Her Favorite Husband. Caron Todd
of fruit and chocolate, and teas and coffees to augment those supplied by the hotel.
By evening, the long, complicated day had caught up with her. She bought a sandwich from the hotel coffee shop and took it up to her room. She wanted bubbles, cocoa, a book and her dinner, all in the tub.
First, she would return Ian’s call, so she could forget about him and his odd apology.
She undressed with one hand and dialed his hotel with the other. The front desk connected her and the answering machine came on.
“Got your message, Ian. Thanks. You said you supposed I knew what happened last night. Actually, I don’t know. Pretty much from bar to bed to goodbye. It feels wrong to be grumpy with each other, though, doesn’t it? Do you want to meet for a drink tonight?”
The question had slipped out. If she could have caught it and put it back in her mouth, she would have. She didn’t want a drink. Not with him, not with anyone. She wanted a bubble bath and bed. Besides, an innocent drink was how the previous evening had begun.
Since she couldn’t take back the suggestion, she added, “Not as a prelude to anything, just a drink. I want to think we can be civil to each other. For old time’s sake.”
She liked the sound of that. Postbliss and postfight chemicals had nothing to do with the invitation. “Anyway, I’ll be here for a while if you want to give me a call.”
SARAH HELD HER BOOK SAFELY above the bubbles. She had just finished reading about a young man from Ontario who’d gone north to find his fortune during one of the 1880s gold rushes, and had never been heard from again. He’d simply disappeared.
The cold could have got him, she supposed. A glacier. Wild animals. Rapids. Other gold-seekers. The book was full of similar stories about southerners with a dream coming up against the harsh realities of the north. It was different now, with modern travel and technology. Safer.
Sarah let the book fall to the floor, and slid deeper into the bubbles. She wished she hadn’t fought with Ian today. He was her harsh reality, always insisting on being unreasonable.
They used to get along. There weren’t any lunches that dissolved into fights. Ian had to be thinking of someone else. She remembered lunches much differently. Sexy lunches, study lunches, long, wonderful conversation lunches.
Once, at exam time, with books and binders open all over the apartment, and stress oozing from the walls, she’d looked up from her notes and thought again how absolutely beautiful he was. But upset. He was studying for his one science credit and had been afraid he would fail.
She’d gone over to commiserate with him. Had ruffled his hair and told him he should grow it longer. He’d said his dad would just cut it off.
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