a little harder. “Chris. Wake up.” He continues to sleep. Giving up, I walk back downstairs and set a place for myself at the kitchen table. I eat in silence, giving Tucker scraps when he begs. When I’m done I put the leftovers in the refrigerator.

Restless, I slip my phone into my pocket, and grab my purse. In the garage, I slide behind the wheel, wiping away tears, feeling frustrated and mentally chastising myself for being so emotional.

I back out and crank the stereo. Sheryl Crow wants to know if he’s strong enough to be her man. I just want to know if mine will ever be awake and at home. The sun blazes in the sky, still burning brightly at 6:00 P.M., and I reach for my sunglasses, driving aimlessly, enjoying the music. After a while some of my frustration melts away. It’s nice to be out of the house, with no responsibilities.

I could see a movie; I’m starting to get used to seeing them alone. But it’s Saturday night and I don’t feel like mingling with the couples on date night. I could go to a bookstore and browse, maybe order a latte and read for a while.

Driving sounds better, though. Delilahis on the radio and sometimes the stories of lost love and heartache depress me, but tonight I feel a kinship, so I listen. My hip vibrates, but I let the call go to voice mail. I’m in no mood to talk, especially if it’s Chris feeling remorseful. But then I worry that the call was from my parents and there’s a problem with Josh or Jordan. I dig the phone out of my pocket and punch the code for my voice mail. I smile when I hear my mom’s voice assuring me that everything is fine and the kids are having a great time. “We just finished dinner and we’re on our way to the circus.” She knows me too well. I delete the message but then I’m surprised when I realize I have one more to listen to. It came in the day before, around noon, but somehow I missed it.

“Hey, Claire. It’s Daniel Rush. Give me a call when you get a chance.”

His voice mail message has sent a frisson of excitement through me. I scroll through my contacts until I find his number, and he answers on the third ring.

“Daniel? It’s Claire. Sorry I missed your call yesterday. I didn’t realize you’d left a message until a few minutes ago.” Suddenly I feel awkward calling his cell phone on a Saturday night. What if he’s sitting around with a girlfriend or something? Or out on a date?

I hear the sound of a TV in the background, but then the volume cuts out and I don’t hear anything but him. “That’s okay,” he says. “I just wanted to see if the speed limit sign was helping. I forgot to ask you about it when I dropped off the tattoos and stickers.”

“It is. The cars are going much slower. Sometimes my neighbor and I sit in the driveway while the kids are playing and watch people slam on their brakes. It’s highly entertaining.”

He starts laughing. “Oh, I have no doubt.”

“Elisa brings out a pad of paper and pretends to take down license plates.”

“Maybe you should just start issuing tickets,” he says. “Have a little fun.”

“Maybe we should,” I say.

The conversation lifts my mood and I’m trying to think of something to say so Daniel won’t hang up, when he asks, “Where are you?”

“Nowhere. Just driving.” I expect him to give me a hard time for talking on my cell phone while I’m behind the wheel, but he doesn’t.

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Any plans?”

“No.”

“Do you want to go for a motorcycle ride?”

The invitation catches me off guard. But instead of wondering why Daniel is asking another man’s wife to take a ride on his motorcycle, I say sure and pull over so I can program his address into my GPS.

He lives near the edge of town, beyond our subdivision where the houses are farther apart and about twenty years older. It takes fifteen minutes to get there and when I pull up he’s sitting on the front steps of a small ranch-style home. The landscape has a rural feel to it, and Daniel’s house is bordered on one side by vibrant yellow prairie grass. I park and turn off my SUV, wondering what the hell I’m doing as I open the door and get out of the car. He stands as I approach, and when he smiles at me his whole face lights up. It looks as if he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days and the dark stubble that covers his face, and the worn jeans and long-sleeved gray T-shirt he’s wearing are a radical change from the clean-shaven, uniformed police officer I’m used to; he’s absolutely smoldering.

“Hi, Claire. Hold on a second.” He goes into the house, screen door slamming behind him, and when he returns he hands me a sweatshirt. I’m wearing jeans but he points to my short-sleeved shirt and says, “You might be a little warm, but you should have something covering your arms.” I pull the sweatshirt over my head and inhale a hint of cologne and a musky, male scent that makes me think he’s worn it recently.

