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A Valentine's Sweet
By Celeste Hollister
Cora bundled into the kitchen with five mesh shopping bags filled with dinner groceries: ruby red
grapefruit, pomegranates, fresh tilapia fillets and basil, garlic and herb quinoa, baby corn, a carton of
organic blackberries, and the ingredients for a cheesecake, which she would make from scratch.
She let the bags clunk to the tile floor and raced to the refrigerator. She flung open the door and loaded
the contents into the shelves, humming something that sounded suspiciously like "Close to You" by The
Carpenters. In spite of the chilly weather, a sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. She’d made a
tremendous effort to slip away from the office a) unnoticed by her adoring husband, Hector, who still
thought she’d forgotten today was Valentine’s, even though he dropped a metric ton of hints throughout
the weekend, and b) early enough to prepare his favorite dinner and have it waiting for him when he got
home.
She had more in mind than dinner. Her thoughts drifted to the slim white box tucked beneath their bed,
the powder blue silk sheath enfolded in perfumed paper. She remembered the day she and Josie found it at
the Dove’s Wing Boutique, in their annual sisterly Christmas shopping trip. The memory linked inextricably
with the doctor’s visit the day before…
Cora drew herself up short. She swept her hair behind her ears and shook her hands like a runner about to
take the starting line in a race. Must look forward, she reminded herself. They agreed not to dwell.
Even so, things had been strained. He buried himself in work. She hid behind graduate coursework. They
weathered the holidays, putting in the expected appearances with her family and their co-workers, but the
dark quiet of February settled on them like a mantle of snow. Normally, they didn’t go in for the candy-
hearts-and-roses of Valentine’s, but she had to admit that she had a lot of riding on this cornball holiday.
She darted a glance at the clock above the stove.
Four p.m.? How did it get so late?
Cora heaved the grapefruit and pomegranates from the grocery bag and got to work on the marinade. She
had the tilapia drenched in citrus when her cell phone warbled Monty Python’s Spam Song.
She grimaced. Only four people ever sent her texts. Three of them could wait until she had whipped up the
cheesecake. The fourth was Hector, who might have figured out that she’d left the studio, despite the
elaborate cover story she’d concocted with his personal assistant, Rachel.
Not returning his text was just as tricky as answering it. What if he thought it was serious? What if he
rushed home when she didn’t respond, only to find her elbows deep in graham cracker crust?
She wiped grapefruit pulp from her hands and went to the phone.
Not Hector, but her brother-in-law, Will.
Cora toggled the screen to read his message:
Tara’s swallowed some plastic doll bit. I’m at Parkside for x-rays. Plz, plz cover
first half of my class. And DO NOT TELL JOSIE!
Cora smacked the phone to her forehead. Thumbs flying furiously over the keypad, she texted back:
If the toy says 3 and up, Will, it means 3 AND UP! Is she gonna be ok?
Will texted back:
I know, I know. And yes, she’s fine. Plz, Cor. I’ll owe you.
Cora typed:
But it’s Valen –
She backspaced. This was typical William. He probably volunteered to keep Tara so that Josie could have a
baby-free afternoon at the day spa before his class.
Instead, Cora wrote:
Be right there – And you more than owe me.
She raked the keys from the bar and stormed from the house. As she slid into her car, she groaned, “Total.
Bloody. Disaster.”
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
“Non,” Hector barked into his Bluetooth headset. “Non. C’est impossible!”
His assistant, Rachel, edged onto the corner of his desk and waited while he listened to the woman on the
other end of the call blither a string of excuses in French.
“Arretez!” he snapped. The woman’s twittering ceased. “C’est d’accord. Oui? Oui, d’accord,” he said, and
swiped the headset from his ear.
“Well?” Rachel said.
“Total. Bloody. Disaster,” Hector said. He swept a red, foil-wrapped box from his desk and rattled it at her.
"Bonbon?”
She took a chocolate and peeled back its wrapper. “What happened?” she asked.
“Teeny setback,” he said. “They bumped the reservation to 7:30.”
“Uh oh.”
He took a chocolate for himself, rolled it around his palm.
“Cutting it close, are we?” she asked.
Hector gave her what he hoped was an enigmatic smile. “You know me, I live on the edge.”
“If you have dinner at 7:30, it means…”
Hector raised a finger to her lips. “I know,” he whispered. “I’ve got it all...”
His cell phone hummed on the desk. A message flashed across the screen:
Bluebird has left the nest – Onto Phase 2?
Hector tossed the chocolate to Rachel, who caught it clumsily between her hands. He tapped in the
response to his brother-in-law, Will:
Good Work, Robin. Proceed to Phase 2. Owl and pigeon initiating Phase 3. Out.
And he was so intent on the message, Hector didn’t see Rachel crush the two chocolates in her fist, and
then, just as he was turning around, his face aglow with the light of all his accomplishments, she dumped
them into the waste bin.
“You ready?” he asked.
She plucked a tissue from the box on his desk and wiped her fingers.
“Under control,” she said, smiling brightly, but as he left for the studio floor, her face tightened into a
determined grin.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
The problem was, Rachel liked Cora.
Both grew up in big Southern families. They had studied Journalism at prominent universities – Cora at Texas
State and Rachel at Auburn. Each enjoyed travel, Greek food, cooking, Celtic music, and running. They
even had the painful shared experience of having been in the pageant circuit as children.
More recently, though, both moved to London because of love. Cora and her sister, who was already
engaged to William, the nauseatingly talented and handsome rock star/music professor, had met Hector
while backpacking across Europe. Both sisters moved to London shortly after Cora graduated.
And Rachel met Richard, the advertising exec who had recruited her as a promising PR intern straight out
of college.
Richard, who married Lexie, head of PR, in spite of his carrying on a tawdry four-year relationship with
Rachel.
Richard, who left her broken, who had fired Rachel because of a “Conflict of Interest.”
Yeah, he was interested in bending her over the boardroom table for a pre-coffee throwdown, and Rachel
was interested in telling his new wife all about their exploits in an effort to destroy his marriage.
In the end, she supposed things had worked out. Richard kept his lovely wife in the dark, and Rachel moved
to BBC London Live, where she met Hector and Cora.
All was well until August…
Rachel poured herself a cup of the office swill and headed out into the enclosed courtyard behind the
studio. A knot of beat reporters and techs huddled in a corner, smoking and making snide comments about
the bad weather and the Royals. She couldn’t actually hear them, but she didn’t need to. She’d screwed
enough reporters to know how their world turned.
She skirted the rabble and sat down in a recessed nook overlooking the dead garden below. She needed
time to reassess and rethink. If the reservation had been bumped to 7:30 instead of eight, her window of
opportunity shrank considerably. She’d scheduled the limousine driver to arrive at the university parking
garage at five p.m., where Phase Three of Hector’s convoluted Valentine’s Day plan would commence.
