A Measure of Happiness (24 page)

The boots she'd worn on the evening of the dinner party, the skirt, and the locked kitchen door. She didn't have any other black boots. “They're black and they're boots. Ha, ha.” She meant to give Barry an annoyed look. Instead, her gaze wandered to his crotch.

Simple biology, right? She could ignore biology. She was stronger than biology.

“They're definitely the black boots,” Barry said. “I could never forget those black boots.”

“You were asking me about Celeste . . .”

“And the young guy.”

Was this train of conversation any better than the last? Was any Barry conversation safe? “I can't say whether they're exactly a couple.”

“Ah,” Barry said, a sound, she was sure, he'd perfected during years of encouraging challenging conversations.

“I can't say that they aren't.”

“I see.”

Katherine took the Merlot from the cabinet. “Glass of wine?”

“Sure,” he said.

She poured Barry his first glass of the evening, took down a fresh glass for herself, as though she too were indulging in her first.

“You don't approve of Celeste and Zach as a couple?” Barry asked.

Had Katherine said anything to indicate disapproval? She retraced their conversation, wondered whether a particular facial expression or stance had given away her consternation. She opened a sleeve of rice crackers and added them to the pepper jelly–covered cream cheese she'd set out to come to room temperature. She took a cracker for herself. “She's shrinking,” Katherine said, and a cracker crumb lodged in her throat. She gulped the wine, managed a breath. “Literally and emotionally.”

Barry leaned against the counter, sipped. “Is she having trouble eating again?”

“It would seem so,” Katherine said. “I can't say what she eats off duty. But on duty? It's minimal. An apple around eight, a yogurt just past noon. Coffee every hour on the half hour.”

“She's having trouble sleeping.”

“That would seem to be the case. Unless . . .”

“Unless?”

An image of Celeste and Zach flashed in Katherine's mind's eye, naked and clinging to each other. The thought alarmed her. The thought pleased her, two people she cared about caring for each other. The thought made her want to cover her mind's eye. Katherine's cheeks warmed.

“Unless sleep is the last thing on Celeste's and Zach's minds.” Barry waggled his eyebrow, the silly gesture he certainly didn't take seriously. “I remember those nights.”

“Oh, please,” Katherine said, meaning to sound put upon. Instead, she looked away, fidgeted the amethyst dangling from her left lobe, and remembered those nights. Their passion. Their soul-deep connection. The way they resented daybreak. She shook her head, picked up her wineglass. “Sleep problems or not, she's clearly troubled. She walks out to the café, stops, and stares, as if she's forgotten where she is. Until Zach goes to her and reminds her what she's supposed to be doing.”

“She doesn't ask you for redirection?”

“She doesn't get the chance. Zach . . . he does his job and he keeps his eye on her.”

“She hasn't said anything about New York?”

Katherine pretended to zip her lips. “Not a word. And she hasn't gotten close to sharing any deep, dark secret, so I haven't pressed.”

“Ah,” Barry said. “You listen to my advice when it pertains to other people.”

“Other people?”

“People who aren't you.” Barry picked up the vase of flowers and the plate of crackers and headed through Katherine's bead curtains. Katherine followed behind with their wineglasses, and her gaze fell to Barry's butt, the irresistible tug of biology.

Biology, she reminded herself, had pulled them apart.

The doorbell rang, and Katherine jumped, jostling the wine from her glass.

Barry set down the flowers on a side table, placed the crackers and cream cheese with the other hors d'oeuvres. He lifted a pumpkin-decorated paper napkin toward her chest. “Like some help with that?”

Katherine put the wineglasses down beside the crackers. “Don't you dare!”

“Oh, you thought . . . I was only going to help blot the stain.”

“I don't need help with that.” Katherine grabbed for the napkin but ended up with Barry's hand instead.

He bent to her ear. “
Tsk, tsk.
If you want me to touch you, you're going to have to ask nicely. How soon you forget.” Barry handed her the napkin and ran his gaze down her body slow enough to make her squirm, letting her know he'd forgotten nothing.