I follow Daniel to the garage. He pushes the bike, a Honda, out onto the driveway and shuts the door. It’s a sport bike, the kind of motorcycle where the rider has to lean forward to reach the handlebars.

“Have you ever ridden on a motorcycle before?” he asks.

“No. What do I need to do?”

“Hold on tight. Keep your feet on the pegs. Stay centered over the seat.”

He hands me a helmet and after I put it on he reaches out and buckles it, pulling it tight. It has a visor that comes all the way down and covers my face. I take the ponytail holder I’m wearing on my wrist and twist my hair into a low knot.

Daniel swings one leg over the seat, and I follow his lead. He puts his helmet on and looks over his shoulder. “Put your arms around me,” he says, and then slides his own visor down with a snap. I place my hands on his waist, feeling a ridge of muscle under his shirt. He starts the engine and grips the handlebars; his sleeves are pushed up a little and his forearms look strong, lightly tanned and corded with veins.

When we pull out onto the road he opens up the throttle and the wind slams into me. “Put your head down,” he shouts, and I do, curving my body around him, breasts pressing into his back. I hardly know him, and there’s something so intimate about holding on to him this tightly.

The winding roads lend a hypnotic feel to the ride. The trees blur as we pass by; it feels like flying. The highway narrows and becomes two lanes. Very few cars share the road with us as dusk approaches, and the hum of the motorcycle’s engine, like white noise, relaxes me. For the first time in a long time I don’t think about Chris, or the kids, or any of my myriad worries and concerns. I exist solely in the moment. Fifteen minutes later Daniel turns around, and we head back the way we came.

The sun has almost set when we pull into his driveway. He parks in front of the garage and turns off the motorcycle. My feet touch the ground, and I put my weight on one leg and swing the other off of the bike. I unbuckle the helmet and lift it off, pulling the ponytail holder out of my hair and sliding it back onto my wrist.

Daniel puts the kickstand down, takes his helmet off, and runs a hand through his hair. “Did you like that?” he asks, grinning.

I smile back at him and say, “That was great.”

He gets off the bike and I hand him my helmet. We walk toward the front steps of his house. “Do you want a beer?” he asks.

“No thanks. I don’t drink alcohol very often.”

“What do you normally drink?”

“Anything diet.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Wow, I am zero for two. How about a bottle of water?”

“Perfect,” I say.

He sets the helmets down, goes inside, and returns with the drinks. The smell of cut grass lingers in the air and fireflies light up his yard on this sultry September evening. The stars are out and it’s a perfect night for being outside. I sit down next to Daniel and take a drink of my water.

He looks over at me and smiles. “Where are the kids?”

“They’re spending the night with my parents. They took them to the circus.”

“What about your husband?” He doesn’t look at me, just stares straight ahead, takes a drink of his beer, and waits for my reply.

“He’s at home. Sleeping.” I take another drink of my water. Daniel doesn’t comment. He nods and sets his beer bottle down. The fact that I’m here, sitting next to him, probably says a little about the state of my marriage. I don’t want to talk about my marriage though, so I change the subject. “Do you ride a lot?” I gesture toward the motorcycle.

“Yes, when the weather cooperates. Some of the other guys down at the station ride. We go out as a group sometimes.”

“I’m surprised by how much I liked it. It was so relaxing.”

He nods. “That’s what I like about it, too.”

“How long have you lived here?” I ask.

“About a year.”

I wonder where he lived before this house. And who lived with him. “It’s nice. Quiet.”

“I like it.”

“Do you have to work tomorrow?”

“Yes. I had yesterday and today off.”

I put the cap back on my water bottle. “I should probably go,” I say. Chris could be awake by now and I’ve been gone long enough that he might actually ask where I’ve been. I have no idea what I’ll tell him.

“Okay,” he says.

He watches as I pull his sweatshirt over my head and hand it back. We walk to my car and I punch in the code for the keyless entry. It’s suddenly too quiet, and I turn toward Daniel, wanting to fill the awkward silence with words. “Thanks for the ride,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Drive safe.”

I get in the car. Daniel closes my door and I pull out of his driveway and head back to my neighborhood.

