The Secret Between Us (20 page)

“And Dad?”

“Dad’ll be angry. But he’ll cover for me. He’ll be thinking of last Saturday, when
he
didn’t show up, or maybe of this morning when he behaved like an asshole. He’s probably feeling guilty. He hasn’t called my cell.” She had a thought. “Maybe he’s writing me out of the practice. Wouldn’t
that
be something?”

“Deborah. You don’t want that.”

She smiled sadly. “No. The practice works for me.”

“It works for him, too. If he can’t understand that this is a rough time for you and that you need him right now, shame on him.”

“Dad? Can we talk?”
Deborah asked from the door of his office.

Michael was at his desk reading. One hand held the pen that was filling out forms, the other half a calzone from the Italian restaurant down the street. A bottle of Diet Coke stood nearby, half-filled with what was clearly a dark liquid. If he was drinking something else, there was no evidence of it.

Eyeing her over his glasses, he asked in a reasonable enough tone, “Where’ve you been? It’s been a zoo here.”

“I’m sorry. I had an emergency with Dylan’s eyes. I had to take him into Boston.”

Michael put down the calzone. “What’s the problem?” When Deborah explained, he was visibly upset. “
Both
eyes now?”

“Aidan says it happens.”

“His eyesight will get worse before it gets better?”

“Looks that way,” Deborah said. “Dylan’s great. He insisted on going to school. Me, I’m barely beginning to process what it means. If I’m in denial, so be it. There’s absolutely nothing I can do about it right now. I just…need to talk with you.”

Michael tossed the pen aside. “If you want to talk about your sister, save your breath. I don’t know what to say. I never have when it comes to Jill.”

“Then let’s talk about Mom,” Deborah suggested.

His mouth thinned. “If you’re going to say she’d be pleased, you can save your breath there, too. This wouldn’t have happened if she’d been alive.”

“Dad, Jill’s thirty-four. She’d have done this with or without Mom’s blessing.”

“No. Your mother knew how to deal with you girls.” Removing his glasses, he sat back. “Good God, Deborah, how could you not tell me about this?”

“I didn’t know.” How lovely it was to be able to honestly say that! “Jill wanted to do this on her own.”

“But I’m her father
and
a doctor. By the way, do we know the doctor she used?”

“Burkhardt. She’s good.”

He gave a grunt. “At least your sister’s learned that much.”

“She’s learned a lot more, Dad. She knew that she wanted a family. That’s what the whole half-sibling thing is about. She wants her child to have family.”

He grunted again and looked away. “That doesn’t say much for her opinion of us.”

“I don’t take it personally,” Deborah said. “My kids are older than Jill’s will be, and, besides, the moms will be a support group for her.”

Michael frowned. “We can’t be that?”

“Dad,” Deborah reminded him, “you weren’t exactly jumping for joy.”

“Are
you
okay with this?” he asked.

“Now that the initial shock has worn off? Yeah, I am. I always knew Jill loved kids. She’s been fabulous with mine. I always knew she wanted her own. I let myself think of the bakery as her baby, but it isn’t.”

Michael looked down and pursed his lips.

Deborah knew what he was thinking, but she didn’t have the energy to get into that argument again. Besides, the issue of the bakery was old news. “Jill does things her own way.”

“Every child needs a father.”

“In an ideal world, yes. But maybe our definition of ‘ideal’ needs to change. Look at our practice. We’ve seen physical abuse. We’ve seen emotional neglect. A bad dad can be worse than no dad. Besides, it’s not like Jill’s baby will be unique. Half the families in town are either blended or made up of a single parent.”

“And that,” Michael declared, “is why humans, like me, live only so long and then die. The world changes too much for us to accept. The beliefs we’ve lived by for decades become obsolete. If you’d ever told me both of my daughters would be raising children in nontraditional homes, I’d have said you were crazy.” He opened his arms as if to hold a dream, then let them drop. “I wanted better. For both of you. What’s happening? Since your mother’s been gone, it’s all fallen apart.”

“Nothing that’s happened since she died wouldn’t have happened anyway,” Deborah pointed out.

“You’re wrong, missy. She’d have held things together.”

“How?” Deborah argued. “What would she have done? Asked Greg not to leave and, shazam, he’d have stayed? Found a man for Jill and, presto, Jill would have fallen in love? Mom would have been a buffer, that’s all. She would have helped you over the bumps in our lives.”

“Since when do I need help?” he asked indignantly, but Deborah refused to back down.

“Since she died. Mom was always there for you. She filtered things. Now that you don’t have her, things seem worse.”

He shook his head. “She’d have held it together. I mean, Christ, look at your sister. Look at
you
. I got a call this morning from an investigator wanting to know what our relationship is with John Colby.”

