The Mystery Megapack

registering through her sorrow.
    “He said he had to take out some flowers for the carport, but I never dreamed he meant my roses,” she exclaimed to the wilted foliage, cooing gently as she had when their shoots had been tender.
    Gina had only half listened when Axel explained about contractors coming to install a cement parking deck for his boat. Even though they had a two-acre lot full of possible sites for his project, she should have realized that he would want the damn boat where he could admire it from the dining room window. The same window she used to look through to enjoy her flower beds.
    “Why didn’t I pay more attention?” She stepped back into the shade for a moment’s rest. “Maybe I could’ve stopped him.”
    To be fair, much of their property was covered in pine trees, more difficult to clear than her garden. Gina had been grateful when Axel gave up his womanizing for fishing, relieved to know his destination when he drove off every Saturday morning pulling his boat and trailer. But the fact that he was capable of destroying the one hobby that gave her pleasure, just to accommodate his, was cold even for him.
    Gina, who was in the best shape of her life because of gardening, worked the small pitchfork with ease. She thoroughly mixed the lifeless branches into the rotted manure and leaf litter of the compost pile then put the yard tools away. She had the urge to call the concrete company to cancel the pour. But it was only Wednesday, and the job still ten days away—her husband might discover what she had done. She didn’t have the nerve to risk it.
    * * * *
    The next afternoon, Gina climbed up and down on a footstool taking apart light fixtures for a good soaking, disgusted by the dried insect parts that rained down. From her perch in the hall, she heard the slam of a car door, followed by Axel’s gruff voice calling goodbye to his ride home, a fellow traveling salesman. She continued her chore until she got the etched-glass cover washed and dried and back in place. Her husband usually parked his suitcase on the small front porch, then went around to the side yard to examine the flex-fit cover on the boat for tightness, or the trailer tires for air pressure; anything to spend time and attention on his boat. And money—2009 had been an expensive year. First he traded in their paid-for car for a used truck with a trailer hitch and a monthly payment. And now they owed good money on a concrete pad and steel cover.
    So it was a good thing her husband had a stable job selling office products. On Mondays he checked in at the local office to talk to his manager about the coming week’s goals and turn in his travel expenses. On Tuesdays he set up appointments. Wednesdays through Fridays he drove the company van from town to town in the surrounding counties, servicing his outside-sales route, delivering toner cartridges, and taking new orders. He performed his “adore the boat” ritual every Friday after he was dropped off, before he saw fit to gather up his bag and join her.
    Finally he came through the front door. “I’m home.”
    No kidding. “How was the trip?” Same question she always asked.
    “Business is really down. But gas prices have come down, too, so things are about even.”
    Next we’ll talk about the weather, she predicted.
    “Yard looks like we didn’t get a drop of rain,” he said as he hauled his garment bag into the laundry room. He would secure it on a hook behind the door and fish his toiletry kit and shoes out of the bag’s corners.
    Oh, really? she thought. My dead roses didn’t notice.
    Instead she replied, “Supper’s almost ready. By the way, they called to confirm that you’re on the schedule next Saturday to get your carport poured.”
    * * * *
    After fifteen years, Gina was used to Axel’s weekly travel, but it always took until Sunday afternoon to get used to having him underfoot again. That’s when she emptied the dirty laundry from his hanging suitcase. Underwear and socks went straight into the wash. Suit jackets and dress shirts ended up on the pile for the dry cleaners. His mealtime spills never made it past his big belly to his pants, so a couple pairs of slacks usually lasted another trip. She knew which pairs because he re-hung his quasi-clean pants. In his hotel room, Axel would open whatever magazine he had with him when he packed, slide it over a wire hanger, and drape his pants over the magazine. The rigid support prevented a crease at