Time Off for Good Behavior (18 page)

“
Good fucking God.
”

“
No shit,
”
she said, her voice laced with a combination of frustration and mild amusement.
“
Fifty thousand dollars on my education and this is what I
’
m telling people.
”

I slouched over the kitchen counter and grabbed a hand
ful of nuts from a wooden bowl Walter had set out.
“
So what was the other thing?
”

“
Hmm?
”
she said.

“
What you were really thinking. What was it? That I
’
m evil, right?
”

“
No,
”
she said, dismissing the idea with a huff.
“
Look, thinking bad thoughts is human. E
veryone does it. It
’
s only a problem if you act on those thoughts. So unless you secured your ex a position on a boat you knew was going to sink, you need to just get over yourself and start spending your energy on things that matter.
”

Whoa.
I stopped slou
ching against the counter.
“
Really?
”

Elizabeth sighed.
“
Yes, really.
”

I smiled. I could get used to this chick.
“
If it
’
s any comfort, I liked your second answer better.
”

The food prep sounds ceased in the background.
“
You did?
”
she said.

“
Yeah. Deliver sma
ckdown next time. Works for Dr. Phil.
”

She laughed.
“
Yeah, well, Dr. Phil
’
s not a single mom with a lawsuit hanging over her head.
”
There was a kid
’
s voice in the background. Elizabeth said something, and I could hear her give the kid a kiss.

“
So what abou
t phantom music?
”

“
I
’
m sorry?
”
she said. I sighed. She didn
’
t like the term
crazy,
but I was pretty sure
nuts
would be making an appearance soon.

“
I
’
ve been hearing phantom strands of music. Mostly at night, when I
’
m going to sleep. No one else can hear it
. Am I crazy?
”

Pause.
Yes.
“
Not necessarily. It
’
s probably just your subconscious talking.
”

“
Okay. Weird.
”

“
No, I
’
m serious.
”

“
But it started after a head injury,
”
I said.
“
Don
’
t you think that
’
s something of a coincidence?
”

“
Well, either life is full of c
oincidences, or there
’
s no such thing as coincidence,
”
she said.

“
Weird.
”

She huffed.
“
I was serious that time, too.
”

I let that go.
“
Okay, but why would my subconscious wait until I got knocked in the head to speak up?
”

She grunted.
“
Beats the shit out of
me. It
’
s your subconscious.
”

“
Yeah. Okay.
”
Moving on.
“
What was that about a lawsuit?
”

“
Oh, Christ,
”
she said, lowering her voice.
“
How much time do you have?
”

***

“
What kind of lawyer are you again?
”

Walter had just put his coat on the rack and was loo
sening his tie when I bounded out of the kitchen, sliding a bit in my socks on the hardwood floors and wiping my hands on my Billy Joel Storm Front tour T-shirt.

“
Civil.
”
He put his briefcase down and looked over my shoulder.
“
What
’
s that smell?
”

I glanced
behind me at the kitchen door.
“
The reason I ordered pizza tonight.
”

He raised an eyebrow at me.
“
What did you do?
”

“
Me?
”
I gave an innocent shrug.
“
Nothing. It
’
s my friend Elizabeth who needs a lawyer. Oh
—
did you mean in the kitchen?
”

He stepped back and
eyed me.
“
Have you been drinking?
”

“
No. I saw this recipe on the Food Network for this chicken-with-leeks dish and you didn
’
t have leeks, you had scallions, and I didn
’
t really know the difference, but... Well, it wasn
’
t pretty. But it
’
s all clean. I
’
m ju
st running the fan to clear the smoke.
”

Walter laughed and put both hands on my shoulders.
“
Take a breath, Wanda.
”

I inhaled.
“
I
’
m fine. Really. It
’
s just being in the house alone all afternoon and thinking about George... I
’
ve just got some nervous energy
I need to burn off.
”

There was a beat when the idea of burning off energy floated between us. Walter pulled his hands away from my shoulders. I stepped back. Jesus. We were worse than kids passing notes in study hall.
Do you like me? Or do you
like
like m
e?

