BY THAT SIN FELL THE ANGELS

He was almost certain it took just as long for him to turn the bed down, as it did for her to make it; at least, that’s what he told himself. He’d seldom had to make it because he always left for work before she was awake. It was only fair he should turn it down every night, he supposed.

But he always made it on the weekends, like now—as well as when he went away on his trips, leaving her behind to bask in the Spanish sun. They travelled together for the most part though, living in the south of Spain four months of the year, then Florence for three, before returning Stateside to visit the children. They lived what many of their friends called a Gypsy Life.

Hell, he’d even made a Bucket List.

*

He remembered telling her she should make a Bucket List for herself.

“Why do I need a Bucket List? I want to die in Italy. What more could a person ask for?”

“The cost of burying you there would be ridiculous,” he said. “Same goes for flying your body home.”

“Then cremate me. Bring me home in a Glad bag, for all I care. Problem solved," she said. “Except that I want to be buried in Florence—or have my ashes scattered there.”

"Well, no good story ever started with a salad," he replied.

"It could happen," she quipped.

“Not on my watch.”

*

While they were in Spain, he’d leave for two weeks in a vain attempt at fulfilling his Bucket List. He’d spent a week in Bayreuth, Germany once, at the Wagner Festival, and she asked if Robert Wagner had a film festival named after him?

“He must be dead by now. Natalie Wood is—everybody knows that—but I don’t remember hearing if he died. Did you?”

He shook his head, wondering how she was going to survive without him once he was gone.

He tucked the sheet under the mattress, pulling it and lifting the mattress so he could make a tight, clean, hospital corner; that was when he felt it.

It was small. He pulled it out to look at it. A black moleskin notebook. How it got there he had no idea. She’d never been one to read—not like she did now—unless it was a magazine and had pictures. He remembered he brought home a NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC once, telling her he hoped she enjoyed the pictures. It must have been one of those days, because she threw the magazine at him. Probably one of those womanly moments, he thought—not that he ever knew when those moments were supposed to happen. When they were first married, it always came as a surprise to him; after a few years of never knowing when it was supposed to come, she warned him because she could see he was never going to figure it out on his own. And just when he did, it stopped. That’s what comes of having grown up in a family of all boys, he told himself, knowing it was a sad excuse.

He first thought it was a novel he’d stuffed away and forgotten, like a misplaced memory you can never quite recall. It wasn’t; it was her journal. She'd been writing in it every day for two years now. When he opened it, a cheque fell out. He bent to pick it up and noticed it was from a bank he didn’t recognize. $20,000? How could she possibly have a $20,000 cheque tucked away? He sat on the bed and stared at the cheque, letting his mind wander.

Then he opened the notebook.

*

She pushed through the door, putting the groceries on the counter along with her keys, and kicked her shoes off in one fluid motion as she began putting the groceries away. All she could think of was making her way to the shower. She called out as she walked down the hallway, thinking he was outside enjoying the sun—so much better than winters in Wyndam, Colorado she thought—leaving her clothes in a heap by the door. She’d take care of them later, she told herself. She needed a shower; she’d soaked through her top and could feel the sweat running down her back. Never a good feeling that, she told herself, reaching to turn on the shower. What she really wanted was a drink, she admitted, but that would have to wait until dinner.

*

It was another man, he told himself.

He supposed he should have seen it coming; but why would she write it down in her journal? But there it was, written in her tiny, childish scroll. And so graphic, he thought. Why hadn’t that ever been part of their sex life? Sex had become mundane since, well, since he chose not to go with her and visit her dying friend six years ago. He thought maybe going to Europe and living in the south of Spain—then the three months in Florence—might ignite the spark they’d once had for each other.

And what if that spark wasn’t for him?

*

Freshly showered and wearing a loose fitting gown, she poured herself a gin and tonic and made her way outside to the verandah, a short ten foot walk to the left side of the house. No more than a dozen cement tiles with grass growing up between them, they’d put up a faded white picket fence, with two Adirondack chairs and a table between, facing the Mediterranean. There were two small islands in the distance she’d never quite caught the names of, and they very often served as bookends for the perfect picture; she watched the sun slip between them as it set. It was a sight they often enjoyed together.

Except he isn’t here, she told herself.

*

He could hear her puttering about in the kitchen and told himself it was only a matter of time before she came upstairs looking for him; she’d have to get dinner started. Maybe he would even have a few drinks? He could certainly use a drink or two tonight, he told himself.

