No, worse. With his luck, Meredith would insist she pick out the stone—which would reflect some recent boyfriend phase. So Ben would end up as Bunny Taylor on a slab that resembled a hockey puck or a Cuisinart.
“Better, Ben-n-ny?” repeated Heather.
“Better,” he mumbled, grabbing the nearest pen. He scribbled the day’s date at the top of the paper, then held the pen midair, pondering how to best reword his will.
“That yucky blue is called French blue,” Meredith said, referring to Heather’s previous comment. “It’s that blue-gray hue that positively dominates the landscape in Provence.”
His pen poised midair, Ben squeezed shut his eyes and hoped fervently Meredith wouldn’t launch into a story about their honeymoon ten years ago….
“On our honeymoon,” Meredith said, raising her voice, “Benjamin fell in love with French blue. He bought shirts, tablecloths, even a ceramic fish in that color.”
Ben opened his eyes and gazed longingly at the “yucky blue” ceramic fish on his desk. He wished he could become that fish and swim out of here, away from the ex reunion. Forget the will. He didn’t have time to think and contemplate. He needed to vent. On the paper, he scrawled, “I’m swimming in a yucky blue sea of exes…an ex-wife, an ex-fiancée….”
“He bought sheets in that color, too!” Heather chimed in. “It was like sleeping on Windex!”
He crossed out “yucky” and wrote above it “Windex.”
“Heather,” Meredith said, “first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll make arrangements for moving personnel to retrieve this couch. While they’re doing that, they can also pick up that coatrack in Benjamin’s office—”
“The coatrack stays!” Ben surged from his chair, stabbing the air with his pen, like some kind of deranged scribe hailing a taxi.
Meredith turned, those orange-cone lips forming a surprised “Oh!” as in “Oh, what reactionary behavior have we here?” A moment later, Heather peered into his office, her glossed lips forming a surprised “What?” as in “What?”
He knew them so well, he could decode their thoughts from a single spoken word.
He kept his pen poised, defying them to interrupt. After a quick glance at his wristwatch, he announced, “It’s four-thirty.” When they both stared back, expressionless, he leveled a look at Heather. “Although you were late this morning, no need to make up the time tonight. See you tomorrow.” He swerved his gaze to Meredith. “The couch is yours, but the coatrack is mine.” Yours, mine. It felt like their property settlement all over again—except that had been more like yours, yours, yours. “If those moving people move it even an inch, I’ll sue them.” He never threatened anyone—even during intense legal negotiations—but suddenly, Benjamin Lewis Taylor swore he’d snap if that coatrack moved a millimeter. Deep down, he knew his reaction was over more than just an old rack, but if Meredith could transfer her feelings to furniture, then dammit, so could he.
He sat back down and rolled his shoulders dramatically, mainly because he knew they were both still staring at him and a dramatic shoulder roll looked authoritative. Poising his pen over the paper, he wondered how many other men had to dismiss their exes. For that matter, how many men kept their exes?
It was awfully quiet in Ex-Ville. He slid his gaze toward the door.
They remained frozen, obviously taken aback at Ben-Benny-Benjamin’s outburst. Or maybe he’d stunned them with his shoulder roll. He tapped the face of his watch, indicating the time. Heather, with a toss of her head, clomped away in her platform shoes. Meredith, however, took several steps toward Ben’s door, stopped and cocked one imperious eyebrow. Like a geisha with a bad attitude. “The coatrack is dead, Benjamin,” she said in that low monotone she reserved for serious confrontations. “Let’s give it a burial and move on.”
Only Meredith gave interior decorating a life-and-death twist. “The coatrack lives,” Ben countered, dropping his voice a register. “So does the couch, but I sacrificed it to you in your hour of decorating need.”
Meredith’s green eyes glinted. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Hour of decorating need or that the couch lives?”
Those glinting green eyes narrowed until all the glint was gone. “The hour comment.”
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You need to decorate my office—or, more specifically some section of it—whenever a boyfriend era ends.” He scanned his office. “Let’s see…the cow-dotted landscapes were from your Cowboy Curtiss era—”
“Why do you always add the ‘Cowboy’ part? He was a master chef at a dude ranch—”
“The harp-shaped chairs were from your Antoine—or was it Beauchamp?—era, the fellow interior decorator.” Ben gestured toward another wall. “The Jimmy Stewart poster and matching Tinseltown cups were from your Rocky era—”
“Rock. No Y. Just Rock.”
“And those copper plates with the feathers and beads sticking out…what was his name? Thunder? Lightning?”
Meredith pursed her lips before speaking. “Storm.”
“Yep. He’s the one who should have had a y tacked onto his name because that relationship was storm-y. You didn’t care about the couch then. Remember? You had a desperate need to tear down a few walls.” Ben shuddered. “Fortunately, building management denied you a permit.”
Meredith brushed something off her kimono skirt. Putting on her noblest voice, she said, “I’m doing you a favor by removing that couch. Plus, French blue is passé.”
“So is Geisha orange.”
One of her chopsticks quivered.
Now he’d done it. Her face crumpled into that pitiful look of hurt he’d seen at the crash-and-burn ending of each boyfriend era. Now Ben felt like a cad. He’d glibly pointed out her past disastrous relationships. Mocked her decorator-recovery program. As recompense, he toyed with sacrificing the coatrack…but stopped himself.
That’s what I always do. He would offer some piece of his life to smooth things over. What would he do when he ran out of furniture? Offer a leg? An arm? A spark of anger flared within him. Yes, Meredith was hurting…but she needed to find a way through her hurt without literally dismantling Ben’s life. “Why can’t you swipe other people’s furniture?” he asked.
They stared each other down so long, Ben swore he’d lost feeling in his right eyelid. But he was tired of backing down. Refused to back down. Suddenly, he was ready to fight to the death over that couch.
Was that a tear in Meredith’s eye? Was her chin trembling?
He felt yanked back to his years growing up, being the built-in caretaker and mediator for his kid sister and mother. Good ol’ peacemaker Ben who could never stand to see a woman cry. Okay, he’d go the compromise route. “Let’s…re-cover the couch rather than replace it.”
Meredith sniffled. “It’s lumpy.”
“We’ll put it on a diet.”
Her orange-cone lips trembled as she smiled. He’d always liked it when she let down her guard. She looked younger, more relaxed. Ben would bet his coatrack that Dexter hadn’t seen enough of that smile.
“I’ll bring some swatches by tomorrow,” she said softly. “Some colors that will look darling, darling.”
She left so quickly, he still wasn’t sure which “darling” was the couch, which was him. As the main office door clicked shut, Ben breathed a mind-leveling sigh. Alone. Finally. No ex-wife. No ex-fiancée. Just he and several decorating themes…and the couch for which he’d been willing to fight to the death.