Apart at the Seams (16 page)

Our dinner at the Grill on the Green was delicious. Brian ordered the short ribs with root vegetables, and I had the roast chicken with mashed potatoes. Not very adventurous, I know, but cool autumn weather calls for comfort food, and I relished every bite. We spent three hours at dinner, talking about everything under the sun. I couldn't remember the last time we'd talked like that, really had a
conversation
. It was wonderful. After the server cleared our dishes, Brian reached across the table and took my hand, pressing his lips against the inside of my wrist, on that sensitive spot where the veins blush blue under the skin.

“You look lovely tonight.”

“Are you flirting with me? Don't tell me you're trying to lure me into bed again,” I teased, though my heart was beating a little faster. My free hand, hidden beneath the cloth, found his knee and snaked slowly up his thigh.

Brian laughed awkwardly and shifted backward in his seat. “I didn't suppose you'd be interested in another go so soon. Perhaps I should have skipped the wine.”

“Oh, this morning was wonderful,” I assured him, quickly removing my hand from his leg and placing it in my lap. “It's been a perfect weekend. Maybe we should quit our jobs, move to Connecticut, and spend our days making mad, passionate love.”

He laughed again. “Now, there's an idea.”

 

On Sunday, after only forty-five minutes spent poking through antique stores, art galleries, and clothing boutiques in downtown New Bern, Brian insisted we get going.

“Let's go for a drive. There's something I want to show you.”

“What?”

He smiled enigmatically. “You'll see.”

Next thing I knew, we were driving down a country road to the north, in the opposite direction to New York. Brian took a sharp left into a narrow driveway lined with privet hedges on both sides and pulled up in front of a white clapboard cottage with peeling paint and a sloping porch.

He shifted the car into park and opened the door. “Well? How do you like it?”

“How do I like what?”

Still confused I got out of the car and followed Brian to the house. The front door opened, and a short, chubby woman with gray hair and rhinestone wingtip eyeglasses stepped onto the porch.

“Brian Oliver,” he said, striding forward to shake the woman's hand. “You must be Wendy. Sorry we're late.”

Late? How could we be late for an appointment I didn't even know we had?

“That's all right. It's not like I had anything better to do besides sit in the office and wait for people to not buy houses. The market's been flat as a pancake for more than a year.” She laughed—actually, it was more of a snort—making her rhinestone glasses bounce on the bridge of her nose.

“But if you've got the money to do it, Mr. and Mrs. Oliver, you couldn't pick a better time to buy a second home.”

I looked at my husband, wide-eyed, finally realizing what he was up to.

“A second home? Brian, we can't—”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me through the door. “I can't wait for you to see it. If it looks half as good as it did online, it'll be perfect for us.”

Perfect for us?

The porch was rotted as well as sloped, but not as sloped as the wooden floors, and the roof was covered with moss. The kitchen was bigger than the little galley affair in our apartment but still very small, with ugly green linoleum and untrimmed cabinets, painted beige. The only bathroom had rust stains in the tub and a flow of water that was more a drip than a stream. An impossibly steep, narrow staircase led to two tiny bedrooms tucked under ceilings so low and sharply angled that Brian could straighten his back only when standing in the center of the room.

In spite of all that, it
was
charming. And cozy. I wondered what it would be like to lie in bed on a morning in early spring and listen to raindrops patter against the moss-covered roof. Or to pull up a chair next to one of the many-paned windows and stare out onto a wide, grassy meadow dotted with huge maple trees ablaze with bright red leaves.

“It's only two acres,” Wendy said apologetically. “But the trees are planted so thick along the border of the meadow that you can't see your neighbors, even in winter.”

Two acres? That was more land than I'd ever dreamed of owning.

“There's an oil furnace, of course,” Wendy said as she escorted us into the living room. “But this fireplace can practically heat the whole house. Well . . . the main floor.”

I could believe that. The huge fireplace seemed a little out of scale in comparison to the rest of the room, but I could imagine how warm and safe the room would feel with the fireplace blazing on a cold day, how peaceful it would be to sit by that fire on a snowy night with a book and a glass of wine at hand and no phones or computers to jar your sensibilities or inhibit your focus—a simple and peaceful existence, like something from another time, which it was. No one lived like that anymore, us least of all.

Brian squatted down next to the fireplace. “What's this?” he asked, reaching out to take hold of an iron bar and swing it out into the center of the firebox.

Wendy squinted through her rhinestone rims. “That's for cooking. See that groove on the end of the bar? That's where you'd hang your soup pot. When this house was built, they were still cooking over the fire.” She bent down for a closer look. “And see there? That's a beehive oven. Two hundred years ago, people baked their bread in that.”

Brian sat back on his haunches and looked up at me, an enormous smile on his face. “Well? What do you think? Let's make an offer!”

“An offer? What . . . now?” I sputtered. “Today? On
this
house? Why? Brian . . . we've never even
discussed
getting a second home. And now, after forty-eight hours in Connecticut, you just want to . . .”

Brian was looking at me blankly, as if he couldn't quite grasp what was distressing me, as if
I
was the one who was behaving irrationally.

“Honey, you don't just decide to buy a house five minutes after you walk through the door!”

“We decided to buy our apartment five minutes after we walked through the door.”

“That was different. If we hadn't snapped it up right away, somebody else would have, and we actually
needed
a place to live. And it was in New York. In an established building with management, and a concierge, and a super . . .” I threw up my hands.

“Brian, you don't know anything about this place! It could have rats, or termites, or God knows what. It could have a leaky basement or broken windows or . . .”

