It was well into the evening by the time Colin left Miguel. Slightly drunk and light-headed from cigar smoke, he'd called a cab to take him home and was now sitting in the back seat, basking in the knowledge that his financial woes would soon come to an end. Celebrations were in order, but rather than call Maureen, he found himself dialling Grace's number. She was the one he wanted and at the first thought of her his body responded, and he began to fantasize about making love to her.
This, he understood, was exactly why they weren't to reveal their identities. If he'd known Grace's address, he'd be on his way to see her now. No hesitation. No thought. He'd simply show up at her door and expect a warm reception. That could completely ruin her life. Logically the rule made complete sense, but right now he wasn't in the mood to be logical.
And besides, what he really needed to do was apologize.
"Well, hello, Marlowe." There was something about her voice that he loved — the mutability maybe. Confident and light in conversation, but smoky and alluring when aroused. He'd figured that out at the chalet. His mind played back the scene of Grace on the sofa and he could hear her words again, deepening bit by bit until that little hint of lust appeared.
"Have I caught you at a bad time?"
"Not at all. I'm just putting up some shelves."
"Shelves?" He asked, his eyebrows raised.
"Yup. Pretty mundane stuff, but if you like, you can pretend I'm doing it in lingerie."
"Mmm, black lace?" He loved the way she'd looked at their first meeting and thought that in a perfect world, every woman would own black lingerie.
"Sure. With black heels and a pink tool belt."
He smiled. If anyone could pull that look off, it would be Grace. "What kind of shelves?"
"Floating. But you didn't call me to discuss home renovations, did you?"
No, he hadn't. In fact, renovating was the very last thing he wanted to talk about. Still, there was something strangely intimate about it. She was allowing him a peek into her real world, and that was something he wanted to pursue. "I don't mind," he said. "Where are you putting them?"
"In the living room, but the anchors that came with them look pretty flimsy. I have others, but they're too short for the screws."
"Do you have access to studs?"
"Just one. But he's not here right now."
He felt the heat rise to his face. "I see."
"I mean, generally I prefer long screws, but short ones have their advantages too."
Marlowe took a deep breath and steadied himself. A gentleman should be helpful now, not horny. "They do indeed," he said. "But if it's drywall you're going into, the anchor is much more important. If you can't get a stud, then the anchor is what's holding the weight.
"So for a long screw, I need two studs. Got it."
He smiled at her wit, but the suggestion of another man in her life made him jealous. That both surprised and disturbed him. "If I was there now, I'd hang the shelves for you," he said, trying to stay on the high road.
"Aww, thank you." She sounded genuinely pleased. "But since you're not here, I guess I'll just have to figure it out for myself."
"If you run into trouble, you can give me a call. Or YouTube might have some how-to videos."
"Good ideas. I'll keep them in mind should my engineering degree not be of any help."
Marlowe put his hand to his forehead. As the full weight of his stupidity set in, he thought he'd be sick. There was no way an engineer would need a writer's help to hang shelves. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to suggest . . ."
Grace's laughter bubbled through the phone line. "It's ok, Marlowe. I'm only teasing. To be honest, I think it's really nice that you want to help."
There was silence on the line while he thought of a way to dig out of the hole he'd thrown himself into.
"How are you?" she asked.
"Good. Great, actually. Signed off on a big contract today."
"Congratulations! We'll have to celebrate when we see each other next."
"Deal." The cab pulled into his driveway. "Listen, I've got to go. Talk to you soon?"
"You bet."
Stacks of boxes filled the kitchen. Christmas decorations, children's toys and old clothes were piled in disorganized confusion. Ryan appeared carrying three Rubbermaid bins and dropped them near the sink.
"Hey, Dad."
"Hi, Ryan. What's all this?
"Dunno," he shrugged. "Mom just asked me to bring it all in here." A car horn beeped outside. "That's the guys . . ."
"Go," said Colin. "I'll finish helping your mother."
Maureen came around the corner in an old t-shirt and jeans.
"Getting a head start on the spring cleaning?" asked Colin.
"There's too much shit in this house." A deep line creased the space between her eyebrows. "There's nowhere to put things while the renovations are going on."
Colin lifted an American Girl doll from one of the boxes and smoothed back its long blonde hair. He remembered teaching Amy to play basketball because she said it was the doll's favourite sport. He smiled. That had been a great afternoon.
"I know that look," said Maureen. She threw the doll back with the other toys. "We're not keeping any of this. I was hoping to be done before you got home."
His mood was too glorious for her to ruin. "You're right, we've outgrown a lot of it. Donating it is a good idea. Who's coming for it, the Salvation Army?"
She pressed her lips tight, but didn't answer.
"The YMCA?"
"It's going to the dump. I don't have time to sort through it. Joe will be here with his crew in the morning, and it all needs to be gone."
He ran a hand through his hair and wondered whether it was worth an argument. "He was at the Costas' earlier. When do they close on their new place?"
"May."
"Congratulations, by the way."
Maureen stuck her hand to her hip. "Are you going to help me, or are you just going to stand there talking?"
He set his work bag on a chair and started to move the boxes into some kind of order. "Miguel signed the contract today."
"About time."
"It'll be a fun project, I think. It'll be nice to do some writing again for a change." He spotted a box that had been in his office — the one containing old manuscripts and story notes. The one he'd hauled out after the ski trip and had started working on again. "You're not throwing these out."
"Don't start, Colin."
"This is my work."
"It's a bunch of musty old papers that are sitting around gathering dust. It's garbage."
He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "They're books. My books."
"Yeah, your unpublished and unpublishable books."
That was rich coming from a woman who hated reading novels. "Know the industry that well, do you?"
"No, but Henry does."
"Henry? What's he got to do with this?"
"I asked him to read some of it."
His mouth dropped open in shock. "You what?"
"Well, God knows you'd never do it."
"Jesus, Maureen."
"Give it a rest, Colin." She held up a hand to silence him. "I don't want to hear it. If you had any ambition you'd be published — or at the very least, you'd be the Senior Editor instead of him."
Stabbing him would have been less painful. She'd never supported his literary ambitions, but neither had she mocked them. "You consider putting you through school and raising our family excuses?" There was no venom in his voice, only pain and disbelief.
"I said I don't want to hear it." She clapped her hands over her ears.
They stared at each other in silence until at last, Colin picked the box up under his arm and walked toward his office.
"Oh, for God's sake. Stop sulking."
He brushed past her without a glance.
"Keep the manuscripts then. Is that better?"
He shut the office door and locked it behind him.