Deborah tensed. “What kind of investigator?”

“He was from the district attorney’s office,” Michael said, “which is apparently investigating your accident.”

If the state police report had cleared her of criminal wrongdoing, the involvement of the district attorney had to do with civil charges. Definitely
not
what she wanted to hear. “Was it just a phone call, or did they stop by?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I don’t know. I’m just trying to figure out what it was about.” Likely nothing, she told herself. Just a question or two. But why ask about John?

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Michael said sweetly. “Polite as the fellow was, I didn’t have the time to chat with him, because I was running from one patient to the next trying to cover for you.”

“But he did mention the D.A.’s office?”

“Yes, and not once in my entire life have I had a call like that.” He went on the attack—eyes flashing. “This family doesn’t
do
things that bring the D.A.’s office snooping. You said it was a simple accident. You said you weren’t doing anything wrong. Why in the hell would the D.A.’s office be wanting to know about our relationship with John? Our medical files are privileged. If our patients think that we’re talking, we could lose half our caseload.”

Deborah was more worried about Grace than about their practice. Calls from the D.A.’s office would increase the burden the girl was carrying.

Wondering what the chances were that the call to her father would be the end of it, Deborah said, “We won’t lose patients. The D.A.’s office isn’t asking for medical information.”

“They’re asking for something, and maybe it’s just the start. I don’t know what happened that night, but I’m telling you, if your mother had been alive—”

“—nothing would be different!” Deborah cried. “
Enough,
Dad. Mom could not have done a single thing to prevent that accident!”

His eyes were wide. “She left me with a mess. What was she thinking?”

“She didn’t
plan
to die,” Deborah shouted, beside herself.

“Damn right she didn’t plan it, but she died, and where did that leave me? We were supposed to grow old together. We were supposed to travel and enjoy the benefits of working for so long. She was supposed to live longer than me.” He seemed suddenly bewildered.

In that instant, distracted as she was, Deborah understood where Michael was coming from. Anger was a stage of grief.

Leaning over his desk with tears in her eyes, she said, “Listen to me, Dad. When Dylan’s first cornea went bad, I grieved for the perfect child he should have been. I told myself that the diagnosis was wrong. I bargained with God—you know, make his eyes right and I’ll do anything. When that didn’t work I was absolutely
furious
that my child had to face this. In the end I had no choice. I had to accept it, because that was the only way I could help Dylan.” She straightened. “Grieving is a process. Anger is part of it.” She paused. “Right now, you’re angry that Mom left you alone. But you’re taking it out on Jill and me, and we both need you. You can drink all you want—” she raised a quick hand when his eyes darkened, “but it doesn’t help, Dad. We
need
you.”

Chapter 16

Deborah phoned John, but he knew nothing about the D.A.’s investigation. She called Hal, was told he was in court, and left a message. Having no information, she said nothing to Grace when she called to check on Jill. She called Greg, but had to leave a message there, too.

She saw patients through the afternoon, and each one, it seemed, had an ongoing issue with loss, from the woman who had lost her job, to the one who had lost her house, to the one who had lost her husband and wasn’t able to sleep, or work, or enjoy her grandchildren. Deborah found herself talking repeatedly about unresolved anger.

Just as she was getting ready to head to the bakery, Karen called. Her voice held an element of fear.

“I think something’s wrong,” she said.

Deborah felt a split second’s panic. “What kind of something?”

“I have a headache that isn’t going away. It’s been a week now.”

A symptom not to be dismissed; still, Deborah had seen her during that time. Her panic eased. “A week?”

“Well, maybe not a week. Maybe three or four days.”

“Why haven’t you told me?” Deborah asked. She put the strap of her bag on her shoulder and picked up her paperwork.

“Because I hate reporting every little ache and pain, and I told myself it was nothing. I do forget about it when I’m busy, but as soon as I stop, it’s right there again. It isn’t debilitating, but it nags.” She raced on. “You’re right about what happens every year around the anniversary of my mastectomy, so I’ve been telling myself it’s nothing, but what if it isn’t?”

Deborah left her office. The door to her father’s was open. He had already left. “Where is the pain?”

“It kind of wanders, sometimes around the back, sometimes around the front.”

“Is it causing you nausea or vomiting?” Deborah asked as she put the papers on the business manager’s desk.

“No.

“And I know you’ve been doing the elliptical, so we can assume there’s no loss of feeling in your arms or legs.” She flipped off the lights. “I truly don’t think it’s anything serious, K,” she said as she punched in the alarm. “You can always have an MRI, but let’s see if there might be another cause.”