Rachel sipped the black sludge of her coffee and sneered. That’s where her plans would enter the
equation. One bonus at being Hector’s assistant and Cora’s confidant was that she was privy to both sides
of their Valentine’s plans. Hector wanted the limo to deliver Cora to the Spa Illuminata, where she would
have a rose petal facial, a mani-pedi, an hour-long massage, and all the chocolate strawberries and
champagne she could devour.
Rachel couldn’t derail Phase 2 of the plan; William and Hector had planned that out at the beginning of the
semester, with the help of William’s students. But Rachel also knew of Cora’s plans to prepare an intimate
dinner at home.
Rachel slid her Android from her pocket and paged through her contacts. She found the number for
Andrew’s Car Service.
“Hello,” she said when the receptionist picked up. “I hired a limo for this evening… Yes, Rachel Wallings is
the name. Yes. Well, the plan has changed, I’m afraid. Instead of the Spa Illuminata, I need the driver to go
to this address.”
Rachel recited Hector’s and Cora’s home address to the woman and wrote down the confirmation number.
“Oh,” Rachel said, “And tell the driver to tell Mrs. Dumas that Rachel has her back.”
With a grim smile, Rachel ended the call. Now Cora would get her wish: an intimate dinner at home. Alone.
Meanwhile, Hector would wrap up the evening broadcast and drive to L’Atelier de Joel Robouchon at 7:30,
but instead of meeting his wife, Rachel would be there to inform him of a change in plans…
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Cora whipped the Volvo into the parking garage so fast the seatbelt bit into her chest and she swore. In her
mind, she ran through her list of preparations:
1. Mix cheesecake filling.
2. Bake cheesecake while tilapia marinates.
3. I hope Tara’s okay.
4. Wash hair, shave legs… trim the nether yea-ya.
5. I really hope Tara’s okay.
As she pulled into Professor William Lantz’s parking spot, she thought that maybe she should put the tilapia
on to bake while she showered, but it meant she’d have to rush through the shaving, which often resulted
in unsexy nicks around her ankles and knees.
And then she cursed William for giving Tara contraband toys, and wondered – again – why he couldn’t just
give his class a walk. After all, it was Valentine’s Day, and shouldn’t he be the good husband and make plans
with her sister, his wife, anyway?
She unbuckled her seatbelt and fired off a text message before she could stop herself:
Hey! Shouldn’t you have V-Day plans with Josie or is romance dead with you people?
Cora stuffed the phone into her pocket, adjusted her scarf, and struck out across the parking garage. It
was different with her and Hector. He couldn’t just take off on Valentine’s Day, not with the evening show
to produce. News waited for no one; she knew that, he knew that. Still… she hoped that he made it home
in time tonight. That’s where Rachel figured into the plan.
Dependable, reliable Rachel. Cora could count on her to get Hector out of the office by the appointed
time.
Cora reached the door of the elevator, pushed the up button and waited. Honestly, she didn’t know how
she would have managed the last half year without Rachel. When Cora fell that day in August, she crawled
to the kitchen and speed-dialed the office. Rachel had been the one to answer the call and had also driven
out to the house to take Cora to the hospital. Rachel managed everything, from phoning Hector back at the
studio to re-arranging Cora’s schedule to accommodate for the three weeks of recovery time. During the
week she spent in the hospital, Rachel brought fresh cut flowers to Cora’s room every afternoon.
The elevator door slid open and Cora stepped inside. When the door closed again, her phone went off. Will,
again, with only two words:
Just wait.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Hector’s shoulders ached. His head ached. He thought about taking some ibuprofen but worried that it
would make him sleepy, and he planned on a late night. Even if Valentine’s Day fell on a Monday, and he and
Cora had an early call the next morning.
Just the thought of Cora in that gauzy silk number he found under their bed – the one she thought she’d
been hiding since before Christmas – revved his nerves and made it easier for him to forget the two hours of
filming he still had on the clock.
He looked out over the studio, where Rachel was going over finals with Victoria Mullins, the new and
exceptionally green evening anchor. Rachel glanced up and flashed him that dizzying smile of hers, and he
remembered that day in late August, the day Cora fell. The day he almost…
His gut wrenched at the schnapps-soaked memory of her body pressed against his, her bare toes tracing
along the inside of his pants leg, her soft hair smelling of berries and tickling the stubble of his cheek.
Almost.
Rachel’s voice crackled over his earpiece. “Boss,” she drawled. “You’re staring again.”
He cleared his throat. “Was I?”
“Beginning to be a habit,” she said. From his place up in the sound booth he was sure she shot him a wink.
As she spun around the studio floor, he realized she was right. Again, he shook himself.
“Were you able to get that car situation handled?” Hector said.
“Of course.”
“And the massage—”
“Reduced to half-hour,” she said. “Just like you wanted. Relax, Boss. I’ve got this.”
Hector switched off his headset and leaned against the mixing table. Sweat sheened his palms, and the
pinch of his headache returned. But he realized one thing. Rachel was right; whatever it was, she definitely
had it.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Cora could hear them from the outer corridor: William’s senior string ensemble tuning up for practice. It
was a warm, fluid sound that filled the hall – the rasp of rosined bows and the tart pluck of strings. She took
a deep breath, and decided to make the best of it. After all, listening to gifted musicians practice for an
hour was not a bad way to begin an evening.
She pulled open the door and immediately had to catch her breath.
The practice hall glittered with hundreds of tea light candles adorning every surface in the room, including
the chalkboard rail and William’s lectern. Amid swirls of rose petals and arranged in the center of the
classroom, Will’s twelve string ensemble students, all dressed in their concert finery, struck up a rendition
of Etta James’ “At Last”.
Cora swayed, suddenly unsteady. She gripped the edge of the desk near the door and let the music pour
through her. It was their song—the perfect Hector/Cora love song. After years of long-distance dating, she
moved to London where they began their happily ever after. Just as she felt as though she might melt into
the carpet, the arrangement morphed gradually into Paul McCartney’s “Bluebird”, which had been her
grandfather’s favorite song.
At that point, Cora began to cry. The ensemble finished with a rousing crescendoing version of one of
Cora’s guilty pleasures, Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance”. With the last note still vibrating in the air, Cora threw
herself upright and applauded like a mad woman. The ensemble, all of them beaming, stood and bowed.
“He planned this!” Cora shrieked.
“True romantic, he is,” said one of the cellists.
“And Professor Lantz was keen to help out,” chimed in one of the violas.
“So Tara—”
“—Is not having x-rays as we speak,” the lead violinist said. “And Professor Lantz would like us to say, on his
behalf, that he is very sorry to have caused you any apprehension. He would also like us to give you this.”
The violinist came around her music stand and offered Cora a folded card of creamy white paper.
