Together Alone (8 page)

“Children.”

“Not always. But often. And then there’s the heartache of the parents.”

Emily nodded. She turned to Julia, who was squatting between them. “Is that good, sweetheart? Oooops. That half got away. Here it is.” She secured the crumbly piece of donut in Julia’s little hand, and looked up to find Brian focused on the back wall. “Having second thoughts?”

“Not on your life. This is the place. It’s homey even now.”

“Needs lots of work.”

“The work will be therapeutic—for me, at least. I apologize for rushing you into this. You may have had other things to do.”

“No, the timing is actually fine. My daughter just left for college, and my husband travels a lot. I like keeping busy.”

He smiled and popped his brows, hinting that this would keep her busy enough, then he raised his eyes to the vaulted ceiling. “Any chance of getting a paddle fan up there?”

“It’s already on my list.”

His eyes returned to the back wall. “How about a window there? A tall arched one, covering the space where those two small ones are and then some. It would make the room huge, open it up to the woods.”

Emily pictured it instantly. But she hadn’t anticipated doing anything quite so grand. “Wouldn’t that involve structural work?”

“Not really. I’ve done this kind of thing before. It isn’t hard. If you spring for the window, I’ll provide the labor for free.”

She couldn’t argue with the offer. The window would remain long after Brian was gone. Labor was the expensive part.

She remembered what Doug had said. “That sounds fair enough, but the rest isn’t. You’re giving two weeks of your time.”

He looked puzzled.

“What would you like in return?”

“I’m getting the apartment in return.”

Hah! Doug was wrong! “I’ll waive the first month’s rent,” she offered.

“I’m not asking for that.”

“I know, but it seems only right.”

“Why? I volunteered to do this work. I’m looking forward to it.”

The more noble he was, the more so she wanted to be, herself. “But you ought to get something for it.” She had an idea. “I could babysit.”

“No,” he said quickly and, sheepish now, scratched the back of his head. “When I stopped at the station before, John warned me about that. He said his wife would divorce him if I used you that way.”

“You’re not using me. I’m offering.”

But his eyes said he wouldn’t be moved, and those eyes weren’t to be doubted.

“Well,” she said, “I feel awkward about this. I’m getting something for nothing. It isn’t right.”

“There is something.”

“What?”

“You could let me use your washer and dryer. I’ve had one hell of a hassle doing Julia’s wash at the motel. If I could just sneak into your basement once in a while.”

Emily smiled. “I have a better idea.” She looked at the wall where the kitchen would be. “I’ll put a vertical set in that corner and close it in with louvered doors.”

“Not necessary.”

“But it’s right,” Emily said, pleased. “Doug wanted this to be an apartment, so it should be an apartment, and apartments nowadays have washers and dryers. At least, most do.” She paused. “Don’t they?” But her mind was made up. “I want it done.”

“Yoo-hoo. Emily?”

“I’m here, Myra,” she called. To Brian, she said, “Myra makes her rounds of the neighborhood every morning. No doubt she sees your car and wants to know who’s here.” She had a thought. “You’re not driving a cruiser are you? She panics when she sees cruisers.”

“No cruiser. Just the Jeep.”

“Well, hello again,” Myra sang in a way that suggested she knew very well who was there.

Emily figured she had been sitting at her window when they arrived.

Myra bent over. “It is Julia, isn’t it? Hello, Julia.” She straightened. “And her policeman father. But you’re out of uniform, officer.”

Brian smiled. “I haven’t started working yet.”

“He’s a detective,” Emily said. “He won’t be wearing a uniform.”

“No uniform? Oh. But that is good. Less upsetting.” To Emily, in a confidential undertone, she murmured, “I haven’t said anything to Frank yet. If there isn’t any uniform, he may never have to find out.” Her eyes flew to Brian. “Unless you put those bright lights on the top of your car.”

“No bright lights,” Brian assured her. “Not coming down this street.”

“Then why are you here, if not to come down this street?”

“He’s here,” Emily said softly, “because there was an opening in our department just when he needed to get away from New York. His wife died recently. He wants a quiet place to raise Julia.”

