I shut the whole thing down and dash away from the computer, saved from the precipice.
And there he is, my husband. His new car outside is crammed full of cardboard boxes, and the smell of exhaust and roadside food lingers on his clothes as he throws his arms around me and squeezes me tight to his chest.
“How was Oregon?”
“Torture,” he says. He sounds despondent. “It’s going to take longer than I thought to sort the whole mess out. My credit has been utterly destroyed. She cleaned me out. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“You’ll start over,” I murmur. “With me. It’s OK. I have enough money to cover the both of us.” For a while, I think, but don’t say out loud.
I can hear his slow, measured breaths, the steady drum of his heart. “I’m so embarrassed, Van. I’m so sorry to have to put you through this.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say into the soft flannel of his shirt. “It’s hers. She’s a monster.”
“You saved my life, really. I can only imagine how much worse things might have gotten if you hadn’t exposed her as a fraud. What if I’d actually gone ahead and married her?” He shudders. Then he tips my head up and studies my face. “You’re my savior. This place is like heaven. I couldn’t wait to get back to you.”
See? I have no good reason to doubt him.
29.
Week Four
MICHAEL IS SPENDING MORE and more time on his laptop, writing. He has moved from his favorite position on the couch in the library, next to me, and instead now works at the desk in my father’s old study. “Better for my back to sit on an actual chair,” he tells me. (I understand! Really I do!) He’s moved a space heater in there, and closes the door to keep the room warm. When I pass by I can hear the clatter of keys, the murmur of his voice as he sounds out words. At dinner, he’s distracted, as if he’s left most of himself back in the overheated study. When I call him on this he looks startled.
“Sorry, honey. I should have warned you that I get like this when I’m on a roll with my writing.” But he reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “This is a good thing, though. I’m inspired. You’re inspiring me. My muse.”
I’ve always wanted to be a muse!
I wander into the study one evening and catch him working in the dark. His face is buried in the screen, so immersed in what he’s typing that he fails to notice me entering the room in my stocking feet. I’m almost around the desk when he finally registers my presence just a few feet away. He looks up with alarm, the blue glow from the screen illuminating the shock on his face; and then he quickly snaps the lid of his laptop shut.
He puts a flat hand on the computer, anchoring it to the desk, then looks up at me with a frown. “No peeking,” he says. “I’m serious.”
I slide into his lap and tug playfully at the lid of the computer. “Come on,” I say. “Just one chapter? One page? A paragraph?”
He shifts his weight so that I slide off his lap and end up back on my feet next to him. His features are shadowed in the gloom, but I can tell that he is annoyed. “I’m serious, Vanessa. When people read my work-in-progress it makes me self-conscious and then I can’t write at all. I need to work in a vacuum, without anyone’s judgments or opinions.”
“Even mine?” I hate that I’m pouting, but I can’t help it.
“Especially yours.”
“But you know I’m going to love what you write. I love your poetry.”
“See? This is what I mean. You’ll love it no matter what, which means I’ll end up wondering whether or not I can trust your opinion, and then I’ll start second-guessing myself. That makes it even worse.”
“OK, OK, I get it. I’ll leave you to it.” I turn to stalk off but he grabs