Together Alone by Barbara Delinsky Page A

for the lease and for the materials placed on rush order, and in the meantime Emily and Brian lent elbow grease to the apartment in anticipation of those soon-to-arrive goods. By Saturday afternoon, years of dirt had been wiped away, and every wall in the place stripped of paper, spackled, and sanded in preparation for the simple coat of white paint that Brian wanted. The electrician had installed the overhead fan, which immediately improved their working conditions, and had wired for increased lighting and for the washer/dryer that hadn’t originally been planned. The plumber had rendered the bathroom fully functional with the ease John had predicted. The telephone company had installed a line.
    Aside from the time she spent with Celeste, who emerged from surgery bandaged and bruised, and in dire need of encouragement, Emily spent her waking hours working in the apartment.
    Doug called from Philadelphia on Thursday night and didn’t spend long on the phone, but she was busy enough not to mind. She was also uneasy enough not to mind. I don’t know who you are sometimes, Doug. The words kept echoing, refusing to fade. On the telephone, he was a stranger, wrapped in his other world. When he got home, she told herself, he would be her husband again. They would talk then.
    Saturday morning, she took the chicken from the freezer in anticipation of an evening picnic by the pond. She took the pie from the refrigerator and set it on the counter to reach room temperature. She bought fresh corn from a farmstand on the edge of town, and Boston lettuce, radicchio, sliced black olives, pine nuts, and sprouts. She stopped at the record store for the new Streisand tape that Doug had been wanting. She chilled the bottle of champagne that her editor in New York had sent upon publication of her book and that she had squirreled away at the time. Champagne was festive. Doug didn’t have to know its source.
    As it happened, he didn’t arrive home until eleven at night, after Emily had, item by item, hope by hope, returned the food to the refrigerator and dismantled the picnic makings. By the time he arrived there was no sign that she had been expecting him earlier. Nor did she clue him in. After all, he had said Saturday night. She was the one who had assumed he would make it for dinner. She had simply assumed wrong. It was her mistake.
    He gave her a perfunctory kiss, then rolled into bed and fell promptly asleep. He was still sleeping when she woke up the next morning, and while she might have liked to rouse him, to do the kinds of things Sunday mornings had meant once, she resisted. He clearly needed the sleep. Waking him when he was exhausted was more apt to invoke annoyance than desire.
    Sunday brunch seemed the next best thing. She mixed a coffee cake from scratch and put it in the oven, fixed a bowl of berries and kiwi. After tiptoeing back into the bedroom, gathering his dirty clothes and putting them in the wash, she assembled the makings of a three-cheese omelet, put the pan on the stove with a wad of butter inside, and, thinking that breakfast could be a celebratory occasion, too, set out fluted glasses for mimosas.
    Doug wandered into the kitchen at ten-thirty, took one look at her preparations, and put a cautionary hand on his middle. “None of that for me. My stomach’s been acting up. I think it’s too much rich food. Hotel eating’s like that.”
    Emily was set back. “Some fruit, then,” she urged, trying to be understanding, and he agreed. She put away the omelet makings and the champagne. “Coffee?” She had the beans ground and the water in the machine.
    But he shook his head. “Maybe later. Just fruit for now.”
    Just fruit for now. Okay. She wanted him to be happy to be home. She could accept just fruit for now, if that would make him happy.
    She filled two bowls and sat down beside him at a kitchen table made festive by glass dishes, linen napkins, and Myra’s contribution to the homecoming, apricot