I’ll tell her I was having a nap and didn’t hear her come home.

He put the notebook back, wondering if he should confront her with it, or let her have her fling and hope she’d come back to him when it was over. Did that make him a weak man because he couldn’t keep his woman satisfied?

He must be bad at sex, he thought, if she’s going to let a man do the things her lover did, and have no qualms about it.

*

She made a second drink, taking a hasty swallow as he stepped up behind her, mumbling an apology. She turned her head, half expecting a kiss. Not so unexpected she thought as he brushed by, saying something about having fallen asleep upstairs. She turned her attention back to the cutting board and finished cutting the shallots.

She asked him if he could get the frying pan out, and he did, but he seemed preoccupied. She put it down to him having had a strange dream, and wondered how he’d react when she told him the good news.

*

"Can you guess what happened today?" she asked, pushing her dinner plate aside.

He shook his head.

He wanted to ask if it had something to do with meeting Robert on the beach.

Not so much a question as an accusation, he thought, so he said nothing, simply tilted his head to the side as he took the drink she made him. He wondered if he looked guilty, or curious. And why Robert, he wanted to know? He had to be at least a dozen years younger. Admittedly, she looked younger than he did. People were always telling her—telling him—that she could pass for fifty, rather than the sixty-three she was. She’d somehow kept her figure after having the kids, or was that just the way he saw her? She’d gained twenty pounds over the last forty years, while he’d packed on the weight, lost most of his hair, and complained through recurring bouts of gout.

“And are you happy,” he asked, “in general?”

Who asks that he thought, almost as soon as he said it?

*

"Happy?"

It was something she’d toyed with years before—okay, maybe not toyed with, she told herself, but certainly something she’d ask herself from time to time over the years. The answer was always the same.

She’d known a few friends over the years who had taken on lovers and thought nothing of it; a fling, they’d said, it was good for the soul. How could an affair be good for the soul? Good for the soul was giving to charity, or helping serve Christmas dinner at a homeless shelter, not having an affair. She wondered if it was something he did when he went off on his trips—or if he still found her attractive? He’d never been the one to initiate sex as they got older, and that was fine by her. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself when it came to that.

"Off course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be? I live in the south of Spain. I realized, after coming here, that I grew up living a sheltered life. Coming to Europe has been the best decision I’ve ever made."

Besides saying I do, she wanted to add. So why didn’t she? And why is he asking me if I’m happy? Has he found someone else? Is he having an affair? Women must still find him attractive—or is that just me? Is that what happens when you get older? You become complacent about things? You take life and everything you’ve accomplished, for granted? Is that why he wanted to sell the house and travel?

The obvious question is to ask him is if he’s happy.

*

“And who’s Robert?" he asked.

She pretended she didn’t know what he was talking about, but she knew he could see it in her eyes; it was the tilt of her head, and the way she knitted her brows as she looked at him over the rim of her drink. She always did that when she didn’t have an answer. It was a stall tactic she’d picked up over the years.

"Don’t deny it," he said, and she smiled.

"You found my notebook.”

"If you were trying to hide it, you didn’t do a very good job of it," he said.

"I wasn’t hiding it."

“No? It was under the mattress."

"It’s been under the mattress for more than a year. I’m not hiding it."

"Well then, who’s Robert?"

"Did you find the bank draft?"

"The $20,000?"

"That’s what they paid me."

"They? There’s more than just Robert?"

She smiled.

"My publishers. I sold a story, and that’s what they paid me for it."

"They paid you $20,000 for that?"

"You read it? Of course you did. Why else would you be so upset? It’s nice to think my writing convinced you I was being unfaithful—as if that could ever happen. It’s a fantasy, Richard,” she smiled."It’s something I used to toy with when I was in college. Writing."

"You never told me you wanted to be a writer."

"Well, you never told me you wanted to sell the house and move to Europe. You sprung that on me, didn't you? Said we could reinvent ourselves, like Madonna, so I thought I'd start writing again."

"But sex, Ness?”

"Sex sells, Richard. You should know that. You were in advertising. Me? I was a suburban housewife. Remember? Now, I’m an author. So when you ask me if I’m happy, yes, I am. Aren’t you?"

"I could be."

“You could be? What does that mean?”

"I was thinking, maybe we could do some of those things you wrote about? See if maybe the parts still fit?"

“Maybe,” she said, and smiled.