Coda (Songs of Submission #9)(19)

He was better than that.

We were better than that.

I had a few hours to write him a new song. Not about how much time we had. Not about all our failings, but about what we meant to each other. About how fulfilling and worthwhile those ten years could be, if I stopped squinting into the distance at the end of them.

Tap tap tap TAP. tap tap tap TAP.

chapter 11.

JONATHAN

Jogging. Herbal tea. Rabbit food. Jesus Christ, how had I survived six months without making my wife beg for mercy? I stood in the driveway, looking at our house from the street, for the hundredth time. It was deep in and behind a wall of roses, but who could see? From what angle? If I f*cked her on the back patio, were her shaking tits visible from the public part of the beach? Could they hear her scream next door?

The low-slung, mid-century glass box was so well-designed and so well-placed that unless we kept the lights on and f*cked against the window in a certain part of the bedroom at night, we couldn’t be seen. I’d known that from the second day. But it felt as if we were exposed, and she liked that.

That morning, before she’d slinked off to the guest house to tap on the practice piano, I’d taken her against that window. Her handprints were still on it, like two frosted starfish. She’d put her hands against the glass when I told her to, ass out, legs spread almost but not quite wide enough. I’d stuck my fingers in her.

“No one can see you,” I’d said then slapped her ass.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you believe me?”

“I want to.”

I’d caned her hard and thoroughly until my arm ached and she was a groaning mess. It was her way of telling me she trusted me but needed that shade of doubt. It brought her so close to orgasm, I barely had to touch her with my dick before she came.

I might even learn to like this house.

“What are you doing in the middle of the street?” said a voice from behind me.

I didn’t turn around. I knew my sister’s voice better than I knew my mother’s. “You should call before you show up.”

Margie was hanging half out of the window of her Mercedes and waving for me to get out of her way into the driveway.

“I’m a newlywed, you know,” I said.

“We had an appointment.” She pulled in, and I followed on foot, letting the gate close behind me.

I opened the door for her when she stopped. “We did. I forgot.”

She got out, yanking her briefcase free of the passenger seat floor. “You shouldn’t have fired your assistant before you were finished with your business.”

“I’m sick of calendars and commitments.”

She made a thick sound that could have been interpreted as a harrumph, except that was too passive-aggressive for my sister. If she had something to say, she’d never let a vocal tic replace a well-placed barb. I led her inside.

“You want something?” I asked, opening the fridge.

“Nice place,” she said, putting her briefcase on the island bar. “I almost went to the old one. Up in the hills.” She snapped the briefcase open.

I got her a glass of water with no ice, and she thanked me as if she’d actually asked for it. But she didn’t have to. I knew her at least that well. I opened a bottle of water for myself. I was off Perrier. Carbonation was on the No Intake list.

“Is it what you expected?” I asked.

“I expected a house cut in half with masking tape,” she answered, taking papers out and laying them in neat piles on the granite.

“Did I make it sound that bad?” I had leaned on Margie the most since the surgery. I’d never talked about my emotional life before, but I had to now or I’d break. Margie was my valve, because she was honest and straight, and she knew when to shut the hell up.

“For two people suffering from post-traumatic stress? I think you’re doing great. Not that I have anything healthy to compare you to.” She clicked a pen and handed it to me. “Sign where I put yellow tabs. Initial on the purple.”

I started from left to right, signing away about ten years of my life. The business I’d rebuilt for Dad in repayment for silence over Rachel. Twenty-two to thirty-two—over a billion and a quarter in assets in a managed trust. He could have it. Sale of the hotels, except K, where I met Monica. I wasn’t ready to let that go. Another half a billion in real estate to a trust Margie would manage and share. After all the sales, my responsibility would be to do nothing but take care of myself.

“You think you might get bored?” Margie asked when I was halfway through the stacks.

“Yes. But I don’t know what to do about it.”

“There’s this thing I heard about. You might be interested. Could kill some time. Definitely burn through some cash.”

“Go on.”

“In Switzerland. They’re really close on an artificial heart.”

“No.”

“It’s made from tissue. It doesn’t need an external battery,” she said.

“No.”

“They need a lot of money for development, but you have it.”

“Am I speaking the wrong language? No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like the Swiss. The cheese offends me.”

“Nice answer. Got a reason that makes sense?”