“I can talk,” I say.

“Is he home?”

“Yeah. But it’s okay.” Once I declined his offer to watch a movie Chris probably opened his laptop and started working. Who knows when he’ll make it upstairs?

“How was your day?” Daniel asks.

“Busy.”

“Did you get everything done?”

“Yep. I finished the last pie an hour ago.”

“Did you stay inside?”

“Yes. The kids wanted to go to the mall to see Santa, but it was so cold and dreary that I just couldn’t do it. I paid for it, though. They had a raging case of cabin fever.”

“But you’re warm now,” he says.

“Yes. Definitely,” I murmur, certain he can hear the change in my voice, the timbre of my words as they roll slowly off my tongue. “What about you?” I ask.

He chuckles softly. “I’m nowhere near as hot as you.”

“I beg to differ,” I say, wondering if we’re going to speak in double entendres the whole conversation and not minding a bit if we do.

“What are you wearing that’s keeping you so warm? Or not wearing,” he asks, laughing. “I really have no idea.”

“Flannel pajama pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Nothing that you or any man would find remotely interesting, I’m afraid.” I often wore lingerie for Chris, but the opportunity hadn’t presented itself in a very long time. “The last time I checked, the Victoria’s Secret models weren’t covered in cotton from head to toe. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “In my head you’re wearing something entirely different.”

My heart rate speeds up a bit. “Sounds like you have a preference in women’s lingerie.” Chris has always been partial to black silk chemises.

“Not really. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but there’s something I like even better. Call me a minimalist.”

Now all I can think about is being naked. And I’m pretty sure that’s all Daniel’s thinking about, too.

Suddenly, I wouldn’t mind being naked.

But I’m not at all comfortable with taking this much further, because I don’t think Daniel and I could ignore it the next time we’re together. And I like this tension we’re building; I don’t want to release it yet. “See? You do have a preference,” I say, hoping the light, teasing tone of my voice is enough to bring us back from the edge a bit.

He just laughs and says, “I do, indeed. I also like women with blonde hair and brown eyes, who eat turkey and Swiss sandwiches and wear way too many layers of clothing because they’re cold all the time.”

“You can’t see me, but I’m smiling.”

“I wish I could see you,” he says. “Will he? Later?”

I hear the longing in his voice, and I want to tell him he has nothing to worry about. But some things are just off-limits, and the intimacy issues that Chris and I have are between us and no one else. “No,” I say. “I’m tired. I’ll be asleep long before he comes up.”

“I don’t understand that.”

“I know.”

“I should let you go,” he says.

I suppose that’s one way to ensure that I really am asleep before Chris comes upstairs.

“Sweet dreams.”

“You, too. Bye, Daniel.”

I don’t fall asleep right away, though. Mostly because I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to make love with Daniel.

39

claire

To: Claire Canton

From: Chris Canton

Subject: December

It looks like I’ll be on the road the rest of the month. We’re rolling out the new product line and the sales directors are responsible for making sure the implementation team doesn’t screw it up. We’ll be meeting with clients first thing Monday morning and won’t be done until late on Friday night. I’d only be able to fly home for one day and the company doesn’t think that’s “economical” so they’ve asked us to stay in the field. If we finish by the twenty-third I can take a week off between Christmas and New Year’s.

I’m sorry, Claire.

By now, seven months into his new job, I’m so used to Chris being gone that this news has almost no emotional impact on me. He could be telling me he’ll be gone for the next three months and I doubt it would make much of a difference. We’ve become like the proverbial two ships that pass in the night. No time for connecting, fixing, rebuilding. Just as I’d feared. I wonder how many marriages are fractured and damaged beyond repair by complacency rather than any single traumatic event. One day you wake up and realize that the distance between you and your spouse has grown to such an enormous width that neither of you are capable of clearing the distance. No matter how much speed you build up, or how far you can jump, it’s just there. Gaping and unforgiving.

Surprisingly, the kids understand, in the same way that I do. I break the news to them at dinner on Thursday night. “Dad won’t be coming home for a while, guys. He’s really busy at work, but he’ll be back before Christmas and then he’s going to take a week off.”

Josh shrugs. “Okay.” He’s trying to act like he doesn’t care, but his feigned indifference tells me that it bothers him more than he’s letting on.

“Okay,” Jordan says. But her voice is barely more than a whisper and she squeezes her stuffed gray kitty, the one Chris gave her that never leaves her side, a bit more tightly.

My heart breaks. Though I’m grateful for their adaptability, I wouldn’t mind seeing a little more emotion, a sign that they miss Chris. I know deep down they do, but I also know that it’s amazing what you can get used to if it goes on long enough. Chris being gone has become their normal.

Later that night I talk to my mom on the phone. “Chris will be on the road most of this month,” I say.

“Oh, Claire,” she says. “I don’t like that at all.” She doesn’t think it’s safe for me to be alone so much, because of my diabetes. Her concern and my need for independence have always mixed about as well as oil and water. And I understand, I really do. Especially after what happened at Daniel’s. I’d like to think I could have handled that one on my own eventually, but I’m not so sure. “The holidays are stressful enough,” she says. “How did the kids take the news?”

“They were surprisingly okay with it. Too okay,” I say.

“Oh. I see. Well. Your dad and I would love to keep them overnight on one of those weekends. You can get some Christmas shopping done. Have a manicure. Go out to lunch with one of your friends. It’ll give you a break, Claire,” she says.

“That would be great, Mom. Thanks.”

To: Chris Canton

From: Claire Canton

Subject: Re: December

That’s okay. I’ll handle the Christmas shopping and whatever else needs to be taken care of. The kids understand.

I realize after I sign off and shut down my computer that the brevity of my response, and telling Chris that the kids understand, might have been insensitive, as if none of us really care. Though I chafe at how little time he has for me when he’s here, he’s out there every day, working hard, whether he wants to or not. Away from his home and his family.

And in this particular situation a little more emotion from me might have gone a long way.