Wanted: Wife (21 page)

I took another look at the photo. “Would you mind if I kept this?”

“Go ahead. It was probably his dad’s anyway. It was found in an old file from the investigation.”

I turned it over; a county stamp was on the back. “But this happened before Andy was born. So how could it involve him?”

Again, the timing worked in Lila’s favor as right then our salads arrived. After the server left Lila plucked a roll from the basket, splitting it with her thumbs. “There was another fire.”

“Oh? When?”

“The spring before Viviane and Andy left. This time it was the barn. Burned right to the ground.”

I thought a moment. “Which would explain the relative newness of the barn compared to the house. “What was the explanation for that?”

“Kerosene heater. Rumor had it the old man was living in there. He was burned over thirty percent of his body. The investigation showed his cot caught fire, but he said he got burned from trying to put out a blanket that had fallen from his bed.”

Andy never told me this, but then again, why should he? He hardly talked about his father at all. Suddenly I became distinctly aware of how little I really knew my husband.

I picked at my salad. “Maybe he’d been drinking?”

“It’s a possibility.” Lila eyed me, no doubt aware of the bomb she’d just dropped. “But two weeks before, he had gotten out of the drunk tank. Word was he was determined to quit drinking. There was no trace of alcohol found in or near the barn, but he could’ve done his drinking someplace else. A couple days later Viviane and Andy left for France.”

“So what does this all mean?”

“There were rumors she tried to kill him.”

“I figured you’d say that. Did you believe them?”

Lila sighed. “Who knows what really goes on between a man and a woman? Certainly there were things my husband and I never discussed with anyone.” She stabbed a tomato, twirling it a bit on her fork. “Think of marriage as a storefront. There’s a lot you can see from the street, but the real business goes on in the backroom. Maybe theirs was doomed from the start. I certainly thought so.”

Boy, was she ever right about the backroom. “So what do you think of ours?”

“You and Andy?” She smiled, waving me off. “Why, you two are in it for the long haul. Anyone can see that.”

I smiled back. After all, I was all about a convincing argument, whether I believed it or not.

W
AS IT POSSIBLE
to love a house? Because I certainly did. After a month of beating it into submission, Andy’s broken-down, ghetto-envious shack had gone from calamitous to cozy, all cedar-shaked glory in polished wood planking and shiny knotty pine, from a braided rug before the fireplace to cheery curtains blowing in the breeze. There were field flowers on the coffee table and mantel, and in the kitchen, fresh baguettes, a bottle of burgundy, and coq au vin for our dinner, simmering atop the stove. It was nearly seven o’clock and all the chores were done, and I, freshly showered, stood in the doorway awaiting my husband, his faithful dog—who, since the “snake incident” had become my constant companion—at my heel.

“Did you like that, boy?” I said, rubbing his silky ear. “Was that good?”

Bucky licked his chops, his paw on my foot, wagging his tail appreciatively. Lately, he’d become quite proficient at playing me, having just scored chicken livers and gizzards atop his kibble. It’s not that I was ever averse to cooking; I just never had the time or energy. But having been forced into it out of necessity (Iron Bog was hardly an epicenter of eateries), I found I enjoyed it immensely, even more so when Andy (and Bucky) enthusiastically approved. So I was especially looking forward to tonight’s meal, as it’d been the first time I attempted such a quintessentially
français
dish, and I desperately wanted to get it right. Especially since there were a couple of things I intended to discuss with Andy over it.

After having lived in the city so long, I was still getting used to being out in the big bad woods by myself, not so much during the day, but after sunset, when it seemed to have a million voices. With the weather still relatively warm, the insects continued their symphony every night, along with the hoot owls, the nightingales, the frogs, and whatever else out there I wasn’t curious enough to identify. Bucky, though, was an immense help, a protective presence. Nothing could get past him. Even so, as the beauty of the Pines wrapped itself around me during the day, I couldn’t help feeling its shadowy aloofness at night, one that dissipated like a fog the second the lights of Ray’s truck lit the yard, bringing Andy home.

“Hello Ray!” I called to him, opening the screen door. Bucky shot out in a frenzy of joyful yaps for his alpha. “Don’t forget—tomorrow night at six!”

“I’d never forget a free meal! See you then!” he called back, turning the truck around. He waved to Andy, yelling “Thanks, again!” before shooting up the back trail toward the bogs.

“Well, hello, you cranberry cutie,” I said, spying Andy, looking slightly worn around the edges.

“Mmmuph,” he grunted, his jeans wet up to the thighs, his t-shirt stained and sweaty, his hair a ruffled mess under his cap. He trod past me to the laundry room, where, as was his habit after work, he stripped bare, unceremoniously dropping his filthy clothes in the hamper.

“Guess what?” I said, following him into the kitchen. “You might be happy to know I’m good to go again.”

He stopped, eyeing me over his shoulder. “What?”

