Songs Without Words Read Online Free PDF Page A

He shared the lease with an artisanal bakery, and as Sarabeth entered the high-ceilinged space she breathed in the aroma of baking bread. He was at his desk, on the phone, but he waved her forward, then held up his forefinger to show he wouldn’t be long.
    He might be, though—he often was—so she set the box she was carrying on the floor and wandered back to his display area, where a couple dozen lamps were grouped in vaguely roomlike configurations: a few on tables, several standing lamps set near armchairs, wall sconces at almost believable intervals. Mark had done a good job here, and Sarabeth thought it was sort of too bad he was doing so well now; these days, most of his business happened through his handsomely produced catalog, or online, and the showroom was—well, just for show.
    “What do you have for me?” he said, approaching her from the front of the shop. He had a way of giving almost everything he said a slight sexual gloss, and Sarabeth blushed lightly. He was attractively tall and narrow hipped, and he wore his Levi’s tight.
    “It’s a new one,” she said. “I was thinking about the mocha, and I thought, Let’s try something for people who aren’t afraid of color.”
    He tilted his head to the side and smiled his dry, slightly mocking smile. At first this smile had put Sarabeth off—it had taken months for her to realize it didn’t necessarily reflect what he was thinking or what he was going to say. Although it could.
    “Color,” he said. “I’m intrigued.”
    She headed past him to where she’d left the box. Opening the flaps, sliding away the tissue paper: he was standing behind her now. She took hold of the piece by the wire spokes and pulled it clear of the box.
    “Oooh,” he said. “That’s nice.” He pushed papers out of the way so she could set it on his desk. “That is
nice.
”
    “Thank you,” she said primly, but in fact she was quite pleased. She’d found some handmade dusty-rose paper and fashioned a lampshade unlike any she’d made before. She’d glued braid around the narrow top and the prettily flared bottom, and the shape was almost saucy.
    “It’s very
McCabe and Mrs. Miller,
” he said. “Kind of ‘welcome to our bordello.’”
    She cracked a smile.
    “But in a good way,” he said with a wink. He lifted the shade and looked underneath, his eyes squinting as he faced the high ceiling. The underside, yes: she was particularly proud of the lining. Racing into the future, she wanted to try sea green, apricot. Maybe midnight blue on a perfect cube.
    “How much paper did you buy?” he asked.
    “Only enough for the prototype.” This wasn’t quite true—she’d bought all that was left on the roll, three yards and change. But Mark was your classic hard-to-get guy, and she played fire against fire. (And wondered about his twenty-year marriage. Did he have affairs? Or was it perhaps enough to flirt, to be forever sought? His wife, Mary, was a friend of Sarabeth’s friend Nina—that was the route Sarabeth had taken to him in the first place—and at the beginning, on meeting him, she had thought: Why didn’t Nina tell me they were splitting up? Now she thought: Why didn’t Nina tell me they were so solid?)
    “What if I wanted to place an order?” he said. “A dozen of ‘Welcome to Our Bordello’?”
    She suppressed a smile. “I could check back with my supplier.”
    “Why don’t you do that, Sarabeth?” He leaned against his desk and crossed one long leg in front of the other. He had big hands, big knuckles, and his wedding ring nestled in the fine hairs on his ring finger. It had swirls carved into the gold. It said:
We got married back when Zen gardens first got popular.
    “OK,” she said. “I’ll leave you a voice mail.”
    She started to put the lampshade back in the box, but he reached out a hand to her forearm, and she stopped. “Do you have a sec?” he said.
    “Sure.”
    He pushed away from the desk and headed toward the back of