It bugs him that he can’t eat Doritos anymore.  The craving for the nacho cheese kind is like a devil on Mike’s shoulder.  No matter how many of those no-salt blue chips he devours, he’s not satisfied.

Mike wants the orange dust. Tangerine talcum.  Total sodium.

The irony with the whole blood pressure scare is that he has put on weight.  Cutting out Doritos (and French fries and onion rings) should have helped him shed pounds but hasn’t.  Mike stepped on the scale at Publix last night and stepped off immediately.  Ten pounds up!  How could that be?

Well, he knows how that could be.  It’s all the sweets he’s been eating.  Because when you can’t have salt, you go for sugar.

Fairfax, to give her credit, has tried to help him walk the straight and narrow path of nutrition.  Throwing kale into everything, buying organic meat (which supposedly has less salt than the regular), cooking up pots of rice with low salt black beans.

The meals simply have no taste.  Even with a block of unsalted butter (which Mike also needs to limit, his bad cholesterol being borderline), there is no flavor on the plate. His wife says he needs to give it time; she’s researched radical diet changes (like she does everything in their lives) and says his palate will relearn how to taste. Recalibrate.

And what had Mike said to that? “I’m too old to recalibrate.”

Fairfax had looked at him, mouth crooked to one side.  “Really?’ she asked. His gruffness has always amused her, for some reason.  She was about to laugh, he could tell. “You can’t do one more recalibration, not even for me?”

Mike’s growl sputtered out into a groan. “Only one more?”

“I promise, and then you can give up for all time.” Fairfax patted him on top his head, like a dog.  “Good boy,” she added and let loose with a chuckle.

Well, who cares if she sometimes treated him like a dog?  Mike is glad to amuse his wife when he can.  God knows, they need laughter in the house.  With Jack gone, it was too quiet. Mike missed the whoops and high fives and ever mutating slang of his sons.  He missed them all cracking up at a joke, the chime of family hilarity.  Stirred by an old story, a crazy photo, or even a fart, of course. Bodily humor always brought the house down.  Fairfax pretends to be offended but Mike knows better.  She grew up with brothers—some of the stories she’s told him about Ben and Brian edge close to disgusting.  In this house, Fairfax laughs the loudest at a well-timed burp.

Mike rubs his eyes.  He doesn’t think Fairfax is laughing now.  He’s purposely stayed late at the office because he didn’t want to be around for what he’s started to call “dinner wars.” Every evening since her arrival a few days ago, Lucinda has tried to make some high salt dish, and Fairfax has fought her every step of the way.  Last night it was picadillo (which prepared his mother’s way has always depended on showers of salt).  Fairfax snatched the shaker from Luce’s hand while the meat was scrambling.  Then, el Madre tried to sneak in some Badia seasoning, and Fairfax caught her.

“But it’s not salt,” Lucinda had protested.

“Look at the label!” Fairfax pointed, fingernail sharp as a dagger.  “Lookit, see? Sodium!”

The whole exchange was like a sit-com.  Mike bit his lip to keep from laughing, because one fierce look from his wife communicated that this situation wasn’t funny at all.  No, there was no humor in salt—his wife took sodium eradication seriously. He choked down the chuckle and wandered off to the lesser of evils, to watch television with his brother.

Mike scratches his head, tips his office chair back. Why are houseguests, especially your own family, such a nuisance? The Mallory Street home is big enough.  You’d think with all this space available (four bedrooms, an office, family room, for starters), they’d be able to keep the peace. But no.

Because it’s not just Lucinda’s obstinate cooking that’s disruptive. Max has gotten under his skin too. During this visit, all he can talk about is Nancy Plumb. Though no one has seen her lately, not even Fairfax. Nancy heads to Atlanta every weekend, to visit the new boyfriend.  Or old boyfriend, if you prefer, because he checks that box as well.

