Skipping a Beat Read Online Free PDF Page B

scene.
    Seventy million dollars . It was impossible to wrap my mind around it—kind of like the reaction I had to black holes in space, or the principles of aerodynamics, or tenth-grade geometry.
    But success hadn’t slowed Michael down even for a moment. He was branching into new products, like organic energy bars and prepackaged, food-pyramid-friendly kids’ lunches, and now it looked like they might someday become as valuable as his DrinkUp Water.
    WILL DUNHILL’S THIRST FOR SUCCESS EVER BE QUENCHED ? read the headline on the two-page spread in Fortune , which was framed and prominently hung above Michael’s desk (my unspoken answer: Nope. Even if he swigged down Niagara Falls, he’d still be parched).
    I bypassed our elevator and climbed the grand split spiral staircase that led to our master bedroom suite. I hurried into Michael’s bathroom and began searching his medicine cabinets and linen closets before finally finding his toiletries bag in a vanity drawer. Let’s see, he’d need deodorant, a razor, maybe some face lotion … I scooped up a black glass bottle with an indecipherable French name, then noticed two other brands. Which one did he use? I shrugged and decided to put all three into the bag. Now, where was his toothbrush? I searched his medicine cabinet twice before finally spotting an electric one perched by the side of the sink. But Michael hated electric toothbrushes, I thought, feeling strangely off-center. He said the noise made him feel like he was at the dentist’s office. When had that changed?
    As I stood there, frowning down at the toothbrush, a memory flashed through my mind. Back in our old apartment, the one Michael and I had rented when we’d first moved to town, we’d shared what had to be the world’s tiniest bathroom. Michael always showered first, since he sprang out of bed like he’d been awakened by the live end of a cattle prod, and by the time the alarm sounded and I stumbled in, rubbing my eyes and yawning hugely, he’d be shaving.
    “Good morning, sunshine,” he’d singsong in the voice of a chipper preschool teacher.
    “Go to hell,” I’d mumble, elbowing him out of the way so I could reach past the plastic curtain decorated with pictures of palm trees and turn on the shower. I’d come alive as the alternating hot and cold water hit me (our water temperature was inconsistent, but I’d decided to pick my battles with our landlord and focus on the broken freezer), then Michael and I would chat through mouthfuls of minty toothpaste and over the roar of my hair dryer. We’d compare our schedules for the day and bump hips like backup dancers as we jockeyed for position in front of the mirror. Michael would hand me my flat hairbrush without being asked, and I’d towel off the bit of shaving foam he’d missed behind one of his ears.
    When Michael and I had first toured this house, I’d swooned when I saw my bathroom with the sun streaming in through the skylights and the balcony overlooking our sprawling green backyard. The steam shower was big enough for a dozen people if you were so inclined (just for the record, I wasn’t), and the fixtures on the double limestone sinks were as delicately crafted as works of art. The nights when I’d sit down on an exposed toilet bowl at 3:00 A.M. and kick Michael awake in retaliation for leaving the seat up were happily behind us.
    On our first morning in the house, I’d stepped onto the sea green porcelain tiles, then curled my toes in delight. “They’re heated! Michael, you’ve got to come feel this!” But across the expanse of our bedroom and sitting area, Michael’s bathroom door remained shut; he hadn’t heard me. I’d shrugged, then stepped into my oversize Jacuzzi.
    Why was I even thinking about this? I wondered, blinking away the old images. I needed to get back to the hospital. I tossed a travel toothbrush into the kit, then tucked a long cashmere robe into an overnight bag. I added jeans and a casual shirt,