“I am not making a scene,” I said. “I am asking my husband to stay home.”
He stood up, his tall frame blocking the bright morning light from the kitchen window, and shoved the wallet deep into his pocket.
“The house will be quiet, and you can get some real rest without us underfoot,” he said, but he did not look at my swollen feet.
I set the clean breakfast plates into the drying rack, the porcelain clinking together in the silence.
“I have two estimates to finish for the Oak Creek library bid by Friday,” I said, hoping the mention of our joint contracting business would make him focus.
“Leave the library bid to me, babe,” he said, snatching his keys off the hook by the pantry. “I will handle the paperwork from the beach house.”
“You’re taking the business tablet?” I asked.
“No, I’m leaving the blue leather one on the counter for you,” he said, heading toward the hall. “But don’t go messing with the company files while I’m gone.”
He did not wait for me to answer, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor as he walked out to the garage.
By noon, the summer heat was baking the Ohio brick outside, and the living room felt heavy with the scent of the lemon beeswax polish I had used on the dining room table. Diane stood in the center of the room, her stiff, hairsprayed curls perfectly in place, holding a list she had written on a notepad.
“The baseboards in the hallway are looking a bit grey, Claire,” Diane said, patting her curls as she turned to inspect the corner. “With the baby coming, you really don’t want all that dust blowing through the vents.”
“The doctor told me to stay off my feet as much as possible this week, Diane,” I said, leaning against the doorframe to take the weight off my lower back.
