Day to day where do you want to be
'cause now you're trying to pick a fight
with everyone you need . . .
August 8th
"I'd like to spend two weeks at the cottage."
Greg doesn't look up from the ball game on tv. This is a conversation he's done his best to avoid, but the inevitable has now come round at last. "Mmpf," he grunts, and returns his attention to the screen, only to have the picture disappear.
"Much as you might like to continue to ignore me, I need to discuss this with you." Gardener places the remote on the coffee table. "Give me five minutes, please."
Greg sits back with arms folded. "Take all the time you want."
"I'll put it another way, then: please listen to me for five minutes. After this I won't speak of it again." She faces him and waits. With a loud sigh he turns toward her a bit and uses the opportunity to study her. Her outward appearance is the same as usual: thick fair hair, the color of old coins, pinned back in a french pleat; subtle makeup, stylish outfit that doesn't go overboard . . . and yet under it all he can sense tiredness. There are few outward signs-a little droop to her shoulders, maybe the fine lines around her eyes are a bit more obvious—but it's there all the same.
"Continue," he says after a few moments.
She nods. "I'm taking the second half of August as a holiday. The garden at the country place needs tending and harvesting. I don't expect you to come with me, I know you hate it there—"
"Whoa whoa whoa," he keeps his tone mild. "I don't remember expressing an opinion one way or the other."
"Any time we've visited in the last year you've complained loudly about the lack of conveniences, the utter silence, the terrible internet, and anything else that comes to mind." Gardener picks a bit of lint off her slacks. Greg sits back. He has to admit he's a little surprised by this comment.
"That doesn't mean I hate it." It occurs to him that perhaps he's been somewhat cavalier with his attitude. The cottage is his woman's DIY project, a special place she created with her own hands and a great deal of hard work and sacrifice. She holds it in high regard and derives immense satisfaction from its continued existence. Of course he knows it's a recreation of the home she longs for from her childhood, but then it's not his job to understand her motives beyond any effect on their relationship. All he needs to know is that she sees it as sacred space, and at least dredge up a modicum of respect.
Still, if he cedes any ground at this point, she'll push him to do what she wants. He's wise to her ways now; she'll wear him down with hints and gentle persuasion. And while he isn't averse to staying at that damn hovel buried in the wilds of rural Pennsylvania, he'll fight it just on principle.
"I'll be spending my two weeks off there," Gardener says. "You're welcome to join me, but if you decide otherwise that's fine."
Oh, here we go. This is a slippery slope. If he agrees and doesn't show up, he's toast. If he goes with her and makes even one derogatory remark, he's burnt toast. "Doesn't matter if I do or don't. You've already decided I'm a hopeless jerk."
"No, I haven't. Not yet, anyway." She gets to her feet in that graceful way he both admires and envies, and puts the remote within reach.
"We're in the middle of a heat wave. You're gonna make me sweat to death just so you can dig up your turnips and pretend you're a French peasant."
"As I said, it's your choice." She looks down her nose at him. In the soft evening light she is beautiful, even with that wry expression in place, the one that hides much deeper feelings. "I'll be leaving on the fifteenth in the morning. That's all." She hesitates. He says nothing. There is a brief, awkward silence. "We can eat in half an hour." Her words hold quiet resignation now.
"Good to know." And he turns the tv on.
Gardener's made steak, wild rice and a big salad for dinner, with zinfandel ready to pour. As always, she takes her time while he shovels in two large helpings. They don't talk much, but that's not unusual; Greg keeps an eye on her as he eats, but she doesn't pout or sulk or even look annoyed. She's herself—funny, gracious, not above the occasional teasing remark. And that makes him even more paranoid.
"You're studying me like a bug under a microscope. I shouldn't have said anything until the day before." She sounds resigned again. "You know, it would be wise to take both cars. That way you can come and go as you please."
He takes a mouthful of wine. It's good, earthy and bold but not too acidic, a fine match for the grilled steak. "That's very accommodating of you," he says after a brief silence.
"Greg." When he looks at her she looks back, her gaze steady and direct. "This is not your childhood. No enforced journeys, no dictates. I need some time off from my work and city life—"
"And me." He slips it in before she can say anything else.
"If I wanted time off from you I wouldn't have invited you to come with me." She offers him a smile, slow and sweet. "I do enjoy your company, you know." Those grey eyes are so full of affection—no, love-all for him, and it shocks him every time, because he doesn't deserve it. "Let me know what you think tomorrow." And she leaves it at that.
Later, when he's settled on the couch with a shot of bourbon and his guitar, he picks a few random chords while he ponders the whole thing whether he wants to or not. Of course he has no real choice here. If he stays home, she'll hold it against him. But if he goes . . . He sighs and takes a sip of Booker's.
It isn't that he doesn't like the cottage. Despite his disparagements it's a comfortable, charming home, surrounded by beauty on all sides. He feels welcome there; now that he's got a study of his own, created from the second bedroom, it's his place too. And with the keyboard, a tv and a big sofa to sleep on, he has nothing to complain about.
But it isn't the actual building that bothers him. It's the isolation. It makes him anxious. Yeah, it has music and the tv and computer, but no real distractions—no cases or puzzles to solve. He needs them like he needs oxygen. If he has nothing to focus on, the pain takes over and he won't be able to escape.
