The Glass Butterfly (21 page)

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Authors: Louise Marley

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: The Glass Butterfly
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He sighed, took down the hatchet, turned off the light in the shed, and went into the house through the shattered glass door. All he could do for tonight was to lock the office from the kitchen side to keep the heat in. He had brought a frozen pizza from the grocery store, and he could bake that, then close up the kitchen, too, and isolate the living room with its intact windows and unbroken door. Sleep, he was sure, was not going to come tonight.
All of Tory's pretty china was ruined. From the jumble of kitchen things he dug up a paper plate that wasn't covered in flour or fragments of glass, and put the pizza on that. He carried it into the living room, the hatchet under one arm, and arranged himself on the couch with the pizza on the coffee table, the hatchet next to it. Before he ate, he went back to the office for the baseball bat, still lodged firmly in the track of the sliding door, and for the phone. He brought them back with him to the living room, locking the office behind him.
He didn't turn on the television, or play music. He concentrated on listening, on watching the driveway for any movement. He ate his pizza, and drank a soda. At eleven, he turned out all the lights, pulled a knitted afghan over his legs, and sat in darkness in the crook of the couch.
He had expected to be nervous through the long hours of the winter night. Instead, strangely, he found himself thoughtful, remembering things he usually tried to put out of his mind. He thought of Tory's face the day he had left for college, the determined smile as she waved good-bye, the proud, pained set of her shoulders as she turned back to her car, alone.
He had wanted, suddenly, to jump out of the train car and call to her, to tell her—what? There were no words. He was an eighteen-year-old guy who had been mean to his mother for years, and he didn't know why.
He was mean to all women, in fact. He never meant to be. He often liked a girl very much—at first. But one date, or two, at most three—just about the time the girls began to think there was something special between them—his liking would change to restiveness, to resentment, to chafing against their expectations. He couldn't understand it, but he thought it was something about restriction. About interference. Or control.
He had felt that way about Tory. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't— it wasn't real, he thought now. It was superficial, but he hadn't known what to do about it. It was all mixed up with the Garveys, with the contrast between their family life and his own. It was all mixed up with wondering about his father, then being ashamed of him. There was something beyond that, though, something he couldn't put his finger on. And now, this sheriff's deputy—all of his unease about women seemed to focus on her, seemed to be concentrated in her.
Who the hell was she? Why did he dislike her with such intensity?
Find Mom,
he thought.
I need to find Mom. I can't move forward until I do.
In the stillness, drowsiness began to overtake him. He let his head fall back against the couch cushions, and his eyelids drooped. Whatever the intruder had been looking for, it seemed clear he hadn't found it. That was why the destruction was so devastating. Whatever it was wasn't in the house, and the intruder had indulged in a spasm of anger and resentment.
Jack settled further into sleep, weary of trying to parse it all.
Just send me a clue, Mom. One hint. I'll come for you, I promise—if you could just—
Just what? She must have a reason for staying out of sight, for letting everyone—even her son—think she was dead. She never did anything without cause. It was one of the most impressive things about her, that everything she did was planned, organized, well thought out. She must have a reason for this, too, a damned good one. He wished he knew what it was.
18
Forse la perla è già trovata?
 
Perhaps this pearl has already been found?
 
