Eye of the Beholder (5 page)

E
llen Jones lay on her side on the couch, her knees bent, and a throw pillow held tightly to her chest. She was aware of the September humidity, cold air pouring out of the ceiling vent, and the cuckoo clock in the kitchen striking eleven. How she dreaded another confrontation with Guy! How could he possibly think she wasn’t excited that he had won the Brinkmont case? That’s all he’d talked about for months.

Ellen tucked her chin to her chest to stretch the muscles in her neck. There was no justification for Guy hanging up on her. She had apologized all over herself for failing to check her phone messages. It was his turn to apologize.

Plus, he’d had a lot of nerve inviting Brent and his latest conquest to dinner Saturday night without asking Ellen first. She had never told Guy how glad she was that the firm’s offices were located in Tallahassee, and that she wasn’t pressured to put on dinner parties for the partners or flit from one cocktail party to another, schmoozing with corporate clients. Guy held his own in those situations. Ellen could endure it, but could think of no greater torment than having to mingle, Shirley Temple in hand, and make meaningless small talk. At least in her own dining room, she would be able to control what was poured into the goblets.

Ellen breathed in and forced it out. It shouldn’t take Guy more than two hours to drive home since he wouldn’t have to fight the rushing river of daytime traffic. Surely the victory dinner would have been over by ten.

Ellen knew she had to address the deeper reason for the tension between them. Why couldn’t Guy understand that she found befriending people of varying ages and backgrounds satisfying? It’s not as though she had abandoned her writing or her husband. But wasn’t her response to people’s needs more important to God than whether or not she got published? Or whether Guy’s inflated ego could handle it?

She could still feel the sting of the unpleasant exchange they’d had Monday morning before he left for Tallahassee …

“I’m leaving now,” Guy had said, giving her a seemingly halfhearted hug. “You’ve got three whole days to tend your menagerie of friends. But I expect peace and quiet when I get home. And I don’t want people coming and going all weekend.”

“Don’t refer to them as if they’re pets I feed and water. They’re loving people I’m happy to know.”

“They’re an embarrassment, Ellen. Do whatever you want when I’m gone. Just remember they’re your friends, not mine.”

“Why the big objection? You didn’t seem to mind sharing the media limelight when I stood by the Hamiltons until Ross was finally vindicated.”

“Standing by someone is one thing. But why you’re encouraging an ongoing relationship with a stay-at-home mom and a body shop worker is beyond me.”

Ellen bit her lip and counted to ten. “Julie and Ross are wonderful kids. I enjoy their company. Sarah Beth is a delight, and I consider myself her adopted grandmother.”

“You could just as easily attach yourself to a child whose parents are more socially suited. Did you ever stop to think how your choices reflect on me? I have an image to uphold.”

“I’m sure the entire world is watching.”

“You can cut the sarcasm, Ellen. The Hamiltons are just
part
of the problem. You’re also consumed with trying to be a self-appointed Bible teacher for Billy and Lisa Lewis, who probably don’t understand half of what you’re trying to convey.”

“Hold it right there,” Ellen said. “They may be mentally challenged, but they are amazingly sharp spiritually.”

Guy rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure they’re right up there with the apostle Paul.”

“Before you pass judgment, Counselor, maybe you should sit in on one of our Bible study sessions. Some of their insights would surprise you.”

“You’re not trained to deal with the mentally challenged.”

Ellen threw up her hands. “How else are they going to get spiritually nourished? They don’t express themselves well enough to be part of a group study, but they understand far more than people realize. Should I just abandon them because they’re slow?”

“Ellen, you’re not a special ed teacher or a Bible scholar—you’re supposed to be a novelist. Why can’t you just focus on what’s important?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“What you’re
doing
is compounding the problem by adding more characters to your collection.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Guy scrunched his eyebrows. “Do you really need to associate with the neighborhood gossip to feel fulfilled?”

“Blanche Davis is just lonely. She’s done a one-eighty since I took an interest in her.”

“And that Muslim woman you met out jogging, what’s-her-name …?”

Ellen shook her head and held Guy’s gaze for a few seconds. “Mina Tehrani is precious. What’s your problem with
her
? She’s an RN and her husband’s a respected oncologist.”

“She’s Iranian, Ellen. Have you no sense of political hot buttons?”

“She’s an American citizen. Have you no sense of what it took for her to achieve that? She came to this country as an adult, had to learn the language, then studied to be a citizen while she went
to nursing school. Neither you nor I had to work that hard to achieve our goals.”

Guy picked up his briefcase and went and stood in the doorway. “You’re never going to succeed as a novelist unless you change your focus. I can’t tell you what to do, Ellen. But I suggest you reevaluate the people you surround yourself with. It seems to me you’ve lost your perspective. I didn’t marry a social worker and have no interest in involving myself in the lives of all these people you drag home. At least have the courtesy to get it out of your system before Wednesday night …”

Ellen blinked away the irritating memory. She thought she heard the garage door open, and then realized it was just the refrigerator making noises.

She let out a desolate sigh.
Lord, help me understand what Guy wants from me, and what You want me to do about it
.

Guy Jones put Brent McAllister and his girlfriend in a cab and paid the driver. The others had already left—everyone except Kinsey Abbott, who couldn’t articulate directions to the stop sign, much less her condo.

