Snapshots fanned in her fingers a few days later as she left the CVS, a small smile trembling on her lips, she considered the time they’d spent. Up the Space Needle: here was a picture of Wynn leaning against the cement and wire pavilion that framed the stunning view of Seattle beyond. At the zoo: here was Evan with a lorrikeet perched in his hair, his face scrunched in surprise. On the docks, at the aquarium, smiling together when she’d lent a tourist her camera. The days had gone so fast, too fast for her liking. He’d boarded the last flight just the night before, kissing her so ardently before his flight was called that she worried he’d bruised her lips. She still had another week before her new tasks began at work – a week in which her company expected her to still be on the move. Evan had promised to finish the packing and send her things to her, but she was still quailing at his final warning – that it might be as much as a year before they were together in Seattle to stay.
He’d presented her with a diary before he left, but she had been thinking one better: an installation of Wordpress on his personal site gave them a new blog to share. Now she could keep him updated on her days as he did the same for her: it was, she was sure, something that would keep them both sane. And, she reminded herself, smiling faintly back at his smile, frozen forever on photographic paper, there were the weekends, and Veteran’s Day, and she was going to fly back to New York City for Thanksgiving. Just one month – all right, six weeks, she counted - until she could see him again. Until then, there were texts, the phone, and video conferences: she might be just one more computer nerd for a month, but it would be a month well spent. If absence made the heart grow fonder, by the time Thanksgiving came, they might just put that new-love high to shame!
She needed to think about the positives, because, she reminded herself fiercely, she was done with crying. She had nothing to be sad over!
And she had a lot to think about. News of Annette’s wedding had grown roots and had the entire family tree aflame. Phone lines from Baltimore to Savannah were probably seeing record numbers of calls, and she was eternally surprised each morning, as she paged open the newspaper to go with her cup of coffee, that it hadn’t made national news headlines yet. With the excitement growing, she was grateful that her mother’s gimlet gaze hadn’t fallen on her own marriage – Annette had been as good as her word, for once. This was good, she mused, logging on to her netbook in search of the morning’s messages, before remembering that Evan was likely to be in good enough spirits to send her anything. He would have reached New York City just a few hours before his workday started. Typing out a contrite apology for how tired he was, she sighed. Day one of her life had just begun, and she couldn’t wait for it to be finished. The hours loomed before her with no plans to fill them.
Her phone buzzed discreetly at at her hip, and she dug it out, holding it up to her ear.
“Miss Winslow? This is Marisol, from the law offices of Peter J. Barrett? I was calling to remind you of your appointment. It’s tomorrow at two p.m.”
“I don’t need the appointment,” Wynn told the secretary. “My husband and I decided to reconcile.”
“So you’ve decided to cancel? Okay, I’ll write that in,” the secretary said. “In the future, if your situation changes, don’t hesitate to call us back.”
Wynn hung up, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Tugging out the little keyboard, she pressed keys. “Canceled appt. with attorney. Love you! - Wynn.”
Love, though. She pressed her palm to her forehead, cursed softly, and drained her coffee in one huge gulp. Her pills! She’d meant to make an appointment to have a new prescription made, but she hadn’t dealt with the whole health-insurance transfer. Human Resources was supposed to do that, but what could she do for the interim few weeks? Dialing Directory Assistance, she got the number of the closest Planned Parenthood. They, wonder of wonders, had a morning appointment opening, and so, as she climbed on the bus, heading for Queen Anne and the University District, she blessed last-minute cancellations. She and Evan had been...quite affectionate...before his leaving, and her cycles were irregular at best. If she got the okay here, she could at least breathe easily until they ironed themselves out, like they always did.
“When was your last menstrual period,” the form asked, and Wynn’s brow furrowed in thought before the date resolved. Perhaps three weeks ago? She scribbled in a number, shrugged. Who kept track of those, anyway? She had enough to manage, and the only advantage she could see to having an estimate of when the next would arrive was knowing what days to shove a few extra tampons into her overflowing purse.
Answering a few other questions, she sighed as the nurse finished her perfunctory examination, and fidgeted as the doctor did hers. A little more than ninety minutes later, though, she had a few months’ worth of pills tucked into her purse: insurance against anything making her year even a bit more hectic than it already promised to be. Feeling productive, she stopped to browse through the giant mall at Seattle’s heart. Her empty apartment held too many memories of Evan for right now, and she was more content here, surrounded by strangers.