—Rance,
La Fanciulla del West,
Act One
“Y
ou must have news for me.” Tory pushed the door open, and Hank Menotti followed her into the cottage. The dog went straight to the kitchen and stood waiting beside the stove, his flag of a tail waving, the corners of his mouth turned up in his canine smile.
“I see he's made himself at home,” Hank said.
Tory made herself speak as casually as she could. “Yes, he seems to be comfortable.”
“That's good. The thing is, the microchip company can't reach the dog's owners.”
A little rush of hope spurted through Tory's breast. Impulsively, she said, “I want to hear about it, Hank. Can I offer you a drink? I only have red wine, I'm afraid.”
“I'm Italian,” he said, with a deep laugh. “I love red wine.”
She brought out the two vintage glasses she'd gotten at the antiques store, and pulled a bottle of wine from the cupboard. Hank reached to take it from her, and when she took the corkscrew from a drawer, he held out his hand for that, too. For an awkward moment she was dumbstruck at the simple, chivalrous action of a man opening a bottle of wine for a woman.
She blew out a breath to settle herself, and he gave her a questioning look. “Are you okay? Were you worried?”
She took the glass he poured for her, and gestured for him to follow her into the living room. She had laid a fire earlier, and now she put a match to it. When it was burning, she took the armchair, and he sat on the couch, arranging his long legs beside the little table. She said, “I thought, when I saw you in the driveway, that you must have found the dog's owners.”
The dog, giving up hope of food for the moment, settled himself beside her chair, his chin over her right foot. Hank looked down at him, and smiled. “No,” he said. “The number they had is out of service, they tell me. I learned a bit about him, though.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. Mixed breed, as we thought. Golden retriever and one of the big terriers, I'd guess—Airedale or wheaten, something like that. Neutered, which we knew. He's four years old.”
“Are they still looking for the owners?” Tory reached down to stroke the dog's head. It had become, already, an automatic gesture.
“Unless the owners think to contact them, probably not. The company looked up the address, and there's someone else living there now.”
“It's just strange that he would end up here, all on his own.”
“Things happen. Dogs can get confused when they're staying in a rental house or a motel. Sometimes—although I hate to say it—their owners abandon them. Leave them along the road, so they don't know how to get home.”
“That's awful. Surely no one would leave a nice dog like this one.”
“He does seem like a good guy,” Hank said. “He certainly likes you.”
“Well, I saved him, I guess.” Tory's cheeks warmed. “I've never had a dog before. I don't really know how to—well, how to do anything!”
“You're doing great. And at least we know his name now.”
“That would be good! I didn't want to choose a name until I knew what would happen. I keep calling him Dog.”
Hank said, “They named him Johnson.”
The dog lifted his head, cocking it to one side and fixing Hank with a puzzled gaze.
Tory said, “Johnson? How odd.”
“You wouldn't believe what some people name their pets.”
“It's not that.” Tory put her wineglass down, and eased her foot out from under the dog's head so she could get up and go to the counter where she had put a small plastic bag. She drew out three CDs. “I found these at the library's used-book sale,” she said, holding them up. They were all operas, Mozart and Verdi and Puccini. She slid the Puccini out of the pile. “It's
Fanciulla del West,
” she said.
Hank leaned back on the small sofa, crossing one leg over the other. “Now that
is
odd,” he said. “Dick Johnson, if I remember correctly.”
“Exactly. The hero. Minnie's lover.” Tory laid the case aside, and came back to sit down in the armchair once again. She bent over the dog and lifted his chin on her hand. “Is your name really Johnson? Do you like it?”
The dog's tail beat against the floor. When she released him, he put his head over her foot again. It was possessive, in a way, but it was also comforting.
“Nice,” Hank said, smiling down at the dog. His eyes were very dark, gleaming with firelight. “One of the things I love about dogs—some dogs, anyway—is their empathy.”
Tory patted the dog again. “Johnson,” she mused. “It's so—prosaic, I guess.”
“Apparently Puccini didn't think so.” Hank chuckled, then held up his empty glass. “Mind if I have another?”
“Please do. Help yourself.” As he rose and moved back toward the kitchen, she said, “You know, Puccini didn't choose the name. It was from the Belasco play. I remember reading that Puccini didn't like any of the names—he thought they were ugly. Unmusical. Especially Minnie.”
“You're an opera buff.” Hank sank back onto the couch. “Me too.” His height made the small couch look ridiculous. Having company, in fact, made Tory uncomfortably aware of how shabby the cottage was. She thought of her own beautifully appointed living room, her shining kitchen with its glass-fronted cabinets full of china and crystal, and felt a twinge of nostalgia.
Distracted by it, she said, “I love opera. A little too much, my son would say—” She very nearly clapped her hand over her mouth when she realized what she'd said. She fumbled for her wineglass to cover her confusion, and it went flying, spilling what was left in it over the braided rug. “Oh, damn!” she exclaimed, jumping up. She hurried to grab a wet towel from the kitchen. When she got back, Hank took the towel and crouched above the rug, first soaking up the wine, then scrubbing at places where small stains showed. In moments, there was nothing but dampness to show where wine had spilled.
“You need a fresh glass,” he said, smiling up at her.
Her cheeks burned, but she nodded. “So clumsy,” she said. “I'm embarrassed.”
“Don't be.” He picked up the dropped glass, got to his feet, and went to wipe it clean and refill it. From the kitchen, he said, “You were telling me about your son?”
Tory clenched her hands together in her lap, chagrined at her slip. She had managed, all these weeks, to tell no one anything about her private life. Even Iris had ceased asking her. And now, this strange, tall man had come into her house and she had blurted out the very secret she needed to keep.
