Only the Essentials (Rachelle)

        The minute I arrive home from lessons, I head upstairs to our bedroom to pack, my husband, Bobby, close on my heels.

         It’s twenty-six years in with this man, and I crazy-love him with all my heart. Still, he does have two “little quirks” – that’s me being generous – that drive me out of my ever-loving nut.

         The first is that no one – and I do mean NO. ONE. – worries more than this man I adore. We’re quite the yin and yang that way because I honest-to-gawd never worry about anything. I am that confident with my coping skills. There is nothing I cannot handle.

         The other “quirk” my husband has is his knowledge of weather. When I met him, he was wearing – I can’t make this stuff up – a barometer watch!

         I imagine this gives you an idea that he’s a Poindexter type: buck teeth, thick horn-rimmed glasses, buzz cut, lab coat, orthopedic shoes. Nope. Not on your life. I’m far too shallow for that.

         In his thirties and forties, people always remarked that he looked exactly like JFK, Jr.

         So that was the reason that even though he was wearing a huge, clunky barometer watch – replete with all kinds of knobs and stems protruding along its perimeter – I still agreed to a second date. Trade-offs, don’tcha know…

         This morning, immediately after I spoke with Gretchen, I’d called Bobby to explain that while he would be slaving away at the office with the last of his clients’ tax returns, due October 15th, I’d be at a rented beach house in North Carolina with Gretchen. We’d be writing three chapters about our escapades en route to the FanStory International Convention. All this was per the request of a Random House editor.

         I shared further that Gretchen had mentioned that the house was in a town named “Hatteras,” so isolated that its ingress and egress is Route 12, a tiny two-lane stretch of tar-topped gravel. “It’s every writer’s dream!” I told him.

         But after a day to ruminate and research it all, Bobby-the-Worrier/Meteorologist now says, “Honey, this is NOT a good idea.”

         I pull out two trunk-sized Burberry suitcases on wheels and begin filling them with swimsuits. I did the math for this in the car earlier, between lessons. Four suits a day times seven days, then pull out thirty from my stash of forty-eight.

         “Bobby, Sweetie,” I begin but am interrupted immediately.

         “No, seriously! Listen to me!” He holds my hands, each one clutching a swimsuit. “Right now, there are three tropical depressions pushing off the coast of Africa.”

         He waits for this to alarm me.

         “Africa,” I repeat in a tone that is intentioned to reflect its ridiculousness.

         “But they’re one right after another!” He pulses my hands with every syllable for emphasis.

         “Africa, though,” I remind him.

         “Hubert is tropical disturbance #8, and it’s strengthened to a category one!”

         I gently wrestle my hands – and swimsuits – from his grip and continue filling my trunks-on-wheels. Then, I go to my armoire and begin bringing out matching dress-length hoodie cover-ups.

         My husband continues. “Now, yes, Hubert is fairly unformed and has no real speed, and they imagine it will go right up the middle of the Atlantic. BUT!” He’s now just inches from my face, a hand pressing on each of my shoulders.

         It’s these moments when I take in his cocoa-colored eyes with the girly-thick lashes and his soft, smoochy lips. They mitigate the Young Sheldon side of my worry wart husband.

         “BUT right behind Hubert is tropical storm Irie. AND…there’s a yet-to-be-named tropical depression, too! It’s #10.”

         As he continues with what I refer to as “weather talk,” I concentrate more on my swimsuits and cover-ups, add in sundresses and various colors of wedge heels – gawd knows stilettos and beachfront houses don’t mix – and let my sweet husband’s voice become like that of Charlie Brown’s teacher in the Peanuts TV specials: “Wah-wah-WAH-wah-wahhhhhh!”

         Finally, I hear him implore me. “Rachelle! Why are you still packing? I’m telling you: this is NOT a good idea!”

         “Bobby, Sweetie, I love you with all my heart; you know this. But you worry to epic proportions every moment of your day. If it were up to you, I’d stay in our house 24/7, wrapped in pillows, and under a glass dome.”

         He gives me puppy eyes.

         I continue. “Right now, opportunity is knocking for Gretchen and me, and we’re going to go for it.” I hug him hard and give him a really long, good kiss. “I love that you worry about me. But you always tell me I am the most capable woman you’ve ever known. And Gretchen is capable, too. Worst case scenario: it’s a week of rain. So what? We’re creative types, Gretchen and I. We’ll stay inside and do art and sew and get additional chapters written.”

         I fold in several sun hats and zip up both my trunks then take down the matching Burberry satchel from its shelf and fill it with a good ten tubes of 50 SPF sun screen.

         Bobby sighs then grabs the extended handles on each of the trunks and wheels them out into the hallway.

         “You’ll call me every day, though, right?” he asks.

         “Absolutely,” I promise and give him another good kiss.

         It’s good to be loved.