Making my way to the bathroom reading the headlines of the attack over and over, my tummy fluttering, I can’t help but overhear Remy talking with our old friend Burgess, on speaker phone upstairs. With over half a million followers on Linked Up, who are either in awe or afraid of him, he knows everyone in cannabis. Burgess works for no one and everyone at the same time. We’ve known him for years; he’s honest and loyal, and that is hard to find in this industry. His rapid repartee is an inadvertent sign of his tremendous capacity to multi-task. At a comfortable fifty-something, he’s a fast-talking renegade who grew up on the streets of Vegas and doesn’t take shit from anyone, including my husband.
“You guys are fucking veterans of the fuckin’ veterans, man!” Burgess’s gravelly voice reverberates.
“Yeah. Well, I’d like to say I’m a veteran of the war on drugs and I’m winning, but we all know that’s not true.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake! You have to be a masochist to be in this industry! If I’m not in the dungeon being tortured, I’m not happy! Ya know what I mean?” Burgess laughs, a hard cold laugh.
“Yeah. No kidding.” Remy’s voice turns sharp, “Do you have a job now?”
“You mean a J- O- B? Hah! Listen, you guys are the real deal, your hearts are in the right place. If there’s anything you need, I’ll help you. All you have to do is ask. I work for enough people in this industry who are up to no good; they pay my bills, and they pay me double so I can choose to help the people I believe in. I want to do good.” I hear his eyelashes battering with sarcasm. “What do you think about that explosion? You guys were on the ground there; that is some scary shit.”
“I don’t get paid enough to think.”
Burgess laughs. “No. Seriously, you’ve been talking about this kind of disaster for almost a year.”
A heavy silence is Remy’s response before he issues, “I gotta go.”
As I flush the toilet, a chill creeps over me. Phoenix was a very close call. If Remy hadn’t had to come home at the last minute . . . My mind wandering; washing my hands and face, in the cold water revives me. Looking in the mirror, I’m immediately sobered by the work I need to accomplish before the party. I better work smarter. “Hah!”
Scrolling while I’m walking up the stairs to my office, my phone in my hand like a teenager, I’m consumed by an array of talking heads contemplating terrorist attacks and accidental implosions before a calendar reminder for tonight’s party pops up.
We could use a little simple socializing. With all the traveling we’ve done over the last six months, we’ve managed to go out to dinner a couple of times to the three restaurants that bolster our small community, but now that I think about it, we don’t know a soul except for our real estate agent, Harriet Kay Brewster. A Brobdingnagian woman from Alaska. Everything about her is big: feet, hands, nose, ears, and personality. She would dwarf Horace, and he’s a giant. Her stories of foraging for salmon and trapping migrating animals are wholly unbelievable, if not absolutely frightening. In the twenty years Harriet has been inhabiting this little New Mexico ghost town, she’s managed to collect every local position of small-town power there is, and she knows absolutely everyone. From what I gather, she hosts two parties a year, this one in the winter when she returns from Sitka for the season, and one in the summer just before she leaves. Both parties harbor never-ending sources of vodka that coincide with elections for the local landowner’s association and the water board from what I gather. I get it, but I like her. She’s funny, smart, and never short on an opinion garnished with a chuckle. As the only real estate agent in town, she is single-handedly responsible for all of the local house sales. Sitting at my desk I realize how easy it is for one person to shape a town.
Three hours later, I’m a blur after a rash of spreadsheets mixed with uncontrollable doom scrolling, my gurgling belly, reminds me I haven’t had lunch. Running downstairs, I whip together a couple of sandwiches and reheat some homemade chicken soup, before I text Remy and his assistant Danielle that lunch is ready. As I wait, I’m captivated by several large crows commandeering the bird feeder outside of our kitchen window; the snow perhaps hindering their usual routine. Their dramatic iridescent feathers against the now white metal bowl are both hypnotizing and ominous. With a cry, they fly off as Danielle and Remy, walk in together laughing. It’s the first time I’ve seen him truly light hearted in days, and it eases my heart before it constricts oddly.