“What is this?” Cora asked.
“Open it,” said one of the bass players in the back. Cora glanced around at the faces of the twelve young
musicians, and had to wonder who was more excited about this, them or her.
The card read: Darling
“This one next,” said the second violinist.
Cora opened the second card. It read: Cora
“It’s a message?” she asked.
They all nodded eagerly. They each passed her their cards, and she read the message aloud:
Your love drives me insane. Go outside. See what’s next.
“What’s next?” Cora squealed.
They gathered around her, their tuxedo coats and taffeta rustling, and in a boisterous cacophony of
whistles, giggles, and whoops, they ushered her to the parking garage, where a gleaming black limousine
awaited her.
The driver, a plump Indian man, opened the door and said, “Milady.”
Cora squeezed the hands of the twelve ensemble students and climbed in to the spacious back seat of the
limo.
She settled against the leather interior and basked for a moment in Hector’s surprise Valentine’s Day plan.
But after a second, she sat up.
“Driver?” she said.
“You may call me Ranjin,” he answered.
“Mr. Ranjin, did my husband give you an address?”
“Number 4 Baldwyn’s Park, in Bexley,” Ranjin said.
“But that’s our house,” Cora replied.
Ranjin shrugged. He said, “A Miss Rachel said she’s got your back.”
“Ah,” Cora said. She smiled and settled into the seat to replay the music in her memory.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Hector removed his headset and said into the PA, “Good work, everyone. That’s a wrap. Now get out of
here to get yourselves properly snogged.”
“Or shagged,” Rachel whispered.
Hector jumped at how near she’d managed to get without him hearing her. “That is the plan,” he said,
recovering quickly. He tugged his phone from his pocket. “It’s 6:15. Cora should be at the spa by now, but
I’ve not received anything from Will.”
“Would you calm down?” Rachel said. “It’s all taken care of. The driver called to check in at 5:30.
Everything’s going according to plan.”
“He did?”
“We were in the middle of taping,” Rachel answered.
Hector breathed a shaky sigh. “I guess…” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve got a lot riding on tonight,
Rachel. I’m nervous, is all.”
Rachel slunk against the wall and folded her arms. “No need for nervousness,” she said. “She is your wife,
after all. That bird’s already caught and caged.”
“But you know how things have been since December. Hell, since August when she first found out…”
Rachel pushed away from the wall and slipped toward him. “You know, there’s no shame in finding out you
and Cora want different things, Hector.”
“It’s not that,” he said. He dropped heavily into a swivel chair and pinched between his brows. “We want
the same thing, we’re just worried we can’t have it. I want to try again, but she’s so scared.”
In that moment, Hector looked so disheveled and defeated that Rachel almost lost her nerve. The desire to
tell him the truth about everything welled on her lips, from her feelings for him to her tampering with his
plans. Everything.
But he said, “Is that the way you view love? Like a bird caught in a cage?”
Rachel snorted. She hugged her arms over her chest. “Yes. Of course. It’s safe that way, and you can sing
to your heart’s content, but you’re still trapped.”
“Hm,” he said. “I never thought of it like that.” Hector lolled his head back on the cushioned headrest of
the chair. He scrubbed his hands over his face and stood. “Guess I better get going. Traffic’ll be a bitch.”
As he walked past her, Rachel said, “Take Charing Cross.”
He paused. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, straight shot. It’ll be faster.”
“Thanks, Rachel,” he said. “Dunno what we’d do without you.”
After he was gone, Rachel pulled a tube of scarlet lipstick and her compact from her purse. She smeared
the glossy color across her lips, smacked them, and said to herself, “Don’t fret, Hector dear. I can think of
lots of ways you can repay me.”
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Cora smoothed lotion onto her freshly shaved legs, her elbows, her shoulders. She dried her dark hair and
braided it back. She dusted her pale skin with warm vanilla sugar powder and placed the white box upon
the duvet.
Downstairs, the tilapia fillets were cooked to succulent perfection and resting on a bed of herbed quinoa.
She made a salad of the baby corn – Hector’s favorite – with a basil vinaigrette and grated bok choy. The
cheesecake chilled under a glass dome in the refrigerator, and she had drizzled the blackberries with a
cinnamon sugar glaze to go on top. In the living room, she’d banked the embers of a low fire in the
fireplace, and on the bar in the kitchen, she had iced a bottle of Llano Estacado Angel, the Texas wine
she’d been saving since graduation.
Now she was ready to slide the shimmering silk gown over her naked body and slink into the living room. The
bedside clock read 7:33. Hector would be home any minute, and she wanted to be appropriately sprawled
on their damask sofa like a 1940s Hollywood starlet.
Still, such a fine garment required ceremony. Standing naked before it, Cora felt a fist of tension clench
inside her. Since August, Hector had been so careful with her, so… protective. Maybe this gown, which
seemed so delicate with its snowflakes of crystal beading and vellum-thin silk, would give him the wrong
idea. She didn’t want him to hold back. She wasn’t going to break. Even if she had, in a way.
Enough, she scolded herself. She lifted the gown and slipped it over her head, letting it glide down her
body. She ran her hands along the smooth perfumed curves her body, over the contours of her breasts,
down the sweep of her arms. She felt light and free as she drifted around the bedroom, feeling the hem
brush the tops of her feet and swish around her ankles.
Everything was ready. She floated downstairs, through the hall, and into the living room, where she nestled
into the cushions of the sofa. She stretched her hands languidly over her head and sighed.
Everything was ready, and so was she.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Hector arrived at L’Atelier de Joel Robouchon at 7:35 to find it packed. As the hostess led him through a
crowded sea of young hipster couples dressed in shiny fabrics and leather pants, he felt foolish for
choosing such a popular place for an intimate dinner with his wife. He knew she would prefer a quiet,
intimate dinner at home.
The hostess seated him, took his drink order, and vanished into the din. Hector released an uneasy sigh.
Perhaps Cora would forgive him his Hector-centric choice in restaurant after her dazzling string ensemble
serenade and two hours of spa bliss.
But as he scanned the menu without really reading it, something nettled him. Something Rachel had said.
He thought, Did he and Cora want separate things? Six months ago, his answer would have been a
resounding No. That was before she fell.
Hector put his menu down and rested his chin on his hands. He remembered when Rachel first called him
from Parkside Memorial.
“Don’t be alarmed,” she’d said. “Cora’s fine. But… Sweetie, you better sit down.”
“What is it?” he’d asked.
“She was hanging a painting in the living room, and she slipped off the stool. She’s fine, but…”
Hector had taken Rachel’s advice and sunk into his chair. It was good advice, considering what was about
to come.
“She lost the baby, Sweetie. I’m so sorry.”
He hadn’t known she was pregnant. Hell, no one had. Not even Cora.