The week passed in a slow haze of texts, typed confessions of passion, and wild mood swings from Annette, who seemed to be having cold feet about everything but the idea of a Christmas wedding. She was grateful for these distractions, but avoided her sister’s plea that she “fly out for just a couple days.” It would only take a few questions – a few minutes! - for their matriarch to work out that all was not well with her elder daughter, and that was just not a complication that Wynn wanted to explain. Nor, truth be told, did she want to face the grim music: it was widely held wisdom in the South that anyone who “snuck off” to “shack up” with a boy had a few secrets to hide. For being a society of sultry, passionate, head-strong women, the South still clung to the illusion of Victorian morals and the lily-white weddings that accompanied them. Not that, she mused, that was the only double standard cherished in her birthplace.
And as if her suddenly collapsed love-life hadn’t been enough to manage, there was also work. While she hadn’t been due at the offices for nearly a month, she found that her empty days and endless nights were simply too much for her to fill on her own. Trouble was, the quarters set aside for the project she would spearhead were Spartan still, in the midst of being painted, and empty of all but the workers and a short, tense woman who claimed to be an interior decorator. Her life felt like the rooms she wandered through: stripped to the bones and barely functional. Still, she was able to take control of the hiring process, at least, commandeering an office some distance from the one that would eventually be truly hers. She sank her teeth into questionnaires and background checks, references and registrations. Her first priority was to hire her office staff, then her partners: only when the entire office worked as a harmonious whole would she be able to show the Head Office her true worth. It was a sterling opportunity, but sometimes, as she slid applications into her briefcase, she wished she hadn't won it.345Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk4OwuU9dgf
Her routine after work remained nearly the same as it had been in New York. She stopped for supper, usually choosing something from the grocer's gourmet deli, then she ate her selection plopped before her computer, eagerly awaiting Evan's nightly messages. At some point, usually when she'd given up waiting impatiently for a few moments and wandered away to read the news headlines, Annette would call, lathered into a frenzy by the wedding preparations. Although her sister's engagement wasn't even two weeks old, she was making up for time she wouldn't have by becoming a Bridezilla of epic proportions. Annette's gown, of course, was a matter settled, but Wynn's patience was wearing thin as her sister sent her image after image of attendant's gowns, gowns for their mother, gowns for his mother...and at one point, Wynn swore she had heard her sister mention a gown for her intended's pet Dachshund, but that could just be a particularly vivid fantasy. Had she been this irritating about her own wedding plans?
"So you're decided on the...ebon violet?" Wynn said, eyeing the eggplant-hued dresses her sister had just Imed her with unveiled disgust. "Didn't you say you wanted Christmas colors? Red or green? I'd even wear gold," she bargained, wincing at the thought of wearing a purple that would clash with her pale skin and honey hair. On the other end of the line, her sister had gone ominously silent. "But the purple's nice, too," Wynn hastened to assure her. "Like an exotic ornament. You're going to look just like an angel in Mama's gown, too." A soft snort from Annette's side of the line caught her attention, and she cringed as her sister began to cry.
"Oh come on, Annette," she cajoled, shifting the phone to her other ear and longingly setting down her fork, laden with a bite of massively overloaded baked potato. "It can't be this bad. Did you get your invitations back from the printer yet?" she asked, trying to steer her sister toward a less touchy topic. A louder wail grated on her ear as Annette let loose, and Wynn wondered what disaster she'd waded into now.
"They misspelled his last name," Annette hiccupped. "Oh God, nothing is going right. Do you think it's a sign?" her sister asked. "Nobody likes the dresses, the country club is booked for later the same evening - someone wants to have a Christmas party! - and worst of all, everyone is going to think my last name is about to be Satan Cruz!" Her sister let loose with another eardrum-piercing howl, but Wynn was too busy biting her lip to keep her sudden bout of hysterical laughter within to feel any pain at that. "They promised to do the invitations over, free, but they'll take another week, and my wedding isn't even six weeks away now!"
