For the third day, Towne slept under a thick, blanket of snow; Jennifer watched it fall, body tilted against the large bedroom window, sipped black coffee in silence. Warm air from a vent fogged the top half of the glass. A stack of graded essays were tucked under her pillow and she was already dressed.
Richard, his hair wet and slicked away from his face, emerged from the bathroom. It had been colored Young Brown the night before and looked plastic. A pinpoint oxford shirt, gray flat front trousers, too flat for a man in his condition, had been hand-pressed into the bed. A v-neck sweater and wool lapel overcoat were folded over the back of a chair with a section of The Campus jutting from the side pocket.
The man, hairy-backed and rounded, sat across from her on the bed, facing the door to the hallway. He enjoyed a cigar, as he often did in the nude, twirled it between his fingers and slowly donned argyle socks between puffs. When she smelled it, Jennifer wanted to cough-even though the smoke lingered around his head and not hers- but fought
against it. An alarm clock, an old one which folded the numbers over like a rolodex, clicked.
"Quiet," he said.
"What?"
"You're so quiet. Why?"
"No reason," she replied.
Richard sighed, reached for and folded the newspaper into a neat square, pressing the edges with his fingers. He took a long drag from the hand-rolled cigar, examined its rough, brown texture between his fingers, made a smacking noise, and asked, "Do I bore you?"
Jennifer studied his reflection in the window; he was twelve years senior, a teacher at University. Ten years a husband, he had not changed much at all. His face could best be described as orange peel. She was a graduate student, tall, with a small, pointed, slightly upturned nose and thin lips. Straight blonde hair, highlighted around the face, fanned over her back.
"No," She said to his question.
Richard smirked, made his way until behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders and whispered, "Liar."
They felt like sandpaper, his hands.
"You'll be late for class."
He glanced at the white gold Rolex on his wrist, an anniversary gift he never took off.
"Yes, I suppose you're right. You've made breakfast?"
"I made eggs."
"I would rather have you," he said, talking with his lips in her hair. She smelled like peaches. He smelled like smoke and Aqua-Velva.
Jennifer squirmed and tilted underneath, escaping his touch. She wiggled into slippers and walked out, leaving Richard staring at the back of her head.
"We have to deal with this Jen," he said, scrunching the cigar into a small, turquoise, bowl-like ashtray. "It won't go away on its own."
Richard found Jennifer. She had poured a glass of pineapple juice and spread strawberry marmalade on a slice of wheat toast. It had been set out on the island in the middle of the kitchen where his briefcase sat, well worn, but stern as if saluting the front door.
He pointed to the glass. "Is that for me?
"Yes."
He smiled, filled his mouth with juice and swished it around like mouthwash, repeating the process until the glass was empty. He drank everything that way and for some reason it made her stomach hurt, so she learned to never watch him.
"I forgive you."
"What?"
"If that's what it takes.
"If that is what what takes?
"Look," he said, straightening his tie. "We've been through this. You said it was over between the two of you, I presume you meant it, so I have forgiven you. "
Jennifer stared at his chin and recalled the first time she realized his head jutted from his body like an aroused nipple.”It's not for you to forgive."
"Isn't it? In any regard, it's a non-issue. Your little photographer friend, or was it a writer…?"
"He's a published author and his work has..."
"You're soon to have your doctorate."
"And?"
"And are you defending him?"
They stared at each other until Richard lowered his eyes, pretended to inspect his fingernails. He said, "Plus there's the other issue."
"That's never been an issue."
"Indeed."
Jennifer picked up his briefcase and placed it on the island.
"Well! We shall talk no more of this. And tonight…”
The rest of his words came out like spaghetti.
Richard left out the back door with his coat and paper and briefcase, blowing into the cold and cursing his selection of shoes. She tried to wave, but watched him drive away instead. A couple of morning joggers, neighbors, paused and stared at her. Jennifer went inside, took another shower, and discarded her panties, the last ones he touched, and threw them outside with the rest of the trash.
*
Towne was quaint this time of year, inundated with students from University, ice fishermen and bow hunters who served as firefighters, dentists, and accountants on the side. Jennifer had grown fond of Towne in the 8 years since moving there, and the daily life of a North country resident in winter: gunmetal gray skies and days without much sun, spiced scent of pine cones, tree branches and other kindling ablaze in hearths, the muffled grind of snow in the well of the tires of her truck, and the White Birch and Oak that stood guard, like dainty soldiers, around it.
Jennifer drove the ten miles from home to Lavender Tea House, watching people shoveling on driveways, smoke rising from heating cars, thinking of the time she and her husband arrived from the South.
The tea house was one of the first things she discovered here, along with its "best of three counties" lemon-poppy seed cake and imported teas.
A large converted frame house, painted in orange and yellow (Jennifer never understood why it wasn't actually lavender), rested at the end of a street of bricked shops and stores and in season, on the hill behind it, a field of pink lady' slippers could be seen from the main highway.
