Together Alone (10 page)

Emily was delighted that he knew the case. She certainly couldn’t discuss it with Doug. “But there were no witnesses. Hauptmann’s wife protested his innocence to the end.”

“What about the later threats against the Lindberghs? Did Lindy make those?”

“He could have,” she said, because anything was possible when minds were warped. “I’m not saying he did. But he was a complicated person.”

“Many people are. There aren’t always answers to why they do what they do. Motive is right up there with murder weapon in making or breaking a case. That’s most often what the all-nighters are about.”

“Have you ever been involved in the search for a missing child?”

“In New York? Sure. Kids disappear there all the time.”

“Do you find them?”

“Depends on the situation. If a kid is just lost, separated from a parent, he’ll show up. If he’s abducted, things become more dicey. We usually get them back if there’s money involved, where the intention all along is to make an exchange. If the abduction is the result of a custody battle, it could go either way. If perversion is involved—sex or insanity—it’s not good.”

“Because the family isn’t contacted, so there’s no trail?”

“Partly. And because we’re dealing with crazies. They can be brilliant covering tracks. They can lie convincingly.”

Emily swallowed. It was a harrowing thought. “Did you ever work on a case where the victim was gone for years?”

“Six years, once.”

“How did you crack it?”

“We got a tip.”

“Hey!” came a bark from downstairs. “Is anyone home?”

Not now,
Emily cried silently, resenting the interruption. But then, that was foolish. Her discussion with Brian would hold. There was no urgency, after all.

“Must be the floor man,” she sighed and rose. “He’s doing the bathroom this afternoon.

By late Tuesday, the flooring was in, a simple brick pattern in a pale gray faux-marble that Emily assured Brian wouldn’t show dirt. She also convinced him that bathroom walls papered with vinyl would withstand both moisture and a child better than bare paint, and that a child’s room papered with vinyl had greater potential for excitement. She drove into town and found several rolls of a handsome navy and gray plaid, and several rolls of primary-color paint streaks on a glossy white field, and began measuring out strips for the bathroom and for Julia’s room, respectively, while Brian put the finishing touches on the arched window.

By Wednesday the bathroom was done and the kitchen had arrived. By Thursday the cabinets had been installed and the appliances were delivered. By Friday the appliances were functional, as were new, bright, modern light fixtures.

“Not bad for a first week,” Brian decided, looking around.

Emily agreed. They both looked vaguely worse for the wear, slightly dirty, generally sweaty, and more than a little tired, but they had plenty to show for it. “We may finish next week, after all,” she remarked.

“Doubted me, huh?”

“Maybe a little, at first. But I’m learning.”

“We’ll start the walls on Monday.”

“I may start tomorrow. Doug’s been delayed.” She tried for nonchalance, but she was upset. He had called last night, apparently for the sole purpose of telling her, since he hadn’t had anything else to say. He refused to talk about his week, and when she told him about work on the apartment, he answered with bored uh-huhs. Five minutes, and he’d been off the phone with what she guessed was relief.

“Is everything all right?” Brian asked. He was studying her with those iridescent eyes that saw too much.

“Yes,” she said, smiled, frowned, shook her head. “No. I wanted to have both nights. I’m disappointed. It’s scary with him gone so much.”

“Scary staying alone?”

“No. Scary—” she gestured, hard put to say the words aloud—“his work. No free time.”

What was scary was the thought that this was her life. Doug wasn’t apologizing. He wasn’t saying things would change. Whenever she alluded to loneliness, he got angry, as though it were her fault, something she had brought on herself.

Maybe it was. But that didn’t ease the hurt, or the confusion. If she couldn’t get through to Doug, where were they
headed?

“Want to come shopping with Julia and me tomorrow?” Brian asked. “We’re buying furniture.”

Something inside her lifted. It was a better offer than Doug had made her in weeks. “When are you going?”

“We’re flexible. When’s good for you?”

She and Kay were spending the morning pampering Celeste, but otherwise she was free. “Noon? One? Two?” She was without pride.

“Noon.” He grinned. “See you then.”