"Oh sweetheart, no one will notice the typo," Wynn soothed. "They say the human brain rearranges letters when the first one is in position anyway! I'm sure they'll all see Santa Cruz. And as for the Christmas party, why don't you skip the country club and rent the ballroom of the Peachtree Street Hotel? They did a lovely job with fairy lights and all for Tallulah's second wedding - you remember, the race car driver." Her sister sniffled, and Wynn drove on, encouraged. "And," she lied, fiercely swearing to the goddess that oversaw the sororities of the universe that she was owed one of the largest favors of all time,"I love the dress. We'll all look so elegant. Why, I bet I can even wear it again."
Or, Wynn thought, a smile curving her lips, have the flaming thing made into drapes.
"You're just laying it on thick," her sister sniffled, but Wynn could tell she'd won the war. "Now, you know you're in charge of the bridal shower, right?" her sister needled, and Wynn sighed. Before her, the computer screen flashed, and a box appeared. An indicator filled, and a line of text appeared magically on her screen.
"Miss you tonight," Evan sent, and Wynn smiled. "Hey, Annette," she said,"I'll call you back, okay?"
"Don't forget this time," Annette commanded. "Is Evan on?"
"Yeah," Wynn said. "And I'll remember, if it's not too late in Savannah. Can't have a bride without beauty sleep," she teased. Her sister managed a half-hearted chuckle before she hung up the phone, and, suddenly eager, Wynn pounced on her keyboard.
"Wish you were here," she sent back.
"Is Annette still tying up the phone?" he sent in return.
"Sent her to bed," Wynn responded, reaching for her now-cold baked potato. If Evan wanted to talk in his usual style, she'd better eat it now. "Did you eat dinner?" she tacked on, as Evan sent nearly the same message her way.
"Had supper with a new friend," he revealed, and she frowned.
"Grabbed a deluxe baked potato from the hot deli," she wrote back.
He said that sounded good, and she sighed. This was so much different than speaking to him: so strained and alien when she was used to reading the lines of his lithe frame and the movements of his agile hands. With a sigh, she shoved the potato away and lifted her phone: at least his voice was warm. While the phone rang in her ear, she reached behind herself and flicked open the clasps of her bra. Perhaps her fondness for sour cream and cheese was making her gain a little weight in the chest: her breasts were strangely sensitive lately. It could be the new pills, too: the clinic had not had her usual brand. One of those massive irritations that made you want to shout "I love being a girl!" from the rooftops. Smiling wryly, she cooed hello into the telephone.
Work dominated the conversation: he groused about breaking ground in the seasonal New York rains and the need to get the work begun before the blizzard season descended, and she told him a few silly stories from the office, most centered around the interior designer and Wynn's growing concern that the woman might possibly be color-blind. Although she was willing to flirt and tease, he gently steered the conversation away from real intimacy, although he did admit that "waiting until Thanksgiving was driving him crazy."
"So don't wait," she breathed at him, and he chuckled.
"Propositioning me indecently?"
"You heard me," she teased back, and he laughed outright.
"What?" she insisted, half offended. "I could run a bubble bath. It'd be like that squicky scene from The Truth About Cats and Dogs."
"That scene," he insisted,"wasn't that squicky! I still say Janeane Garofalo is highly under-appreciated as a beauty."
"Well, you also say you'd rather see Uma Thurman naked," Wynn retorted. "Which is totally why I gave that movie away."
"Did Uma ever take her clothes off in that one?"
"It's the principle of the thing," Wynn said, her tones ringing with asperity.
"You know she has nothing on you," he said, his voice soft.
"Except being a leggy, six-foot wunderkind of a supermodel," Wynn sighed. "I swear, if I were royalty three hundred years ago or so, I'd have her beheaded, just in case."
Their talk stretched on in a similar light vein, until he let out a long, unfeigned yawn. "Tired?" she asked, regret painting her voice. She found she missed him even more after they'd spoken, but she was loath to end the conversation.
"It's been a long day," he said. They traded affectionate comments for a few moments more, but he finally ended the call. She leaned back in her swivel chair, checked the time, added three hours, and decided not to wake Annette at eleven thirty. Of course, eleven thirty in Georgia - or New York City - was only eight thirty in Seattle, and that meant, once again, that Wynn was on her own to fill more empty hours. She killed a few moments picking over the potato, but she wasn't really hungry, and it was too early for sleep. It took only a few moments to determine that there was nothing worth seeing on television, and her fidgeting while she scanned the channel guide just punctuated her decision to get out.
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