The house is dark when I get home, so maybe Chris isn’t that concerned about where I’ve been after all. When I climb into bed he’s still stretched out on top of the covers, wearing only the towel.

The guilt creeps in like a slow-moving fog as I lie next to my husband, and it works its way into the tiny cracks in my conscience. It’s not as if Daniel and I had some clandestine meeting set up. I didn’t drive across town to join him for a secret rendezvous. But how would I feel if Chris had spent the evening with another woman, no matter how platonically? And tomorrow morning, when he apologizes for sleeping through our dinner and the first evening we’ve had to ourselves in a long time, I’m certainly not going to tell him what I did instead.

I roll over and try to get comfortable, but it takes me a long time before I’m able to fall asleep.

28

daniel

I watch Claire drive away.

I can’t believe I asked her to go for a ride with me. It was easily the most impulsive thing I’ve done in a long time, and the words came out before I could stop them.

I’m never impulsive. Cops rarely are. We think things through, look at the situation from all angles before we proceed. We don’t charge into the unknown. Doing that will get you killed.

She sounded lonely. That’s the only reason I can come up with for why I asked her if she wanted to go for a ride with me.

It’s also the only reason I can come up with for why she said yes.

It doesn’t matter if I think she’s sweet. That she’s easy to talk to. That I’ve always thought that there’s nothing prettier than a brown-eyed blonde.

The most we could ever be is friends, because it’s definitely not my style to mess with another man’s wife.

Especially since he never seems to be around.

29

claire

I’m sitting in the backyard with Bridget almost a week later, watching the kids run around after dinner. Chris flew to Atlanta on Monday, and I’ve had my hands full with work and the kids’ after-school activities. It feels good to just sit for a while. Let my mind wander. When my phone rings and I see Daniel’s name on the screen, I silence the ringer and let it go to voice mail. I’m curious about what he wants, but I don’t want to have a conversation with him in front of Bridget.

I probably shouldn’t be having a conversation with him at all.

“Claire. Did you hear me?” Bridget asks, giving me a poke.

“No, sorry. What did you say?”

“I was wondering if you could run Gage and Griffin to soccer practice tomorrow. Sebastian and Finn have a football game and they really want me to be there. Sam has an all-day offsite meeting in Kansas City and won’t be home until late. I hate to ask you, but I haven’t figured out how to clone myself yet.”

“It’s no problem, Bridget,” I say, nodding. “I can help you.”

“Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you and Elisa sometimes.”

“You’ve helped Elisa and me out plenty of times,” I say.

“Not nearly as much as you’ve both helped me,” she says.

I smile and say, “You’ve got more kids than we do. You’re entitled.”

Later, when Josh and Jordan are in bed, I listen to his voice mail. “Hey, Claire. It’s Daniel. I’m off tomorrow and I’m taking the bike out. Let me know if you want to come with me.”

It’s been five days since I went to Daniel’s house, and the guilt I felt about enjoying his company has faded a bit, like the colors of an old photograph. Or maybe I’ve just rationalized it away: Nothing happened. He was just being friendly.

He’s a nice guy and I have no reason to believe that his intentions are anything less than honorable. But agreeing to see him again is going to send a mixed signal, and at thirty-four I’m way too old to be a tease. I take the easy way out and text him my response. I’m sorry. I can’t. Thank you for asking though. Best, Claire.

He responds thirty seconds later. No problem. Thanks, Daniel.

His reply tells me that he got the message loud and clear.

It’s too bad, because I would have really liked to go for another ride.

I get into bed, turn on the TV, and flip aimlessly through the channels, trying to find something to watch. There’s a book on my nightstand, and I read a few pages, but that doesn’t hold my attention either. I turn off the TV and lie there in the dark.

And remind myself that I made the right choice.

 • • •

I’m sitting at a stoplight in front of the credit union at eleven thirty the next morning. A man who looks a lot like Bridget’s husband, Sam, is walking up the sidewalk in front of the building. I’m just far enough away that I can’t be sure. He has the same stocky build and dark hair as Sam, but he’s wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt. The driver behind me honks his horn and I look up and see that the light has turned green.

Later that day, when I’m driving Gage and Griffin to soccer practice I decide I must have been mistaken. The man walking into the credit union couldn’t have been Sam. The whole reason I’m helping Bridget out is because Sam’s at an all-day meeting downtown. Instead of jeans he’s probably wearing a three-piece suit and trying to one-up his peers.