Jennifer's boots tapped, echoed on the old, dark wood floors of the foyer. Irma, the middle-aged owner whose dark brown hair reduced her age fifteen years, greeted at the door.
"Well hello, look who's here." She reached for Jennifer's coat. "And just where have you been hiding yourself Mrs. Taylor?"
"One word: dissertation. "
"So how is that going?"
"One word: dissertation. "
Irma laughed, then stopped abruptly, leaned close and uttered, "Your husband was here."
"He was? When?"
"He just left," Irma nodded. "Said he was going to the cigar shop and would be right back."
"Thanks Irma," she whispered. Her chin was low, into her chest. "Is there anyone by the fireplace?"
Irma glanced into the large reading room at the back of the house. "No, I don't think so. Are you two alright honey?"
"No."
Jennifer surveyed the spacious tea room. Small, Maple-stained tables – each adorned with teal and white tablecloths, porcelain teapots, a modest bouquet of flowers, and a menu – were throughout the sitting room like well-placed confetti. About half of the tables were occupied with women Jennifer knew, some friends. Towne being what it was, she knew a few were probably aware of the problems she and her husband had been having, but the last thing she wanted was a conversation, given their proclivity to talk after tea.
Light from six traditional English crystal chandeliers mingled with that given from two glass double doors on adjacent walls. Jennifer eased passed the main dining area into the parlor and sat on the loveseat near a stone fireplace. The smell of homemade chicken noodle soup wafted in.
From her satchel came a Nicholas Sparks novel. She laid it on her lap, closed her eyes and imagined a class of energetic and engaged anthropology students hanging on to her every word.
The warmth of the crackling fire relaxed her, and she settled into a full pot of peppermint tea, some ginger snaps, and the plush chenille throw pillow cradling her neck and shoulders. Jennifer closed her eyes.
When she opened them, she saw a Black man sitting on a chair across from her. The light from the flame highlighted a square, unshaven cleft chin, braids gathered together in a ponytail, of sorts, at the nape of his neck, and large deep-set eyes behind round titanium eyeglasses. A soft leather camera bag rested on the table between them.
He pointed to a spot in his face and said, "You, uhm, you've got something on your…"
Jennifer felt around her lips for moisture and before she could retrieve a Kleenex from her purse, the man handed her a handkerchief.
"Thank you, but I'm fine," she said, finding the tissue, in disbelief she had slept in front of him. She wondered if she had snored.
He moved back to his chair, looked at the set of cookies on the coffee table in front of her. "Smells good. Is that peppermint?"
"It is."
"I ordered the strawberry rooibos."
"You'll like that."
Jennifer tried not to meet his eyes. He was handsome, handsome like the smooth rocks jutting from the shoreline near her favorite stretch of ocean off the coast of Savannah. She watched him rotate a wedding ring around his finger and instinctively felt for hers, which had been left at home.
"So this is the famous Lavender Tea Room?" He asked. "It's peaceful. Nice ambiance, interesting." He took off his glasses, wiped them with the handkerchief, and continued with, "and beautiful people. Wish I'd come here sooner."
Jennifer smiled, leafed through the book, pretended to find a page. The man hummed, whistled, looked at his shoes, then finally reached into his bag. He pulled out a quartet of cigars wrapped in banana leaf. He moved the length of one under his nose.
”Dominican. Just as good as a Cuban, I understand."
"I don't like cigars."
"I didn't either. But when we -well I learned to like them."
"I see. Have you learned anything else?"
The man raised an eyebrow, fixed his lips to respond, but chuckled, instead. Irma set his tea on the table.
"Brought some complimentary scones for ya," she said, playfully corkscrewing an index finger into his shoulder.
He chuckled, said, "Thanks Irma. It all looks so good."
"That's because they are good," Irma said, a hand on hip.
"Well, don't keep me waiting at the altar sweetie."
"Never!" He bit into a scone, finger-wiped the corner of his mouth. "Delicious, absolutely delicious."
"Charmer."
Jennifer thought the exchange amusing, if not odd. Her phone vibrated. It was Richard.
"Irma may I use your office?"
"Of course sweetie. You know where it is."
Jennifer excused herself and stepped into the office. The sound of Richard’s voice seemed ill-fitted to the room’s décor; gilded desk lamps, ornate figurines encased in glass side cabinet, wood shutters peeking out from behind wine colored draperies and lace rolling shades. After closing the door, she sat on the in chaise lounge with gold fringe and tufted buttons standard guard in the center of the room. After closing the door, she sat on the white chaise lounge standing guard in the center of the room, careful not to snag its gold fringe trim. But before she could engage Richard, Irma’s door creaked open. It was the man from the sitting area.
He tapped on, stood in the doorway, staring.
“Excuse me? I'm on the phone."
Silent, straight, quickly, he strode to Jennifer, pulled her, embraced her, kissed her.
He kissed her.
*
Richard sat.