The shame of it was that Hector couldn’t face her. He locked himself in his office with a fifth of Schnapps,
which he’d bought at the forecourt around the block minutes after hearing the news. He’d gone to pieces,
and when Rachel had come to force the door and fish him out, he’d clung to her body like a drowning man.
To his great and sobering surprise, she’d bowed up beneath him, arching her body to his. Before he could
stop her, she brought her mouth to his, and they shared one deep and damning kiss. He felt her bring her
legs around his waist. He felt his own body respond as she wriggled and squirmed against him, but then she
slid free, planting a firm hand on his chest.
“We can’t,” she’d panted. “Not yet.”
Then there was the hospital and the recovery and Cora’s devastating fragility. For months, Hector
pretended not to have remembered that night. He chalked it up to grief and alcohol. Rachel never
mentioned it, either, to her great credit.
In December, right before Christmas, Hector came home to find Cora sitting in the kitchen, staring blankly
out of the windows into their frost-glazed garden. The moment he saw her, he thought, She knows about
that night, with Rachel.
Instead, Cora had said, “I went to see Dr. Reikart today.”
He’d flown to her side, in part to hide his relief. “Is everything all right, Cor? Are you okay?”
Cora had stiffened at his touch and kept her eyes focused on the garden. “I miscarried again,” she said.
“Just like that. It’s all gone.”
“What do you mean, Cora? What do you mean, all gone?”
She merely stared, though her shoulders crumpled slightly, and he wanted to shake her, to wake her up,
but she seemed so broken that he brought his arms around her to keep her from slipping away.
Hector released a shuddering breath and looked out over the city street. Frost had fallen, and the
sidewalks and cars sparkled under the gleam of the halogen lamps. He checked his watch again: 7:56. Now a
ribbon of worry slithered into his belly.
“She’s not coming.”
Hector’s gaze snapped up to see Rachel standing beside his table. Before he could speak, she slid into Cora’
s place across from him.
“H-how?”
“I sent her home,” Rachel said. She folded her hands on the table between them.
“But the plan…”
“She had her own plan, Hector,” Rachel said. “And I have mine.”
Hector sat back in his chair and eyed her closely.
Rachel went on, her voice smoky. “How long are we going to pretend it didn’t happen, hm?”
“It didn’t happen. Nothing happened.”
“Because I stopped it,” Rachel said. “If I hadn’t, this Valentine’s would be playing out like a wild fantasy.
And you know it.”
Hector opened his mouth to speak but said nothing. Rachel had stopped him. And how many nights since
then had Hector dreamed of following through?
Dozens.
He closed his eyes. “Cora thinks I’m coming home,” he said.
“She fixed you a nice dinner. But it isn’t your scene, is it? The quaint bungalow, the cozy fire, the quiet,
tree-lined street. The empty bedrooms, waiting to be filled.”
“It is my scene,” he said, but even to his own ears, his voice sounded hollow.
“You know what I saw that night when I came to rescue you from your office barricade?” Rachel asked.
“When I opened that door, you know what I read in your eyes?”
Hector shook his head, feeling sick now.
“Relief,” Rachel said. Her red lips curved into a bow. “You were glad it was me. That’s what I remember
most about that night. Not the kiss, not the feeling of your breath on my neck.” Under the table, Rachel
traced her bare toes up the inside of his pant leg, and he flinched. “Not the feeling of your body on mine.
No.”
Rachel’s eyes danced now as she brought her gaze to his. “No,” she went on. “It was the look in your eyes.
You were happy it was me and not her.”
Hector shook his head again.
“No? Well then, tell me this, Hector dear. Why are you still here?” Rachel leaned forward, and a curl of her
gold hair fell into her eyes. She whispered, “You have a hotel room waiting not three blocks from here. I
say we go finish what we started and explain how things really are tomorrow morning.”
Hector stared at Rachel, at her dazzling smile, her smooth white shoulders, the swell of her breasts, the
coquettish set of her hands on the table between them. Lovely, competent Rachel. In his mind, he could
see a future unfurling like a long and brightly colored cloth. He saw passion and adventure and turmoil and
strife. And love. Yes, probably.
He laughed, a weak, throaty noise. He reached across the table and took one of her hands in both of his.
“We could have a good life, you and me,” he said. “We’d have a wild time of it, oui?”
“Oui,” Rachel giggled.
“But I chose a life with Cora. A house-and-kids-life or a just-the-two-of-us-life, either way, we’ll find our
bliss together. So, I faltered, with you. I doubted, and I apologize. But I know now.” He laughed, because
he knew how what he was about to say would sound, but he said it anyway. “Love’s not a cage, Rachel. It’s
wings.”
Rachel’s smile faded as Hector stood. He bent to brush her knuckles with his lips, and she pulled her hand
away.
“I’ll tell her,” she said, limply. “I’ll tell her everything.”
“No need. I’m heading home to let her know.”
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Hector let himself in through the kitchen door to find the house silent. He tiptoed through the kitchen to
find Cora asleep on the sofa, her arms trailing over her head, her damp braid drying to frizz at her temples.
She wore the appealing little number he’d spied in the box beneath their bed, but on her body, it
transformed to something beyond heavenly. It clung to the curves of her body like mist, making her a 1940s
goddess-of-the-silver-screen a la Claudette Colbert.
The picture painted itself in his mind. She’d fixed dinner, showered, dressed, and came downstairs. She’d
waited for him, and he’d missed it.
Hector sat on the edge of the couch. He placed his hand on her belly, tentative at first. A deep agony
struck him then, a pervasive ache from the back of his eyeballs to the balls of his feet, at what they lost
and what they could still lose. He knew that he had to tell Cora about Rachel, and that by telling her, he
risked losing her.
Cora’s eyelashes fluttered.
“Hey,” she said. She smiled a sweetly sleepy smile.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said. “I, um...”
“It’s okay,” she said.
They stared at each other for a long moment, neither one speaking. Cora slipped her hand into Hector’s,
lacing her fingers with his.
“Late at night when the wind is still, I’ll come flying through your door,” she whispered. “And you’ll know
what love is for.”
"Bluebirds," he said. He bent and rubbed her nose with his. “We’re the bluebirds, yeah, yeah.”
“We’re the bluebirds,” Cora sang back. “You know I love you, right?”
“That’s not part of the song,” he said, and his voice cracked ever so slightly.
“It’s part of our song,” she said. “I just made it up.”
“Love, there’s something I need to tell you,” Hector said.
Cora tugged him forward, half-playful but fully awake. “Whatever it is, it can wait til morning.”
Hector committed to his mind every detail, every touch. The way her hair fell around his face when she
kissed him. The way his thumbs rested on her pelvic bones. The feeling of silk against her skin, against his
hands. The scent of warm vanilla sugar.
It was right, being humbled this way; being freed by love.
They were bluebirds, and they were free.