“What’s so funny?” I ask sitting at our enamel kitchen table with my bowl in front of me.
“The new coffee blend,” Danielle responds, her flawless, dark skin glowing in perfect contrast to my Nordic husband’s.
“What new coffee blend?”
“Since Colorado has made it legal to sell psilocybin, we’ve applied for a license,” Remy announces. “We’re going to add magic mushrooms to a coffee blend.”
“For Mad Hatter as a brand, this is a no-brainer,” Danielle adds like I’m a child.
“I thought we were going to wait until the regs leveled out on that.”
“Why?” Remy stops in his tracks. “So we can miss out on the new market share?” They both stare at me accusingly, as he finishes his sentence, “Again?”
“No, of course not.” I eye my husband, “I guess I’m just out of the loop.”
He picks up on my glare and readjusts, “You’re going to have fun designing the packaging, I’m calling it Central Intelligence Blend.” They both laugh.
Taking the last sip of my soup, I add, “You’re right. That will be fun.” Placing my bowl and plate in our ‘40s sink as quickly as I can, I head back upstairs under the guise of making some phone calls. What’s wrong with me? I used to be so excited about new blends. Danielle is right. This is a no-brainer for our brand. Why am I so upset? Bouncing on my yoga ball desk chair, disjointed and untethered, I eventually push my real concerns into a dark corner and open the budget I’m supposed to be working on because if anything can annihilate personal issues, it’s grappling with spreadsheets.
***
Several hours later, my eyes are bleary when I hear Danielle finally leaving for the day. I head for the shower with a mind to dress for the party, I’m looking forward to a little frivolity.
The warm water and steam are the exact decompression I need. Dripping all the way to the bedroom where I’m confronted by stacks of stuffed suitcases lining our bedroom walls, I remember I need to buy bedroom furniture. Taking the path of least resistance, jeans and a sweater will be a perfect pairing for this evening, if not conveniently located at the top of a pile. Pulling out a black mohair sweater, I’ve literally owned since high school, I turn as Remy hands me a dressing drink in a small, vintage martini glass. “Ooh, now that is a good idea.”
“Sweetie, you know I’m with you. Right?” The tone of his voice is gentle and sincere as he offers, “We’re stronger together.”
The martini in one hand, I throw the sweater on our bed, standing there in my bra and jeans, ignoring a shiver. “Of course, I know that. We kick ass!” Turning back to my sweater, I feel his warm hand run down my back, exacerbating my goosebumps. A kiss to my shoulder and neck settles my body against his, tingling. Downing my drink, I manage to balance my glass on a pile of clothes. Now unencumbered, I reach back for his hands, pulling them around me, guiding them, adoring their comfort. His strong fingers, delicately trace my demi-bra while his other hand explores the top of my jeans playfully. We kiss, and the flavor of his mouth is tantalizing as his hand slips between my legs. Unbuttoning me deftly, slipping his fingers down further, teasing me, a sigh escapes. His firmness against my back intoxicating, I inch closer, driving a yearning into a rhythm, as he presses me into the closet door with a thud. The world silent except for our breathing, my jeans and panties slip down as he enters like an explosion. His fingers in my mouth, I taste myself before our lips meet again. Sweat suddenly slipping between our bodies in the frigid room, our soft moans a sanctuary, our grips on each other firm. Our hands and mouths worshipping each other until we orgasm with tears in our eyes.
Replete and locked together, out of breath, the back of my head on his shoulder, we absorb each other’s energy.
“That was beautiful,” I whisper, afraid to move.
“You, are beautiful.”
Embracing his words, we kiss, lingering for as long as the chilly air will allow before I finally pull away. Grabbing a towel from the door knob, we both head for the bathroom wrapped in affinity.
Twenty minutes later, dressed with our coats on and our sense of perspective realigned, we step out into the night. The cold air a bracer in a moonless sky. Usually, New Mexico nights are startlingly, ink black with the spray of the Milky Way glistening overhead; it continually catches me off guard, it’s such a contrast to the starless California coast. But tonight, the wave of darkness enveloping our world is a bit troubling.