This is an absurd emotional reaction, he knows it. But there it is all the same, and he remembers why, even if he won't admit it even to himself. He fingers a chord, hears the harmonic overtones. Other, older memories crowd in, and he can't extricate them any more than he can tease apart the frequencies which make up the notes. His main squeeze is generous to suggest using two cars. But they've never stayed at the cottage for more than a weekend or a few days. Two weeks . . . his palms go clammy at the very idea.
On a growl of disgust at his weakness Greg sets the guitar aside, downs the last of the bourbon, and gets to his feet. It's late, after midnight in fact. While he's free of consults for the time being and has no real need to be in bed before the small hours, to stay up and ponder the problem at hand holds no appeal.
When he reaches the bedroom, the night stand lamp is on. It reveals Gardener stretched out asleep. Next to the water carafe sit her reading glasses and a book—La Maison de Claudine. It figures she'd read Colette, and in the original French too. That does nothing for his peace of mind. Colette is comfort food for her, and this book in particular; it's a personal favorite, he's seen her read this battered copy on several occasions, most often when she's feeling stressed or sad. She misses her mother, and that makes him nervous.
He strips off down to his undies and leaves his clothes in a pile on the floor. The TENS unit needs some attention, he's neglected it for a few days and he doesn't want to toss and turn all night. He limps into the bathroom and changes out the battery, perches on the toilet and takes off the pads and cleans them, checks his skin for sores or problems, then replaces the pads and fixes the settings on the unit, which is clipped to the waistband of his briefs. When the pain fades he lets go a silent sigh of relief. It's worth the minor annoyance of underwear just to be free of the shrill keen of butchered nerves.
Greg returns to the bedroom and climbs into bed, careful to be quiet. As he eases against his pillows he glances over at Gardener. She is awake; her expression holds neither condemnation nor irritation. "How bad is the pain?" Her soft voice holds concern.
"You're reading Colette." He brings up the sheet, more out of habit than a need for cover.
"Yes." She moves a bit closer and takes his hand in hers. Her fingers are cool and dry. "I miss my mother." He says nothing, unsure if he should respond. Gardener gives his hand a little caress. "Not everything I do is a reaction to you." He can hear the smile in her voice. "This time of year maman comes to mind more clearly, that's all. I just wish I could talk to her. A few hours together over a cup of coffee and a basket of rolls with her fresh apricot jam . . . it was her favorite breakfast." Her words hold a quiet pain he's heard only on rare occasions. He rubs the back of her hand with his thumb, a slow caress.
"What was she like?"
"Warm," Gardener says after a few moments. "Funny. Generous. We had all the stray cats in the neighborhood at our kitchen door for handouts each morning. My father would grumble that maman bought fish just to feed them and it was an extravagant expense. But we never had any trouble with mice." She falls silent for a moment. "There was a book in every room. She was always reading. She loved her garden . . ." Her voice trails off, returns. "One of my earliest memories is of eating fresh peas with her, sitting in her lap in the morning sunshine. Feeling happy."
"That's why you want to go to the cottage," he says after a time.
"That's part of it, yes. But . . ." She pauses to find the right words, a trait he's always enjoyed. She takes the time to say exactly what she means. "In my work I deal nearly every day with people who are struggling. Sometimes it rubs off. I need time away, to regain perspective."
"You could do that here. I'd be happy to provide distraction."
"That's a very generous offer." She leans in a bit and kisses him, a slow, sweet ministration that leaves him all a-tingle.
"But it's not enough." He presses a tender little buss to the corner of her mouth, just to see what she'll do.
"Right now it could be." The smile in her voice is back, only bigger. Her arms slip around him, and she brings him close.
They make love in a leisurely fashion, content to explore well-known curves and planes, taste each other, leave kisses as they move together. When release comes it's a slow bloom of pleasure, mellow as moonlight, subtle and sweet. They lie together, as their breaths mingle and slow.
"Still want to desert me?" he dares to ask. She chuckles.
"I'm not deserting you, as you well know." She traces the line of his jaw with a fingertip. "All this effort just to make me feel guilty. Impressive but unnecessary."
"So you feel bad already, and I just wasted my time."
"Something like that." She touches his bottom lip. "I'm not complaining though. I like the way you waste time."
"Damn." Greg trails his fingers over her forearm. "It was worth a try."
"Gregory." She turns on her side to face him. "This is my choice, not yours. You are free to come with me, or stay home. Or visit for the weekend. Whatever you decide is fine. You don't need to—to pick a fight with me over this."
"Is that what I'm doing?"
"It is, yes." She doesn't sound angry, though. "I'd expect nothing less."
He snorts softly. "Great. So now I'm an instigator."
"No, that's not it." She falls silent a moment. "You've been wounded deeply a number of times by people you trusted. It's difficult to forget the lessons those scars teach."
He doesn't know what to make of this comment; it hits too close to home right now, something he'd rather not admit. "That's the therapist speaking."
"It's also a good friend who knows a bit of your history." She kisses the hinge of his jaw. "Think about what I've said. That's all I ask."
He tries hard not to do that, until sleep carries him away at last.