House of Skin (23 page)

“I wanted to be closer to my older sister.”

“And your brother-in-law.”

“He was the main reason.”
 

She cocked an eyebrow. “Who could blame you?”

“Not a soul.”

“Six o’clock.”

“What?”

“Pick me up at six o’clock tomorrow evening. I’m the first left on County Road 500.”
 

His mouth worked, but all he managed to get out was, “Great.”

“Nice to see you again, Sam.” She held out her hand.

He wondered if he should take it and kiss it the way Myles Carver had at the bar. But that wasn’t him. He shook her hand, said he looked forward to seeing her again.

Then she was gone.

Julia watched him chew his food. He’d complimented her on the Jamaican chicken already. Too soon, she’d thought at the time, the first bite barely finished. Now he was halfway through his bowl, and he’d grown quiet. Was it her food or had it been her question? Thinking back, she remembered how strangely he’d acted when she’d asked about his writing at the bar.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

He looked up from his bowl. “Sure, everything’s fine. The chicken is excellent.”
 

She asked, “Do you not want to talk about your writing?”
 

Reaching out, he picked up his wine glass and took a drink. “To be honest with you, I don’t know. On one hand, I’m very proud of it, but on the other, I’m afraid you’ll think the subject manner is too awful.”
 

“Try me.”

He watched her doubtfully. Then he seemed to come to a decision. He set his fork down, folded his fingers and said, “Let’s make a deal.”

She waited.

“On Tuesday, I sent out two copies of the novel to publishers. As soon as I’ve heard back from them, I’ll let you read the manuscript.”

“But that could take months.”

“True, but it could also be sooner. The books say there are publishers that respond within days, or even hours, if the novel’s good enough. Or bad enough.”

“That’s fair. But only if you answer my other question.”

“Other question?”

“About your family. Why you’re estranged from them.”

Paul sat back. The dining room light made his brown hair gleam. “Ahh…that.”

“Well,” he said, wiping his mouth with one of the red cloth napkins she’d pulled out and washed for the occasion. “That’s a long story. I don’t want to bore you.”
 

“I won’t be bored. I promise.” She took a long, slow sip of the red wine. It was cheap but good. Paul had been embarrassed that none of the local liquor stores carried anything better.

“Alright, here goes. I’ve always been a bit of a disappointment. In high school, my grades were decent but not great; therefore, the college I went to was decent but not great.”
 

“And that was?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Okay.”

He paused. “It wasn’t Harvard or Yale.”

“Did your parents go to Harvard or Yale?”

“No, but that’s not the point. My older brother did.”

“Mm.”

“So I bounced around between jobs before finally coming back to the bank.”

“The family business?”

“Yes. My grandfather founded it, and my dad’s the president. Oh, and my brother’s the vice-president.”

“What were you?”

“Nothing.”
 

They both laughed, but when she heard the strain in his voice, she stopped.

She saw his eyes shift to the living room. He said, “That’s a good-looking piano you have in there.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Can you play?”

“A little.”

“Will you play for me?”

The question was innocent enough, but she felt herself growing faint. The piano reminded her of Ted Brand. He was the last thing she wanted to think about tonight. Or any night. The cloying smell of oversweetened iced tea suddenly clogged her nostrils.

“How about we watch a movie instead?” she suggested quickly.

“At the theater or here?”

She thought of the vast, darkened room, the sea of staring anonymous faces.

“Let’s stay here,” she said.

She led him to the old trunk that sat beside her large console television. She watched him shuffle through the DVD boxes, discarding most of them without a second glance. He paused on
Rear Window
.

“You like Hitchcock?” she asked.

“Are you kidding? I love Hitchcock.
Psycho
’s one of my favorite films.”
 

“And
Vertigo
?”

“Jimmy Stewart’s best performance.”

She sat forward. “He’s better in
Rear Window
.”

“I have a confession to make.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen it.”

He nodded. “It’s true.”

“That’s it,” Julia said, downing the rest of her wine. “Grab your glass. We’re watching it tonight.”

April, 1982

Things happened fast. Sam didn’t dare think about how fast, choosing instead to forge ahead with the relationship as if scampering over a log that spanned a creek, afraid to stop for fear of falling. After a few dates, he was deeply, dangerously in love, and there was no going back, no returning to the safe side of the creek.

She didn’t talk about her work, and he got so he didn’t want to hear about it either. What she did share scared him, made him credit the stories the guys at the mill told on break. The ones about Carver killing his big brother, Carver’s wife throwing some Mexican gal through the window. The worst of all was the one about the children, and for his own peace of mind he chose not to believe it. Barbara couldn’t be working in a place with people like that.

It kept him up nights.

When Grace Kelly climbed over the balcony into Raymond Burr’s apartment, Paul became aware of Julia’s shoulder pressing against his. He’d sensed her burrowing into the couch as the movie’s suspense grew, but this was the first time he’d felt her body. That citrus smell grew stronger, like freshly sliced oranges, but somehow purer even than that. Summery and vibrant and suffused with what must be the natural fragrance of her skin.

