He was here. She had her husband back. It might be wrong, and it might not last, but for now he was hers, and she threw her arms around him and, through her sobs, whispered into his ear. “I love you. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he said.
****
“Paul!”
Where was he?
Heather Cox-Coburn stormed out of her studio and into the main hallway, looking for her husband. The View was over, she’d finished her workout, and he was supposed to be there to bring her a mid-morning green drink. It was bad enough that he was forcing her to spend an entire month out here in the asshole of America, but to ignore and forget about her this way was really unforgiveable. Heather strode down the hallway toward his office. He was probably sitting in front of his damn computer. He wasted half his day either on that machine or on the phone, constantly monitoring his company, although his business ran fine on its own—and if it didn’t, there were people in place who would make sure that it did.
“Paul—” she said angrily, walking into his office.
He wasn’t there.
She looked around to make sure he hadn’t keeled over from a heart attack, then walked back out of the room just as her cell phone rang. She expected it to be Paul and was about to give him an earful, but it turned out to be Tyra Banks. Yesterday, Tyra had invited her out to LA to attend a taping of her show, and Heather had jumped at the opportunity. Paul had objected, saying they were supposed to be on vacation, but he certainly wasn’t on vacation, and if he was going to spend all day online or on the phone or video conferencing with his investors, she should be able to spend a week with her friends.
Heather was afraid Tyra was calling to cancel, but it was nothing so drastic. She just wanted to make sure that Heather packed a bathing suit because they were going to be spending a few days at the beach house.
“Thank God,” Heather said. “I’m getting tired of staring out at this godforsaken desert.”
Tyra laughed. “I told you you shouldn’t have quit the biz.”
Heather heard a noise behind her and turned to see Paul standing at the end of the hallway.
She knew instantly that something was wrong.
It was the way he was standing, the stiffness of his legs, the cocked angle at which he held his head. He was wearing what looked like pajamas, though she wasn’t aware that he even owned pajamas. “I’ll have to call you back,” she said into the phone, clicking off without waiting to hear her friend’s goodbye.
Paul stared at her silently.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Heather said. She tried to summon up some of the anger she’d felt a few moments prior, but her husband’s appearance threw her off balance. She felt nervous rather than angry, and she remained in place, not wanting to walk down the hall to where he stood.
He started toward her.
“You were supposed to bring me my green drink,” she said, still trying to pretend that everything was normal, nothing was wrong. “I understand if you were busy, but at least you could have sent someone around to give it to me. You know I need to replenish after my workout.”
He was still walking up the hallway. There was a dullness in his face that she did not recognize, a slack expression that made him appear almost retarded. She moved back a step involuntarily.
“I want to sell balloons,” he said.
“What?” She experienced a moment of cognitive dissonance. Wasn’t that what it was called when two things didn’t go together and made no logical sense? Something like that. Whatever the term, she was experiencing it now, and she looked into her husband’s blank face and had no idea how to respond.
“I sold it this morning.”
“What?” she repeated dumbly.
“Everything. The stocks, the trademarks, the—”
That woke her up. “You did what?” she demanded.
“I’m selling the house, too. The houses. All of them.”
She was about to yell at him, when he stopped directly in front of her. A cold wave washed over her skin, summoning goose bumps, as she saw the slow smile spreading across his slack features.
“I want to sell balloons,” he said.
****
“Mama?”
Maria’s heart was pounding as she looked from the lottery ticket in her hand to the numbers on the screen.
No.
It wasn’t possible.
“Mama!” she called again, louder this time.
They’d opened the salon on New Year’s Eve day and New Year’s day—a lot of women wanted to get their hair done for parties, and some of the men liked to start off the year with a fresh cut—and in preparation, they’d closed the day before and she’d driven over to the beauty supply shop over in Safford to stock up on what they needed. While there, she’d gotten a Powerball lottery ticket at Circle K, a spur-of-the-moment purchase made when she bought herself a Diet Coke for the trip home and the clerk told her he was out of ones, would it be okay if he gave her eight quarters?