Читать книгу Tidal Flats - Cynthia Newberry Martin - Страница 18

8

Ethan had been home a week. While he cleaned up after dinner, Cass read on the sofa. The light went off in the kitchen, and he said he’d be right back, but when she finished her chapter, he still wasn’t. At the door to the bedroom, she stopped. He was staring out the windows into the black worry of night.

“Ethan?”

“In Afghanistan, it’s already tomorrow,” he said, as if he could see it on the glass.

“You want to talk about it?”

He came over and put his arms around her, rubbing her cheek with his scratchy face. “Nothing to talk about,” he said, as she laughed.

“Hey, you want to go over to the bar?” she asked, sitting on the bed and slipping her shoes back on. “Hang out with Vee for a while?”

“And watch Singer drool over you?”

“He does not.”

“It’s Friday night. They’ll be packed. I think I’d rather stay here.”

“Well,” she said, kicking her shoes back off, “let’s watch a movie.”

After they settled on the sofa, Ethan, with the remote in one hand and her feet in the other, scrolled through the movies. Amour … Beasts of the Southern Wild … Doctor Zhivago …

“Life of Pi?” he said.

The titles flew by so fast she got dizzy. The Safety of Objects … Sabrina … The Secret Life of Words … And from there, her brain short-hopped to Setara. And then that was all she could see, as if Setara had materialized on the TV in front of them.

Ethan continued to click.

“So how is the Afghan Woman?”

“Setara’s good.” He raised his eyebrows and kept scrolling. “Thanks for asking.” When he got to the z’s, he looked at her as if to say What do you want from me?

“I wish,” she said, “that you would say her name in a way that doesn’t make her sound like some sort of goddess.”

“I don’t say her name that way. She’s my business partner.” But he leaned back, creating too much space between his body and her feet in his lap. And then he set her feet on the floor, collected his empty glass, and stood. He headed toward the kitchen but came back and leaned over her, placing his hands on the back of the sofa on either side of her. “You know you’re the only one for me. I bought some ice cream today. You want some?”

She shook her head and picked up the remote.

Not only was Setara out saving the world, but she’d had a baby, a little girl, in January. Which had stopped her not at all. She could do anything and everything. Cass squirmed. Most women seemed able to juggle being mothers as well as staying themselves, but Cass couldn’t imagine it. And because of Tidal Flats, she had tried to—tried to want children because Ethan did and tried to imagine herself as a mother. But if she ever had a baby, like Samson after his hair was cut, she’d lose her strength, the one good thing her mother had given her. Besides, a baby brought chaos, and she craved control. She just couldn’t see it.

The remote felt heavy in her hands. After a few seconds, she put it down and banged her half-full glass of merlot on the end table. She was being ridiculous about Setara. But when Ethan came back and reached for her feet on the floor, she held tight. He could not have her feet.

The next morning, in the early Saturday darkness, Cass picked up her mug of coffee, stuck her computer under her arm, and headed to the chairs in front of the French doors, which she cracked—creating a line of cool morning air she could feel, reminding her of the line of dark she could see under her childhood closet door and the line of light she saw when she was in the closet lying under her dresses.

Her fingers rested on the keyboard, but nothing happened. Inside her head, Howell was a mess. She stood. And then she saw it. Two lists—one that put her hopes and dreams for the Fates into order and one that brainstormed ideas to raise money to fuel her hopes and dreams. Everything would go on one of two documents. Get it all out of her and into order.

Ethan began to clank around the kitchen. She hadn’t heard him get up or get in the shower. When he came into the living room, he kissed the top of her head. He would spend the day with his photographs—editing, cataloging, printing.

She reached her hand up for his.

He grasped hers, squeezed once, and let go. “See you tonight,” he said. And the door swooshed and clicked.

She raised her head. Out the doors, no trace of darkness. Inside, the rich smell of Ethan’s dark roast coffee. She stood and stretched, opening the doors all the way. Leaning on the railing of their French balcony, she took in all the pink and white—the dogwoods sprinkling the city in lace. When Ethan had suggested they move to his apartment in the Westside Provisions District, she’d said yes immediately. Virginia Highlands where she had an apartment lacked a vista. Here, she could see farther. There was more air.

This apartment had been so empty—a mattress on the floor, a sofa and TV, the blue wheelbarrow seat. More proof it was meant to be, he’d said. His apartment, her stuff. After the move, the only thing she missed was looking out her window at that old maple, its fall colors and fullness, and then the bareness of the branches in winter with the empty café patio below.

Atlanta was a city of trees. She’d thought the same thing about Paris, standing at the top of the Arc de Triomphe, when she’d visited with her father the Christmas after her mother died. Now, leaning on the black wrought iron railing, she inhaled the fresh air. Ethan would be back tonight. That was the point of it all. The opening and the closing.