Myra clucked her tongue. “What a
sad
story. But don’t be fooled,” she told Brian. “Grannick isn’t so quiet. Things happen here, too.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Now, I
knew
that. See, Emily, I
knew
he was here to solve things. But who’s taking care of Julia while he does that?”

“He’s arranging for day care in town.”

“Well, that’s a silly thing to do.” To Brian, brightly, she said, “I can take care of Julia. I make the most lovely tea parties under my willow. Don’t I, Emily?”

Emily touched her arm. “Julia needs to be with other children.”

“Not if she’s sick. She can’t go out then. I don’t like the idea of day care. Frank doesn’t either. He says children should be at home.” Myra turned a stern look on Brian. “If Julia is sick, you come get me and I’ll stay with her. Do you promise you’ll do that? It’s the least I can do for you, after you’ve come all this way. I make
wonderful
lace cookies. And mittens. I’ve taken
good
care of Emily—haven’t I, Emily?”

Emily put an arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the door. “Very good care. Did I tell you that we put the afghan you crocheted for Jill right on her bed at school?”

“Did you really? How nice! I miss Jill. If I make her some cookies, can we send them to her?”

“You make them, I’ll send them. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Emily waited until she was down the stairs before turning apologetically to Brian. “She is a very sweet, very harmless lady, and she does make wonderful cookies.”

Brian completed her thought. “But I shouldn’t let her babysit Julia.”

Emily felt disloyal. Still, she shook her head. “She isn’t batty, exactly. She’s perfectly lucid when it comes to most things. Her family wants to put her into a nursing home, but that would kill her—and there isn’t any need. She is entirely capable of taking care of herself. Unfortunately, she lives with Frank.”

“Is he a problem?”

“Depends on how you see it. He’s been dead for six years.”

“Oh.”

“For whatever reasons, she can’t accept it. She cooks for him, sets a place for him at the table, refers to him in conversation.”

“Were they married a very long time?”

“Yes.”

“And very close?”

“I suppose.” Emily had never quite understood the appeal. “Frank was a difficult man. Not terribly social. He drank. I don’t know if he ever hit Myra, but he was verbally abusive. I heard it more than once. He held a power over her. She was terrified of him. Quite honestly, I thought that when he died she would be freed, but it’s like she can’t let go.”

“Sad.”

“Very.” She met his gaze. “But don’t let Myra scare you away. She’s a wonderful neighbor. She’s always looked out for Jill and me, brings us food, little gifts, in exchange for our sitting with her under the willow. That’s all she wants. She isn’t dangerous.”

“I never thought she was. She won’t scare me away. I’m sold on this place, especially”—his mouth quirked endearingly—“if you let me put that window in.”

The window was as done a deal as the lease itself. All that remained was to sign the papers.

The paperwork was done by the end of the week, both for the lease and for the materials placed on rush order, and in the meantime Emily and Brian lent elbow grease to the apartment in anticipation of those soon-to-arrive goods. By Saturday afternoon, years of dirt had been wiped away, and every wall in the place stripped of paper, spackled, and sanded in preparation for the simple coat of white paint that Brian wanted. The electrician had installed the overhead fan, which immediately improved their working conditions, and had wired for increased lighting and for the washer/dryer that hadn’t originally been planned. The plumber had rendered the bathroom fully functional with the ease John had predicted. The telephone company had installed a line.

Aside from the time she spent with Celeste, who emerged from surgery bandaged and bruised, and in dire need of encouragement, Emily spent her waking hours working in the apartment.

Doug called from Philadelphia on Thursday night and didn’t spend long on the phone, but she was busy enough not to mind. She was also uneasy enough not to mind.
I don’t know who you are sometimes, Doug.
The words kept echoing, refusing to fade. On the telephone, he was a stranger, wrapped in his other world. When he got home, she told herself, he would be her husband again. They would talk then.

Saturday morning, she took the chicken from the freezer in anticipation of an evening picnic by the pond. She took the pie from the refrigerator and set it on the counter to reach room temperature. She bought fresh corn from a farmstand on the edge of town, and Boston lettuce, radicchio, sliced black olives, pine nuts, and sprouts. She stopped at the record store for the new Streisand tape that Doug had been wanting. She chilled the bottle of champagne that her editor in New York had sent upon publication of her book and that she had squirreled away at the time. Champagne was festive. Doug didn’t have to know its source.