By Celeste Hollister
Cora bundled into the kitchen with five mesh shopping bags filled with dinner groceries: ruby red
grapefruit, pomegranates, fresh tilapia fillets and basil, garlic and herb quinoa, baby corn, a carton of
organic blackberries, and the ingredients for a cheesecake, which she would make from scratch.
She let the bags clunk to the tile floor and raced to the refrigerator. She flung open the door and loaded
the contents into the shelves, humming something that sounded suspiciously like "Close to You" by The
Carpenters. In spite of the chilly weather, a sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. She’d made a
tremendous effort to slip away from the office a) unnoticed by her adoring husband, Hector, who still
thought she’d forgotten today was Valentine’s, even though he dropped a metric ton of hints throughout
the weekend, and b) early enough to prepare his favorite dinner and have it waiting for him when he got
home.
She had more in mind than dinner. Her thoughts drifted to the slim white box tucked beneath their bed,
the powder blue silk sheath enfolded in perfumed paper. She remembered the day she and Josie found it at
the Dove’s Wing Boutique, in their annual sisterly Christmas shopping trip. The memory linked inextricably
with the doctor’s visit the day before…
Cora drew herself up short. She swept her hair behind her ears and shook her hands like a runner about to
take the starting line in a race. Must look forward, she reminded herself. They agreed not to dwell.
Even so, things had been strained. He buried himself in work. She hid behind graduate coursework. They
weathered the holidays, putting in the expected appearances with her family and their co-workers, but the
dark quiet of February settled on them like a mantle of snow. Normally, they didn’t go in for the candy-
hearts-and-roses of Valentine’s, but she had to admit that she had a lot of riding on this cornball holiday.
She darted a glance at the clock above the stove.
Four p.m.? How did it get so late?
Cora heaved the grapefruit and pomegranates from the grocery bag and got to work on the marinade. She
had the tilapia drenched in citrus when her cell phone warbled Monty Python’s Spam Song.
She grimaced. Only four people ever sent her texts. Three of them could wait until she had whipped up the
cheesecake. The fourth was Hector, who might have figured out that she’d left the studio, despite the
elaborate cover story she’d concocted with his personal assistant, Rachel.
Not returning his text was just as tricky as answering it. What if he thought it was serious? What if he
rushed home when she didn’t respond, only to find her elbows deep in graham cracker crust?
She wiped grapefruit pulp from her hands and went to the phone.
Not Hector, but her brother-in-law, Will.
Cora toggled the screen to read his message:
Tara’s swallowed some plastic doll bit. I’m at Parkside for x-rays. Plz, plz cover
first half of my class. And DO NOT TELL JOSIE!
Cora smacked the phone to her forehead. Thumbs flying furiously over the keypad, she texted back:
If the toy says 3 and up, Will, it means 3 AND UP! Is she gonna be ok?
Will texted back:
I know, I know. And yes, she’s fine. Plz, Cor. I’ll owe you.
Cora typed:
But it’s Valen –
She backspaced. This was typical William. He probably volunteered to keep Tara so that Josie could have a
baby-free afternoon at the day spa before his class.
Instead, Cora wrote:
Be right there – And you more than owe me.
She raked the keys from the bar and stormed from the house. As she slid into her car, she groaned, “Total.
Bloody. Disaster.”
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
“Non,” Hector barked into his Bluetooth headset. “Non. C’est impossible!”
His assistant, Rachel, edged onto the corner of his desk and waited while he listened to the woman on the
other end of the call blither a string of excuses in French.
“Arretez!” he snapped. The woman’s twittering ceased. “C’est d’accord. Oui? Oui, d’accord,” he said, and
swiped the headset from his ear.
“Well?” Rachel said.
“Total. Bloody. Disaster,” Hector said. He swept a red, foil-wrapped box from his desk and rattled it at her.
"Bonbon?”
She took a chocolate and peeled back its wrapper. “What happened?” she asked.
“Teeny setback,” he said. “They bumped the reservation to 7:30.”
“Uh oh.”
He took a chocolate for himself, rolled it around his palm.
“Cutting it close, are we?” she asked.
Hector gave her what he hoped was an enigmatic smile. “You know me, I live on the edge.”
“If you have dinner at 7:30, it means…”
Hector raised a finger to her lips. “I know,” he whispered. “I’ve got it all...”
His cell phone hummed on the desk. A message flashed across the screen:
Bluebird has left the nest – Onto Phase 2?
Hector tossed the chocolate to Rachel, who caught it clumsily between her hands. He tapped in the
response to his brother-in-law, Will:
Good Work, Robin. Proceed to Phase 2. Owl and pigeon initiating Phase 3. Out.
And he was so intent on the message, Hector didn’t see Rachel crush the two chocolates in her fist, and
then, just as he was turning around, his face aglow with the light of all his accomplishments, she dumped
them into the waste bin.
“You ready?” he asked.
She plucked a tissue from the box on his desk and wiped her fingers.
“Under control,” she said, smiling brightly, but as he left for the studio floor, her face tightened into a
determined grin.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
The problem was, Rachel liked Cora.
Both grew up in big Southern families. They had studied Journalism at prominent universities – Cora at Texas
State and Rachel at Auburn. Each enjoyed travel, Greek food, cooking, Celtic music, and running. They
even had the painful shared experience of having been in the pageant circuit as children.
More recently, though, both moved to London because of love. Cora and her sister, who was already
engaged to William, the nauseatingly talented and handsome rock star/music professor, had met Hector
while backpacking across Europe. Both sisters moved to London shortly after Cora graduated.
And Rachel met Richard, the advertising exec who had recruited her as a promising PR intern straight out
of college.
Richard, who married Lexie, head of PR, in spite of his carrying on a tawdry four-year relationship with
Rachel.
Richard, who left her broken, who had fired Rachel because of a “Conflict of Interest.”
Yeah, he was interested in bending her over the boardroom table for a pre-coffee throwdown, and Rachel
was interested in telling his new wife all about their exploits in an effort to destroy his marriage.
In the end, she supposed things had worked out. Richard kept his lovely wife in the dark, and Rachel moved
to BBC London Live, where she met Hector and Cora.
All was well until August…
Rachel poured herself a cup of the office swill and headed out into the enclosed courtyard behind the
studio. A knot of beat reporters and techs huddled in a corner, smoking and making snide comments about
the bad weather and the Royals. She couldn’t actually hear them, but she didn’t need to. She’d screwed
enough reporters to know how their world turned.
She skirted the rabble and sat down in a recessed nook overlooking the dead garden below. She needed
time to reassess and rethink. If the reservation had been bumped to 7:30 instead of eight, her window of
opportunity shrank considerably. She’d scheduled the limousine driver to arrive at the university parking
garage at five p.m., where Phase Three of Hector’s convoluted Valentine’s Day plan would commence.
