The Belle and the Beard by Kate Canterbary (carter reed TXT) 📗

loved it, not because I harbored a deep need for organization (I did not) but because it was so vividly Linden. Everything in its spot, everything the way it should be. Order and structure and utility. Nothing fouling the system.

It was another one of the many reasons why Linden and I would never work, even on a short-term, fling basis. He craved that structure and I excelled in structure's fault lines.

Last night was a mistake. Talking on the porch and sharing memories of Midge was good but the rest of it was another strike in my poor judgment column. It was strange to keep fucking up. This wasn't how I existed. Aside from getting married to someone I didn't love the right way, I'd never made such significant mistakes—and so many of them.

What was wrong with me? Why was I wrecking my career and throwing myself at a man who was all wrong for me? Not to mention doing it while my marriage was still on the books.

It was like I wanted my life to implode. That was ridiculous, of course. "Completely ridiculous," I murmured as I loaded my clothes into the washer. "Completely."

I chewed on this as I climbed the stairs, carried my tote into the bathroom, and turned on the taps. I had no reason to torpedo my life. It didn't make sense. I didn't actually want any of this to happen.

I was thirty-five and steering the direction of major campaigns. I was well-known and highly regarded in some of Washington's most powerful circles.

I had a cozy apartment in Georgetown and enough friends with summer homes up and down the eastern seaboard to have my pick of summertime destinations. What more could I ever want?

Yes, my primary purpose for those in power was inventing ways to keep them in power and extinguishing any challenge to that power. It wasn't pretty and it wasn't fun but it was the task I'd accepted.

And yes, the apartment was unspeakably expensive for its dime-sized space but that was Beltway real estate for you.

I didn't get any time for summer getaways to the shore either but that was the price I paid for being successful. The reward for hard work was more hard work, not a trip to the Hamptons.

As for friends, they were scarce these days. I'd expected more from them but that was my fault. I knew better than to expect anything from anyone. They'd always let you down.

All of this at thirty-five didn't resemble much of an achievement these days. Those years didn't add up to much when I looked back on them. I had an absentee marriage and hardly any reliable family to speak of.

There was a time when I told myself my turn would come. That everything would fall into place for me. My marriage would right itself, the work would slow down enough for me to breathe, and I'd find all the things I craved but never let myself need.

I'd find my place and my people, and then things would begin for me.

Now, with thirty-five slipping out of my grasp, I wasn't sure about my turn anymore. I was going back to square one with everything. If I had to spend five or ten years rebuilding, where did that leave me?

I knew little of hobbies, and my entire personal network was a product of my profession, and none of that seemed like a problem until now. If anything, it had been a badge of honor. Look, I'm so deep into this, I can't recognize myself without it!

My life was my work but I didn't have my work anymore and I didn't know what to do with myself except keep going.

Replace some stairs, bake a pie, kiss a neighbor. Just keep going—and don't think too hard about it.

Once I was bathed and dressed, my hair twisted into a low bun that would dry into loose curls, I tossed my wash into the dryer. Linden's high-end machines were a big improvement over the industrial whales at the laundromat. His entire house was a big improvement with its amazing river rock shower and the bold blue walls. I couldn't stop thinking about the precision of it all. The basement, the colors, the décor. Precise.

"That's why he hated my banana bread," I sang to myself on the walk across our yards. "And everything else I've brought his way."

When I returned to Linden's house with the cooled pies, I tore off his note and wrote one in response.

Linden,

Poisoning might not be neighborly but pecan pie is. Please enjoy these treats as a small thanks for allowing me into your enormous shower. I'd ask who designed it but you're very sensitive about these things. Enjoy my pie.

~ Jasper

I gathered up my basket and bag, and crossed through the backyard, a grin warm on my face.

When I stepped into Linden's house the next morning, there was another note waiting for me. In truth, I was relieved to see it. Even if he hated the pies, a note meant he had something to say to me. I liked that.

Jasper.

I'm concerned that you thought you'd baked pies. They tasted like hot rubber. Those were nutty hockey pucks. Did you chop up real hockey pucks and blend them with the nuts? I'm forwarding my dentist bill to you.

Yes, my shower is big. Nothing about me is small.

I'm heading up to Swampscott tomorrow so I'll be on the road by nine. I'm meeting up with my sister for dinner in the city so I won't be back until later. The place is all yours.

–L

I smiled all the way through my shower. I didn't even care that he'd hated the pies. Chances were high he'd hate the cupcakes I had for him today too. The only thing on my mind was my response since I had to keep this exchange going. It was the only thing keeping me going.

I paced Linden's living room for ten minutes, coiling my hair into a twist and then