What Remains True Page 17

  I manage to force her and Rachel—because thoughts of Rachel are always intertwined with thoughts of Greta—from my mind in order to focus on my work. I open a current file, which wipes the family selfie away and replaces it with digital schematics. I’m working on a 3-D rendering for a restaurant just off I-5. My father would have hated this software program, which allows me to move walls and windows and alter the structural elements with a few taps on the keyboard. Dad was old-school all the way, and his favorite part of the business was making models. But I have fully embraced the digital world and welcome any tool that will streamline my workload. Within minutes, I’m happily immersed in my design.

  As usual, I lose track of time. I’m just saving my changes when I hear a knock. Greta stands at the open office door and holds up a large paper sack. I glance at the clock on my computer, then through my window to see that the rest of the office is empty. Everyone is already at lunch.

  “Should I come back? I can stick these in the fridge.”

  “No,” I tell her. “Your timing’s perfect.”

  She grins at me. “Always has been.”

  She walks to my desk and sets the sack down, then takes a minute to shuffle some of my papers out of the way. Her fingers are long, the nails medium length and painted coral red, and for a brief moment, I imagine them raking across my skin. I stifle the thought quickly, before it can betray me. I close the restaurant file, and Rachel’s and the kids’ faces reappear. Rachel’s smile looks accusing. I put the computer to sleep as Greta sets out the food. She grabs the chair across from me and scoots it next to the desk, then sits.

  “Italian combo, the works,” she announces as I unwrap the sub from its parchment paper encasement. “And don’t worry.” She grins. “I’ve got Altoids in my desk.”

  “You think of everything,” I tell her as I take a bite.

  “Yes. I have.”

  I look at her. She is watching me closely, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.

  “You were great this morning,” she says. “Your enthusiasm is really contagious. I could tell by their faces. Jacobs and Talbot could actually see your vision.”

  “The blueprints and 3-D rendering help.”

  She shakes her head and looks down at her own sandwich, tuna on whole wheat. She picks at the crust. “No. Anyone can show a rendering. It’s still just a blank image. The way you bring the image to life, as if it already exists in reality—I mean, how you have them close their eyes and imagine walking through the lobby and taking in all the details, the floors and walls and windows, how the sun will light the space at various times of the day. You’re so good, Samuel.”

  I feel a tightening in my chest. “Thanks, Greta. I appreciate that.”

  “I’m so glad you took a chance on me. I’m learning so much. And I . . . Well, you know how I feel.”

  My eyes meet hers. “You have become completely invaluable to me, too, Greta.”

  She grins. “Good.” She glances out the office window to the empty room beyond, then slowly places her hand over mine. Her fingertips softly stroke my flesh. “I wouldn’t want to be replaceable.”

  “That could never happen.”

  “I’m glad.”

  My skin has grown hot where her hand lies, and my dick is twitching. A vision slams into my mind, of me rushing to her, lifting her out of the chair, turning her and bending her over the desk, pushing up her skirt and yanking down her panties—red lace, I’m guessing—and shoving my stiff erection deep inside her.

  I use the pretense of taking another bite of my sandwich to pull my hand away. She smiles and lifts her sandwich, nibbles daintily at the edge of it, then sets it back down. Rachel eats with gusto, practically inhaling her food. Her zest for eating was something that attracted me when we first started dating. Now, I find it humorous and endearing.

  “Still planning on going out to the Hewitt site this afternoon?” Greta asks, pulling my thoughts away from Rachel. I nod and try to chew my mouthful politely. “Still want me to come with you?”

  She remembers the invitation I’d thrown out yesterday. I said it would be a good learning experience for her, but now I realize it was a bad idea. I should not be alone with this woman outside the office. Here, it’s safe. We must adhere to the rules of decorum. We can flirt and wink and place our hands over each other’s hands and not worry that it will lead anywhere. But in the outside world, alone, with miles of land between us and anyone who might notice or care . . . anything might happen.

  Oh, who am I kidding? Certainly not myself. That situation is exactly why I invited her. To find out, once and for all, what this is between us.

