strange that they both see the same dude,” Rebecca said. “Usually…”
“Screw ‘usually’!” Bill snapped. “McLaughlin and I work on the same architectural plans. Same principle: joint creation. Is that creepy?”
“No, but…”
“A joint creation of the mind,” her husband said, finally raising his head. “Patrick and Karen working in tandem. Now what’s really bugging you?”
She thought about it. She knew the answer. It took her a few moments before she had the nerve to give voice to it.
“What bothers me is the way they keyed in on the turret room,” Rebecca finally admitted. Bill turned and looked fully at Rebecca.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something about that room that bothers me. Always has.”
Her husband was watching her. Then she saw something unsettled in his eyes, and she felt his gaze settling in on her. It almost scared her when her husband’s moods changed so quickly. With narrowed eyes,
“Like what?’ he asked.
“The smell in Ronny’s room, for one thing,” she decided. “Yuck!” She tried to make a joke of it, hoping that might drive away the whole problem.
“It’s not ‘Ronny’s Room!’” he snapped. “It’s the ‘turret room,’ soon to be the ‘second floor playroom’ as soon as I have time. Now, anything else?” he asked.
She searched. She didn’t want to dredge up her feelings from the attack in Connecticut. She had done so well since the move in conquering all those old anxieties.
“No,” she said sullenly. “Nothing specific. Just a feeling.” He continued to gaze at her. Then his annoyance dissipated, and he eased.
“The room will be a lot more comfortable, a lot more welcoming, once we renew it,” he said. “You know, paint it. Get some stuff in for the kids. Okay, honey, look. Even
I
admit that it’s a little tiny bit creepy now.”
“You feel that, too?” she asked.
“I didn’t say I felt anything,” he said. “I just think maybe that room should be a priority. I don’t want it to turn into something that’s scaring the kids. Or my wife. Okay?”
“It’s now a priority,” she said. She knew when to ease off and agree with her husband. She had learned in her years of marriage to him that this was sometimes the only way to avoid a major fight. So she pondered the point and tried to make a joke of it.
“I wish Ronny would do something about that smell while he’s wandering through our upstairs,” Rebecca added. Bill went back to his laptop.
“Maybe you can get him to paint and reinforce the walls while you’re at it, too,” he said.
“You’re such a pragmatist,” she said.
“The turret room is empty,” Bill said, losing himself in cyberspace again. “So Patrick and Karen fill it with their imagination. That’s fine as long as they’re not scaring themselves. And obviously they’re not.” He paused. “They think this ‘Ronny’ clown is funny. So let them think that.” Rebecca sighed again. There was a creak in the floorboards behind her husband.
“And by the way, architects are pragmatists by nature,” he continued. “Theories don’t hold buildings up. Nails, wood, and the proper use of physics do.
Comprenez?
“
“Bill, you really are one of the great B.S. artists of all time,” she said. “Or should I phrase it,
‘artiste de merde du taureau’
?”
“Call it anything you like, Becca,” he half replied without looking up. “And thanks for the accolade. You made it sound real elegant.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. Then she waited for a full minute. “Want to do some sex after the kids are asleep?” A curled eyebrow in response from her husband, two eyes glancing up.
“How about tomorrow?” he asked. “I have a lot of tweaking to do for Jack McLaughlin tonight.”
“You animal,” she teased, maybe with a little too much sarcasm. “I don’t know how I resist you.”
But Bill let the comment pass, continuing with his laptop. She walked over to him, half to
“Screw ‘usually’!” Bill snapped. “McLaughlin and I work on the same architectural plans. Same principle: joint creation. Is that creepy?”
“No, but…”
“A joint creation of the mind,” her husband said, finally raising his head. “Patrick and Karen working in tandem. Now what’s really bugging you?”
She thought about it. She knew the answer. It took her a few moments before she had the nerve to give voice to it.
“What bothers me is the way they keyed in on the turret room,” Rebecca finally admitted. Bill turned and looked fully at Rebecca.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something about that room that bothers me. Always has.”
Her husband was watching her. Then she saw something unsettled in his eyes, and she felt his gaze settling in on her. It almost scared her when her husband’s moods changed so quickly. With narrowed eyes,
“Like what?’ he asked.
“The smell in Ronny’s room, for one thing,” she decided. “Yuck!” She tried to make a joke of it, hoping that might drive away the whole problem.
“It’s not ‘Ronny’s Room!’” he snapped. “It’s the ‘turret room,’ soon to be the ‘second floor playroom’ as soon as I have time. Now, anything else?” he asked.
She searched. She didn’t want to dredge up her feelings from the attack in Connecticut. She had done so well since the move in conquering all those old anxieties.
“No,” she said sullenly. “Nothing specific. Just a feeling.” He continued to gaze at her. Then his annoyance dissipated, and he eased.
“The room will be a lot more comfortable, a lot more welcoming, once we renew it,” he said. “You know, paint it. Get some stuff in for the kids. Okay, honey, look. Even
I
admit that it’s a little tiny bit creepy now.”
“You feel that, too?” she asked.
“I didn’t say I felt anything,” he said. “I just think maybe that room should be a priority. I don’t want it to turn into something that’s scaring the kids. Or my wife. Okay?”
“It’s now a priority,” she said. She knew when to ease off and agree with her husband. She had learned in her years of marriage to him that this was sometimes the only way to avoid a major fight. So she pondered the point and tried to make a joke of it.
“I wish Ronny would do something about that smell while he’s wandering through our upstairs,” Rebecca added. Bill went back to his laptop.
“Maybe you can get him to paint and reinforce the walls while you’re at it, too,” he said.
“You’re such a pragmatist,” she said.
“The turret room is empty,” Bill said, losing himself in cyberspace again. “So Patrick and Karen fill it with their imagination. That’s fine as long as they’re not scaring themselves. And obviously they’re not.” He paused. “They think this ‘Ronny’ clown is funny. So let them think that.” Rebecca sighed again. There was a creak in the floorboards behind her husband.
“And by the way, architects are pragmatists by nature,” he continued. “Theories don’t hold buildings up. Nails, wood, and the proper use of physics do.
Comprenez?
“
“Bill, you really are one of the great B.S. artists of all time,” she said. “Or should I phrase it,
‘artiste de merde du taureau’
?”
“Call it anything you like, Becca,” he half replied without looking up. “And thanks for the accolade. You made it sound real elegant.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. Then she waited for a full minute. “Want to do some sex after the kids are asleep?” A curled eyebrow in response from her husband, two eyes glancing up.
“How about tomorrow?” he asked. “I have a lot of tweaking to do for Jack McLaughlin tonight.”
“You animal,” she teased, maybe with a little too much sarcasm. “I don’t know how I resist you.”
But Bill let the comment pass, continuing with his laptop. She walked over to him, half to
Similar Books