He came back, and handed over the wineglass. She said, striving for a casual tone, “He's grown now,” as if that meant there was nothing to say.
“You don't look old enough to have a grown son.”
She couldn't meet his eyes. She let her gaze drift to the paperweight, still resting where Iris had left it on the coffee table. It didn't help. Looking at it only reminded her of her dreams. A silence stretched, broken only by the dog—Johnson—yawning, turning on his side to lie flat on the rug. She wanted to say something, to fill the void, but she couldn't think of anything safe.
“Well,” Hank said at last. “It's getting late. I'd better go.”
Tory knew she had been rude. She hadn't asked him anything about himself, about his life or his family. She said awkwardly, “It was so nice of you to come and tell me.”
“Thanks for the wine.” He rose, unfolding his long frame with some difficulty from the little sofa.
“Do I—do I just keep him, then? Johnson?” She rose, too, and the dog lifted his head to watch them both.
“That's up to you,” he said. The look on his face had changed, and she was afraid she had offended him. “Otherwise he'll have to go to the shelter. They'll try to adopt him out, but—”
“No,” she said hastily. “Oh, no, I'd love to keep him. He seems to like it here.”
“Yes, I would say he likes it here.” They both looked back at Johnson, who had put his head down on his paws. Hank pulled on his coat as he walked to the door. “Let me know if you need anything for him,” he said as he put his hand on the doorknob.
“I will. I—” Tory wanted to say something else. She felt tongue-tied, fearful of offending this nice man, but more fearful of saying something to give herself away. “I really appreciate it,” she finished, knowing it wasn't enough, wishing she could manage more.
He nodded. “Right. Good night, then.”
“Good night, Hank.”
Tory stood by the window, watching the SUV back out of the short driveway. She waited until it was gone before she pulled the curtains, as if that would erase the inadequacy of her conversation. The little house seemed emptier than ever when she was alone again. She picked up the wineglasses and carried them to the sink. Her own was still half full, but she poured it out. She scooped up dog food from the bag the reluctant Shirley had given her, and filled the dog dish. Johnson jumped up at the rattle of kibble in the dish, and padded into the kitchen.
Tory watched him munching for a moment, but she was thinking about Hank. In all the years since her marriage had ended, there had been no men in her life. Kate had tried, once or twice, to introduce her to someone, but Tory had been busy with her practice, with raising Jack, with keeping up her house. As Kate had said, with a shake of the head, she was naturally solitary. But this—this utter emptiness—it was all but unbearable. Everyone she loved thought she was dead, and in a way, she
felt
as if she had died. As if the Tory Lake she had always been was gone, buried, truly vanished.
Who would Paulette Chambers be? Was there ever to be any happiness for her? Or, failing happiness, peace?
Johnson went to sit by the front door, and Tory guessed he needed to go out. She pulled on her bedraggled jacket, and the two of them went out again, side by side. They crossed the road to go down to the dark beach, where Tory stood shivering inside her jacket, waiting as the dog sniffed the sand and lifted his leg on pieces of driftwood. More lights shone now from the houses up and down the beach, people arriving for their Christmas holidays. As she and Johnson went back through the gate, the light from the cottage's windows seemed muted, cooler than the lights in other people's houses. Tory paused for a moment, looking at it. She knew it was her imagination, but that didn't alter the impression.
“How did it get to be this way, Johnson?” she asked aloud. He wagged his tail and panted. “Right,” she told him. “It just happened. It's not fair, though.” His ears turned toward her. “This is why lonely people have dogs,” she said. “So they're not talking just to themselves.” He grinned at her, and she tugged at his ears. “I'm glad they couldn't find your people,” she whispered as she opened the front door. “I know it's selfish, but I don't care. It's the best thing that's happened to me in quite a while.”
She hung up her coat, then added a small log to the fireplace. She stood in front of it, thinking, watching the flames begin to flicker around the new piece of wood. Johnson flopped onto the rug again. Silence filled the cottage, broken only by the crackle of the fire and Johnson's occasional sigh.
Tory went into her bedroom to find the CD player Iris had given her. She carried it out, and set it beneath the lamp, where the cord could reach the outlet. She took the Mozart CD—
Don Giovanni,
with Octavia Voss singing Donna Anna—and put it into the machine. The familiar overture began. She leaned against the fireplace, listening for several moments, thinking how much like an opera her life had become. When Donna Anna began to rail at Don Giovanni in the first act, Tory suddenly straightened, and went back to her bedroom.
She opened the bottom drawer of the bureau, and took out the file that had lain untouched for two months. She carried it back to the fireplace, her heart thudding with the urgency of her wish to wipe it out, to make it go away. She moved the screen, and knelt in front of the fire, the folder in both hands. Her heart raced even faster as she held it out to the flames, an offering to whatever power there might be that could remove the story of Ellice Gordon from her conscience forever.
The corners of the folder had just begun to char when she snatched the file back, and pressed the sparks from the cardboard. She sat back on her heels, her mouth dry, the pounding of her heart beginning to ease. The dog was sitting up now, watching her, as she laid the folder to one side, and replaced the fire screen.
She stood up, retrieving the folder from the floor. She sat on the sofa, and opened the file on the little table, moving the paperweight to one side to make room. Ellice Gordon's statistics—birth date, occupation, marital status, health insurance—were on an evaluation sheet stapled to the inside front of the folder, and her own notes, pages of lined paper, were clipped opposite, neatly dated, the most recent on top. She smoothed them with her hand, but she didn't read them. There was no need.

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