“Like
what
?” Karen asked. Clearly, she could think of one cause and one cause alone.

Deborah understood that. “Eye strain. Those new sunglasses you bought. Maybe the prescription is wrong.” She went out and locked the door.

“The prescription’s the same. I only got new frames.”

“Okay, if it’s not eye strain, it could be muscle strain. Are you feeling any tightness at the back of your neck?”

“Yes.”

“That would do it,” Deborah said as she got to her car. It was the only one left in the lot.

“Even when the headache’s at the front of my head?”

“It may be hormonal.”

“My period ended a week ago.”

“Could be that your cycle is shifting.”

“Shifting—as in
menopause
? I’m too young!”

“Not as in menopause, just shifting, but it could also be from fatigue.” There were more causes for headache than Deborah could count. “How are you sleeping?”

“Poorly.” Sounding discouraged now, Karen added, “I spend half my night looking at Hal.”

“Why?” Deborah asked, but she knew what was coming. Her gut had told her that this was the root of the problem.

“He sleeps like a log. He never used to, Deborah. He used to be the one who was up a lot during the night. He said he was always thinking about work—just couldn’t turn it off. Is he suddenly
not
thinking about work? And it’s not like he’s exhausted from making love. We rarely do it. And today? I haven’t been able to reach him. Lately, I
never
can reach him. I’ve been testing him, calling for little reasons, just to see, and I leave messages. I don’t necessarily ask him to call me back—he hates nagging—but you’d think he’d feel that at least some things I’m asking deserve an answer. Either he’s legitimately busy, or he doesn’t want to talk to me.”

Deborah wanted to say,
fuck him,
which was fine and dandy for her, but didn’t help Karen. So she said, “I don’t think you need to worry about a brain tumor. Your headache’s from tension.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“Neither is cancer, and that’s always a concern, but I don’t think that is what’s causing your headache.”

“You think it’s from Hal,” said Karen. “But I’m probably being ridiculous. You said it yourself—he’s a good-looking man. It’s just that I keep in shape and color my hair to hide the gray and spend a fortune on moisturizers to make my skin
glow,
and when he doesn’t seem to notice, I imagine something’s wrong. It’s not like there’ve been any more calls. I’m sure you were right about that, too—just some woman who wishes she could have him and, since she can’t, she wants to cause trouble.” Her voice changed. “I’m imagining this. Absolutely.” She sighed. “Okay, I feel better. Thanks, Deb.”

Deborah felt slightly
ill. She knew Hal was having an affair, knew it as much as she could without hard evidence, but she couldn’t say anything to Karen. What good would it do? And if she was wrong?

Hal didn’t return her call, either.

Greg did. His response to Dylan’s diagnosis was to repeatedly ask how Deborah could have missed the signs of trouble. He was upset. He needed someone to blame. But she was feeling guilty enough on her own.
I asked; he denied it. I asked again; he denied it again. I kept a close eye on him, but at what point does my own concern cause his? And what harm was the small delay? Dylan’s glasses address his hyperopia. There is nothing to be done about corneal dystrophy until he’s old enough for a transplant.

“All valid points,” Greg acknowledged, “except that if you’d told me sooner, I could have talked with him. You need to share these things, Deborah. I’m still his father.”

“Well, now you know,” she said, frustrated. “By the way—not that you asked how I could talk so freely—Dylan and Grace are at Jill’s. I’m on my way to pick up Lívia’s dinner and bring it back there. Jill’s pregnant and has to be in bed.”

“
Jill’s
pregnant?” he asked. “Good for Jill. Not getting married, I gather? She’s some free spirit. Maybe I married the wrong sister.”

Deborah was tired enough to explode. “She was sixteen when we met, which means that you’d have been charged with statutory rape.” She couldn’t resist adding, “You’d have been labeled a dirty old man for life—and besides, you didn’t
want
a free spirit back then. You wanted a very stable woman, or so you told me, unless you were lying through your teeth. And what makes you think my sister would have even wanted
you
?”

Deborah stopped herself, realizing that the anger was still there—that her divorce was yet another unresolved issue in her life—when she turned a corner and spotted a gray car parked in front of her house.

“Can we discuss this another time?” she asked tensely. Before Greg could answer, she said, “Gotta run,” and ended the call. She studied the car as she cruised slowly down the street. There were two men in the front. She pulled into the driveway, but didn’t open the garage door. Cell phone in hand, she climbed out. She waited while the two men did the same.

Both wore suits. The man in the lead was slightly older and heavier. “Dr. Monroe?” he asked in a pleasant enough voice.

“Yes?”

“My name’s Guy Fielding. My partner’s Joe McNair. We’re detectives with the D.A.’s office. Wonder if we could talk with you for a minute?”

