I Married a Billionaire: Lost and Found(10)

After filling several pages with meaningless doodles, only to be crumpled up and thrown in the garbage, I tossed everything aside with a massive sigh and went back out to the living room. Daniel had the TV on, which was odd enough in and of itself. I actually still wasn't sure why he owned one; I'd seen him watching it maybe three times during the entire tenure of our marriage, and he never actually seemed to be watching it. So that was the other odd thing - on this particular occasion, his eyes were glued to the screen with rapt attention.

He didn't even seem to notice when I sat down next to him. I honed in on the screen. It was footage of something running down an assembly line in a factory. I leaned forward, trying to figure out exactly what it was that could have fascinated him so.

The narrator was droning on, something about circuits, and then in the next shot, I realized that it was Daniel's latest phone design.

"Wow," I said. "A how-it's-made PBS feature at two in the afternoon. You can't pay for this kind of marketing."

He was frowning a little. "They didn't even try to get in touch with me," he said. "I would have filmed something for it."

"Please tell me this isn't actually bothering you."

He was drumming his fingers on his leg, as if he were playing an invisible piano. "I don't know if you realize how strange it is to watch this," he said. "Half of what they're saying isn't even right."

"I guess I don't." I didn't bother reminding him that the people who were judging my creative work weren't talking about it on TV; I just had to guess at what they were thinking. After a while longer, sitting there in silence, I realized he wasn't going to tear his eyes away until the show was over, and I went to putter around in the kitchen, looking for something to cobble together into a dinner. I couldn't remember the last time I'd cooked a proper meal at home, and it seemed like something that might take my mind off of everything.

We didn't have much in the way of ingredients, so I told Daniel I was running to the store - at which he absently nodded - and made my way out into the sunshine.

There was still a slight chill in the air, as if spring hadn't quite made up its mind to get started. But it was beautiful, and after a long, grey winter, there was nothing quite like a spring breeze, even if it was a tad too brisk.

I closed my eyes for a moment at a crosswalk, soaking in the sun's warmth. I wasn't sure how so much of the year had already slipped by me. It was hard to believe it was already April, with the little flowers already blooming through the cracks in the sidewalk. When I reached my destination, I almost hated to step inside. But the bell rang cheerfully as I pushed the door open, and Louie, the aging hippie behind the counter, greeted me with a smile.

"I saved you a copy," he said, holding up last week's Forbes, whose cover teased an article called THE SECRET TO DANIEL THORNE'S SUCCESS . "No charge."

"Thanks," I said. "But no thanks. For the sake of my sanity, I really need to stop looking at that stuff."

"Sure, if you wanna be reasonable about it," Louie grumbled. "What do you want now?"

"I feel like cooking something for dinner that's going to take a few hours," I said. "Comfort food. Something that'll make the whole place smell good."

"Pot roast? I got some grass-fed beef that just came in from upstate. Fresh as it gets."

Instantly, I was transported back to Sunday afternoons of my childhood, remembering the herby, savory smells that would waft out of the oven when my mother opened it to check on our special dinner. It was pretty much the only meal she ever put any effort into - lovingly patting the chuck roast down with fresh herbs, laying it on a bed of onions and carrots and potatoes from the farmer's market, all swimming in rich red wine.

Yes. Perfect.

I picked out the biggest chuck roast I could find, beautifully marbled with fat. Cooking it wouldn't be a problem. I knew that Daniel had a ceramic Dutch oven pot that weighed about fifty pounds, because I'd dusted around it a few times when I was bored. He'd had a cleaning service before me, but I insisted he fire them so I had something to do when I didn't have drawing or yoga or one of the other dozen things I'd signed up for to occupy my time. After I'd picked out the herbs and vegetables and paid Louie and petted his tiny Yorkie that sat vigilantly on the counter, watching every transaction with eagle eyes, I ran to the liquor store across the street for a bottle of dry red from the Finger Lakes - one big enough for cooking and for drinking.

There was someone already at the register when I went up, so I started toying with my phone as I waited, tuning out the conversation since it didn't concern me. But after I'd skimmed a few emails I started to sense it had been an awfully long time, so I perked my ears back up and watched the scene unfolding in front of me.

"I'm sorry," the young cashier was saying. His lip ring was jiggling nervously, like he was poking at the other side with his tongue. "But I just can't. Corporate policy."

"Corporate?" The customer threw his hands up in the air. "This place is the size of a closet. What corporate?"

"We got bought out," the kid said, his voice developing a slight tremor. "Couple months ago. They've started getting really strict, I'm sorry. I just can't."

"Look." The customer took a long, deep breath. "It's nothing against you. I swear. But come on. You're not going to lose your job over this. I promise. I won't tell anyone. Are they watching you on camera? I'll open my wallet and pretend to show you something. They'll never be able to tell the difference. I'm old enough to be your father. Grandfather, probably."