“Take me to your leader!” She looked at Guy and started giggling.

“Come on, Kinsey. Just tell the cab driver where you live.”

“I live in an itty bitty gray house. With an itty bitty gray cat.” She laughed so hard she stumbled and one of her high heels came off. “I want
you
to take me home.”

Guy slipped her heel back on, then looked at the cab driver and shrugged. “I’m afraid she might not make it to the door, even if you got her there. Thanks anyway.”

Guy gave his valet parking ticket to the attendant and waited in the sticky night air for his car to be brought around.

When he saw his Mercedes coming up the circle drive, he walked Kinsey over to the curb. He opened the front passenger
door and buckled her in the seat, then took her wallet out of her purse and read the address on her driver’s license.

“Any idea where Allendale Court is?” Guy asked the attendant.

“No, sir. Sorry.”

Guy gave the attendant two dollars, then walked around the car and got in on the driver’s side. He put Kinsey’s wallet back in her purse, then sat for a moment, trying to decide what to do with her.

She sat smiling at him, curls softly framing her face, her black dress hugging her in all the right places. She was beautiful. Drunk, but beautiful. He dismissed the inappropriate thought that crossed his mind and started the car.

 4
 

E
llen Jones woke with a start, the clanging of the cuckoo clock sounding long and exaggerated. She sat up on the side of the couch and rubbed her eyes, then got up and stretched her lower back.

She walked to the bedroom, and saw the bed had not been slept in. She squinted until she could read the clock: 5:04. Had she known Guy was staying in Tallahassee last night, she would have slept in the bed and saved herself a miserable backache.

She crawled under the covers and pulled them up around her neck. Maybe when Guy finally got home, they would both be rested and able to deal with yesterday’s misunderstanding in a way that was fair to both.

Ellen closed her eyes, her mind racing, and quickly realized she would probably not be able to go back to sleep.

Guy Jones stepped out of the shower and dried off, then put on his terrycloth robe and opened the door. He stood at the sink and took a sip of coffee, his thoughts focused on how he would respond to Ellen when he got home. She would no doubt be furious with him for hanging up on her. Tough. He hoped she’d had a miserable night. He certainly wasn’t planning to apologize. He couldn’t remember a time when he felt less important to her—or when he’d had to lie to keep from being embarrassed by her indifference.

He wasn’t sure yet how to cover his lying to Brent about Ellen’s nonexistent book deal. Or how to break it to Ellen that
he’d invited Brent and Donna for dinner Saturday night. But as long as Ellen felt guilty about missing the victory dinner, he knew he could manipulate her emotions to work in his favor.

Guy filled his palm with shaving cream and lathered his face, then picked up his razor and cut a swath from his sideburn to his chin. In the foggy mirror, he could see Kinsey standing in the doorway, swallowed up in his pinstriped shirt, mascara smeared under her eyes.

“I would’ve bet you were an electric razor man.” Kinsey looked down and held the shirttail between her thumbs and forefingers. “Thanks for letting me borrow your shirt. I’ll have it laundered and starched for you.”

“That’s not necessary. Just leave it in the closet. I’ll take it home next week.”

“I hope last night won’t change our working relationship.”

“Only if
you
let it,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s business as usual. No one else needs to know.”

“Thanks. Not every boss would be so discreet. Are you driving back to Seaport now?”

Guy leaned his head back, razor in hand, and cut three swaths under his chin. “Yeah, I’ll be out of here in a few minutes, then the bathroom’s all yours. When you’re ready to leave, just pull the front door shut. It’ll lock by itself.”

Ellen Jones finished her fourth cup of coffee and went into the living room to cool off under the ceiling fan. She picked up the remote and turned on the TV, fighting the temptation to call Guy’s apartment and see whether he was still there. How hard could it be for him just to call and tell her he was on the way so she wouldn’t worry?

Ellen thought about the dinner party she was purportedly throwing for Brent McAllister and his girlfriend on Saturday night. As much as she dreaded the thought of struggling to make small
talk with whomever Brent had attached himself to at the moment, she knew it was the perfect opportunity to redeem herself with Guy. Suddenly she was aware of the news commentator’s voice. She glanced up at the TV.

“CNN is still trying to confirm a report that early this morning the Coast Guard boarded and seized a fishing vessel filled with bomb-making materials between Seaport and Port Smyth, Florida. Sources told CNN that five men of Middle Eastern decent were arrested. Officials have neither confirmed nor denied the report. However, in light of the recent chatter picked up by U.S. Intelligence, and the country being placed on high alert for terrorist attacks, the mayors of Port Smyth and Seaport are demanding answers—”

Ellen heard the kitchen door open and turned off the TV. She sat quietly, her heart pounding, aware of Guy’s footsteps approaching the living room.

He came and stood in the doorway, his briefcase in his hand, his face expressionless. “I’m home.”

“You could’ve called so I wouldn’t worry.”

“I didn’t feel like leaving another
message
.”

Ellen started to defend herself and then decided not to. “I’m really sorry I missed the dinner. I made the assumption it went late and you decided to stay at the apartment. But it would have been nice to know that.”

“I was too tired to drive home last night. But I wasn’t ready to talk to you anyway.”

“Are you now?”