The Lost - J. D. Robb [46]
I couldn’t believe it when Sam shut me out of the bathroom while he took his shower. Something else I’d been looking forward to was seeing him naked, although I hadn’t quite realized it until the opportunity was snatched away. At least he came out in his shorts, all clean skin and wet hair, smelling of soap, shaving cream, deodorant, toothpaste. And at least he let me watch him get dressed. Ten years ago, when we were first married, he had lots of suits, and he wore them to his job as an actuary in a large downtown insurance company. These days he was down to one suit and a few sport coats, and he rarely wore any of them. No need when his main job was to take care of Benny and his other job called for a tux.
He pulled on a T-shirt, then stepped into the pants of his dark blue suit and zipped up. Light blue shirt next (I assumed; it looked gray to me), followed by his navy paisley tie. His best black belt. What was this “appointment” he needed to get dressed up for? He combed a side part in his longish, streaky-blond hair, and that was a tip-off that wherever he was going, it had nothing to do with magic. Milo Marvelle wore his hair straight back from his handsome forehead, accentuating his sharp, dramatic features. Sam Summer was a good-l ooking man, but Milo Marvelle was a Master of Mystery.
He kept glancing at his watch. When he was nervous, he had a habit of pursing his lips and blowing air in and out of his cheeks. He stowed his wallet, change, comb, and handkerchief in various pockets, then took a long, scowling look at himself in the mirror over the bureau. “Million bucks,” I wanted so much to tell him. It was what we said to each other whenever we dressed up for something special. “Honey, you look like a million bucks.” Sam inhaled deeply, said, “Okay,” into the mirror, a one-word pep talk, and went out.
He closed me up in the kitchen again. “Just until we’re sure she’s housebroken,” he’d explained last night to Benny. What, I hadn’t proven myself yet? What did I have to do? Explode? “Be good,” he said, ruffling the hair behind my ear. You, too. I licked his wrist. Good luck. Drive carefully. I had the stupid dining room chair out of the way and the door open before I heard his car start.
I’d never noticed before, but there wasn’t a comfortable chair in my living room. Not one. I’d gone for modern when we bought the house, pleased with the new sleekness of leather, metal, and glass. Modern was sophisticated; modern meant professional, in control, and on the way up. Maybe so, but where do you sprawl out? No wonder Sam and Benny liked the den best (or the “away room” as we say in real estate). I used to keep the door to the den closed when we had company, as if hiding a mad relative. Now it was where I went after sampling all the slippery leather sectionals and the scary Eames recliner in the living room. The den even smelled better. Like people.
Over in the corner, my computer was humming. In sleep mode, but it was on, which was a relief; the button that activated it was in back, flush with the monitor, and I wasn’t sure I could’ve punched it in with my nose. All I had to do was press the space bar and . . . voila. The blue screen.
Now what? How could I write a message to Sam? First thing, get myself settled in the office chair so I could reach the keys. That took more time than I’d expected, owing to the fact that the chair revolved and sat on castors. I reminded myself of a seal balancing on a beach ball. But that was nothing compared to trying to get the computer into word-processing mode. I fell on the floor an embarrassing number of times, and failed in the end anyway because I simply could not push the mouse up to Word and keep it there while left-clicking with my chin.
Even if I had been able to, how would I have typed letters? My feet were