They bought a long oak-framed sofa that opened to a large bed, and two matching side chairs. They bought a low coffee table, a large wardrobe, several book-shelves, and a table and chairs, all in the same warm oak. They bought two large impressionistic landscapes for the main room, and two small circus prints for Julia’s room. They bought a rattan coat tree.

Everything was scheduled for delivery the following Friday.

Doug came home in time for dinner Saturday night. Emily served a rack of lamb that had been absurdly expensive, a
Silver Palate
pasta dish that had been absurdly complicated, and fresh broccoli. She had made an English trifle for dessert.

It was an ominous choice.

Doug took a bite, chuckled softly, and announced that he was going to London for two weeks.

Emily was startled. “Two
weeks?
”

“This is a new account. A good one. There’s a whole day of travel at either end.”

“But that’s twelve days there. You
never
spend twelve days straight working on one account.”

“This is London, Emily. It’s a new door opening to me.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said, trying to see his point. “But where does it leave us?”

“A little more comfortable financially.”

She felt a sudden fury at his insensitivity, his
blitheness.
“Damn the money. Where does it leave
us?
”

“What are you talking about?”

“Us, Doug. You and me. Our marriage. The time we’re supposed to be spending together now that Jill is away.”

“I don’t know who told you about that time.” He tossed his napkin on the table and rose. “It’s a fantasy.” He walked off.

“Wait! Let’s talk about this!”

He turned back with a long-suffering look. “What’s there to say? It’s my business. What can I do?”

“Change it. Shorten it. You don’t need to go so far.” She sounded desperate. She
was
desperate. Her husband was growing less and less familiar to her, more and more distant. She felt that if she reached out to pull him back, he might just slip through her fingers and dissolve.

“Are you kidding?” he countered. “I’ve been waiting for years for this kind of contract to come through. I’m not giving it up.”

“Can I come?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It isn’t appropriate.”

“Why not? I can spend the day at museums.”

“And then what? What’ll you do at night when I’m working with people over dinner?”

“I’ll listen in. I can be a pleasant dinner companion.”

“Now, what would you have to say to those people?” he asked, stopping just shy of a belittling laugh. “Absolutely nothing. Your world and theirs are light-years apart.”

“And yours?” she asked, thinking of the man who had once lived in jeans, an honest smile, and a healthy sweat.

He was slower in answering, but no less confident. “Mine is somewhere in the middle. I want it to move closer to theirs in the course of this trip. Don’t you understand,” he pleaded, “this could be a breakthrough for me. It could mean the beginning of an international reputation. Do you know what that’s worth?”

It struck Emily then that he wasn’t hearing her. He had no idea what she was trying to say, and, worse, he didn’t care. They were at opposite ends of a marital spectrum. She might as well be his maid, given his level of involvement with her.

That thought shook her from head to toe.

“I’ll be in the den,” he said.

She carried the dishes to the sink, loaded the dishwasher, then turned back to the table, where the English trifle sat. It was a beautiful creation, a froth of berries, sherry-soaked cake, and whipped cream, as artistic as it was indecently good.

Lifting the bowl by the stem, she up-ended it in the sink and washed the lot down the drain.

Monday morning, she was back at work beside Brian, painting the walls while he labored over the wood-work. She tried not to think about Doug—thinking about him brought a pain she couldn’t do anything about—but the thoughts were as stubborn as her emotions. They ate at her, monopolizing her mind.

“Emily?”

She jumped, startled to find Brian beside her.

“You look like you’re about to cry. Is something wrong?”

She shook her head. “Just thinking about things I shouldn’t.”

“Like what?”

She sighed. “Like getting old.” It was true, in a sense. That was what life after kids was about, deciding how to spend the rest of one’s days.

“You have a while to go.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. I said it for my benefit, seeing as I’m the same age as you.”

He gave her a sweet smile and returned to work, leaving Emily to wonder why Doug never smiled at her that way. But then, Doug was her husband. They had been married for twenty-two years. They had a life together, had shared a major trauma.

