woman who came by Friday night and brought those roses? Well, at some point last night or this morning, I managed to stuff them in the garbage and wash the vase without any memory of doing so.”
“Ally . . .”
“It’s like I was in some kind of mini-fugue state. I’m wondering if I should call Dr.—”
“Ally, hold on. You haven’t forgotten anything. I tossed the flowers out.”
I’ve been massaging my brow with one hand, my gaze still lowered, and as Hugh’s words sink in, I lift my head and stare at him.
“You tossed them out?” I say, simultaneously relieved and baffled. “If they were in your way, why not just move them? I’m sure they weren’t cheap.”
He shrugs. “The petals had started to drop. Gosh, I’m sorry to throw you off that way.”
“You tossed them out because the petals were dropping?”
This makes no sense. Hugh does his share around the house—he helps clear the table and load and unload the dishwasher, handles his own laundry, makes the bed on days he’s not up ahead of me. But I’ve always accepted that he’s fairly clueless when it comes to “decor” stuff; that is, he would never zero in on things like pillows that require fluffing, cloth napkins that have seen better days, or flowers that need tossing. This gesture doesn’t fit with the man I know. I half expect him to cup the skin at the base of his chin with both hands and tear upward, revealing he’s a stranger wearing a latex mask of my husband’s face.
“That wasn’t the main reason,” he admits. “I was trying to concentrate, and the smell was driving me crazy. It never occurred to me you would wonder.”
“No problem,” I say after a moment. I allow a sense of relief to take hold, embracing the realization that another sliver of my life hasn’t been snatched away. “And it’s good to hear, of course.”
“Again, sorry.”
“Do you want more pasta?”
“I do, but I better not. I’ve still got a few hours of work ahead of me.”
“Why don’t you let me handle the dishes, then.”
“That would be great. Chip and I agreed to go over a bunch of notes on the phone, so I’ll work in the den tonight.”
As Hugh heads down the hall, I clear the table, noticing that he hasn’t actually finished the pasta in his bowl. Does the dish not hold the same allure for him as it does for me? Or is the stress from the Brewster case playing havoc with his appetite? Or maybe the real stress is about me. About us. About the topic Hugh doesn’t dare circle back to because of the impact it might have on me.
I scrape the bowls, place them and the glasses in the dishwasher, and wipe the table off with a thick yellow sponge. My brain feels as if it’s foraging, rooting beneath brambles for something, but I’m not sure what. Almost instinctively, I don a pair of rubber dishwashing gloves and open the trash bin again. After hoisting out a few handfuls of congealed pasta and dropping them in the sink, I reach the roses. Sasha would be thrilled to know that even submerged in garbage, their color pops brilliantly.
I don’t have to raise them to my nose to confirm in my mind that there’s very little aroma. I unwrapped them after all. And besides, I know from a “Best (and Worst) Valentine Splurges for Your Money” blog post I wrote last year that as the flower industry tinkered with the genetics of roses to make them last longer, they bred out the fragrance along the way.
Gingerly, I remove a few stems and examine the blossoms. They’re a little droopy from lack of water but they’re hardly past their prime.
Then why did my husband stuff them in the trash bin?
My stomach twists. So much for getting back into a groove with Hugh. He’s a puzzle to me at the moment. But I can’t freak myself out now thinking about it. I toss the garbage back into the bin and head down the hall toward the bedroom. Though the door to the den is closed, I can hear the drone of Hugh’s voice, clearly reading material into the phone.
For the next hour I sit at the desk in the alcove, reviewing notes for the podcast tomorrow, including the research Sasha prepared. Finished, I email some final thoughts to my producer, Casey. After stealing a few minutes to make a cup of chamomile tea, I catch up