M Sellars - All acts of pleasure

“What happened then?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Row…”

“Really, I will,” I told her, overt sincerity in my voice. “I promise…Right now, let’s just pretend for a while.”

She paused for a long moment, and then with a thread of disquiet accenting her voice, she whispered, “Pretend what?”

“Pretend that this is all over.”

Another weighty interval of quiet filled the room. I closed my eyes and tried to relax but didn’t meet with much luck.

“It really isn’t, is it?” she asked, her voice a faint whisper.

We were going to have more than enough to deal with where Shamus was concerned, but that wasn’t what worried me right now. I reached up to rub my temple even though I knew it was a lost cause. I had hoped that Felicity’s freedom would make the agonizing throb inside my skull subside, but it hadn’t. In fact, the pounding had only grown worse since we’d arrived home, and I couldn’t keep denying what it truly meant.

“No,” I finally said. “Not yet.”

“Well, on a positive note this gives us an opportunity to reorganize the shelves,” I said as I began sorting through the piles of books on the floor.

We had gone to bed almost as soon as Felicity was finished with her soak in the tub even though it was still relatively early in the evening for a Saturday. Of course, we were both exhausted, physically and mentally; and, on top of that my quick nap earlier had served only to whet my appetite for more shuteye. With my wife safely home, the autonomic portion of my brain took it upon itself to have a clandestine meeting with the rest of my body. The immediate consensus was that the crisis was over for the time being, and ethereally driven headache or not, it was time for me to rest.

And, so it was decreed. Without warning, the flow of adrenalin that had kept me going for the past two days came to an immediate halt, and I was left with no other choice than to give myself over to the dire need for sleep. Even with that, Felicity had been a half step ahead of me and was already drifting in a quiet slumber by the time I slipped beneath the blanket.

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” my wife replied as she surveyed the mess. Her voice, however, was devoid of anything resembling good humor. “I mean, was all this really necessary?”

“Depends on your point of view, I guess,” I told her. “Apparently they felt it was.”

She let out a heavy sigh and knelt to the floor, starting in on the pile nearest her.

While the evening had been an early one for us, so had the morning. Even with my gut feeling that more strife was barreling toward us with no intention of slowing down, I wanted to at least make an attempt at returning our lives to something near normal, so I started in on the cleanup project with minimal delay. Actually, we both did.

I had rolled out of the bed well before the dawn, my body immediately complaining that it wasn’t quite finished with its hiatus from the land of the conscious. But, I pressed on; there was way too much work to do. I barely had the coffee started when Felicity joined me in the kitchen, wordlessly slipping her arms around me from behind and resting her cheek against my back as she squeezed for all she was worth. The carafe had been full, with the java maker sputtering its way through one last steamy gurgle before she finally let go.

“I’m putting fiction here and non-fiction over here, for the moment,” I offered, nodding toward the two separate stacks as I quickly shuffled a pair of books between them. “So…I’m almost afraid to ask, but I guess I should-how much laundry do we have to do?”

“I’m not sure I even want to think about it,” Felicity replied then shook her head and continued anyway. “I’d say four loads at least, probably more. I think the cats made themselves a nest in there. One of my formal gowns is snagged so badly it’s completely ruined. Several of them are covered with hair, and one of your suits as well. I’ll need to run a lint brush over those then take them to the dry cleaners.”

“Sorry about that. I guess I should have moved everything, or at least thrown something over the pile.”

“Like you didn’t have enough to worry about?” she quipped. “I’m not upset with you. I blame them.”

“The cats?”

“No, the police. I should send the bastards a bill. That was a four-hundred-dollar dress.”

“Well, at least tell me it wasn’t the shiny black one with…” I waved my hands about in a failed attempt at gesturing my way through the description.

“Aye, if you mean the black satin off the shoulder, with the full skirt and basque waist. Yes.”

“Yeah…okay…whatever all that means…” I replied. “But what I really want to know is if it’s the one that really shows off your back and legs and has that design on the front with all the sparkly things?”

“Yes.”

“Damn,” I mumbled. “You looked really hot in that one.”

“I know,” she replied not even attempting to feign humility. “That’s exactly why I bought it. And, it’s still in style, too, dammit.”

I chuckled lightly. Even though my head still hurt for reasons beyond the natural, there was something very restorative about this conversation. In fact, it was comforting enough to allow me to forget about the pain for a while.

“It’s not funny, Rowan. The dress is ruined.”

“I wasn’t laughing at that, honey. It’s just…never mind. It’s not important. I’m just happy you’re home.”

“Me too.”

“So, ruined, huh?”

“Yes, ruined. Remember, they got hold of one of your suits as well. Fortunately, it just looks like it’s only covered with hair. No damage that I could see.”

“Well, save some money on that one. You can just hit it with a lint brush and give it to charity,” I said, half-joking. “It’s not like I wear suits that often.”

“Aye, I think not,” she replied as she looked toward me. The corners of her mouth turned up in what might have been a slight smile. “It’s the charcoal grey suit you just bought, and I think it makes you look very handsome. You’ll be keeping it.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“Sure I can,” she returned in a light tone that was suddenly replaced by anger as she sputtered, “Dammit! Dammit!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Look at this!” she exclaimed, holding up a tome that bore a severely bent corner and a large rip traversing three-fourths of the cover. “This is my autographed first edition of Lucinda’s Web. Damnnu iad! Where does it end?!”

“Calm down, honey,” I soothed. “I’ll get you another dress, and I’ll get you another book.”

“That’s not the point,” she grumbled then hung her head, carefully caressing the damaged novel. Eventually, she sniffled and then whispered, “After everything we’ve done for them…after everything you’ve done for them, and what you’ve been through…why? Why did they do this to us, Rowan?”

After everything…

That preface was running through both our minds but from somewhat different points of view, as my thoughts were wallowing in the land of after everything they’ve done to us, why do I still feel compelled to help them. It was a quandary I wasn’t sure I’d ever work out.

Still, I couldn’t blame my wife for her reaction to the situation. The damaged book was yet another act of disrespect heaped upon a towering mound of contempt, with us at the bottom. My own feelings had been a mirror image of hers just a day before. I’d just had more time to come to terms with it than her.

I replied softly, avoiding the obvious slur against Albright that was lacerating the tip of my tongue and told her instead, “I don’t know, honey. I wish I did, but I just don’t know.”