It sure looked like him, though.

30

claire

I’m weaving through the late-afternoon traffic, trying to make it home before the kids are dropped off by their respective carpools. The thumping starts as I’m mentally reviewing my to-do list and thinking about what to make for dinner. I quickly look in the rearview mirror to make sure I haven’t run over something, but the pavement is clear and it takes only a few additional seconds before my brain processes that the thumping is coming from one of my tires. I pull off onto the shoulder and turn on my hazard lights, then reach for my cell phone, hoping that Elisa will answer. She picks up on the fourth ring and I exhale.

“Hi, Claire,” she says. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got a flat tire,” I say. “Josh and Jordan will be home in twenty minutes. Can you meet them and take them to your house?”

“Sure, no problem. What are you going to do about the tire?”

“I don’t know yet.” In the past I’d called AAA, but that was one of the things I canceled when I was going through our expenses, eliminating everything I thought we could live without, no matter how little it cost. When I told Chris he was livid. “What if you and the kids get stuck on the side of the road? Jesus, Claire. I don’t think AAA is going to break the bank.” I give silent thanks that the kids aren’t with me and mentally reprimand myself; we really didn’t save that much by dropping the service, and perhaps I was a bit militant in my efforts to save us from financial ruin.

“Skip will be back in an hour,” Elisa says. “I can send him.”

“Thanks, but I’ll try my dad first.” I call my parents but the phone rings and rings. They should be sitting in the kitchen eating dinner, within arm’s reach of the phone that hangs on the wall, because they are, if nothing else, creatures of habit and five thirty is dinnertime in their household. It always has been. I’d call their cell phones, but they both keep them in their glove boxes, turned off. They have no time for such gadgets, except in an emergency, and the only reason they agreed to them at all was because I insisted. My frustration and anger at myself grows.

I don’t want to try to change the tire myself. My inner feminist chafes, but the truth is that dusk is fast approaching and my skills are rudimentary at best. I know how to change a tire, of course, know the basics of how to work the jack and remove the lug nuts. But my fear is that knowing how and executing the job successfully are two very different things. The cars whiz by outside my window; I’m probably not pulled over far enough for this to be remotely safe. I call the toll-free number on my insurance card, but the person I speak with informs me that I have to call my own tow truck and then submit a claim to be reimbursed for the cost. Using the Internet browser on my phone, I search for a nearby service station, but when I call, the man who answers says that their truck is already out assisting another motorist. They can send someone but they can’t tell me how long it will be. I hang up and think about searching for another service station but then an idea pops into my head. It’s been a little more than a week since I turned down his offer to go for a ride, and if I call him it’s as good as admitting that I do want to see him again. I’ll be opening a door that I told myself I’d be better off keeping closed.

I know I shouldkeep it closed.

But I’m not so sure I wantto keep it closed.

I scroll through my phone until I find his number, crossing my fingers that he’s off duty.

He answers right away, sounding surprised. “Claire?” So either he recognizes my number or he’s saved my contact information in his phone.

“Hi. I’m really sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a flat tire. Chris is out of town and I can’t get a hold of my dad. The service station I called said they didn’t know how long it would be before they can send someone.”

“Where are you?” I give him my location.

“Stay in the car,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”

He pulls in behind me fifteen minutes later, and I get out of the car and walk toward him. He’s dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and he’s wearing a beat-up baseball cap. He looks rugged, like the kind of man who could change a flat tire with ease. He’s smiling at me but his smile fades when he says, “This is not a safe situation for you to be in.”

“I have my phone,” I say, holding it up.

“You should have a towing service,” he says, gently chastising me.

“I did,” I admit. “I’ll call tomorrow and renew.”

The flat tire is on the driver’s side and Daniel glances at the swiftly moving traffic. “Pull over a little farther, okay?”

“Okay.” I get back in the car and pull over as far as I can. When I park and get out Daniel says, “Go sit in my car.”

“You don’t want me to help you?” I ask as he opens the back of my vehicle and starts rooting around for the jack.

“No, I’ve got it.”