Rachel sipped the black sludge of her coffee and sneered. That’s where her plans would enter the
equation. One bonus at being Hector’s assistant and Cora’s confidant was that she was privy to both sides
of their Valentine’s plans. Hector wanted the limo to deliver Cora to the Spa Illuminata, where she would
have a rose petal facial, a mani-pedi, an hour-long massage, and all the chocolate strawberries and
champagne she could devour.
Rachel couldn’t derail Phase 2 of the plan; William and Hector had planned that out at the beginning of the
semester, with the help of William’s students. But Rachel also knew of Cora’s plans to prepare an intimate
dinner at home.
Rachel slid her Android from her pocket and paged through her contacts. She found the number for
Andrew’s Car Service.
“Hello,” she said when the receptionist picked up. “I hired a limo for this evening… Yes, Rachel Wallings is
the name. Yes. Well, the plan has changed, I’m afraid. Instead of the Spa Illuminata, I need the driver to go
to this address.”
Rachel recited Hector’s and Cora’s home address to the woman and wrote down the confirmation number.
“Oh,” Rachel said, “And tell the driver to tell Mrs. Dumas that Rachel has her back.”
With a grim smile, Rachel ended the call. Now Cora would get her wish: an intimate dinner at home. Alone.
Meanwhile, Hector would wrap up the evening broadcast and drive to L’Atelier de Joel Robouchon at 7:30,
but instead of meeting his wife, Rachel would be there to inform him of a change in plans…
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Cora whipped the Volvo into the parking garage so fast the seatbelt bit into her chest and she swore. In her
mind, she ran through her list of preparations:
1. Mix cheesecake filling.
2. Bake cheesecake while tilapia marinates.
3. I hope Tara’s okay.
4. Wash hair, shave legs… trim the nether yea-ya.
5. I really hope Tara’s okay.
As she pulled into Professor William Lantz’s parking spot, she thought that maybe she should put the tilapia
on to bake while she showered, but it meant she’d have to rush through the shaving, which often resulted
in unsexy nicks around her ankles and knees.
And then she cursed William for giving Tara contraband toys, and wondered – again – why he couldn’t just
give his class a walk. After all, it was Valentine’s Day, and shouldn’t he be the good husband and make plans
with her sister, his wife, anyway?
She unbuckled her seatbelt and fired off a text message before she could stop herself:
Hey! Shouldn’t you have V-Day plans with Josie or is romance dead with you people?
Cora stuffed the phone into her pocket, adjusted her scarf, and struck out across the parking garage. It
was different with her and Hector. He couldn’t just take off on Valentine’s Day, not with the evening show
to produce. News waited for no one; she knew that, he knew that. Still… she hoped that he made it home
in time tonight. That’s where Rachel figured into the plan.
Dependable, reliable Rachel. Cora could count on her to get Hector out of the office by the appointed
time.
Cora reached the door of the elevator, pushed the up button and waited. Honestly, she didn’t know how
she would have managed the last half year without Rachel. When Cora fell that day in August, she crawled
to the kitchen and speed-dialed the office. Rachel had been the one to answer the call and had also driven
out to the house to take Cora to the hospital. Rachel managed everything, from phoning Hector back at the
studio to re-arranging Cora’s schedule to accommodate for the three weeks of recovery time. During the
week she spent in the hospital, Rachel brought fresh cut flowers to Cora’s room every afternoon.
The elevator door slid open and Cora stepped inside. When the door closed again, her phone went off. Will,
again, with only two words:
Just wait.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Hector’s shoulders ached. His head ached. He thought about taking some ibuprofen but worried that it
would make him sleepy, and he planned on a late night. Even if Valentine’s Day fell on a Monday, and he and
Cora had an early call the next morning.
Just the thought of Cora in that gauzy silk number he found under their bed – the one she thought she’d
been hiding since before Christmas – revved his nerves and made it easier for him to forget the two hours of
filming he still had on the clock.
He looked out over the studio, where Rachel was going over finals with Victoria Mullins, the new and
exceptionally green evening anchor. Rachel glanced up and flashed him that dizzying smile of hers, and he
remembered that day in late August, the day Cora fell. The day he almost…
His gut wrenched at the schnapps-soaked memory of her body pressed against his, her bare toes tracing
along the inside of his pants leg, her soft hair smelling of berries and tickling the stubble of his cheek.
Almost.
Rachel’s voice crackled over his earpiece. “Boss,” she drawled. “You’re staring again.”
He cleared his throat. “Was I?”
“Beginning to be a habit,” she said. From his place up in the sound booth he was sure she shot him a wink.
As she spun around the studio floor, he realized she was right. Again, he shook himself.
“Were you able to get that car situation handled?” Hector said.
“Of course.”
“And the massage—”
“Reduced to half-hour,” she said. “Just like you wanted. Relax, Boss. I’ve got this.”
Hector switched off his headset and leaned against the mixing table. Sweat sheened his palms, and the
pinch of his headache returned. But he realized one thing. Rachel was right; whatever it was, she definitely
had it.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Cora could hear them from the outer corridor: William’s senior string ensemble tuning up for practice. It
was a warm, fluid sound that filled the hall – the rasp of rosined bows and the tart pluck of strings. She took
a deep breath, and decided to make the best of it. After all, listening to gifted musicians practice for an
hour was not a bad way to begin an evening.
She pulled open the door and immediately had to catch her breath.
The practice hall glittered with hundreds of tea light candles adorning every surface in the room, including
the chalkboard rail and William’s lectern. Amid swirls of rose petals and arranged in the center of the
classroom, Will’s twelve string ensemble students, all dressed in their concert finery, struck up a rendition
of Etta James’ “At Last”.
Cora swayed, suddenly unsteady. She gripped the edge of the desk near the door and let the music pour
through her. It was their song—the perfect Hector/Cora love song. After years of long-distance dating, she
moved to London where they began their happily ever after. Just as she felt as though she might melt into
the carpet, the arrangement morphed gradually into Paul McCartney’s “Bluebird”, which had been her
grandfather’s favorite song.
At that point, Cora began to cry. The ensemble finished with a rousing crescendoing version of one of
Cora’s guilty pleasures, Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance”. With the last note still vibrating in the air, Cora threw
herself upright and applauded like a mad woman. The ensemble, all of them beaming, stood and bowed.
“He planned this!” Cora shrieked.
“True romantic, he is,” said one of the cellists.
“And Professor Lantz was keen to help out,” chimed in one of the violas.
“So Tara—”
“—Is not having x-rays as we speak,” the lead violinist said. “And Professor Lantz would like us to say, on his
behalf, that he is very sorry to have caused you any apprehension. He would also like us to give you this.”
The violinist came around her music stand and offered Cora a folded card of creamy white paper.
