She pushed a strand of light brown hair off her forehead and took a step back from the table. She’d spent an hour putting the table together, and she’d been fairly pleased with the effect she’d achieved. But Ben didn’t like it.
“Too country-cutesy?” she asked, glancing at her husband. Ben’s trained eyes missed nothing. He’d been in the ad business forever, and no detail was too small or too insignificant. It was why they made such a great team.
“It’s your blog,” he reminded her. “And your name is on it. I don’t want business stuff to impinge on your editorial freedom. But…”
“But what? Come on. I’m a big girl. I can take it.”
“The Aviento folks sent us a big crateful of pieces of their new fall line,” Ben said, hesitating. “Treasures of Tuscany, the new pattern is called. It’s for the giveaway you’re doing on Monday. I was thinking maybe you could put the tomatoes in one of those bowls they sent.”
Grace wrinkled her nose. “That is seriously the ugliest pottery I have ever seen, and it looks about as Italian as a can of Chef Boyardee.”
“You don’t have to set the whole table with it. Just maybe put some of the tomatoes in one of the bowls. They are spending a lot of money advertising with us now, and it would be good if they could see their product … you know.”
“Stinkin’ up my ‘Friday Favorites’ tablescapes,” Grace said, finishing the sentence for him. “Did you promise them I would use it editorially? Tell me the truth, Ben.”
“No!” he said sharply. “I would never try to influence you that way. But would it hurt to maybe try a couple shots with one of the bowls. Or a plate?”
“I’ll try it out. But if it looks as crappy as I think it will, I’m not going to run it. Right? I mean, you promised when we monetized the blog, we wouldn’t be whoring me out by using the advertisers’ product in a way that would compromise my aesthetic.”
“It’s your call,” Ben said, picking up one of the tomatoes and examining it. “These are weird looking. What kind are they?”
“Don’t know,” Grace said, gently taking the tomato from him and replacing it on the table. “J’Aimee picked them up at the farmer’s market.”
“Kid’s got a good eye,” Ben said. He glanced back at the table. “How long before you’re done here?”
“Maybe an hour? I guess I’ll try some shots with the Aviento stuff. Then I need to edit, and I’ve still got to actually write the piece.” She glanced down at her watch. “Good Lord! It’s after six. I’ve been piddling around with this tabletop for hours now. Why didn’t you say something?”
“Didn’t want to interrupt the genius while she was at work,” he said. “But since you brought it up, is there any actual food to go on these pretty plates?”
“Nada,” she said apologetically. “I’m sorry. I completely lost track of the time. Look, I’ll just take a couple more shots with the Tuscan Turds, then I’ll run down to Publix and pick up some sushi. Or maybe a nice piece of fish to grill. I can have supper on the table by seven. Right?”
“Finish your shots,” Ben said easily. “J’Aimee can pick up supper.”
“No, I’ll go. I’ve had J’Aimee out running errands all afternoon.”
Ben dropped a kiss on her forehead. “That’s what assistants are for, Grace.”
“But I hate to bother her,” she protested. “She just went back over to the apartment an hour ago.”
Grace gestured in the general direction of the garage, which was at the back of the “motor court.” J’Aimee, her twenty-six-year-old assistant, had been living in the apartment above the garage since she was hired three months earlier. Her battered white Honda Accord was parked in the third bay, beside Ben’s black Audi convertible.
Their builder had referred to the apartment as a mother-in-law suite, or even a nanny suite. But Grace’s mom lived only a few miles away on Cortez and she wouldn’t have moved to this “faux chateau,” as she called it, at gunpoint. Ben’s mother lived quite happily down in Coconut Grove. And since the fertility specialist still couldn’t figure out just exactly why Grace couldn’t get pregnant, the apartment, for now, was the perfect place to stash an assistant.
“Finish your shoot,” Ben said, settling the matter. “I’ll walk over there and roust J’Aimee. In fact, I’ll ride to Publix with her.”
“Thanks,” Grace said, going back to her camera. “You’re the best.”
Ben gave her a gentle pat on the butt. “That’s my girl,” he said.
Grace went into the kitchen and found the heavy wooden crate with the Aviento shipping label sitting on the polished black granite countertop, pausing, as she always did, to flick a crumb into the sink. She hated the black granite. Even the tiniest fleck of sea salt showed up on it, and she seemed to go through a gallon of Windex every week, keeping it shiny.
But Ben and the builder had ganged up on her to agree to use it, after the granite company offered the countertops at cost in exchange for a small ad on Gracenotes.
She was soon immersed again in her work, barely registering the familiar roar of Ben’s car as it backed out of the garage. Grace looked up in time to see that he’d put the Audi’s top down. He did a neat three-point turn and gave her a carefree wave before he sped down the driveway, his forearm casually thrown across the back of the passenger seat, and J’Aimee’s long red hair flowing gracefully in the wind.
Ben reminded her of Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief, a golden boy, elegant, aloof, mysterious, maybe even a little dangerous? She reflected briefly on how unfair life really was. At forty-four, Ben was six years older, but you’d never know it from looking at him. He never gained weight and never seemed to age. He kept his tennis tan year-round. His gloriously glossy dark brown hair still
