“Are you sure this isn’t a pregnancy hormone thing?”
“Oh. Yeah, that would definitely have been worse. But—”
“No, I am genuinely asking,” I mutter as I search my pockets to discover which one holds my keys. “Like when I joked about your baby becoming an astronaut when she grows up and you cried for twenty minutes because ‘space is so far away.’ ”
A glint catches my eye as I approach the shop. I take an extra few steps forward, past the door, and stare at the display window. There are still the three chairs that Cal thinks are so great, but now my gilt-edged porcelain pieces are suspended behind them on their fishing line strings as if caught in a freeze-frame of a slow explosion. He was right; it’s certainly kitschy. But it’s also undeniably eye-catching. Interesting. Even more beautiful than I imagined, especially when the gold paint catches the morning sun as the pieces almost imperceptibly sway in response to the gently blowing air vent beneath.
I barely register Bridget’s admission that okay, fine, maybe sheisa tiny bit extra sensitive lately, my brain busy doing the (rather easy) math of how my decor wound up there. Did Cal spend his day off yesterday working on this? What enticed him to do it at all?
Oh, right. Probably the blackmail.
A strange little door opens in my heart and an even stranger little person pops out and whispers,Or maybe just because he wanted to.
Nah. Definitely the blackmail.
“Look, Bridge,” I say, “regrettably, I am your sister, and that means I’ll always endeavor to support you in everything. But Ipersonally don’t think Eduardo finishing off the bag of trail mix before you could raid it for M&Ms is enough to warrant a divorce.”
“I guess not,” she admits with a sigh.
“I really do have to go. Talk later.”
“If you’re lucky.”
I end the call and continue staring at the window for long enough that the heat of my sub manages to transfer through its foil wrapping and the bandage on my palm to become uncomfortably hot to hold. Right. If I go in now, I can probably eat atop the counter without getting fussed at.
I like sitting there. Since it’s higher up, it’s like getting to see Virtu from a whole new angle. It’s nice to have a different view of the place and all its treasures, see some of the things I might have missed at ground level. And it’s much more interesting than the fancy oversized wooden desk in the back office that must have been previously owned by a tycoon or mogul or other one-word Gilded Age synonym for “obscenely rich guy.”
Cal may have capitulated on the window decorations, but I take that as a gesture of goodwill, something to show me that he intends to uphold his side of our bargain. I don’t anticipate him rolling over that easily on everything else. Just because we worked well together last night, moving his secret goose into the storage room (ha,His Secret Goosesounds a bit like one of the mass-market paperbacks my grandmother used to keep on her nightstand) and he so kindly offered to walk me home when he noticed it was late doesn’t mean I should expect Cal to suddenly beniceto me.
A kind of rude leopard might be able to hide its kind of rude spots beneath a blanket of congeniality, but can it change them? Probably not overnight.
I have every intention of immediately hoisting myself atop the counter and making short work of my sub before he comes downstairs. But when I walk into Virtu, my eyes are immediately drawn to the window again. I go over to inspect it from behind. From this perspective, I can appreciate that he took great care with the placement of each shard on the fishing line, ensuring variations in color and pattern. Frankly, it’s exactly how I would have done it myself. As if, despite his reluctance, he could clearly see my vision.
“Is it how you wanted it?”
I spin on my heel to find Cal standing a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets.
“Oh. Hi. I didn’t hear you come down,” I say, trying not to sound as befuddled as I’m feeling.
“I’ve been down here since seven, actually,” he says, then nods toward the window. “I finished stringing the pieces yesterday and spent the morning hanging them. So?”
“Huh?”
“I asked you if it’s how you wanted. Was this how you imagined it?”
“Oh. Yes. It’s…it’s perfect. Truly. Thank you.”
He shrugs and a delivery truck outside pulls away from where it was parked, taking the shadow over Cal’s face with it. Now, light streaming in, I catch him in all of his splendor. I don’t know if it’s because the dark purple crescents under his eyes are gone and the wrinkle at his brow has smoothed, or if I’m just seeing him anew, but this morning, the separation between the man I’ve been dealing with and the one I saw on television doesn’t seem as stark.
“You’ve been sleeping better?” I guess.
“Better,” he confirms. “Not great. But still…better.”
“Good.”
“How’s your hand doing?” he asks.
“Good,” I say again.