Deborah swore silently. She didn’t want to talk with them. Grace would absolutely
lose
it when she found out. But her options were few. She could refuse to talk, but that would be a sign of guilt. She could get back in her car and lock the doors, but that was childish. She could try to drive off, but then they might follow her.

“Do you have ID?” she finally asked.

Both reached into their jackets and produced badges. The pictures matched the faces.

Politely, she asked, “Could you tell me what this is about?”

“There was an accident last week. We have a few questions.”

“I believe I answered everything that the police asked me at the time.”

“That’s correct. We’ve read the report you filed. We just have a few more.”

She nodded. Without asking permission, she opened her phone and tried calling Hal. His office was closed, and he didn’t answer his cell. She ended the call without leaving a message, and tried John. Carla patched her through to him at home.

“Hey, it’s Deborah. I have two men here at my place. They say they’re with the D.A.’s office.”

“State police detectives assigned to the D.A.’s office,” Guy Fielding put in.

Deborah repeated it for John. “Do I have to talk with them?”

“No, but you probably should,” John said. “I checked with the D.A. after you called me before. You can be honest with them. There’s nothing to hide.”

If only he knew. The thought of talking with the state police was frightening.

Raising a hand to keep the detectives where they were, she went to the far side of the driveway and said quietly into the phone, “I don’t understand why they’re here. I thought the accident report cleared me.”

“The widow went to the D.A. and made a complaint.”

A civil suit. Deborah hadn’t wanted to think about it when her father mentioned their call. “A complaint about what?”

“She’s upset the local police haven’t filed charges, so she went to the D.A. She was waiting at his office when it opened this morning. He told her he was familiar with the case since it involved a death, but that the decision to charge anyone is made at the local level. She’s claiming a cover-up. No surprise there.”

“There was no cover-up.”

“We know that,” John said, sounding uncharacteristically perturbed, but how often had he been at the wrong end of an investigation, Deborah wondered? “It was the state team that cleared you.”

“Yet on her say-so alone the D.A. can file charges?”

“No. That’s getting ahead of things. He won’t do anything unless there’s cause. His job is to take a fresh look at the case. If we had found you negligent, she’d likely have been satisfied. With the recon team just now clearing you, the timing is pretty coincidental.”

There was another coincidence Deborah didn’t want to think about. She had talked with Tom last night, and the widow had run to the D.A. this morning. “What about her husband’s bizarre behavior?” Deborah asked John. “The D.A. should be wondering about
him
.”

“He is. But talking with you is part of the process. His men’ll be talking with me and will probably want to talk with Grace.”

Dread settled in the pit of her stomach. “Why?”

“She was in the car. We didn’t interview her, so this is probably good.”

Deborah didn’t think it was good at all. Grace was shaky enough without official questions.

“Do I need Hal here?” she asked. For all his faults, Hal did know the law.

“Can you reach him?” John asked.

“No.”

“Then talk with the men now. You can be honest.”

Deborah nodded. “Okay.” She would gladly talk with them if they would spare Grace.

Ending the call, she walked back to the men.

Guy Fielding gestured toward the house. “Would you like to go inside?”

Absolutely not,
Deborah thought. She wasn’t opening
her
home to men who were looking to prolong an agony that was very personal in so many ways.

“This is fine,” she said and, pushing her hair off her face, leaned against the car. “It’s a nice night.” And while the sun had dropped low enough to silhouette the trees, there was still a lingering warmth.

“I take it that was John Colby,” the lead detective said.

Too late, she realized that she had spoken his name into the phone, not a wise move if the charge was a cover-up. That said, she hadn’t done anything wrong, not where John was concerned.

“He’s our police chief,” she explained. “He’s been in charge of the investigation here. He verified that you are who you say.”

“Do you talk with him often?”

“No more so than anyone else in a town this small.”

“But you have talked with him about the accident.”

“Yes,” she said. “He was at the scene right after it happened. He asked questions. I answered them. I saw him again the next day when I went to the police station to file an accident report.”

“And you talked then?”

“About filing the report. He gave me the form and told me how many copies I needed to file.”

“Has he been here at your house since the accident?”

“We’re not social friends.”

“No, but has he been here?”

She tried to think back. The days since the accident were starting to blur. “He came here on the day of Calvin McKenna’s funeral. There had been an…incident at the cemetery. He wanted to know what happened.”

“Your presence upset the widow,” the second detective put in.

Deborah guessed that Mrs. McKenna had given them quite an account. “The funeral was open to the town. I wanted to go.”

“So John Colby came here afterward,” Fielding went on. “How did he find out what happened?”