Home Leave: A Novel by Brittani Sonnenberg Page A

never laid a hand on her. But Elise has her doubts.
    Such thoughts make it difficult to concentrate on the paper. Elise puts it down and turns her attention to the French toast and the breakfast room. Thankfully, the antiques here are tasteful and restrained, the dining room shelves lined with crystal wineglasses, not crowded with potpourri sacks and mildewing teddy bears, like the old plantation homes-turned-inns in Mississippi. That’s another thing that Elise likes about the North: the interiors don’t suffocate.
    The crotchety couple across from Elise is rising now, arguing about their morning schedule. The man wants a walk; the woman is pushing for the private zoo in town. Elise shudders: she saw a billboard for the zoo on the drive through town yesterday. The sign featured a photograph of cougars that looked like alcoholics and tired, gray flamingos. Elise revels in the only debate about her day being an inner one: Hike in the state park or read in the sun?
    There are always men who approach her on these “field trips,” as she calls her excursions. That is another forbidden pleasure to them. Older men, younger men, usually unsure of themselves, clearing their throats as they walk over, their hands anxiously balling and unballing a napkin. She consistently sends them away after a beguiling chat, relishing their starved glances from across the room. It is unclear why her recklessness always stops here, why she never kisses anyone or accepts a drink. Perhaps Chris, after all, is accepting such invitations across the world, even as she is turning them down. The thought rather thrills her. But following through with it seems boring somehow to Elise; she is after something slightly wilder, a fling being too predictable. Sex does not seem dangerous. Being alone does, so that’s what she chooses.
    She will go on a hike with a book in her backpack, she decides, scraping her chair from the table. She grabs an apple from the fruit bowl and returns to her room feeling giddy, the way she imagines the bad kids at Vidalia High—her mother called them the “dead-end crowd,” until Ivy was one of them—must have felt playing hooky.
    *  *  *
    Chris’s presentation the following day does not go well. Not my fault, he insists to himself, but he still feels guilty. He often rates himself—after presentations, board meetings, sex—and this time he got a four out of ten. The Indian clients wouldn’t let him finish. They began barging in with questions halfway through and then argued among themselves. He stood at the front of the room feeling like a helpless substitute teacher, trying to bring them back to the subject at hand: how his company’s product could dramatically reduce pollutants during crude-oil extraction. Nobody was listening. When the hour and a half was up, they were still arguing, and he slipped out with his briefcase and the slides.
    Now he is trying to psych himself up for dinner with his Indian joint-venture partner, although he has a strong urge to order room service and watch ESPN. You’ve got this, no problem, he tells the mirror as he shaves. But does he? The doorbell rings. A lovely hotel worker—gleaming black hair, turquoise and gold sari—stands there with a bouquet of orchids. From Eastern Energy Incorporated, she says, inclining her head. Chris smiles and accepts the flowers, enjoying her appreciative gaze at his physique, his American friendliness. He’d hoped the bouquet was from Elise. But she isn’t really the flower-sending type. He glances at the clock. He is late.
    Dinner actually helps. The wine, and then the gin and tonics, and the smooth, even tones of the tan-hued bar soothe Chris the way luxury is meant to soothe. He lets himself be flattered by the CEO, he flatters back, the game as familiar, by now, as flirting. He is reminded of how much better he is one-on-one than with groups. Eight out of ten, he tells himself, brushing his teeth. Maybe even an 8.5.
    The next day, Chris