Katherine pressed the napkin to her chest, and her heart beat through her hand. Zach peered through the sidelight, his hand held to his forehead like a visor, Celeste visible over his shoulder. Katherine glared sideways at Barry, ignored his smug grin, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Celeste wore an oversized chocolate-brown sweater over snug jeans and brown combat boots. Her hair was down, save for pieces she'd swept from the sides of her face and secured in the back with a brown bow. In her hands, she carried a bouquet of yellow roses. Delicate baby's breath filled the spaces between the blooms.

Zach wore jeans, hiking boots, a blue-on-blue flannel shirt to complement his blue cast and sling, and an orange satin cape. “Celeste made me,” he said, and he stepped through the door.

Barry stood tall, exuded professionalism, and jutted out his hand at Zach, as if he hadn't just been playing a wicked game with Katherine's heart . . . and other organs. “Barry Horowitz,” he said. “I don't believe we've officially met.”

Did Barry's gaze linger on Zach's features, his dark hair, so like hers? Did Barry glance her way, a flick of his gaze, to question why she'd never introduced him to Zach? Had Katherine's fear of revealing her secret given her secret away?

“Zach Fitzgerald. Katherine's . . .” Zach glanced her way, Katherine was sure of it. And in that moment, she almost wished he'd tell. She could almost feel the relief of letting the charade go. “. . . employee,” Zach finished, and she thought she heard a trace of her father's understated anger.

Biology, or was she once again projecting her own fear?

Katherine took the flowers from Celeste's hands. “Thank you, I adore yellow roses.” Yellow flowers meant friendship. Did Celeste know that?

“Cool,” Celeste said. Then she glanced sideways at the living room. “I would've picked something else if I'd known they matched your walls.”

“You've been here before, haven't you?” Katherine asked, but wishing didn't change reality. Her and Celeste's relationship took place within the walls of Lamontagne's. They spent more hours together than some married couples, but their time together was contained, controlled, and limited. Officially, they could tell themselves their relationship was entirely professional.

Not unlike Katherine's relationship with Barry.

“In your dreams, maybe,” Celeste said, not a trace of anger. Was that a ploy to make Katherine feel guilty or Celeste being her snarky self?

Celeste looked lovely, gorgeous as ever, but something niggled at Katherine, or a combination of somethings. Celeste's big sweater, her exhaustion, confusion, and withdrawal. Even her recent limited diet.

A memory flashed of Katherine hiding in the kitchen of Hazel May's, exhausted, withdrawn, and wearing an oversized sweater to camouflage her growing belly.

Could Celeste be pregnant?

“I should put these in water and check the roast.” Katherine tried to remember whether Celeste had worn that sweater before, whether she normally preferred loose-fitting clothing. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked Celeste and Zach, but the query was meant for Celeste. “Beer? A glass of wine?”

“Nothing for me, I'm saving myself for the roast. It smells delicious.” Celeste's face twitched—a slight tic that she covered with a cough. “Besides, I'm not sure wine and beer go with Halloween candy,” she added, a strange statement, even for Celeste.

“Where I come from, beer goes with everything,” Zach told Celeste.

Katherine held a breath, imagining, for a moment, that Zach was referring to his biological, rather than his adoptive, family.

“Seriously. I thought the planet Krypton was a dry planet,” Celeste said, explaining the reason she'd made Zach wear a cape. Secretly sweet Celeste likened Zach to Superman.

“Nah. That's just in the movie version. I'll have a beer. Need any help in the kitchen?”

Barry ran a carrot stick through Katherine's buttermilk-and-dill dip and snapped it between his teeth.

“Thank you, Zach. I was hoping Celeste could help me. . . . But by all means, you and Barry make yourselves at home and dig in.”

Barry grinned at her. Because he was unable to wink, his attempt approximated a grimace.