She stayed huddled into him until the movie ended, and when it did, she stretched, leaned against the arm of the couch with hugged knees and gave him an expectant look.

“Well?”

He chuckled. “It was wonderful.”

But instead of seeming pleased, a pensive look darkened her face. He watched her brush a stray lock of black hair out of her eyes, a gesture he was sure was unconscious but that made him feel a little queasy inside.
What the hell are you doing with this girl?
an incredulous voice asked him.
Isn’t it time to stop the charade?

But I like this charade
, he thought, and did his best to subdue his escalating insecurity.

Without looking up, she said, “Can I ask you a serious question?”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It isn’t about you personally.” She glanced at him. “It’s about men in general.”
 

“Did I leave the toilet seat up?”

“I don’t know, did you?”

He considered. “I don’t remember.”
 

She arched an eyebrow.

“I think so,” he said.

“What I was wondering,” she went on, “is whether men really only care about one thing.”
 

Paul took his time about it, mulled over the least offensive responses at his disposal. He said, “I assume we’re not talking about football.”
 

She gave him a wan smile.

He cleared his throat. “Before I answer, could I ask you a question?”

“I guess.”
 

“Are you asking because of a bad experience?”

He’d never seen anyone visibly pale before, but Julia did. For a moment he really thought she might faint. “I’ve met a few jerks,” she said quietly, “but mostly it’s something I’ve read about. They say sex is the second-strongest need a man has.”
 

“What’s number one?”
 

“Being admired.”

“And sex is second to that?”
 

She took a long sip of wine, but her eyes never left his.

He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t think I can speak for an entire gender.”
 

“Speculate.”
 

He glanced at the blackened television screen. “I guess it’s important to most of us, sure. But not every guy treats women badly because of that desire.”
 

He glanced at her hopefully.

“That’s a pretty good answer,” she said.

He tried not to show his relief. “Thanks,” he said.

“You really liked the movie?” she asked.

“I told you I did.”
 

She appraised him a moment longer, then nodded. “Okay. Then you’ll get another date.”

And though he laughed with her at that, he wondered if she’d been joking.

They had two more dates the next week. One to the local theater—a crappy thriller about a psychic child and his overacting mother—and one to a restaurant Paul thought too expensive by half.

He knew he’d have to bring her to Watermere sooner or later, but his lack of housekeeping and his complete inability to cook anything fancier than spaghetti had put him off asking. On their last date, she’d mentioned Watermere twice, which meant she was either curious about the old place—a likely proposition given the proximity to her own house and the urban legends about Myles Carver she’d no doubt heard—or maybe she just wanted to see where he spent his days and nights. Put him in context, so to speak.

A week’s cleaning and airing out did little to allay his fears. He was insecure about their age difference as it was, and something about the age of the place—the antiquated décor, the mustiness, the lingering stink of Myles Carver—brought acutely home to him what he was up against. He was thirty-seven and unemployed. True, he’d sent the novel to a couple of places, and neither had rejected him yet, but that didn’t make him a writer.

At least he’d been drinking less since meeting Julia. Though his nerves demanded alcohol, he’d cut himself off after two drinks on each of their dates. More significantly, he’d begun to run up and down the lane to shrink some of the padding around his waist. After jogging up the lane and walking back, he’d measured it with the Civic’s odometer and had been disappointed to find its total length less than a mile. The angry stitch in his side claimed a greater distance, but he knew the odometer was telling the truth.

Through pain, a suffocating dread of physical exertion and one particularly nasty fit of vomiting, he’d progressed to where he could trot to the road and back without walking or collapsing. And though he hadn’t yet noticed a slimming of his waistline, he did feel a subtle increase in vigor. Even better, he’d taken to doing push-ups before bed and if he stared closely at his reflection in the bathroom mirror he thought he could see a new fullness in his chest and triceps. He knew he was no athlete, nor would he ever grace the cover of a fitness magazine. But he felt better, and that counted for a lot.

So it was that on the Fourth of July, Paul invited Julia to Watermere for the first time.

June, 1982

Myles Carver walked Barbara to the door, offered to give her a ride back to her house.

For the third day in a row she declined.

She claimed it was the nice weather, her need for exercise.

He knew better. It was her need for that cocksucker at the paper mill that had her treating Myles like a piece of fucking furniture. He got his hands on the big son of a bitch, the guy’d wish he’d never moved here.

And now the goddamn bell was ringing. He regretted giving it to her. Every time Annabel needed a drink of water, a snack, a softer goddamn pillow, she rang that bell. Slamming the front door he went to the ballroom to fix himself a stiff drink. In here, the ringing was louder than it had been in the foyer. He wondered how Annabel even managed to raise her hand in her condition, her arms and legs turning into sticks before his eyes. He wished she’d die already but knew she’d never go that easy. She had five more years in her, maybe more. The doctors said syphilis affected people in different ways. They said he should be grateful he’d not contracted it.

Grateful? Grateful for an invalid wife he couldn’t fuck even if he wanted to?
 

Christ. He drained his bourbon. Fucking doctors.