“What is this?” Cora asked.
“Open it,” said one of the bass players in the back. Cora glanced around at the faces of the twelve young
musicians, and had to wonder who was more excited about this, them or her.
The card read: Darling
“This one next,” said the second violinist.
Cora opened the second card. It read: Cora
“It’s a message?” she asked.
They all nodded eagerly. They each passed her their cards, and she read the message aloud:
Your love drives me insane. Go outside. See what’s next.
“What’s next?” Cora squealed.
They gathered around her, their tuxedo coats and taffeta rustling, and in a boisterous cacophony of
whistles, giggles, and whoops, they ushered her to the parking garage, where a gleaming black limousine
awaited her.
The driver, a plump Indian man, opened the door and said, “Milady.”
Cora squeezed the hands of the twelve ensemble students and climbed in to the spacious back seat of the
limo.
She settled against the leather interior and basked for a moment in Hector’s surprise Valentine’s Day plan.
But after a second, she sat up.
“Driver?” she said.
“You may call me Ranjin,” he answered.
“Mr. Ranjin, did my husband give you an address?”
“Number 4 Baldwyn’s Park, in Bexley,” Ranjin said.
“But that’s our house,” Cora replied.
Ranjin shrugged. He said, “A Miss Rachel said she’s got your back.”
“Ah,” Cora said. She smiled and settled into the seat to replay the music in her memory.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Hector removed his headset and said into the PA, “Good work, everyone. That’s a wrap. Now get out of
here to get yourselves properly snogged.”
“Or shagged,” Rachel whispered.
Hector jumped at how near she’d managed to get without him hearing her. “That is the plan,” he said,
recovering quickly. He tugged his phone from his pocket. “It’s 6:15. Cora should be at the spa by now, but
I’ve not received anything from Will.”
“Would you calm down?” Rachel said. “It’s all taken care of. The driver called to check in at 5:30.
Everything’s going according to plan.”
“He did?”
“We were in the middle of taping,” Rachel answered.
Hector breathed a shaky sigh. “I guess…” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve got a lot riding on tonight,
Rachel. I’m nervous, is all.”
Rachel slunk against the wall and folded her arms. “No need for nervousness,” she said. “She is your wife,
after all. That bird’s already caught and caged.”
“But you know how things have been since December. Hell, since August when she first found out…”
Rachel pushed away from the wall and slipped toward him. “You know, there’s no shame in finding out you
and Cora want different things, Hector.”
“It’s not that,” he said. He dropped heavily into a swivel chair and pinched between his brows. “We want
the same thing, we’re just worried we can’t have it. I want to try again, but she’s so scared.”
In that moment, Hector looked so disheveled and defeated that Rachel almost lost her nerve. The desire to
tell him the truth about everything welled on her lips, from her feelings for him to her tampering with his
plans. Everything.
But he said, “Is that the way you view love? Like a bird caught in a cage?”
Rachel snorted. She hugged her arms over her chest. “Yes. Of course. It’s safe that way, and you can sing
to your heart’s content, but you’re still trapped.”
“Hm,” he said. “I never thought of it like that.” Hector lolled his head back on the cushioned headrest of
the chair. He scrubbed his hands over his face and stood. “Guess I better get going. Traffic’ll be a bitch.”
As he walked past her, Rachel said, “Take Charing Cross.”
He paused. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, straight shot. It’ll be faster.”
“Thanks, Rachel,” he said. “Dunno what we’d do without you.”
After he was gone, Rachel pulled a tube of scarlet lipstick and her compact from her purse. She smeared
the glossy color across her lips, smacked them, and said to herself, “Don’t fret, Hector dear. I can think of
lots of ways you can repay me.”
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Cora smoothed lotion onto her freshly shaved legs, her elbows, her shoulders. She dried her dark hair and
braided it back. She dusted her pale skin with warm vanilla sugar powder and placed the white box upon
the duvet.
Downstairs, the tilapia fillets were cooked to succulent perfection and resting on a bed of herbed quinoa.
She made a salad of the baby corn – Hector’s favorite – with a basil vinaigrette and grated bok choy. The
cheesecake chilled under a glass dome in the refrigerator, and she had drizzled the blackberries with a
cinnamon sugar glaze to go on top. In the living room, she’d banked the embers of a low fire in the
fireplace, and on the bar in the kitchen, she had iced a bottle of Llano Estacado Angel, the Texas wine
she’d been saving since graduation.
Now she was ready to slide the shimmering silk gown over her naked body and slink into the living room. The
bedside clock read 7:33. Hector would be home any minute, and she wanted to be appropriately sprawled
on their damask sofa like a 1940s Hollywood starlet.
Still, such a fine garment required ceremony. Standing naked before it, Cora felt a fist of tension clench
inside her. Since August, Hector had been so careful with her, so… protective. Maybe this gown, which
seemed so delicate with its snowflakes of crystal beading and vellum-thin silk, would give him the wrong
idea. She didn’t want him to hold back. She wasn’t going to break. Even if she had, in a way.
Enough, she scolded herself. She lifted the gown and slipped it over her head, letting it glide down her
body. She ran her hands along the smooth perfumed curves her body, over the contours of her breasts,
down the sweep of her arms. She felt light and free as she drifted around the bedroom, feeling the hem
brush the tops of her feet and swish around her ankles.
Everything was ready. She floated downstairs, through the hall, and into the living room, where she nestled
into the cushions of the sofa. She stretched her hands languidly over her head and sighed.
Everything was ready, and so was she.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Hector arrived at L’Atelier de Joel Robouchon at 7:35 to find it packed. As the hostess led him through a
crowded sea of young hipster couples dressed in shiny fabrics and leather pants, he felt foolish for
choosing such a popular place for an intimate dinner with his wife. He knew she would prefer a quiet,
intimate dinner at home.
The hostess seated him, took his drink order, and vanished into the din. Hector released an uneasy sigh.
Perhaps Cora would forgive him his Hector-centric choice in restaurant after her dazzling string ensemble
serenade and two hours of spa bliss.
But as he scanned the menu without really reading it, something nettled him. Something Rachel had said.
He thought, Did he and Cora want separate things? Six months ago, his answer would have been a
resounding No. That was before she fell.
Hector put his menu down and rested his chin on his hands. He remembered when Rachel first called him
from Parkside Memorial.
“Don’t be alarmed,” she’d said. “Cora’s fine. But… Sweetie, you better sit down.”
“What is it?” he’d asked.
“She was hanging a painting in the living room, and she slipped off the stool. She’s fine, but…”
Hector had taken Rachel’s advice and sunk into his chair. It was good advice, considering what was about
to come.
“She lost the baby, Sweetie. I’m so sorry.”
He hadn’t known she was pregnant. Hell, no one had. Not even Cora.