Katherine imagined taking Celeste aside and straight-out asking her whether she was pregnant, whether the sweater and her eating habits and her sudden return to Hidden Harbor—the only home she'd ever known—were indications that she was having a baby. Katherine also imagined this line of questioning particularly objectionable to someone who'd once—and perhaps again—wrestled with an eating disorder.

Katherine took a Heineken from the fridge, cracked it open, and angled a beer glass.

Celeste turned in a circle. “Cute kitchen. I love the black-and-white floor.”

“The flooring was here when I moved in. The cabinets I repainted to freshen.” Katherine had also smudged the kitchen and every room of the house. She'd walked through waving a burning bunch of dried sage to drive out any darkness or lingering negativity. Unfortunately, she'd yet to find a remedy to drive out her internal demons.

Katherine slid a loaf of sourdough into the oven to warm and checked on the meat thermometer. One hundred and sixty degrees. Done to medium roast perfection. She set the roasting pan on a trivet, closed the oven with her foot, stabbed a crispy potato, and waved the fork in the air. “Want a taste?”

“Oh, yeah, baby. Come to Mama,” Celeste said, not what an unexpectedly expectant mother would say. Was it? Celeste blew on the nugget and popped it into her mouth. “Ooh, ah, hot.” She grinned and sighed. “But oh so good.”

Katherine nodded. She peeled off her black-and-white checkered oven mitts and set them on the counter. “I want to ask you a question. And I'd appreciate it if you'd give me a straightforward answer. Okay?”

Celeste chewed slowly, carefully. “Depends what the question is.”

Katherine sighed, regretted telegraphing the inquiry. She gave Celeste a look she hoped conveyed seriousness, concern, and—no matter what—acceptance. “The reason you came back so suddenly to Hidden Harbor . . .”

Celeste stopped chewing.

“Did it have something, anything, to do with a man?”

Celeste's eyes watered, but she didn't look away. She sniffed, continued chewing, swallowed hard. She took a deep breath through her mouth. She blew out.

Sadness, like radio waves, emanated from Celeste. Katherine absorbed the feeling. The insides of Katherine's ears moistened, as though she might cry. “Because if there's anything I can do—”

Celeste tilted her head to the side.

“Some way I can help you—”

Celeste mouthed,
No,
and a wave of despair rolled from Katherine's stomach to her throat.

Celeste breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth, a halting, seemingly deliberate—

“Sweet child,” Katherine said, a term she'd never used before with anyone, let alone Celeste, but Katherine felt it. She felt it in her soul. She'd walk through fire to save Celeste. She'd never leave her behind.

Katherine opened her hands to Celeste, a bounty, an offering. “Maybe you'd feel better if you told me.”

Celeste pressed a fisted hand to her mouth, and her eyes narrowed. She blinked at Katherine.

“Sweet—”

Celeste launched herself into Katherine's arms.

Katherine had yet to experience a hot flash, but she imagined this was what it would feel like, a sudden wall of heat. Celeste hid her face in Katherine's shoulder, and Katherine gentled a hand to Celeste's head. Beneath Katherine's hand, Celeste's breathing hitched.

The sound of Zach's and Barry's voices filtered from the front of the house. Barry laughed, that
he-he-he
of delight Katherine loved to inspire. She stifled the urge to mirror Celeste's erratic breathing until Celeste's breathing mirrored hers.

Dear lord, what had happened? Had someone—a man—hurt Celeste? Had some man—

Celeste raised her head and dropped a featherlight kiss onto Katherine's cheek, two reactions she'd never seen from Celeste before in one night. She bent to Katherine's ear, as though she might tell her a secret. “I'm so sorry,” Celeste said.

Katherine held her breath. She steadied her body, as though she were about to take a picture, a snapshot of this moment.

In that moment, Celeste pulled away.

Celeste's face was pale. Her eyes were dry. Her tone was adult, serious, and entirely straightforward. “I can't tell you,” she said. “If I told you what I did, I'd only feel worse.”

