Chapter 6
6
Brock
"Do you play the guitar?" Schapelle asks, and I look up from the bolognese sauce I've got simmering on the stovetop.
We were both famished from the hike, so while she took a shower, I made us an early dinner. She's wearing what I assume are her around-the-house clothes, the same black leggings she had on before, this time with an oversized, white button-down shirt. She looks great, and I love that she's making herself feel at home.
I clear my throat. "Excuse me?"
"I noticed a guitar in the guest room," she says. "Is it yours?"
I kill the heat and let the bolognese rest. "Yeah. It's mine."
"So, you play?" She leans against the white marble top counter.
"Used to. Haven't in a while." I busy myself draining the pasta and filling our bowls, ignoring the churn in my gut. I haven't played that guitar since the night before Lachlan was killed. Even with my back to her, I know she's watching me.
It's hard to explain, but there are times when Schapelle and I are talking where I get the sense she's somehow able to see right through me. She's an author, so it makes sense she'd be good at reading people. The problem is, my story isn't a happy one. And no one wants to hear a grown man's sob story, do they?
We settle into the banquette table in the dining nook, two steaming bowls of pasta in front of us, the fire roaring and filling the cabin with the right amount of warmth.
"This is delicious," she says, slurping up a long strand of pasta.
"Thanks. Nonna's recipe. When she makes it, it's ten times better."
She grins. "Sounds like I have to meet your grandmother, then."
That's the other thing about Schapelle. Things feel so easy and effortless between us. So familiar. Like we're already friends. I've never felt so comfortable around anyone, much less someone I just met.
"Where did the '90s thing come from?" I ask, since I've been curious about it ever since she brought it up.
"I never really liked the music and TV shows that were popular when I was growing up. I mean, any decade that celebrates the Black Eyed Peas has a lot to answer for."
I laugh. Man, she's funny as well. "Good point."
"I used to watch old shows instead like Dawson's Creek , obviously, but also Friends , Full House , and Beverly Hills 90210 . I loved how life back then was depicted. Before cell phones and social media, people did this weird thing where they'd go out, like, to a bar, or the beach, or wherever, and they would…" She leans in over her bowl, and I do, too, enthralled, waiting to hear what she's going to say. " Talk ." I can't help it, another belly laugh rushes out of me. "I mean, can you imagine?"
"You're really funny."
"Eh."
She plays it off and starts eating again. Funny, smart, fascinating, successful, beautiful, and modest. In the words of Chandler Bing, could she be any more perfect?
Once we finish our meal, we head to the living room. "I don't have a TV," I say. "But I can buy one if you'd like, while you're here."
"Don't be silly." She waves the suggestion away. "I love the sound of the fire, and I've got my Kindle."
"As long as you're sure?"
She smiles. "I'm sure. But thank you."
My lounge set consists of a low-profile, brown leather sofa, a metal-framed coffee table, and two mid-century armchairs. I sit down in one of the chairs, leaving the couch for Schapelle.
"You can stretch your legs out," I say after a few minutes. I'm flipping through home renovation magazines, and she's curled up, reading on her Kindle, but she doesn't seem comfortable.
"Oh, thanks. But I'm fine."
I don't buy it. "You sure?"
She looks like she's about to speak, but nothing comes out. She closes her eyes and mutters something that sounds like, "No, I can't tell him."
A sharp crackle echoes from the hearth, followed by a long hiss, a log releasing trapped air. Her eyes drift open, glancing toward the fire then slowly making their way to me.
"Tell me what," I urge softly.
I wonder if it's something to do with her pregnancy, a topic I've deliberately avoided bringing up in case it’s too soon. I'm curious to know more, though, how far along she is, if she knows the gender of the baby, the state of things with the father, but I bite my tongue and wait for her to share whatever is on her mind.
She sighs. "Since I've been pregnant, my ankles have started hurting, so the most comfortable position is what I refer to as the beached whale position."
I suppress a grin. "I'm intrigued. Go on."
"You don't want me to tell you. Trust me."
"You're right. I don't." Her eyes snap to mine, and I say, " Show me."
She lets out a startled laugh. "No way. It's too embarrassing."
"You're my wife. There should be no secrets between us." I mean it in a lighthearted way, but it comes out a little firmer than intended.
"I can't."
"Yes, you can…If you want to," I tack on, to make it clear she's under no obligation.
"Urgh. Fine. But if I do this, you have to do something, too."
"Deal. What would you like me to do?"
"Hmm." She taps her chin. "Not sure yet. Can I bank it to use later?"
"Sure." I clear my throat and shift my eyes toward the empty part of the couch. "I'm ready when you are."
"I can't believe I'm doing this." She sighs again. "But you asked for it."
She swings her legs up onto the couch, stretches them out, and lays on her back, staring up at the ceiling.
"That doesn't look very beached whale to me," I observe.
"Oh, I'm not done yet." She hikes her legs over the back of the couch and drops an arm, letting it dangle toward the floor. "There." She cranes her neck to make sure I'm seeing it. Oh, I'm seeing it all right. My wife would probably disagree with me, but she is an absolute vision. " Now I'm done. Let the whale watching begin."
"You look comfortable," I say. "And that's what I want. For the next thirty days, this is your home, too."
She lowers her legs and perches on her elbows. "Really?"
"Really," I assure her. "We're doing a crazy thing here. I have no idea how these next few weeks will pan out, but if there's anything you need, anything at all, you just tell me. Okay?"
She stays silent for a long moment, her eyes fixed on me. "Okay. Cool. Thanks, Brock."