Daniel drives a sporty black two-door Toyota. Wildly impractical compared to my kid-hauling SUV or Chris’s roomy Lexus sedan, but Daniel apparently doesn’t need space for booster seats, sports equipment, and all the other paraphernalia children require. Unlike my vehicle, littered with empty juice boxes and smelling faintly of McDonald’s French fries, his spotless interior smells like leather and citrus.

I settle into the passenger seat and text Elisa. Police changing tire. Home soon. Thank you.

She texts back right away. Kids are playing with Travis. I’ll feed them dinner. Take your time.

Fifteen minutes later Daniel opens the driver’s-side door and gets in, wiping his hands on his jeans. A smudge of grease remains on his thumb and I stare at it, transfixed. “Are you cold?” he asks. The daytime temperatures are still in the high seventies, but once the sun starts to go down it gets chilly fast.

“Just a little.” Daniel starts the car and turns the heat on low. He reaches over and hits the button for my seat warmer. “Thanks again,” I say. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”

“You weren’t,” he says, smiling at me.

I smile, too. “I seem to always be asking for your help.”

“Don’t worry about it, Claire,” he says. “It’s not like you’ve asked for one of my kidneys.” He grins and we both laugh.

“Maybe I’ll ask for one of those next,” I say. It takes all the willpower I have not to reach out and touch him. I tell myself it’s a physical manifestation of my gratitude, but that’s utter crap. I’m drawn to him, pure and simple, and I’d have to be pretty unobservant not to notice that my presence seems to be doing something to him, too. It’s the way he looks at me, the warm tone of his voice, not to mention the classic knight-in-shining-armor scenario that’s just been played out. I think for a moment what it would be like to trail my fingers along his jaw and feel the stubble there, and instantly feel ashamed. I have never had so much as a thought about anyone other than Chris. It’s heady stuff, but I come to my senses and pull back.

What I’m about to say next will feel awkward, but I take a deep breath and proceed anyway. “The other day, when you left a message about going for a ride? I wanted to go. I only said no because I didn’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

“Okay,” he says, slowly, turning toward me. His tone tells me he’s not one hundred percent sure where I’m going with this.

“I don’t know what you’re looking for.” I hesitate and he looks at me as if he’s trying to decipher my meaning, which is probably difficult because I’m not being very clear. “I can’t read you,” I finally blurt.

“I know you’re married, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says.

“Not worried,” I say. “Just curious.”

“What do you want to know?” he asks.

“Why did you ask me to go on that motorcycle ride? The first time, I mean.”

He shrugs slightly, looking pensive. “I thought you might say yes. You seemed lonely.”

“Am I transmitting?”

“What?” he asks, clearly confused by my question.

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“Why didyou say yes?” he asks.

“Because I am lonely.” It’s almost fully dark, which makes this conversation slightly less uncomfortable. I can still see his face, in the weak glow of the dashboard light, but it’s easier somehow with nightfall all around us. “But I’m not looking for anything other than friendship.”

“You seem really nice, Claire. I thought we hit it off and that you might like getting together again sometime. But I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“You aren’t. I just needed to know your intentions. Make sure I hadn’t given you the wrong idea.” It seems like such a strange, unnecessary conversation, but it isn’t, really. Deep down I know we need to draw the boundaries if there’s any chance of us spending more time together.

I tell him about Chris losing his job. “Things were pretty bad for a while. He found a new job and now he’s never home. He’s a great dad, he gives everything he has to the kids, but he just . . .” I look away and shake my head. “He just doesn’t have a lot of time for me right now.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay. It’s just the way things are.” I fiddle with the zipper on my jacket. “Have you ever been married?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

He shakes his head. “It just didn’t work out.”

“Any kids?”

An expression I can’t read clouds his features. “No.”

We sit in silence for a minute, but surprisingly it doesn’t feel weird. Finally I say, “I better go pick up the kids. Elisa has them.”

“Okay,” he says.

“I’d like to go for another ride sometime.”

He smiles at me. “Sure. I’ll text you,” he says.

“Thanks again for changing the tire.”

“You’re welcome. Have a good night.”

“You, too.” I get out of Daniel’s car and slide behind the wheel of mine. When the traffic clears I pull away from the shoulder, watching in my rearview mirror as Daniel pulls out after me and heads in the opposite direction.