19

I hear Mia’s footsteps upstairs. She is in our bedroom changing out of her dress and heels. I don’t blame her. I’m reminded again of how lucky men are that we don’t have to prance around on tiptoe just to get attention from the other sex. Actually, I’ve never had trouble in the mating game, as you now know, but some women and men, well, they need to employ all the tools of the trade, respectively.

While she’s upstairs changing, I go back outside and retrieve the plain white envelope from the glove compartment. It’s an old Thompson Payne envelope, business-sized, with the agency’s logo and return address on the upper left side. Just a plain old envelope sealed tight with a little something special inside.

I’ve parked the car in the garage, to make Mia happy, and after I get what I’ve come for, I’ll need to push the button on the wall and then run out of the garage without tripping the sensors. If I keep this cottage, I will definitely fix the actual door to the garage. It has been wonky since we bought the place. I push the garage door button and sprint through the garage, hopping over the line where the sensor beam will detect me, and burst out of the garage into the night. Somehow, I’ve managed to keep the envelope in my hands. The universe is making up for the croissants again, no doubt.

Still sprinting, I make it to the back door in record time and rush into the kitchen. It’s empty.

“Mia?” I call.

“I’m still changing,” she answers, her voice floating down the stairs to me.

“Great. I’m going to make us a nightcap,” I say, sticking my head around the corner and talking to the stairs.

“Sounds good,” she says. “Be down in a minute.”

Quickly, I pull down two crystal tumblers. From the liquor cabinet—aka the cupboard above the refrigerator—I grab the brandy. We aren’t really after-dinner drink people, but tonight is special. I pour the brandy into each glass; the strong odor of the liquor stings my eyes. Can brandy go bad? I wonder. I don’t have time to change course, so I grab the envelope from the counter and carefully tear off the corner, ripping through “Thompson Payne” in one satisfactory motion. Typically, I wear gloves but there is not time for caution now. I pour the contents into a glass, crumple the envelope and toss it into the sink.

There is a candle next to the sink—its green-checkered wrapper is country and screams “cottage candle.” A gift, I believe, from Mia’s mother. I reach into my pocket and pull out the matches. I strike the match, light the candle, and then light the envelope. The paper takes forever to catch fire, it seems.

“Paul? What are you doing?” Mia asks, appearing in the kitchen suddenly and causing me to jump.

I turn my back to the sink, blocking it, and say, “God, Mia, why do you sneak up on me like that?” I am willing the envelope to finish disintegrating behind me.

“What’s burning?”

I turn to the sink again, and see the envelope fully engulfed. “Gosh, I dropped the match in there after lighting the candle. Must have been a paper towel.” I turn on the faucet, dousing the flames, the white envelope now a charred mess that easily rinses away down the drain. I wash my hands with soap, and dry them with a paper towel.

“Smokey the Bear would be proud,” Mia says. She is wearing sweatpants now. They are gray and make her look like a lazy housewife who eats too many Oreo cookies while watching daytime TV. To complete the ensemble, she has added a gray sweatshirt with the word LAKESIDE printed on it in white. Charming.

At the sight of my expression, Mia lets out a little laugh. “I know you hate me in sweats but there’s a little chill in the air tonight. I’m so much more comfortable now.”

“You look it,” I tell her, trying to hide my disdain with a smile. “Let’s go sit, enjoy our drinks. Light a few more candles.”

“Sounds wonderful,” she says. I hand her the tumbler of brandy and follow her into the family room.

I pull the matches out of my pocket and light the three candles on the coffee table, then take a seat next to my wife on the tan couch. It’s wonderful to be home, alone, sitting on our new luxurious, decorator-selected furniture. Here we are relaxing in the family room of our lake house, sharing an after-dinner drink after an expensive dinner out. We are a successful, enviable couple. I am handsome, Mia is holding up well—although you wouldn’t know it with the outfit she has on.

“Cheers,” I say. I hold up my glass of brandy, clink my crystal tumbler against hers. “To us.”

She takes a sniff and recoils at the smell of the strong alcohol. Her head snaps back as if she saw a ghost. I think the hand holding her glass is shaking, almost imperceptibly. Is it? I drink a sip of my own brandy, careful not to shudder, and smile. Sure, the stuff is strong but she is really overreacting.