C
HAPTER
15

S
hame marinated you in toxins, saturated your soul, and informed all your choices. Ever since Katherine had been old enough to understand that other fathers spoke nicely to their daughters, shame had told Katherine she was unlovable.

Intellectually, she'd understood this connection for years. But she hadn't really believed the cause and effect emotionally until she'd seen the bright and beautiful Celeste unmasked to reveal the face of shame. Then Celeste had scooped root vegetables into Katherine's oversized serving bowl and mumbled something about a direct connection between potatoes and her ass, the mask snapped back into place.

Katherine carried first a warm, cloth-covered loaf of sourdough bread and butter and then the sliced roast into the dining room. “Dinner,” Katherine called into the front of the house.

Barry and Zach bustled into the dining room, grinning like naughty boys and looking as though they'd shared more than crudités. “Something going on here I should know about?” Katherine asked. “Have you toilet papered my tree? Egged my house?”
Revealed my secrets?

Katherine's gaze gravitated to Zach's clenched fist, a glossy brown wrapper peeking between his pointer and middle fingers. “Eaten all my Halloween candy?”

“Guilty, ma'am,” Zach said, and he slipped the wrapper into his pocket.

“Barry?” Katherine asked.

“Nope, I don't feel guilty at all,” he said, and Celeste laughed.

“Shoot,” Katherine said. “I forgot Zach's beer. And Celeste's water. I'll be right back.”

At the kitchen counter, Katherine snapped up the beer and water.

“Don't serve family-style,” Barry said.

Katherine jostled, and beer splashed her décolleté. Droplets ran down the center of her bra. She turned slowly, careful not to spill any more beer. Any beer leaving the glass now would be destined for either Zach's stomach or Barry's face.

“You scared the cra—”

Barry tapped a finger against his lips. “Shh.” He cut his gaze to the curtain and the dining area beyond. He closed the space between them. Beneath the sink's fluorescent light, his eyes shone a serious blue. “Serve everyone from the head of the table, say it's easier that way. Give Celeste a reasonable amount. More than she's been eating recently, but less than your usual offering so she doesn't feel overwhelmed.”

“You have a complaint about my usual offering?”

“You tend to be . . . generous. I'm not saying that's a bad thing. I know cooking and baking is how you show love.” Barry stroked her hair. A quick gesture, as though he were smoothing down a stray.

She turned toward his hand, the way you paused and angled your head in the middle of a crowd when you thought you'd heard your name.

Barry pressed a fisted hand to the counter. “If you let her serve herself, she's going to give herself less. Just give her a little bit of everything.”

Katherine imagined Celeste's preferred portions—a few nontouching carrots and potatoes and a scrap of meat, rattling around first on her plate and then in her stomach. “What if she complains?”

“Even if she complains”—Barry took a balled dish towel from Katherine's counter and dried the beer from her chest—“she'll be grateful for the favor.” He dropped the cloth on the counter and held aside the bead curtain.

Katherine delivered the drinks and swiped the root vegetables Zach was eyeing. “I serve from the head of the table.”

Zach held his hands up. “Whatever you say, boss.”

In Katherine's long-ago home, on the nights when her father passed out before dinner, her mother let her and her sister serve themselves, quickly and quietly, so as not to wake the sleeping giant on the couch. Katherine would sit on her un-made bed, back up against the wall, plate warming her lap, and flip through the glossy pages of the library's outdated
Seventeen
magazine. She'd lose herself in the fantasy of pretty faces, clear skin, and perfect bodies. The day she discovered the models were airbrushed? One of the happiest days of her life.

Celeste got up from her seat. “I don't like when people serve me.”

Zach's and Barry's gazes zoomed in on Celeste.

Celeste looked from Barry to Zach to Katherine. “Sorry. That was rude,” she said, and sat back down, a hint of the shame on her face Katherine had witnessed in the kitchen.

Zach put his hand on the back of Celeste's chair, a degree of separation from Celeste.