  It’s a bad idea. And still, my heart beats rapidly in my chest with the knowledge that she will be joining me.

  “Absolutely,” I say, but my inner voice is screaming at me. I listen to it. “But look, Greta,” I say. “It’s Friday night. You shouldn’t be working. You should be out on a date or drinking with friends. You shouldn’t be with your middle-aged boss checking on a project. Really.”

  Her eyelashes flutter, and her lips turn down. “I thought you wanted me to come.”

  “I do. It’s a long drive, and the company would be appreciated.” I try to sound professional. It’s bullshit. “And I think it would be good for you to see the project at this stage. But you’re young, Greta. You should be out having fun on a Friday night. With people your age.”

  She looks at me straight on. “I don’t like people my age,” she says. “I never have.”

  “Well, then . . .” I don’t know what to say. Thankfully, I see Carson push through the front door. A moment later, he appears at my office.

  Carson turns fifty in two months. His hair is thinning on top, and his jowls have started to succumb to gravity, but his youthful energy is a counterbalance to his looks.

  “Heard it went great with Talbot and Jacobs,” he says, then gives me the Richard Nixon victory sign, a long-standing joke between us.

  “Yeah, they’ll sign,” I reply. Carson nods at Greta, and she smiles back at him.

  “Mr. Davenport was great.”

  “Always is, dear,” Carson says. “That’s why I keep him around.” He looks at me. “You going out to Hewitt?”

  I nod.

  “We were just talking about that,” Greta says. “It’s on the schedule for this afternoon.” I’m relieved she doesn’t mention the fact that she’s joining me.

  “Great,” he says. “Let me know how it looks.”

  “We will,” Greta says. I cringe inwardly as Carson shoots me a strange look. He nods his head once and shrugs.

  “Good. Great. Yeah, okay, so call me tonight when you’re done.”

  “Don’t you have that dinner thing?”

  I don’t want to call him tonight. I know why he’s asking me to, and I resent it.

  “Yeah, no, I do. Dinner with four members of the city council. Going to be about as much fun as a root canal. Call me if for no other reason than to give me a break from those jerk-offs.”

  “Okay.”

  Carson nods again, then heads for his office.

  Greta turns to me and smiles. “Leaving at four?” she asks.

  “Yes. Traffic will be bad, but I don’t think I can get out of here any sooner.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t mind traffic. That’ll give us time to talk.”

  “About what?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want to know the answer.

  “About anything,” Greta replies. She takes another nibble of her sandwich and grins playfully at me.

  I set down my sandwich, my stomach suddenly uneasy. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  “Might be better if we caravan,” I suggest. “So we can both head home from there.”

  She tries not to look disappointed. “You’re the boss.”

  FORTY-ONE

  RACHEL

  I arrive at the school five minutes after kinder pickup, cursing myself for being late. Jonah is one of the last kids rema
ining behind the gate. When Eden was in the lower grades and I arrived late, she would be angry and unforgiving, glaring at me as I waved to her teacher and punishing me long into the evening. But Jonah is happily chatting with another kindergartner, gesticulating like an Italian mama and clutching a stuffed monkey to his chest. He doesn’t even notice me as I toss a greeting to his teacher. When Mrs. Hartnett calls to him, he turns toward me and gives me a beatific smile, and my heart seizes in my chest.

  “I won, Mommy! I won! I won the egg hunt!” He barrels into me, throws his arms around my waist and squeezes me tight while managing to keep a firm grasp on the monkey. “I get to keep Marco for the whole vacation!” he tells my stomach.

  I peel him away, then kneel down and grasp his face in my hands. “Congratulations, my guy! That’s amazing!”

  “I found forty-seven eggs!” he cries. “Forty-seven! Jesse found forty-six. I thought he found more than me when I looked at his pile, but I found one more than him and I won and I get to keep Marco! Mrs. Hartnett said I should take pictures of Marco and us and then I can share them with the class when vacation’s over.”

  “I think that’s a great idea,” I tell him. I stand, and he instantly laces his fingers in mine. “I’m sorry I’m late, honey. I was working.”

