In fact, I’ve spent so many years married to Nicholas, keeping my lips zipped and my thoughts and feelings pushed down, way down, so deep down that now I can barely drudge up an opinion on anything, have become so distanced from my own point of view to where I can’t even remember how to hold a conversation. I suddenly feel awkward in this man’s presence, under kempt when, on the outside, I’m anything but. I’ve perfected my body, polished my appearance, but neglected my mind.
And, Jesus, what does this mean for me and Hollis? The mere thought of this newfound inadequacy sends me into a tailspin of worry, doubt resurfacing to needle away at the delicate balloon of happiness I felt seconds ago.
Sure, I can face him like this, with this new hair and softer look, appealing to his sense of nostalgia, his dick, but what about his brain? I might be able to snag his attention with my looks, but holding it, keeping it, ripping it away from her, will take more than a trip to the salon and collagen injections.
I need to be the total package. Marry the girl I used to be (brains) with the woman I’ve become (beauty).
I need practice. I need to up my game. I need to make sure I’m fully prepared, wholly and completely, before I make any sort of move in his direction.
This plan to get back into Hollis’s good graces is ever evolving, and I’m going to have to take what the Universe gives me to work with. Someone to use as a springboard to refine the parts of me that need refining. Maybe Ford showing up like this – twice – is a sign, some signal that I need what he’s selling…temporarily speaking, of course.
And he’s hot, so there’s that.
The sun’s glare was harsh, a blinding light that blurred the day. By contrast, her glow was soft and subtle, like that of the stars, and it guided him on this night, the most treacherous night of the year.
— November’s Night, Hollis Thatcher
Ford plies me with drinks, and I ply him with just enough attention to keep him wanting more. Playing hard to get is a tricky game; as underexperienced as I am in the art of seduction, even I know that much. It’s risky, finding that fine line between cool detachment and slight attraction.
But I think I’m doing all right.
After my second drink, he orders us cheese fries, with the excuse that I need sustenance. I tease him by saying, “Okay, Dad,” and he responds with a deep laugh that makes my chest swell. When they arrive, I surprise myself by eating most of them, much to Ford’s amusement, and when I forgo dining etiquette altogether and lick drippy cheese sauce straight from my wrist to my finger, he runs his tongue over his own lips and calls me a beautiful savage.
I like it, and immediately decide to make it my new identity.
Rebecca Cabot Crane – boring, unappreciated housewife.
Becca Cabot – Beautiful Savage.
I think of Hollis and imagine he would appreciate the moniker.
Ford, for his part, has been inching closer to me all night, first with his bar stool and then, finally, with his body. We’re facing each other, my legs tucked between the V of his, and every now and then his hand will drop from the bar to my knee, a hot touch that leaves me wondering if the heat I’m feeling is from him or the liquor. It’s been so long since anyone has regarded me so closely, paid me such rapt attention, that I feel almost swoony from the high of it all. Ford is looking at me like I’m the only person in the place, the only person in the world, and for a moment I’m reminded of Hollis, of the way his eyes used to follow me around the room, even when I was doing something as boring as cleaning the apartment. He always said I made the mundane beautiful, that he could watch me doing something as dull as rolling pennies and still be fascinated. More than once, he confessed that watching me was like getting a glimpse into another world, a better world, one where everything was bathed in a scintillating, silvery glow. The sun’s glare, according to him, was harsh and overrated, and my light was like that of the stars, a subtle radiance that complimented everything it touched with more delicacy, more grace.
I miss compliments like that, ones that come from the heart and are so filled with the giver’s truth that it’s impossible to see yourself through any eyes other than his.
A few weeks ago, when getting ready for a charity event held by his architectural firm, Nicholas told me I looked nice without even looking up from his phone. In fact, he hadn’t even seen me yet. I’d just walked into the room. And was standing behind him.
Yep.
Ford guides the conversation, telling me about his photography and an upcoming show he’s busy prepping for. Right now, his work focuses on waterscapes, shooting scenes not from the shore, but from beyond it. He explains how he gets right into the water, capturing the waves as they curl and crest.
“The show this September features lakes from Minnesota, with a spotlight on Lake Superior’s North Shore. It’s an amazing spot, this part of the state. One of the most beautiful in the country, in my opinion. Plus, this is where I grew up. I’ve spent the last four years in the Pacific Northwest, so it’s nice being back here, so close to my roots. It’s hard to explain, but sometimes it feels like the past is still alive, in a way. And there’s this tug, right here,” he places his hand over his chest, “that’s always pulling you back home. Know what I mean?”
I nod and sip more gin, listening but not caring, not caring at all because photography has always bored me. I love words, or used to, and would rather be sitting here with Hollis talking about his book than to Ford about his pictures.
“What about you?”
I suck an olive off a martini stick and press my tongue in its center, relishing the briny taste. “What about me?”
He rolls his hand in a come on motion. “What do you do? What are you about? What are you dreams, your passions, your fears and your obsessions?” His voice grows rough with the word obsessions, as if he suspects that whatever my deepest, most secret desire is, it’s forbidden as hell.
How do I answer? For the past fifteen years, I’ve done nothing but hang as candy off my husband’s arm, though I can hardly tell him that. I guess I could mention the home staging business I kinda sorta run, the company that I started six years ago out of pure boredom and is completely funded by Nicholas. Though, to be fair, it does bear my name – CC Designs (the CC standing for Cabot Crane). It is, after all, the reason I’m in Duluth, at least as far as Nicholas is concerned. I told him I was interested in expanding beyond the Twin Cities, taking on homes and business in northern Minnesota. Right now, I’m supposed to be checking out the market, running numbers and scoping office space.
Instead, I’ve been stalking my ex-boyfriend and flirting with a handsome photographer…one who is staring at me now, expectantly, waiting for an answer.
The truth is one thing I can’t tell Ford, can’t ever tell Ford, so I need to make up something good, something…believable.
Outside, a jogger passes by the window, a dog trotting at her side, and before I even know what I’m saying, I blurt out, “I’m a dog walker.” The lie slips through my lips so smoothly and with such ease that another quickly follows. “And sitter. I’m a dog walker and sitter.”
Ford’s expression is unreadable, so I ramble on. “I stay with people’s dogs in their homes when they travel so, you know, they don’t have to take them to…to…” The word is on the tip of my tongue, the edge of my brain, but God help me, I can’t spit it out.