On Sunday morning, Rex dressed in a navy-blue sports coat and tan slacks. A crisp white shirt open at the collar, he looked desert-ready for church. Slipping his feet into a dark pair of Gucci loafers, he stepped closer to the full-length mirror for one more glance.
He paid particular attention to the wrinkles at the corner of each eye. He ran his fingertip over his chin checking for sagging. May be time for an appointment with my doc.
He turned away with a sense of discomfort. He suspected that Viv didn't approve of how he took such care of himself, but he also knew his profession demanded a certain look and that he had to keep up appearances. But you're retired, he said to himself. You can let this vanity go and embrace the wrinkles as a sign of maturity.
Of course he knew in the back of his mind that he said he’d retired, but the reality was something quite different. He worked the same days and hours. But that’s just for fun and some extra cash, he reasoned with himself. It's not like I have to work for a living.
But it wasn't the money or the fact that he was or was not working. It was mostly that he knew Viv heard the inconsistency as soon as the excuse left his lips. He could hear her insist, to herself of course, because she was still not willing to step that far into his business. In his imagination she sounded disappointed. You're not retired. You still work the same hours. Why lie to yourself…
She was like that. A stickler for the truth. And to be fair, at least to himself, that's what drew him to her in the first place. Of course she was beautiful, but once he got to know her, he saw quickly that she was the yin to his yang.
But now he felt uncomfortable. For most of his life he'd played fast and loose with the facts. He could tell a story at the drop of a hat. The lies didn't matter. They never stood in the way of the truth. At least that's what he told himself. All stories are true; some of them actually happened.
But Viv. She was a straight arrow. He relied on her for that and he respected her for the way she cut to the heart of the matter, taking no prisoners.
Standing on her doorstep, he waited for her to answer his knock. The door opened slowly. She stood looking calm and cool in an aqua-blue sundress. The hem brushed against her knees. He inhaled sharply, appreciating the way the dress flowed down her body, showing off her legs. She knows how to dress, my Viv. The hem was not too short, nor too long, revealing slim calves and a pair of white low-heeled sandals. She drew a soft white sweater over her exposed shoulders while he watched with admiration.
"We need to go to church more often," he mumbled, stepping back to give her room. How does she do that...look so amazing and put together every time. But when he noticed she avoided his stare, he corrected himself. Don't overreact and scare her, he thought.
She flushed slightly but then busied herself shutting the door and testing the handle. He averted his eyes. Most women like that kind of attention, he rationalized.
He didn't dare take her hand. He knew in his gut that wasn't what she wanted. But he touched her elbow as they walked toward his car. Since they'd last driven together, he'd leased a new Mercedes SUV in cobalt blue.
He always felt a thrill driving the latest model off the lot. But then, in a couple of weeks, the feeling went away. The car no longer thrilled him. It became a way to get from one place to another.
"New car?" She waited for him to open her door. When he did, she slid into the passenger seat.
Once he sat beside her, he explained, "I lease a new one every year. Before you say anything, I know I'm kind of brand specific. Sutton teases me all the time about being stuck in a rut."
Once on the road he steered the car effortlessly, appreciating the quiet hum of the electric engine. "So were you ever a church-goer?" he asked, longing to reach out and take her hand. But he kept his hands firmly on the wheel instead. Not every woman wants a hand-hold on Sunday morning. Get a grip, Rex. Viv is a classy dame.
"My parents took me to church nearly every Sunday growing up," she told him. "I think I still remember. You know, when to stand up and when to sit down."
"The Catholics love that part. And the kneeling," he added with a nod.
"Do you feel a little, you know, guilty, about tracking a man at his place of worship? It's kind of tacky," she said.
"I have no scruples. Especially when it comes to an investigation." The words rolled off his tongue as if he'd been a PI for years, not just in his imagination.
If the truth were known, he hadn't been to church in decades and didn't really care one way or the other about God's opinion. "Do you think God will mind that we have ulterior motives?" he asked her, hoping his question would bring a smile. But she surprised him, speaking from her heart.
"If you put it that way, I suppose God isn't that particular why you go to church, so long as you show up." She folded her hands in her lap, looking out the window.