Arielle Nygard
The phone rings and I’m yanked from my deep cushion of sleep. “What on earth?” I mumble groggily. I peer at the screen through hazy eyes, struggling to focus on the caller ID.
Shit!
I answer hastily as I recognize the name. “Sam?” I ask as coherently as I can through the fog. I try not to let my alarm color my voice, but I can’t imagine a reason he’d call at this hour if something wasn’t seriously wrong.
“Arielle,” he says back, his voice slightly muffled.
I wait a moment, but he doesn’t go on. The silence hangs heavily over the line. “Sam, is everything okay?” It’s 4am, and I’m wondering if I need to make him aware of this fact.
“Yeah, I uhh… I had a difficult day, and I just— God, it must be the crack of dawn there. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m bothering you.’ His voice is still muffled and I realize it’s not just the phone line, or my sleep-fuddled brain. He sounds a bit… drunk.
“Are you okay, Sam?” It suddenly occurs to me that this is the first time we’ve spoken. It’s the first time I’ve ever actually heard his voice. Despite the slight blurring of syllables, I find that…it’s nice. Warm and rich, just as I imagined. Kind of. I thought he’d sound older. A little more like my granddad.
“Yeah,” he breathes out. “I’m fine. I’m so sorry. I’ll let you get back to sleep.”
“No!” I say quickly. Something must really be eating him to get him to call me like this. “What’s going on? Tell me what happened to make you so upset? Speak to me, Sam.” The words might be overstepping our professional relationship, but he’s the one who called out of the blue. And definitely not sober. I’m a little worried.
I’m a lot intrigued.
He gives a slight groan that I imagine is supposed to be rueful, but it shivers down my spine in a way that makes me catch my breath.What the hell, Arielle?The man could be my father…he’s myboss, for Pete’s sake!
“Sorry,” he says again. Husky…there’s a little catch in the word. That voice is something else…there’s something about it that I can’t quite put finger on. Something that niggles. But it’s beautiful. He could do radio – if he was sober.
Lord help me…I pull the covers up to my chin, clutch the phone a little tighter. “Where are you? What are you doing?” I press. If I can just get him talking, maybe it’ll help.
“I’m in my hotel room…in Odessa,” he says. “That’s in the Ukraine,” he adds, as if not sure that I’d know.
“Okay,” I say. “Why are you having a bad day?” It’s Sunday afternoon for him. What could go wrong on a Sunday in Odessa? It sounds like the title of a movie, and my mind starts inventing scenarios. I still have no idea what my employer actually does for a living. Aside from being richer than God, it would seem; he’s an enigma to me.
He sighs again. “I guess I’m just a little homesick,” he says. “Yeah…I miss home. I miss Munch. How’s he doing?”
“He’s good, Sam, good as new,” I reassure him. “Are you good too? Tell me what’s going on. You can talk to me…it’s okay.”
“I’m so alone, Arielle.” The words hit me in the chest like a clenched fist. He’s silent again. I imagine his mind is churning. He hasn’t struck me as the sort of man who opens up easily. I don’t know why he’s chosen me as a confidante. Must be our conversations. I swallow hard.
“I’m alone too,” I whisper back. It’s not a lie. I’ve spent so many nights in this bed feeling as if the whole world was moving off without me. “I get so lonely sometimes, I wonder what it’s all for. Until I see Austin…how much he needs me.”
“Mmhmm,” he replies. I can hear him shifting and imagine him trying to get comfortable. Suddenly the image of the broken man in the wheelchair eludes me. It’s that voice. I can’t connect the two. “He’s your son?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I reply. “My miracle.” He really is. He’s hard work, but he’s never a burden. He’s been my reason for living since Steve went. I realize that’s probably not healthy.
As if reading my mind, he asks, “Has there been no-one else…since your husband passed?”
I shake my head. “No,” I say. “It never felt…right. Like I’d be betraying him, you know?” Aside from the momentary lapse with the asshole magician, I’d never felt a moment of attraction to anyone else. Although for some reason, I’m feeling things now that just seem unsettling.
“Ahh…I understand.” His voice is gentle. “It can’t be easy, though. Not having love.”
“Oh, I have love,” I assure him. “Austin loves me.” The words ring a little hollow, even to my own ears. I’m sure my son loves me. He simply doesn’t have the capacity to show it.
“I don’t mean that,” he says softly. “I mean…it’s not like a lover.” I swallow. The word is as silken as a caress.
“No,” I whisper. “It’s not like a lover.”
“Would you like that?” he asks. “To have a lover again? Someone to hold you? To touch you…where it matters?”
Oh, God…more than anything.But there’s no way I’m telling him that. “Would you?” I ask, turning the tables.