And Nancy’s relationship is a problem for Fairfax.  To use an expression (one his wife hates, by the way) it’s gotten her panties all in a wad.  Fairfax does not like this Adam character—something about him being irresponsible, not a stand-up guy.  “He doesn’t keep his promises,” Fairfax had said, and her eyes glistened so much that Mike let the topic go.

Honestly, Mike knows that what is really bothering his wife is that Nancy chose Adam over Peter Redmond.  Fairfax had created some fantasy in her mind of her best friend marrying her doctor and them all going on couples vacations together.  Now, she’s all worried about Peter’s emotional state, how hurt he is.  Too worried.

The truth is, the guy’s fine.  Mike has seen him around the neighborhood with several different women, though he doesn’t share these details with Fairfax anymore.  She would interrogate him on the woman’s appearance, hair color, etc., and Mike can’t stand it. It’s not healthy how obsessed his wife has become with someone else’s love life.

Live and let live, is what Mike’s always said.  Let other people make their own mistakes, sweetheart.

Which is precisely the opposite of his mother’s philosophy.  Lucinda cornered him last night, after the sub-par picadillo, and started badgering him about Fairfax’s health.

“She looks pale, hijo, don’t you think?” His mother had cozied up to him on the family room couch, moving Fairfax’s furry brown pillows out of the way in order to slide closer. “This is how it started the last time, remember?”

Mike had run his fingers through his hair, noticing several strands clinging to his thumb.  Well, that’s about right.  Baldness and high blood pressure—what else does life have in store for him as he nears the big five-o? “Luce, which last time? The cancer or the anemia?”

Lucinda’s mouth had popped open then puckered.  She looked like a fish. “Well, Miguel, I don’t know which, but don’t you see it?”  She grabbed his arm, long crimson nails digging in.

“Ok, ok.” Mike shakes her off his arm.  “Ouch! You might want to trim your talons, mother.” Luce glanced at her right hand, diamond and engagement rings still there, the latter promised to Max should he ever find someone to marry.  Though, Mike seemed to remember, long ago, Max pooh-poohing their father’s choice of yellow gold.  Some crazy statement about fourteen carat being responsible for the art of the tacky.  Mike still doesn’t understand what his brother meant by that.

In any case, last night Lucinda had primly placed both hands in her lap, fingers folded, and continued to press her point:  Fairfax needed to go back to the doctor.  Mike wanted to tell her to mind her own business.  His wife was fine, she looked good to him.  And in any case, a coterie of doctors was monitoring her care.  All Mike could think was that he was glad Luce wasn’t bugging him about his blood pressure, because he would not be able to stand that.  She was a bull terrier with worry.  She bit down on Fairfax’s health and wouldn’t let go.

Their conversation turned into a mini-argument which only ended when Mike promised to call Peter Redmond the next day to discuss Fairfax’s health.

Which is today.

But Mike hasn’t called, isn’t going to, because last night he’d asked Fairfax when she was seeing Dr. Redmond.  She told him early next week, and that is soon enough.  Sitting there in the lamplight, back resting against one of her beloved body pillows, his wife looked beautiful, serene.  Not pale at all. Composed, rested, reading Garden and Gun. Mike was not about to tell Fairfax what Lucinda had said.  He’s learned over almost twenty-five years of marriage to keep mum about his mother whenever possible.

And Fairfax is fine.  Fine.  Mike keeps telling himself this.  He was worried when they dropped Jack off at Davidson, that she would crumple, but no.  Fairfax hugged their youngest goodbye, got back in the car, and said, “Onward.” It did Mike’s soul good to see her so strong.  He’ll never forget, when she was in the middle of chemo, vomiting every day, she would mutter, “make it to 2019, 2019,” like a mantra.  2019, when their youngest turned eighteen.

And Fairfax had made it to 2019, but Mike can tell she’s far from finished with this life.