“Oh, come on. I know you don’t love brandy, but it’s the only after-dinner drink we had in the cupboard. It’s a special night. Drink up, honey. It will help warm you up, and then I’ll finish the job,” I say with a wink, taking another sip.

She smiles feebly. “Okay, Paul, I’ll try it.” I watch closely as she puts the glass to her mouth.

There is a knock on the door. Mia lowers her drink, places the glass on the coffee table and looks at me with concern. This is odd. No one knocks on your door after ten o’clock at night, not in Lakeside. Not even in Columbus.

Mia’s eyes are wide as I stand up. “Stay here. I’ll get it,” I say. I am brave. I am the man. I make my way to the front door and turn on the front porch lights. Their glare reveals Buck. He has a lot of nerve.

I yank open the door. “I know your wife is dead and you may not remember this, but when a man has a date night with his wife it isn’t okay to come over. Not before. Not after. What part of this aren’t you getting?” I say. My hands are on my hips, and I know my words are cutting and mean. I know this, and I like it. He has crossed me one too many times. “What? Why do you think you can just show up here at all hours? Or is this about the strawberries? They’re fine. Been fine. Don’t need you, Mr. Green Thumb. So, good night.”

I slam the door in his face before he has a chance to respond. Hopefully, I made it clear he wasn’t welcome. He couldn’t take a hint, but now he has got it, surely.

I look out the half-moon window cut into the front door, expecting to see Buck’s back as he is walking away. But he is standing on the porch, looking back at me. He isn’t leaving, it appears.

“What the—” I say, about to yank the door open again. This time I’ll use a fist to get my point across. I like the idea. Mia appears next to me, grabs my hand and pulls the door open instead.

“Buck, so good to see you twice in one day,” she says. “Is something wrong?”

I’m seething, Mia is holding my fist, I want to punch Buck but they are talking on my porch.

“Yes, actually. There’s a burglar on the loose. The sheriff came by earlier, but you guys were out. Thought I’d come relay the message myself,” he says. What a Boy Scout he is.

“Wow, thanks for letting us know. Can you come in for a nightcap and tell us more?” Mia asks.

“I’d love to,” Buck says. He takes a step toward me. He has a lot of nerve. I turn to my wife. This is her fault, too. She needs to stop disrespecting me.

“Mia, this is our special night. The best night ever, for the two of us only,” I say. I yank my hand away from hers like a toddler about to have a tantrum at a crowded mall. I reach for Mia’s arm. I will pull her back inside away from Buck if I have to, but just as quickly she moves out of my reach.

“Yes, it is a special night, Paul. But Buck is looking out for our well-being. If there’s a security concern in the neighborhood, I want to know what to do about it and Buck has the information we need,” she says. She is calm, her face flushed, but her voice is firm. We are in a standoff on our front porch. Mia says, “Come in, please. Join us.”

No, that isn’t it, what you’re thinking. She didn’t mean join us for anything other than talking, an after-dinner drink. We aren’t swingers or “alternative lifestyle” or “it’s complicated” people. No, we’re above average normal people. Well, sexually I’m above average. I have a gift. One woman just isn’t enough to handle all I have to give, but I make each woman feel like she is. Does that make sense?

I need to focus.

My head is reeling, I’m losing control of my home, and I’m not certain what to do. My busy mind tries to come up with a response as Buck walks through the front door, cutting between Mia and me. I’m glaring at my wife, but she’s ignoring my stare. Mia follows Buck inside. I have no choice but to follow, too. I step inside my cottage, close the front door behind me, and wonder what I can do to get rid of this unwelcome guest.

“Drink?” Mia asks him, following him to the family room. I have no choice but to trail behind her.

“Sure, what are you having?” Buck asks. He’s wearing a LAKESIDE sweatshirt just like Mia’s. His is navy blue. He has washed denim jeans on and the kind of tennis shoes they call boat shoes back East. Very nautical, very annoying package.

“Paul fixed me a brandy, but I’m just not in the mood,” she says, pointing to the drink she didn’t touch sitting on the coffee table.

“That stuff tastes like lighter fluid,” Buck says. “How about a glass of wine? Red or white, I’m easy.”

“Sure,” Mia says. “Paul? Could you open some wine and pour Buck a glass? I’ll have one, too.”

What is happening? Now I am supposed to serve my wife and our unwanted neighbor wine. My hands become fists until I force them into my pockets and stretch a smile on my face. I stare at the two of them as they settle in around the coffee table.