Traumas either brought people together or drove them apart. Since she and Doug remained married, she had always assumed the former. Now she wondered.

By dusk Wednesday, the painting was done. Early Thursday, they sanded the wood floor. By the end of the day, they had lacquered the planks and left to allow them to dry.

“This calls for a celebration,” Brian said. “Got any beer in your fridge?”

Emily did it one better, uncorking the bottle of champagne that had come so long ago with her book. Since Doug didn’t want to drink it, much less acknowledge its existence, she saw no harm in sharing it with Brian.

He raised his glass. “To a job well done.”

She took a sip, then sat back against the rocks. They were in the backyard by the pond. The late afternoon was serene.

“This captures what I first saw in that apartment,” Brian said, looking out over the pond. “The peace. It’s what Julia and I both need.”

“I’m glad. I hope it works for you.”

“And you?”

She looked at him, bemused, but only for a minute. His eyes—those penetrating eyes—said that she couldn’t fool him. “Maybe for me, too, some day,” she confessed and felt a lump form in her throat.

“Not now?”

She waited for the lump to shrink. “Now’s a difficult time. Things are changing.”

“With Jill?”

“And Doug.”

“Are there problems between you?”

Problems? She sighed and looked up at the leaves. “I suppose you could say that.” The lump in her throat returned.

“Want to talk about it?”

She didn’t look at him, afraid that if she did, she would cry. He was such a nice man. He was gentle and understanding in ways she hungered for.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “We haven’t known each other long. But we have the makings of a friendship. I respect what you’ve done with your life.”

She had no idea why. “I haven’t done much.”

“You don’t call making a home much? Or raising a child much? Or waiting around for your husband much?”

“It’s not like having an occupation. Not like what your wife did.”

“There was a trade-off. She wasn’t a mother or wife like you are. She didn’t have the patience for it, or the self-confidence.”

Emily did look at him then. “Self-confidence? From what you’ve told me, she could handle herself in any situation. If
she
was invited to London for two weeks, she would have had plenty to say at dinner.”

“She needed a paycheck. That was the only way she could judge her success. She wanted a child, but she couldn’t give up the other. She didn’t have the self-confidence to say to her colleagues, ‘Okay, guys, it’s family time.’” He paused. “No self-confidence. No desire.” He rubbed his eyebrow. “No desire. The bottom line.”

Like Doug, Emily thought, and sure enough, looking at Brian, whose face was a work of kindness etched in strength, she felt her eyes fill. Doug didn’t want to spend time with her. No desire. The bottom line.

She looked away.

“I’m a good listener,” Brian coaxed.

She nodded.

“It’s gotten worse as the week has gone on,” he remarked.

“Just thinking more,” she managed to say.

He grew quiet. She knew that he wouldn’t force her to talk, if she didn’t want to. And she did. But it was hard.

“I’ll be moving in tomorrow,” he said on a lighter note. “It’s kind of exciting.”

Yes. It was. But after two weeks in a flurry, the work was done. She didn’t know what she would do with herself come Monday.

The upstairs bathroom, probably.

But why? Doug was never there. She had picked out paper with him in mind. If the bathroom were hers alone, she would have made a different choice.

She could choose different paper now. And put it up. Then see what Doug had to say about it when he deigned to visit.

Fuck you, probably. No, that was wrong. More likely, he wouldn’t even notice. He was past caring about bathroom walls. He was past caring about
her
. He had moved on.

So
where was she?
she cried and felt a catch deep inside. She put her head to her knees and tried to erase the thought.

She felt Brian’s hand on her shoulder. “Things work out,” he said, but it wasn’t his voice she heard. It was John’s, saying the same thing nineteen years before, only it was a crock. Things hadn’t worked out. Things hadn’t worked out
at all
.

She pushed up to her feet and away from Brian. “I have to go.” She took off across the grass.

He was beside her in an instant. “I want to help.”

But she couldn’t talk, couldn’t think. Guilt, fear, despair resurged inside her. Why now? she cried fleetingly, and though she didn’t have the wherewithal to formulate the answer, she felt it.