Eyes closed, back straight against the chair's back, he listened to Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No. 1. A Ronald Reagan bobble-head doll stood on a bound 1987 volume of Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, next to a smoldering cigar. His article appeared on pages 72-97.
Jennifer stood.
She hated his office, hated that it was cinder blocked, windowless and had peeling paint; hated the tufted black executive chair married to the large, cherry wood desk and hated particularly the air purifier in the only free corner, because it did not work as intended.
"Richard..."
"Shh." He raised a finger to his lips. "Listen."
"I don't want to."
"Such passion, such emotion."
"I don't want you."
He opened his eyes, clicked off the music from a white, IPod stereo, and pulled the device out. He set it on the desk, pointed to it.
"Amazing device isn't it? Did you know that there is more computing power in this little distraction than what was in all of Apollo 11?"
"No, I did not know that Richard."
"Indeed, simply amazing don't you agree?"
"Did you hear me?"
"Did I hear what?"
"I can't do this anymore Richard."
"And what would that be my love?"
All of a sudden he seemed less than what she had thought he was – a man who held too much spit in his mouth, too many lines on his forehead, too many ridges in his fingernails, and too many spots on the back of his neck.
"I can't," Jennifer began. Her voice was clearer and more direct than she thought it would be. "I cannot be with you anymore. It's over."
"What? What is this?" Richard rose, knocked over the ashtray with the cigar. The ashes spread on the carpet. "Damn it."
Jennifer started for the door.
"Wait! Jennifer, wait!"
"I should have done it a long time ago."
"Are you serious? Are you leaving me?" he asked.
Jennifer squinted, shook her head, "Have you not been hearing me?"
"You can't just waltz in here and say that's it is over. That isn't mature, is it? It doesn't work that way, does it? No, it does not."
"Richard dear, were we ever together?"
"I thought we were. I thought we had something special. I thought..."
"Neither of us thought."
"Will you close the door?"
"I can't stay."
Richard walked to the door, closed it and pointed to the rust and yellow plaid sofa next to the desk. "Please sit down."
"I don't want to sit."
He placed his hands on her shoulders, nudged her down. "Sit."
Jennifer sighed, sat, searched for a different way to say, but it still came out as, "I don't love you."
"You cannot mean that, after all I’ve done for you. Your position. Your dissertation!" He reached for her face.
She kept it away. “I think we’ve helped each other.”
A knock on the door jolted them both. A young female voice followed.
"Professor Erickson?"
"I'm in conference!"
"I have an appointment now Professor and I really need to see you."
Jennifer stood, twisted her wrist from him.
"Wait! Jenny! No!" Richard rose a second after and shuffled in front of her, barring the way to the door. "Let me make this right, let's talk about this tonight. We can overcome this and work it out. I will be home right after class..."
"Don't call it that. Don't call it home."
"Okay, I will not call it home, but please don't do this."
"Goodbye Richard."
"It's him isn't it? He's back in Towne and you've been seeing him, haven't you? Haven't you? You slut!"
The wife slowly turned the doorknob. She looked at the student, managed a smile and walked down the hall.
*
Husband and wife moved together. She sat in his lap, hugged him into her breasts, taking quick, sharp breaths. It had been a long time and he felt stronger and harder, almost younger than she remembered.
"I love you baby," he whispered in her ear. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too," she sighed, kissed his neck, whispered into his face, "I love you too."
She wanted to feel him, full. He did what she asked and they loved on each other until the bed grew tired.
*
In the bedroom, her husband smoked.
Jennifer wiggled her toes out of the bubble bath, admired a butterfly adorned silver ring. She had picked it up, last month, at the market in Towne when winter began. She needed a pedicure.
Candles on the bathtub ledge flickered, filled the room with Flowers of Hawaii and competed with cigar leaf, Dominican, easing under the door. She didn't mind it anymore; confident, by the way her chest felt light, that she had made the right decision to have him back.
He knocked.
"Come join me," she said, raised leg, curled toes.
He entered, kneeled at the tub, kissed her on the top of the head. He said, "I don't deserve you."
"I agree." She pushed his nose in. "But I think I'll keep you. Take off your clothes."
"Can't. Gotta get going." He rose, looked in the mirror, fiddled with his hair. "But, I can't tell you how happy I am to be back here, home, with you."
"I'm glad you're home too."
Wet, a finger in his belt loop, she followed him to window. It was warmer outside. The past week’s snow had begun a slow melt.
He turned, kissed her hard and whispered, "You know, I blamed myself at first. All the years obsessed with my career. I wasn't a very good husband."
"I was absorbed with my career too." She hugged into him, spoke into his chest. "We both made mistakes Lorenzo."
"Yes," He broke the embrace and put a finger inside the turquoise ashtray on the nightstand, slowly spinning it. Richard's barely smoked cigar clung to the side. "I guess we did."
Jennifer followed his finger and the wobble of the ashtray. She sat on the bed and buried her face in her hands.
