She’s hand-washing the good china, suctioned to her elbows into pink rubber dish gloves and warm soapy suds, when Ben wanders glumly into the kitchen, checkbook in hand, seeming stumped.
“There’s this check in the register . . .” he starts.
“Oh, right . . .” Becca interrupts. “I meant to tell you about it. There’s this little boy at the women’s shelter . . .”
“Has it cleared?”
“. . . and we need a translator to help him . . . wait. Has it what?”
“Has this five-thousand-dollar check cleared the bank yet?”
Becca stops scrubbing and reaches for the dishtowel.
“Why?”
“Because, Becca. This is one sizeable sum of money. You could have given me a heads-up, at least.”
“This boy needs our help, Ben. You should see how lost . . .”
“Becca, I’m chasing every red cent to land this deal with Terry. And I wasn’t expecting to be ambushed like this. We can’t go handing out freebies to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who wants it, or . . .”
“What are you? Ambushed? We have oodles stashed in the accounts.”
“You’ll be dipping into way more than just the walking-around money.”
“And since when do you allocate personal money for chasing new business?”
She must have hit him where it hurts because Ben’s diplomatic grin comes off strained.
“It’s all personal, Becca,” he whispers. “Every bit of it is.”
“Ben, I need this from you.”
“Is this, translation—whatever—a one-time disbursement, do you suppose, or an ongoing commitment?”
“I’m not certain. Not yet anyway.”
“Well, tell me when you are.”
Becca watches him lumber toward his office.
She submerges both hands in the dishwater. Beneath the surface the heat squeezes agreeably around her fingers, an elemental embrace.