Barry was right about Celeste. He was usually right. Dang it all. Katherine's lips tingled. “No apology necessary. Eat whatever you want, leave whatever you don't.”
No pressure.
Katherine glanced at Barry, looking for a sign she hadn't screwed up. Should she have even mentioned leaving food on the plate? Should she have given Celeste an out? Should she have been that transparent?

Barry gave her half a grin and rocked in his seat.

Katherine piled vegetables on Celeste's plate, caught Celeste's unblinking gaze, and shoved a few potatoes back into the bowl. Celeste followed Katherine's serving fork as it hovered over the meat, and Katherine selected a medium-sized slice.

Barry flicked his gaze to the sourdough bread, and Katherine plucked a slice from the middle.

Then, to alleviate the empty feeling in her gut, Katherine piled love—food—onto Zach's and Barry's plates. For herself? The usual generous offering.

Kind of explained her post-divorce weight gain.

Katherine raised her glass for a toast.

“To friends, old and new!” Barry said, beating her to it.

“To friends,” Katherine echoed, and she made a point of catching Barry's gaze.

Barry made a point of looking at her breasts.

They clinked glasses all around and started eating. Courtesy of Barry, the conversation meandered into the discussion of where Zach was from, his education, his plans for the future, and how well he liked Hidden Harbor.

Zach hunched over his plate, as though someone—Katherine—might swoop in and swipe it away from him. Seemingly undeterred by having to use his nondominant hand, he inhaled his meal like any other young guy. Feverishly. Quickly. Noisily. And enjoying every bite without apology.

Celeste could take a lesson from Zach.

Celeste pushed her food around on her plate. She ate slowly and deliberately. Was she selecting the tastiest-looking morsels? Trying to assume the semblance of eating?

Wasn't she hungry?

Barry chewed, and dimples popped up on either side of his mouth, sweet indentations Katherine longed to kiss. He sliced through the meat, his fork and knife held at a forty-five-degree angle, as though he sought to control the shape of every bite.

Katherine ate the last potato on her plate. Barry chewed his remaining piece of roast and washed it down with a sip of wine, the two of them finishing together. Just like when they used to have sex.

Barry glanced between their plates, waggled his brows.

Had Barry deliberately paced himself, with dinner?

“Another great dinner, honey,” Barry said.

Had Barry meant to call her
honey?

“Oh, sorry, Katherine. Force of habit,” Barry told Katherine. “When we were married, I used to tell her that—‘great dinner, honey'—every night after dinner.” He chuckled. “Even if I made the dinner.”

“That,” Katherine said, “was a long time ago.”

“Not so long ago. In fact, I bet . . .” Barry picked up his fork, scraped it across the empty plate.

Katherine cringed.

“. . . that sound still annoys you.” Barry set his fork on the plate. “People don't change.”

“This coming from a shrink,” Katherine said.

Barry pointed with either hand, his orchestra conductor move. “People don't
often
change.”

Katherine grinned.

“Unless,” Barry said, “something monumental drives them to it.”

“Or they're driven to your office,” Celeste said.

“Good one.” Barry tried for a wink, or was that a deliberate wince? “I'd wager, Katherine still reads the tarot every night after dinner. She probably keeps a deck somewhere in the dining area or the kitchen. Correct?”

“Possibly,” Katherine said.

Barry followed Katherine's traitorous gaze to the sideboard, and the drawer left slightly ajar from last night's reading. “And a deck in your bedside table?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“Yup. We're all pretty much the same inside as when we were twelve years old.”

Katherine had been twelve when big sister Lexi had given Katherine her first tarot cards and shown her how to read them. The larger-than-life robed characters and the exotic scenes depicted on the twenty-two cards of the major arcana. The down-to-earth symbolism of the fifty-six minor arcana.

Whether major or minor, each card represented a chest of secrets.

