Laura Caldwell: The Night I got Lucky

I have always wanted to be the kind of person who awoke refreshed and lovely at the first hint of daylight. I’d even thought I’d become such a person after years of work, but alas, I still felt like a college kid who needed to sleep until noon. Chris was worse than me. He required two alarm clocks and three snooze button hits before he’d rouse from the bed. As a result, I was usually showered and out the door before he got up.

Eric and Kathy were laughing again, talking about some reality show. I rolled over and shut off the radio. And then I flinched. What was that thing on my nightstand? I opened my eyes more fully. The frog from Blinda, that was all. It seemed bigger this morning, more green. The spherical eyes gleamed, the haunches appeared ready to leap, and that slash of a mouth was turned up at the edges. The thing was smiling.

I turned the frog around so it wasn’t looking at me and dragged myself out of bed and through the dark bedroom. I stopped at the window and pulled back the tan linen drapes. Outside, it was hazy wet and gray, the air thick with fog. The tree trunks bore a deep charcoal sheen. Chicago looked like a misty Scottish bog.

In the bathroom, the lights blazed on like a fast-food joint. I glanced in the mirror, running my hands through my dark hair, unruly now from sleep-parts curly, parts flat, parts electric and standing on end. This was my typical morning do. But I looked different somehow. I leaned closer to the mirror. Eyes still blue, lashes still long. I stepped back and surveyed the rest of myself-one shoulder was slightly higher than the other, same as always. My hips were still too broad for my taste, my breasts a little too small. Nothing had changed.

“Get going,” I muttered to myself. Enough vanity. I turned on the shower and on second thought, flicked on the steam component. When we moved in, we expanded the shower, installing four different showerheads and a steam function. It was one of my favorite spots in the house.

The steam kicked on, making the stall as misty as the weather outside. I took a deep breath and let the heat seep into my body. I soaked my hair, picking up a bottle of shampoo. And then I heard a creak. A footfall came next. Then a shuffling sound. The door of the shower was yanked open, and I yelped, clutching the shampoo bottle to my chest.

“It’s me, hon.” Chris stepped fully inside the shower, the steam parting for him.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought I’d join you.”

“Oh.” It was all I could think of to say. We’d never been in that shower together, despite the fact that I’d had a number of fantasies about how to use the tiled bench.

“Let me do that for you.” Chris took the shampoo from my hand. He turned me around and began soaping my hair, massaging my head gently with those large hands of his. He went on like this for a few minutes, then he whispered, “Close your eyes,” and he tilted my head under the water to rinse it.

When he was done, Chris drew my head back and kissed my neck. He nibbled on my earlobes. The water beat down on my belly now, and I heard myself moan softly. The steam was thick. I don’t know if I could have seen Chris if I opened my eyes, but I could feel him. He stood behind me, and I felt his broad, wet chest against my back, his lean legs behind mine. And then I could feel something else. Chris might not have been in the mood last night, but he certainly was this morning.

Afterwards, we stood nuzzling in the steamy bathroom.

“I’ve missed that,” Chris said.

“You have?”

“Yeah. Hell, yeah.”

I used a towel to dab some water from his forehead. “Me, too.”

“C’mere.” He pulled me by the hand, back to our bed, its gray-green sheets twisted and rumpled.

“We’ll get the bed all wet,” I said.

“Who cares?”

“Not me.” I hopped into bed and threw off the towel. Chris and I nestled into the still warm sheets, and, nose to nose, started talking like we hadn’t in years.

“What’s going on at work?” Chris said. “What’s the status of getting you into a VP office?”

The reminder of my failure to be promoted should have disheartened me, but I was too content and snug with my husband to be affected. I happily filled Chris in on all the work gossip and on Alexa’s condescending attitude.

“That little bitch,” Chris murmured, and I snuggled closer, pleased to have someone on my side.

“And did you and Evan get that press release done?” Chris asked.

I paused a moment. Chris had no idea about my crush on Evan, at least I didn’t think so, but the mention of Evan’s name from my husband’s lips startled me.

“Um, yeah. We did.”

“How is Evan?”

“He’s fine. Good.” I searched my mind for another topic, but finding none, I elaborated about Evan. “He’s got his promotion, and he’s bringing in business, so Roslyn loves him.”

“And is Roslyn still tough as nails?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Not like you, Treetop. You’re soft and sweet.” Treetop was Chris’s nickname for me, based on my maiden name, Tremont. I hadn’t heard him use it in a long time.

I shifted closer to him, and Chris kissed the tip of my nose. It was an intimate gesture, in some ways more intimate than what had gone on in the shower, and the sweetness of it nearly made me cry.

He grinned at me, really looking at me like he used to, and I smiled back.

“So enough about me,” I said. “What’s going on at the firm? Any news?”

“Well, you know that health care merger?”

I nodded. I didn’t remind him that when I asked about it last night he hadn’t seemed willing to talk about it.

“It’s a complete mess,” Chris said. “I’ve got to go to court this morning.” He lifted himself up and glanced over me to my alarm clock. “But I’ve got time.”

This made me flip around. The angry red lights of my clock said 9:04 a.m. And that damned frog-somehow it was turned around and facing me again. No matter, I was late. Really late.

“Shit, Chris,” I said, leaping out of bed. “I’ve got to go.”

He groaned. “Another ten minutes.”

“No!” I laughed. “You’ve got to be in court, and you know how Roslyn is about me being on time.” I’d been reprimanded more than once about my inability to get in before nine.

I tore open the closet doors and rifled through my pants. I threw on a pair of wide-legged chocolate-brown trousers, trusty old favorites. I grabbed an ivory silk blouse and buttoned it up as fast as possible. I added a chunky silver necklace and grabbed my makeup bag and my purse.

“Okay,” I said to Chris, who was still lazing in bed, “I’m out of here.”

“Give me a kiss.”

I halted my frantic scrambling. “Of course.” I leaned over the bed. Chris sat up and stroked my face with his hand. Then slowly, slowly, he kissed me.

“What’s gotten into you this morning?” I asked.

He laughed. “I don’t know. Something good.”

I had to agree.

“Sorry,” I muttered to anyone who might be listening as I hustled out of the elevator and down the beige-carpeted hall to my beige-walled cube. A look at my watch told me it was 9:39. Not good.

“Hi there, Billy,” the receptionist said as I sped past her.

“Hi, Carolyn.”

“Billy, I have messages for you!” she yelled after me.

That stopped me. Carolyn took messages for no one but the VPs and the higher-ups. The rest of us had to make do with voice mail. The only reason Carolyn might have a message for me is if Roslyn wanted to talk to me. Roslyn, who no doubt wanted to kick my ass, or my career, for being late again.

I took a few tentative steps toward her and held out my hand. There were three slips, which couldn’t be good. Possibly the owner also wanted to fire me.