Arthur had to finish some sketches for a major client. He apologized to Lauren and kissed her before sitting down at his architect’s table. Lauren wasted no time getting into bed and picking up where she had left off in Paul’s novel.
Several times, Arthur thought he heard laughter coming from the other side of the wall. Each time, he glanced at his watch, then picked up his pencil again. Later that night, hearing sobs this time, he stood up, quietly opened the bedroom door, and found his wife lying in bed reading something.
“What is that?” he asked, concerned.
“Nothing,” she replied, closing the manuscript.
She grabbed a tissue from the bedside table and sat up straight.
“Aren’t you going to tell me why you’re so sad?”
“I’m not sad.”
“Did you get some bad news about a patient?”
“No, good news, actually. Very good news.”
“Good news is why you’re crying?”
“Why don’t you come to bed?”
“Not until you tell me why you’re still up.”
“I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you.”
Arthur stood squarely in front of Lauren, determined to extract a confession.
“It’s Paul,” she blurted out finally.
“What, is he sick?”
“No, he’s written a . . .”
“Written a what?”
“I really should ask his permission . . .”
“There are no secrets between Paul and me.”
“Apparently, there are. Don’t worry about it. Come to bed, it’s late.”
The next evening, Paul was at the agency when he received a call from Lauren.
“I have to talk to you. My shift ends in a half hour. Meet me at the coffee shop across from the hospital.”
Perplexed, Paul put on his jacket and left his office. He bumped into Arthur outside the elevator.
“Where are you headed?”
“To pick up my wife from work.”
“Can I ride over there with you?”
“Are you sick or something, Paul?”
“Let’s go, I’ll explain later.”
When Lauren appeared in the hospital parking lot, Paul rushed over and cornered her. Arthur stood watching for a moment before deciding to join them.