He must be joking. He had to be! Sure, we'd had the occasional romantic, wine-induced conversation about living in a farmhouse off in the country and raising chickens or peaches or something. Or buying a run-down Victorian in a little college town somewhere and restoring it to its former glory. But that wasn't for
now
. That was for . . . someday. When we had time and money and fewer responsibilities. And anyway, the reason those romantic conversations were so romantic was because, in our hearts, we both knew it was never going to happen!

“What if there's a fire? Or a blizzard? What if the roof blows off or the pipes burst? Who's going to deal with that if we're in the city? How would we even know it happened?”

Brian gave me his exasperated look, the one that says he thinks I'm being overly dramatic. “We'll get an alarm system or . . . a caretaker or something.”

“People in New Bern generally just find somebody to look in on their places,” Wendy said helpfully, shoving her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “There's a teenage boy, Drew Kelleher, who lives nearby. He could keep an eye on things for you.”

“Sounds perfect,” Brian said. And then, as if everything were settled, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a check. A single, folded check.

“Hold on! What are you doing? We can't just buy this house! We don't even know how much it costs!”

“One ninety-five,” Wendy replied quickly. “The land alone is worth the price. You can't buy two flat, cleared acres this close to town for less than one seventy-five.”

“Or even a studio in Manhattan,” Brian added, unfolding the check. “It's a steal.”

“A steal? It's one hundred and ninety-five thousand dollars!” I shouted.

Brian's grin disappeared. Wendy stared at the ceiling, trying to look invisible.

“I'll just step outside and let you two talk,” she said, and made a hasty exit.

“You're mad,” Brian said as soon as she was gone.

“Let's call it surprised,” I said flatly.

“I thought you'd be excited. I was trying to be spontaneous.”

I shook my head. I wasn't buying it. “Making an appointment with a Realtor without telling me isn't being spontaneous. Neither is taking a check out of the book and slipping it in your pocket so you can make an offer on the spot. Brian, we've never even
talked
about buying a second home. And all of a sudden . . . What is going on?”

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

“I was going to wait to tell you later. Don't look so worried,” he said, giving me a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “It's good news. I'm being promoted. As of Monday, I'll be vice president of strategic acquisitions. Comes with a big increase in salary.” His pseudo smile faded. “And in travel.”

“
More
travel? But you already spend fifty percent of your time on the road.”

“Well, now it's going to be eighty percent,” he said. “The chairman thinks it's a good time to pick up some companies cheaply. They want me to acquire a company every two months. You know what that means.”

I did. Trips to investigate companies, most of which would turn out to be dead ends, weeding out the weak from the strong; on-site meetings with the management teams to figure out who they'd keep and who they would let go; return trips with teams of accountants to go over books, inventories, and payables; and endless meetings with attorneys. Brian had been involved in two acquisitions in the previous year. The thought of him doing it full-time, being on the road week after week, made my heart sink.

“We'll still have weekends,” he assured me. “And if we have a place out in the country, at least we could make the most of what we
will
have together. I'll be able to take some three-day weekends. And once I get settled in the job, maybe I can work out of the house, or up here, a couple of days a month.”

He moved closer and wrapped his arms around my waist. “I'm sorry, Gayla. I'd have told you about the promotion and my idea about the house and all, but I didn't want to say anything until we'd seen the town. If we hated it, I figured I'd just call the Realtor and cancel the appointment, but . . . I like it here. Don't you?”

I sighed. “Do you realize how much work this place needs?”

“You're always saying I need a hobby.” He spread out his hands. “This could be it. We could work on it together. It'd give us something to talk about besides the kids and work. And it would be a kind of refuge. I haven't started the job yet, but already, I can't go to the loo without that wanker Mike Barrows calling. But since we've been in New Bern?” Brian pulled his cell phone from his pocket and held it up so I could see. “No calls from the boss. Not a one. That alone is worth the price,” he said with a teasing smile.

“Baby, are you sure you want this promotion?”

He shrugged. “We're buried in debt. Now we can pay it all off. Even the college loans—yours and the twins. Think how good it would feel to get out from under that. Anyway, it's not like I can turn it down. When Mike offered me the job, he said, ‘You're either moving up the ladder or out the door. There's no treading water at this company, Oliver.'”

He made a puffing sound with his lips. “Barrows is a git, a total tosser. But he's right. I can't turn this down and expect to stay at Ellison-Farley. And so, to answer your question, am I sure I want this promotion? Absolutely. Who wouldn't?”

“Oh, honey.” I reached up and brushed his hair off his forehead, wishing there was something more I could say, but he'd already said it all.

Brian had spent his whole career with this company, but if he turned down this opportunity, they'd probably turn him out the door. Nobody was hiring, and even if they had been, Ellison-Farley had already bought most of its competitors. Now it looked like it was going to buy up the rest. Five years ago, Brian would have had no trouble finding another job, but not now. And I couldn't support us on my income alone. Not yet.

There was no choice. Brian had to take the job. But we'd get through it. We always had. And if I looked on the bright side, I could already see how there might be some good for us in this—not just financially, but good for
us,
as a couple.

I turned in a slow circle, taking in the sloping wooden floor, the dusty beams, the low ceilings, until I faced the fireplace, stained black from the soot of two hundred years.

Brian came up behind me and rested his chin on my shoulder. “What are you thinking?”

I reached behind and pulled his arm around my waist. “About having my way with you in front of this fireplace.”

 

I never did have my way with him in front of the fireplace, or he with me.

Our intentions were good. For a few months, a few weeks, we spent every weekend in New Bern. But then he ended up having to stay in the Midwest for some weekend meetings, and I had to do some traveling of my own, attending conferences and visiting campuses, and we fell out of the habit of coming here and making time for each other. Somehow, I never noticed it was happening, never perceived the problem, because I truly didn't think there was one.