The shame of it was that Hector couldn’t face her. He locked himself in his office with a fifth of Schnapps,
which he’d bought at the forecourt around the block minutes after hearing the news. He’d gone to pieces,
and when Rachel had come to force the door and fish him out, he’d clung to her body like a drowning man.
To his great and sobering surprise, she’d bowed up beneath him, arching her body to his. Before he could
stop her, she brought her mouth to his, and they shared one deep and damning kiss. He felt her bring her
legs around his waist. He felt his own body respond as she wriggled and squirmed against him, but then she
slid free, planting a firm hand on his chest.
“We can’t,” she’d panted. “Not yet.”
Then there was the hospital and the recovery and Cora’s devastating fragility. For months, Hector
pretended not to have remembered that night. He chalked it up to grief and alcohol. Rachel never
mentioned it, either, to her great credit.
In December, right before Christmas, Hector came home to find Cora sitting in the kitchen, staring blankly
out of the windows into their frost-glazed garden. The moment he saw her, he thought, She knows about
that night, with Rachel.
Instead, Cora had said, “I went to see Dr. Reikart today.”
He’d flown to her side, in part to hide his relief. “Is everything all right, Cor? Are you okay?”
Cora had stiffened at his touch and kept her eyes focused on the garden. “I miscarried again,” she said.
“Just like that. It’s all gone.”
“What do you mean, Cora? What do you mean, all gone?”
She merely stared, though her shoulders crumpled slightly, and he wanted to shake her, to wake her up,
but she seemed so broken that he brought his arms around her to keep her from slipping away.
Hector released a shuddering breath and looked out over the city street. Frost had fallen, and the
sidewalks and cars sparkled under the gleam of the halogen lamps. He checked his watch again: 7:56. Now a
ribbon of worry slithered into his belly.
“She’s not coming.”
Hector’s gaze snapped up to see Rachel standing beside his table. Before he could speak, she slid into Cora’
s place across from him.
“H-how?”
“I sent her home,” Rachel said. She folded her hands on the table between them.
“But the plan…”
“She had her own plan, Hector,” Rachel said. “And I have mine.”
Hector sat back in his chair and eyed her closely.
Rachel went on, her voice smoky. “How long are we going to pretend it didn’t happen, hm?”
“It didn’t happen. Nothing happened.”
“Because I stopped it,” Rachel said. “If I hadn’t, this Valentine’s would be playing out like a wild fantasy.
And you know it.”
Hector opened his mouth to speak but said nothing. Rachel had stopped him. And how many nights since
then had Hector dreamed of following through?
Dozens.
He closed his eyes. “Cora thinks I’m coming home,” he said.
“She fixed you a nice dinner. But it isn’t your scene, is it? The quaint bungalow, the cozy fire, the quiet,
tree-lined street. The empty bedrooms, waiting to be filled.”
“It is my scene,” he said, but even to his own ears, his voice sounded hollow.
“You know what I saw that night when I came to rescue you from your office barricade?” Rachel asked.
“When I opened that door, you know what I read in your eyes?”
Hector shook his head, feeling sick now.
“Relief,” Rachel said. Her red lips curved into a bow. “You were glad it was me. That’s what I remember
most about that night. Not the kiss, not the feeling of your breath on my neck.” Under the table, Rachel
traced her bare toes up the inside of his pant leg, and he flinched. “Not the feeling of your body on mine.
No.”
Rachel’s eyes danced now as she brought her gaze to his. “No,” she went on. “It was the look in your eyes.
You were happy it was me and not her.”
Hector shook his head again.
“No? Well then, tell me this, Hector dear. Why are you still here?” Rachel leaned forward, and a curl of her
gold hair fell into her eyes. She whispered, “You have a hotel room waiting not three blocks from here. I
say we go finish what we started and explain how things really are tomorrow morning.”
Hector stared at Rachel, at her dazzling smile, her smooth white shoulders, the swell of her breasts, the
coquettish set of her hands on the table between them. Lovely, competent Rachel. In his mind, he could
see a future unfurling like a long and brightly colored cloth. He saw passion and adventure and turmoil and
strife. And love. Yes, probably.
He laughed, a weak, throaty noise. He reached across the table and took one of her hands in both of his.
“We could have a good life, you and me,” he said. “We’d have a wild time of it, oui?”
“Oui,” Rachel giggled.
“But I chose a life with Cora. A house-and-kids-life or a just-the-two-of-us-life, either way, we’ll find our
bliss together. So, I faltered, with you. I doubted, and I apologize. But I know now.” He laughed, because
he knew how what he was about to say would sound, but he said it anyway. “Love’s not a cage, Rachel. It’s
wings.”
Rachel’s smile faded as Hector stood. He bent to brush her knuckles with his lips, and she pulled her hand
away.
“I’ll tell her,” she said, limply. “I’ll tell her everything.”
“No need. I’m heading home to let her know.”
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Hector let himself in through the kitchen door to find the house silent. He tiptoed through the kitchen to
find Cora asleep on the sofa, her arms trailing over her head, her damp braid drying to frizz at her temples.
She wore the appealing little number he’d spied in the box beneath their bed, but on her body, it
transformed to something beyond heavenly. It clung to the curves of her body like mist, making her a 1940s
goddess-of-the-silver-screen a la Claudette Colbert.
The picture painted itself in his mind. She’d fixed dinner, showered, dressed, and came downstairs. She’d
waited for him, and he’d missed it.
Hector sat on the edge of the couch. He placed his hand on her belly, tentative at first. A deep agony
struck him then, a pervasive ache from the back of his eyeballs to the balls of his feet, at what they lost
and what they could still lose. He knew that he had to tell Cora about Rachel, and that by telling her, he
risked losing her.
Cora’s eyelashes fluttered.
“Hey,” she said. She smiled a sweetly sleepy smile.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said. “I, um...”
“It’s okay,” she said.
They stared at each other for a long moment, neither one speaking. Cora slipped her hand into Hector’s,
lacing her fingers with his.
“Late at night when the wind is still, I’ll come flying through your door,” she whispered. “And you’ll know
what love is for.”
"Bluebirds," he said. He bent and rubbed her nose with his. “We’re the bluebirds, yeah, yeah.”
“We’re the bluebirds,” Cora sang back. “You know I love you, right?”
“That’s not part of the song,” he said, and his voice cracked ever so slightly.
“It’s part of our song,” she said. “I just made it up.”
“Love, there’s something I need to tell you,” Hector said.
Cora tugged him forward, half-playful but fully awake. “Whatever it is, it can wait til morning.”
Hector committed to his mind every detail, every touch. The way her hair fell around his face when she
kissed him. The way his thumbs rested on her pelvic bones. The feeling of silk against her skin, against his
hands. The scent of warm vanilla sugar.
It was right, being humbled this way; being freed by love.
They were bluebirds, and they were free.