  “You’re not that late,” Jonah says. “It’s okeydokey, artichokey. Work is important.”

  I smile down at him. “Not more important than you.”

  “Oh, sure. I know that. Nothing’s more important than me, right?”

  “Right!” I lead him to the minivan.

  “But I knew you’d be here and anyway I was talking to Joey M. about vacation and he said his family is going skiing and he thought that was the best way ever to spend vacation, and I think it is, but then he told me his dad isn’t going and that his mom’s friend is going instead and his brother is going somewhere else, and I thought maybe it wasn’t that great because he’s not going to be with his whole family, and I told him I didn’t know what we’re doing for vacation and he said that was stinky, like that we weren’t doing anything, and I told him it didn’t matter ’cause we were going to be together as a family so whatever we do will be the best ’cause we’ll all be together.”

  Finally, Jonah takes a breath, and I use the break to strap him into his car seat.

  “We’re all going to be together for vacation, right, Mommy?”

  “Absotively,” I say.

  “Posolutely,” he finishes.

  “So, wow, forty-seven eggs, huh?” I ask.

  “Oh my gosh, yes! And lots of each kind. I got . . .” He scrunches up his face and thinks hard. “Fifteen cookies-and-cream—Eden’s going to be so happy. She said we’d split ’em fifty-fifty, but I’m going to give her more because I don’t need them all. And I got thirteen chocolate ones and nine Butterfinger ones and ten peanut butter ones for Daddy.”

  “He’ll be so happy,” I say.

  “I can’t wait to give them to him,” Jonah says as I pull out of the parking lot.

  “Well, unfortunately, Daddy has to work late tonight,” I say, “so you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

  I glance in the rearview mirror. Jonah is frowning.

  “Can’t we go to his work now, Mommy? So I can give ’em to him? If he has to work late, he might need the eggs to help him have energy.”

  I bite my lip and watch the road. My five-year-old son has more compassion and caring than most people I know. It makes me proud—I must be doing something right. But also, I recognize that he is a force unto himself, and perhaps I only deserve partial credit. He came out of my womb a smiling, effervescent, joyful presence. Perhaps Sam and I can only take credit for not squashing that energy, for not suffocating his innate goodness.

  “If we go see Daddy, we won’t have time for the playground.”

  Jonah gets out of school exactly one hour before Eden. Our routine is to go to the park on the next block, where he can play for forty-five minutes. The younger students who get out early aren’t allowed on the school jungle gym due to some ridiculous district mandate, but the park is close by and has an even better play area than the school. Usually, other kinder moms are there, waiting for their older offspring, and Jonah and I both enjoy the camaraderie of our individual age groups.

  “I think giving the eggs to Daddy is more important. What if he doesn’t have time for dinner?”

  I check the clock on the minivan. Sam’s office is ten minutes away. Ten-minute return trip.

  “Okay, but we can’t stay long. We don’t want to be late picking up Eden.”

  “No, we don’t,” Jonah says. “She’d be way mad at you.”

  I punch the button for the CD, and Jonah and I sing “The Green Grass Grows All Around” together—his favorite. I forget where I am in the lyrics nearly every verse, but Jonah patiently corrects me.

  “No, Mommy, the wing . . .”

  “Oh, right. And on the bird, there was a wing/the prettiest wing that you ever did see . . .”

  After two rounds of the song—I did better the second time, according to Jonah—we pull into the parking lot of Sam’s building. It’s a nondescript two-story office building with cream stucco and blue-tinted windows. Sam’s company shares the second floor with an insurance agency, a mortgage broker, and an escrow firm. Jonah and I alight from the minivan and head for the entrance. He carries his paper sack containing his spring egg hunt bounty and Marco the monkey. I let him push the button for the elevator, and he smiles when he hears the ding and the elevator doors slide open.

  “Modern technology,” he says, and I laugh.