Leaning forward over his desk, he rolls his shoulders—they resist the movement, so tight are they.  Mike checks the corner of his computer screen:  5:05 p.m.  He should take his blood pressure, he should go home, he should do a lot of things.  Store the plywood that he’d hauled out for Dorian back in the garage.  Ask his brother to help him move the patio furniture back outside.

But would it be so bad if he didn’t do any of those things?  Dull chores.  Maintenance and checklist type things.  Would it be so bad if Mike just went home, ate a bland meal and relaxed with his wife?  Preferably without his mother and brother.

But no.  Their return plane ticket to Miami is dated two weeks from now. Maybe he could move up the date?

Because Dorian is no longer a threat to any of Florida.  It skirted up the Atlantic, headed for more northern shores.  The actual path of the storm didn’t stop Jacksonville from canceling everything, school, meetings, work.  Irma had wreaked havoc last year, so everyone acted as if Dorian was part two, but it wasn’t.  Like many storms, after throttling the Bahamas, it decided to let Florida be.

Mike had gone into the office anyway, in spite of the fact that Florida Blue had encouraged telecommuting this week.  He felt guilty leaving Fairfax to deal with his family but justified it by reasoning that Lucinda and Max were blood pressure risks.  All the attention they needed, just the thought of it made Mike’s corpuscles tighten up.

Here’s the thing:  he and Fairfax need to get away.  They are empty nesters now, why not fly the coop? Even if they have to leave some chickens behind. He laughs now, thinking of Max and his mother covered in feathers.

Picturing Max as a rooster kind of makes sense. He’s been hunting and pecking after Nancy. Crowing for her, while he’s stuck, penned in the house with his mother. Max doesn’t have his motorcycle with him, so he can’t escape on a whim as usual.

Mike feels a pang of pity for his brother. “How into this Adam guy is she?” Max asks him every day. As if he knows something.  As if something’s changed in the last twenty-four hours.

The last time he asked, Mike was brutally honest.  “Look, Max, I’d bet Nancy is in love with the dude, okay? I know next to nothing about him, and, if I were you, I’d forget about her.”

Max had stared at him, tipped brown eyes so like their mother’s.  “I don’t think I can.”

Mike swore he saw a glint that could be a tear, so he looked away.  He cleared his throat.  Poor Max—he couldn’t seem to get over Nancy Plumb.   “Da Vinci?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Max answered, voice wobbly. “Exactly.”

Snap out of it, Mike wanted to say. Nancy is a good person, true, but she’s not worth a pedestal.  Or the frame of a Da Vinci, however you want to phrase the metaphor. She’s just a woman, though an attractive one. A solid sort of female, too conventional and quiet for Max, you’d think he’d realize that.   She’s not artistic, wild, impulsive. Maybe that’s the reason he likes her so much.  Opposites attracting and all that.

Idly, as he starts to gather up his belongings, Mike wonders if this Adam Ainsley guy is Nancy’s opposite, a hurricane to her calm.  He honestly has no idea, since Nancy (and consequently any intel from Fairfax) has been MIA.

Carrying his umbrella and cell phone, Mike walks down the empty hall to the recycle bin. He tosses his Diet Coke can in, thankful that he can drink caffeine at work. Fairfax has forbidden it in the house because it’s been shown to contribute to high blood pressure.  Oh, but it tastes so good to him!  “Caramel renewal,” Mike calls it.  Privately, of course.

And renewal is good.  De facto good, right? No matter where it comes from, as long as it’s non-narcotic, of course. Which some say caffeine isn’t, but that’s crazy.

And a weekend away with Fairfax could renew them both.  What about that place in Amelia where she sent Redmond and Nancy? Mike bets they could get a reservation for the weekend, no problem, Dorian having scared away beach-goers.

That’s the silver lining of the hurricane that gets away, Mike thinks, as he slips into his Volvo.  We rediscover the saved places.  Having escaped danger, beauty re-dazzles.

It has something to do with second chances, he muses as he does a sharp right onto Riverside Avenue.  Safety—you see it as pure sunshine when the dark clouds head north.