Katherine and Lexi had sat on the floor between their beds, and Lexi laid out horseshoe and Celtic cross spreads. Whimsical illustrations of suns and moons, magicians and priestesses, had sympathized with Katherine's predicaments and foretold the story of her life.

“In fact,” Barry said, “I'd wager, at twelve we're our best, most authentic selves.”

Zach sipped his beer, and moved his mouth as if he was savoring the flavors. “Then the world steps in to throw a few punches or show you the door, and it all goes downhill from there.”

Zach glanced at Katherine, and she translated
the world
to
adoptive parents
. “Sometimes the world, as in other people, has its—their—reasons for showing you the door. Sometimes the world isn't perfect and it has nothing to do with us. Sometimes parents are doing the best they can.”

Parents?
Barry mouthed.

“My parents are perfect,” Celeste said. “My mother sent my father off to work with a brown-bag lunch every morning and had dinner on the table every night for him and the four spawns promptly at six. Dad worked for the same insurance company for thirty years. Mom raised the kids. Neither of them ever complained. I don't think they know the meaning of the word
complain
.” Celeste leaned back in her seat, as though the notion of those thirty steadfast years exhausted her.

“With respect to your parents,” Katherine said, “nobody is perfect.” If Celeste's parents had been perfect, they might've stayed a few more years in Hidden Harbor. They might've given Celeste a few more years to grow up before abandoning her. Even college kids returned home for the long Thanksgiving weekend and an extended winter break, so they could sleep till noon and let their moms do the wash. Or so Katherine had heard. No matter your age, everyone needed someone to treat them as though they were small and precious and deserving of protection.

Katherine thought of herself as neither small nor in need of protection.

And yet every night she slept curled in a ball around her blanket or pillow or, in the middle of summer, herself. Somewhat embarrassing, and also the reason why she never let men stay the night. But nothing she could control. Whenever she'd accidentally fallen asleep on her back, a paperback splayed across her chest, nightmares would wake her, leaving her with a dark and cloying sensation of doom.

“I'll clear the table!” Celeste jumped to standing.

“Thanks, Celeste, I—”

Celeste gathered up the plates and silverware and dashed into the kitchen, but not before Katherine caught sight of Celeste's plate. She'd left half the roast, picked at her bread, and, with the exception of the beloved potatoes, forsaken the vegetables.

Katherine remembered the hollow stomachache from being sent to bed without dinner, the stab of nausea, the trickle of sadness. Why would Celeste want to cause herself discomfort?

Katherine carried the serving platters into the kitchen. “Are you saving yourself for dessert?” Katherine asked, and her voice sounded winded, panicked. “There's a devil's food cake. I thought I'd wait a bit before serving it, but if you're hungry, I'll take it out now. Or you could indulge in the Halloween candy. I was only teasing Zach and Barry. To be honest with you, I always buy too much.” Katherine cringed. “In fact, I have another two-pound bag stashed in the cabinet. You'd be doing me a huge favor if you brought some home. Why don't you—”

“Do you have a disposal?” Celeste asked.

Katherine gave her head a shake. “A what?”

“Disposal? You know, those things that grind . . .”

“Oh. No.” Katherine opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out the trash. “You can dump the scraps into the trash.” By
scraps
Katherine meant Celeste's entire meal.

“Will do,” Celeste said, but she didn't look Katherine in the eye. Any bread from Lamontagne's that didn't sell on the day-old shelf got donated to Annie's Daily Bread, a soup kitchen in Bath. There Annie toasted the bread and made homemade croutons for soups and salads. Celeste knew how Katherine felt about wasting food.

Barry came into the kitchen and set the bread and butter on the counter.

“Chop, chop,” Barry said. “The trick-or-treaters will be here soon, and we have just enough time for that tarot reading you promised Zach.”

“What are you talking about?” Katherine asked.

“Before dinner? You said you'd tell Zach's fortune?”

Katherine looked at Barry sideways. She searched her memory. Tarot, dining room, bedside table.

Barry waggled his brows.