  We alight onto the second floor and head for the door at the far end of the hallway. Sam’s building reminds me of the dentist’s office we frequent, with tired gray carpeting and wood-paneled doors. At Davenport and Gregson, I twist the knob and enter the modest office space. There is no reception area, just one long space with two offices and a conference room on one side and desks and drafting tables on the other side. A young man . . . well, younger than me by a decade—sits at the first desk, typing into his computer. I recognize him as Henry Beecham, the bookkeeper for my husband’s firm. He looks up and smiles when he sees Jonah. He pushes his black-rimmed glasses up to the bridge of his nose, then holds up his hand for a high five.

  “Hey, my man,” he says. “How’s it going?”

  Jonah complies with the high five, then proceeds to regale Henry with the story of his egg hunt and Marco. Henry looks genuinely interested, listens intently, and asks questions. I like Henry. He’s worked for Sam for almost a year, and I hope he stays.

  “How’s it going, Mrs. D?” he asks. “Haven’t seen you much lately.”

  I nod. It’s true. I rarely visit Sam at work nowadays. Not since the blog. I used to bring him lunch or stop by after shopping, always bestowing upon him a little insignificant gift, like the Sriracha boxers I’d found at Target, or the “365 Ways with Duct Tape” calendar I’d happened upon at Barnes and Noble, just to let him know I was thinking about him. But my free time has become rare. I know Sam understands.

  “Is he here?” I ask, and Henry nods and jerks a thumb toward Sam’s office.

  “You want an egg?” Jonah asks. “I got lots. I’m saving the cookies-and-cream for Eden, and the peanut butters for Daddy, but I got some Butterfingers and some chocolates.” He looks up at me questioningly. “You like the chocolate ones, Mommy, but is it okay if I give Henry one?”

  I nod. “Of course. I don’t need that much chocolate. I’m bulging too much these days.” I pat my stomach to prove the point, but Henry scoffs.

  “You look fantastic,” he says. “But I will take a chocolate egg, if you’re sure.”

  Jonah’s head bobs up and down. “How about two? ’Cause one is never enough.”

  “Mrs. Davenport.” I hear my name and look up to see Sam’s assistant staring at me from a few feet away.

  “Hi, Greta. I’ve told you, please call me Rachel.” She looks uncertain, uncomfortable.
Sam told me that when she came to work for him, she refused to call him Sam. “Mr. Davenport” this and “Mr. Davenport” that. Almost drove him crazy until she finally agreed to call him Samuel. For some reason, that bothered me, although I couldn’t figure out why.

  “Rachel,” she says, looking at the carpet. “This is a surprise.”

  “Jonah won the spring egg hunt at the school and wanted to bring Sam his winnings.”

  “I got ten eggs for Daddy that are his favorite,” Jonah says proudly.

  Greta bends down to smile at Jonah. “Let me guess. Peanut butter.”

  “Yeah!” Jonah exclaims. “How did you know?”

  “I’m his assistant,” she says. “I know everything there is to know about your daddy.”

  She is talking to Jonah on his level and being effusive in a manner that five-year-olds respond to, but something about the way she says that—I know everything there is to know about your daddy—rubs me the wrong way. She stands and winks at me.

  “Obviously not everything,” she whispers.

  Somewhat mollified, I follow Jonah to Sam’s office. Greta falls in step beside me.

  “He is so adorable,” she says, giving Jonah an adoring look.

  I nod in agreement. “He is.” I smell vanilla and peaches on her. “Is that Chanel? Coco?”

  Greta blushes. “It is. You’re good.”

  “It’s lovely,” I tell her.

  “Thank you.”

  “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” Jonah shouts. He runs into Sam’s office and rushes to him. Sam stands behind his desk and glances over at me. I know it’s crazy, but I can’t help but think Sam looks alarmed, as if he’s been caught at something. A fraction of a second later, the look of alarm is replaced by an expression of sheer joy as he wraps his arms around his son and lifts him into the air.

  I stand at the office door and gaze at them, my two men. I glance back at Greta. She watches them intently, but when she feels my gaze upon her, she immediately looks away, takes her seat at her desk, and busies herself with some paperwork.