“
So what
’
s going on with your friend?
”

“
She took her ex-husband
’
s car and drove it over his rototiller. The bastard deserved it
—
they were trying to reconcile, and she caught him sleeping with a bimbo from Hastings Flowers
—
but now he
’
s suing her for the
damage to the car and the value of the rototiller. I gave her your direct number. I hope that
’
s okay.
”

He laughed.
“
Yeah, that
’
s fine.
”
There was a long silence, then a conversational downshift.
“
Have you heard anything? About your ex-husband?
”

I shook my
head.
“
No news is good news, right?
”

He shrugged, paused.
“
Have you called the police?
”

I felt my shoulders tighten.
“
No.
”

He took off his suit jacket and placed it over the back of a chair. I shifted on my feet.

“
Walter, you just don
’
t understand.
”

He tur
ned to face me.
“
Explain it to me, then.
”

“
Calling the police is not going to help the situation.
”

“
What harm can it do?
”

“
Maybe you should ask Molly that question.
”

His face hardened. I felt regret snake its way through my gut, but I kept my eyes steely o
n his, refused to show any signs of softening. In for a penny, in for a pound.

He looked away first.

“
Excuse me,
”
he said, his eyes avoiding mine as he walked past me, down the hall to his room. I turned and watched him go, letting out a breath as the door
shut gently behind him.

“
Dammit,
”
I whispered, my eyes unconsciously floating toward the mantel in the living room, where there wasn
’
t a single picture of his dead wife. My eyes shut tight as it occurred to me for the first time that maybe, just maybe, Wa
lter
’
s trying to protect me didn
’
t have as much to do with me as I might think.

Crap.
I shouldn
’
t be here. I should be taking Edgar Dowd
’
s ten grand and blowing it in Vegas. Or drinking mai tais in Maui. Something, anything, as long as it didn
’
t involve dr
agging other people into my drama.
I
didn
’
t even want to be involved in my drama. I turned around to go back to my room and pack, but Walter was standing behind me, blocking my way.

We stared at each other for a moment of excruciating silence. He
’
d traded
his office clothes for a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that read
“
Harvard Law School.
”
I stared at his chest as he spoke.

“
You
’
re right. I don
’
t know what you
’
re going through.
”
He ran his fingers through his hair. I kept my eyes focused on the
“
Har
”
in
“
Harvard.
”

“
I just don
’
t want to see you get hurt.
”

I nodded, motioning to his chest.
“
You went to Harvard?
”

He looked down at the shirt, then back at me.
“
Yeah.
”

That moment ranks number one on my list of the Stupidest Things That Have Ever Made Me Want
to Cry. Who cared that he went to Harvard? Who cared that he was trying to save me because he couldn
’
t save her? Who cared that I would never be good enough for him, no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I changed, if I even could change?

I did.
Goddammit, I cared. And there I stood, the incurable wiseass, rendered mute by a stupid freaking sweatshirt.

Walter reached out, pulling me slowly to him. His body smelled earthy and fragrant, one part Irish Spring and two parts pure man, and for the secon
d time in five minutes, I had to swallow a lump in my throat. I tightened my grip around his waist, buried my face in his chest, inhaled deeply, and forced myself to be sincere.

“
I
’
m sorry,
”
I choked out.
“
I totally suck at letting people help me.
”

He pull
ed back a bit, his palms resting gently on either side of my neck, his thumbs tracing my jawline. My heart worked double time, pounding out what I believe was Morse code for
Kiss me.

“
Wanda.
”
His whisper was ragged, questioning. Here he was, mine for the t
aking
—
all I had to do was lean in and let fly
—
and instead, I gasped and pushed myself out of his arms.

“
You know what?
”
I said, my words stumbling over each other to get out.
“
The pizza
’
s gonna be here in a minute and I need to get my cash. Don
’
t argue. It
’
s on me. I
’
ll be right back.
”
I ran down the hallway into the Martha Stewart guest room and shut the door behind me, putting my hands over my eyes and leaning against the door, my chest heaving as I gasped for air, my heart pounding out its futile message
in Morse code:
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.