As it happened, he didn’t arrive home until eleven at night, after Emily had, item by item, hope by hope, returned the food to the refrigerator and dismantled the picnic makings. By the time he arrived there was no sign that she had been expecting him earlier. Nor did she clue him in. After all, he had said Saturday night. She was the one who had assumed he would make it for dinner. She had simply assumed wrong. It was her mistake.

He gave her a perfunctory kiss, then rolled into bed and fell promptly asleep. He was still sleeping when she woke up the next morning, and while she might have liked to rouse him, to do the kinds of things Sunday mornings had meant once, she resisted. He clearly needed the sleep. Waking him when he was exhausted was more apt to invoke annoyance than desire.

Sunday brunch seemed the next best thing. She mixed a coffee cake from scratch and put it in the oven, fixed a bowl of berries and kiwi. After tiptoeing back into the bedroom, gathering his dirty clothes and putting them in the wash, she assembled the makings of a three-cheese omelet, put the pan on the stove with a wad of butter inside, and, thinking that breakfast could be a celebratory occasion, too, set out fluted glasses for mimosas.

Doug wandered into the kitchen at ten-thirty, took one look at her preparations, and put a cautionary hand on his middle. “None of that for me. My stomach’s been acting up. I think it’s too much rich food. Hotel eating’s like that.”

Emily was set back. “Some fruit, then,” she urged, trying to be understanding, and he agreed. She put away the omelet makings and the champagne. “Coffee?” She had the beans ground and the water in the machine.

But he shook his head. “Maybe later. Just fruit for now.”

Just fruit for now.
Okay. She wanted him to be happy to be home. She could accept just fruit for now, if that would make him happy.

She filled two bowls and sat down beside him at a kitchen table made festive by glass dishes, linen napkins, and Myra’s contribution to the homecoming, apricot marigolds. She didn’t push him to talk right away. More considerate, she thought, to let him relax for a bit.

In time, he set down his spoon. “What’s the word from Jill?”

“She’s great. She calls every day. Classes start tomorrow.”

“Good courses?”

Emily had run them past him when he had called on Thursday. He must have forgotten. Patiently, she repeated what she had told him then. Moving along without comment, he asked, “How’s her roommate?”

“Nice, apparently.”

“That’s good.” He picked up his spoon and resumed eating.

Emily studied his face. He didn’t look tired, exactly. But weary, somehow. “Are you okay, Doug?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“You seem far away.”

He jabbed at a berry. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“Want to share it?”

“Not particularly. I’ve been living with it all week. I want a break.”

That was fine and dandy for him, not so fine and dandy for her. He needed silence, but she needed talk. “Is it the Baltimore account?”

He shrugged.

“The problem wasn’t resolved by the time you left?”

He set down his spoon. “We’re making progress.” He reached for the Sunday paper.

“What about Philadelphia?”

He unfolded the paper with a snap. “What about it?”

“How did it go?”

“Fine.” He focused on the front page.

She waited. She watched his eyes move, but she wasn’t sure if he was actually reading. “Talk to me, Doug,” she said softly.

He turned down the paper only enough to meet her eyes. “This is the first day in a week that I’ve been able to relax over breakfast with the morning paper. It really is a luxury. Indulge me?”

Put that way, she felt guilty. He was the one on the road, the one working all week, the one feeling pressure to produce and earn. She supposed that if she were in his position, she would find reading the morning paper a luxury, too.

“Can we have lunch out by the pond?” she asked. That seemed a fair compromise.

“Lunch. I can’t think of lunch. We’re just having breakfast.”

“Only fruit. That’s not much. I have fried chicken and fresh corn and salad. And strawberry-rhubarb pie.”

“Strawberry-rhubarb?” At last, an inkling of interest. “Yours?”

She nodded, feeling pleased.

He searched the counter. “Where is it?”

“In the fridge.”

“Can I have a piece now?”

“What about your stomach?”

“It’s worth it, for a piece of that pie. It is
the
best.”