5. Jeremiah
JEREMIAH
There are too many white roses in the sample.
I remember Zelda on our first trip, eating bread off a blue plate in the hotel bed. She had put a flower from the table into a water glass because the vase took up half the space. Later I found a petal stuck to her thigh and made her laugh trying to remove it with my mouth.
She wants greenery for the anniversary. She has told me twice.
“Send those back,” I tell Candace. “Use what Zelda chose.”
“She’ll be pleased you remembered.”
I turn the sample vase away from me. I don’t need praise for knowing what my wife likes. Still, it is good to get something right without an argument attached to it.
Candace sits in the chair across my desk and takes out the place cards. I meant to tell her we could finish the arrangements by email. Now she has everything spread out, and it would be abrupt to make her pack it up again.
“How is Zelda?”
“Working.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
I straighten a card. It is Monday, December seventh. My wife asked us both to stop talking about our marriage two days ago. I can still hear the change in her voice when I ended the speakerphone call.
“We haven’t settled things.”
“She’s still saying you wouldn’t listen?”
I look up. “I was there when she apologized.”
“I know.” Candace’s voice softens. “You tried to make it better for everybody.”
My shoulders ease. I hadn’t known they were tight.
At home I say a sentence and Zelda asks about the part I left out. Here I can finish one. Candace saw the party too. She doesn’t look at me as if I’m somebody she has to keep explaining herself to.
“I don’t want another evening like that,” I say.
“Neither do I.” She holds Zelda’s place card in both hands. “Jeremiah. I care about you. More than I should.”
I stop moving the sample vase.
There is nothing coy in her face now. I can hear people walking in the corridor outside my office. The door is closed, though it usually stays open during the afternoon.
“I want you,” she says. “I’d be happy with you.”
I look at my wife’s name between her fingers.
I should stand up. Open the door, at least. I stay behind the desk.
“I’m married, Candace. I’m trying to save my marriage.”
She nods, but she doesn’t put the card down.
“I’m your friend,” she says. “Are you certain there’s something to save?”
“I wouldn’t be trying if I didn’t think so.”
Her face crumples before she gets control of it. I look away to give her a moment. It would be cruel to hustle her out while she’s trying not to cry.
“We could finish this later,” I say.
“I’m all right.” She sorts the same five cards into a new order. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Let’s leave it.”
She takes a breath and asks whether we chose the tart. I answer. Within a few minutes we are discussing the menu again, and the closed door seems less conspicuous.
She has not touched me.
I have not touched her.
I told her no.
I ask what she thinks of the market stall Zelda wants to visit on Thursday. Candace knows which one I mean. She has a story about Zelda refusing to leave until she found the right blue ornament. I laugh. It is nice just to talk about my wife without having to face the way she looked at breakfast.
“Take her,” Candace says. “Give her a good night.”
“I’m trying to.”
“You always are.”
The words feel good. I let them.
Then she asks, quietly, “Will you ask her to apologize properly before Christmas? I can’t sit at the table pretending she didn’t hit me.”
The warmth goes out of the conversation. I almost tell her not to bring it up. But she is the one I saw with her hand to her cheek. I heard the argument. Zelda said the words in front of us all.
Zelda has explained why she said them. Several times. I can hear the explanation beginning again if I go home with this request.
“We need peace before the dinner,” I say.
“That’s all I want.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
Candace gathers the cards. She has been here nearly an hour. At the door she looks back. I think she will ask the other question again.
“Thank you for hearing me.”
I nod. When the door closes, I sit without moving.
My phone lights up.
Please make sure they keep the chocolate cake. Your mother liked it last year and I want enough for everyone.
Zelda. At work, on a break, remembering my cake.
I picture her leaning against the wall behind the check out desk, typing with one thumb. She looked tired when she left this morning. I nearly asked if she had slept. Then she looked back at me and I reached for my keys instead.
My thumb rests over her name. If I call now and tell her what Candace said, she will go very quiet.
Then she will ask why I let her stay, why I listened to her about the apology, why I didn’t tell her to leave the moment she said she wanted me.
I said I was married. That ought to count.
I call the florist.
“No white roses,” I say. “My wife wants greenery.”
Afterward I send Zelda a reply about the cake. She answers with a small heart. I look at it for longer than I look at the message.
Her place card is still on my desk. Candace left it beside mine, the green ink dry now. I put them together in the drawer and shut it before going back to work.