Caron Todd - Her Favorite Husband

“Is it morning?”

He kissed the back of her neck. “You’ve had a fifteen minute snooze.”

“You’re kidding.” She opened one eye to squint at the window. Natural light glowed around the closed curtains. “So the midnight sun thing is real?”

“At this latitude and time of year, not quite. More of an all-night dusk.”

The blanket and sheet had fallen on the floor. Sarah turned onto her back and stretched, happy to have Ian looking at her, confident the years hadn’t done her body any harm. “I feel wonderful.”

“You sure do.”

She nudged him with her hip. “You know what I mean!” His smile made her heart twist. She’d always had a soft spot for him tousled and bleary-eyed.

It wasn’t really a happy smile, though.

How could he not be happy, after what they’d shared? They had shared it, hadn’t they? She hadn’t been on cloud nine all alone while he labored thanklessly?

She rolled onto her side to face him, trying to study him without staring. Already, the drawbridge was on its way back up, his expression becoming guarded, his smile fading.

“Well?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“Your verdict? My abs okay?”

“More than okay, as you well know!” She stroked the taut skin and felt his muscles tighten. “Much more than okay.”

It was an odd feeling, though, to touch him so intimately. Briefly, he’d been her Ian again. Fell asleep, and he was. Woke up, and he wasn’t. Like having blurred vision. Then and now, two of him, two of her. Sarah supposed it was to be expected, but it made for a crowded bed.

She pressed her body against his, hoping the feeling would go away. “Wasn’t that amazing? How quickly we clicked.”

“The question is why.”

“Why?” There wasn’t any need to ask why. Was it the clicking itself he questioned, or the speed of the clicking?

She couldn’t think about it now. Her brain wasn’t working on all cylinders. It wouldn’t be for hours. Perceptions changed after making love. She’d never figured out if postbliss chemicals cleared the view or clouded it.

“There’s a time for thinking, Ian.”

“And this isn’t it?”

“Of course this isn’t it.” She leaned over him, running a hand across his chest, then down to those much more than okay abs.

Gently, but firmly, he pushed her away. “I’m still fuzzy about how you landed in Yellowknife.”

“Well,” she said, watching the space between them grow wider as he sat up and leaned against the headboard, “I think first they pull the rudder back and then they do something with those wing flaps.”

“What’s the big secret, Sarah? What are you avoiding telling me?”

“There’s no secret. I already explained why I came.”

“Something about Santa.”

“You don’t believe I’d search for Santa’s workshop?”

His mouth twitched. “You probably would. And now that you spend all your time surrounded by children’s books, what could be more natural than an expedition to the North Pole?”

“Hey, you could come along.” She was so pleased he knew something about her work. About the rings, too. All these years apart she hadn’t been invisible to him. “Take the National Geographic photos, write the article. Interview the man himself!”

His attention sharpened when she mentioned his work. “Keeping tabs on me?”

Some self-protective urge got in the way of admitting anything that purposeful. “I wouldn’t say tabs.”

“What would you say?”

“I’d say—” I think about you sometimes, I wonder how you are “—I’d say, I try to notice what’s going on around me.”

“I haven’t exactly been around you.”

“The geography isn’t the point. You were my first husband. That doesn’t go away. There’s a little spot in my peripheral vision that is forever yours.” She held a finger to one side of her head. “It’s about here.”

“Pretty much out of sight. I’m surprised you noticed the work I do.”

“You’re not a spy. You’re a photojournalist. It’s kind of noticeable. Every now and then a magazine cover pops out at me. Like Serengeti Safari, on my way from canned goods to produce.”

“You went right by, did you? It stayed on the shelf?”

“Admired, but abandoned, I’m afraid.” As soon as she said it she wished she hadn’t. It wasn’t all that funny. Not terribly diplomatic, either. She hadn’t done the abandoning, though. It was the other way around. He was the one who’d walked out.

“You really just happened to turn up, Sarah? In my hotel?”

Oh, he could be frustrating! She was tired of being interrogated. “After visiting several others.”

“Ahh. The coincidence needed help.”

Sarah looked around for her purse. It was near the door, half under Ian’s jeans. She went to get it, then rejoined him on the bed while she opened it and pulled out a piece of folded newsprint.

“There I was yesterday morning, relaxing in my jammies—”

“Where’s ‘there,’ besides Vancouver?”

“In my apartment. Twelfth floor, oceanside.”

“Nice.”

“There I was, having my morning coffee and a delicious whole wheat, mega-iced, mega-cinnamon-sugar cinnamon bun, when I opened my weekend paper and found this.” She waved the clipping. It was an article describing how gold built Yellowknife in the 1930s and how diamonds under the rock and ice of the Barren Lands were behind another growth spurt now.

“‘All That Glitters Isn’t Gold.’ By Ian Kingsley.” She smiled. “I always knew your name would look good in print. This story is why I came to Yellowknife, Ian. You made me want to see the place for myself. At the end you said you’d be here for several weeks, working on a series of columns about the Northwest Territories. So I thought, why not?”

Before she finished speaking, she sensed his withdrawal.

“You dropped everything?” His voice had cooled.

What did that mean? She hadn’t dropped anything.

Slowly, she refolded the clipping. “Like a banana peel.”

“Right. Of course.” He went to the pile of clothes on the floor, purposeful, quick. He was already gone, more or less, before he finished getting dressed. “It’s none of my business what you do.”

“No.”

“Not anymore.”

“If it ever was.” She couldn’t believe what was happening. She’d finally answered his question and now the evening was crumbling, falling apart.

He pulled his shoelaces tight, and tied them with swift, sharp movements. “I’ll call you a taxi.”

He was throwing her out?

If she’d seen it coming she could have left first, left him dangling. Nothing to be done about it now. She certainly wasn’t going to bob up and down collecting clothes while he watched.

Settling back against the headboard, she turned to give him her left breast’s best angle. She could be just as cold as he was. Colder. “I’m not sure it’s that easy. You can’t say, ‘No, thank you’ right after, ‘Yes, please.’ Not if you’ve accepted what’s offered.”

“You’re right. It’s rude. It’s unfortunate.”

“Do you have a thesaurus? There must be a better word choice.” She took her time getting up from the bed, then padded toward him. He seemed unable to stop looking at her, his eyes lingering at all the expected places.

“I’ll shower and then we’ll talk.” That might give him time to settle down, to see that his behavior had gone way past unfortunate to absolutely mean.

But when she came out of the bathroom he wasn’t waiting, contrite and ready to apologize. He’d gathered her clothes together and left a note on top of them.

“TAXI’S PAID FOR AND WAITING.”

Scribbled under the block capitals was an apparent afterthought. “It was good to see you, Sar.”