“I said . . .” I shifted my hips, affecting my most potent come-hither look. “I
said
I’m
good
to
go
.”

He sniffed, saying, “Wait five minutes—and bring the wine,” then left for our room.

Five minutes later I sat on the bed, a glass of wine in each hand. Andy emerged from the bathroom in a burst of steam, naked and rubbing his wet head with a towel.

“Wine?” I offered, holding up a glass.

“Thanks,” he said, tossing the towel to the floor. He took the glass as I sipped mine demurely, downing the wine in one gulp.
“Ahh . . .”
he growled, placing the glass to the dresser before turning his simmering gaze to me.

“This won’t take long,” he said. “Do you mind?”

I considered that a moment. “Will you pay me back later?”

Andy set my wineglass aside and, easing me back, removed my panties in one seemingly seamless movement. “With interest,
ma belle
, you can bank on it.” And just like that he was inside me.

Ten minutes later we were in the kitchen, tucking into the chicken. “Absolute truth,” he said, looking relaxed and sated, “this is the best damn chicken I’ve ever had.”

Had the lights been out I would’ve glowed in the dark. “Really? You think so?”

He reached for my hand, smacking a kiss on it. “Probably because I can still taste you on my lips. Now pass the platter,
ma petite
, I’m starving.”

Later on, over fruit and cheese, I divulged a less pressing bit of news. “Guess who I had lunch with today? Mrs. DeForest.”

He was balancing a grape atop a piece of Beaufort. “Really? Where’d you run into her? At the market?”

“At the library. And oh, I picked up those Patrick O’Briens you wanted. She had just come from a meeting of the Historical Society. We started chatting, and since it was lunchtime, I invited her.” I reached into my pocket and placed the photo on the table. “She had a big packet of old photos, and one of them was this.”

He eyed it from where it sat, then slid it over without comment. After a few moments he said, “No one’s sure what really happened, you know.” He looked up. “Including me.”

“You mean the fire.”

“
Fires
. I’m sure she mentioned both.” He took a double sip of wine. “But if you had to hear it from anyone, I suppose she’s the most impartial.”

“If I had to hear it from anyone . . .” I met his gaze directly. “It should’ve been you.”

He sat back, thumb and forefinger bracing his chin, his eyes coolly washing me. “You’re right. I should have told you. But I thought I’d let you get to know me better before I did. Because I wanted you to know the whole story, not just the rumors, as close to the truth as I can get it. Especially about the second fire.”

I could feel my heart pounding in my ears. “Why?”

“Because my father believed until the day he died I set it.”

Chapter Fifteen

Combustibles

“D
ID YOU?”
I asked.

An old rage smoldered behind those eyes, and a bruising from tamping it down too long. “No,” he said, dropping the cheese and grape back to the plate, reaching for the wine instead. “There were a lot of things I didn’t like about my father, and even more he didn’t like about me. But I’d never do something like that, no matter what anyone said.”

“Exactly what did they say?”

“That if I had, it would’ve been justified.”

“Why? Did your father beat you and your mother?”

He poured more wine, taking a healthy swallow. “No. Though she always played the victim very well. She let everyone think he did.” He glowered at me. “What those rumormongers didn’t know was had he been violent, it only would have been reactionary.”

When he looked away I figured it was the end of his disclosure, but it was only for a sip of wine before he continued. “My mother’s a hard woman to live with. If she wants something, she goes after it. She never learned to compromise. But then she’s always been able to scheme her way out of any situation so I suppose she’s never had to. Maybe people like that should never be married, because what’s marriage
but
compromise? She used my father’s passion for her as a weapon against him, and he was so crazed by it he let her ruin his life. He let it drive him over the edge.” There was a steely cast to his face now, an undercurrent of bitterness to his voice. “It didn’t make any sense to me when I was growing up, but it makes perfect sense now.”

“You mean as far as your parents are concerned,” I said.

“As far as anyone’s concerned. Whatever my father was or did, the only thing his passions accomplished was to make everyone around him miserable.”

“So you think his love for her was the cause of all their problems?” I refilled my wine. “So if passion makes for bad marriages, then logically speaking, to have a model marriage, you need to keep passion out of it. Hmm . . .” I said, a bit tartly, “are you suggesting all the passion between us is a mistake?”

The smolder returned, though wholly different. “Is that the impression you get?”

I stood, leaning against the counter. He was getting me angry, and I needed the distance. “So passionate
sex
is okay, but it can’t go beyond that. You can be passionate for my
body
, but it can’t go any deeper, because going deeper equals going nuts.”

“No,” he said, a bit condescendingly. “What I’m saying is when you lose yourself to another person you’re surrendering control of yourself. It’s only logical.”

“So what’s wrong with losing control of yourself? What greater tribute can you pay to another person than to trust them completely? To trust them enough to believe they’d make the right decisions for you, that they’d take care of you, that they’d never let anything happen to you? Didn’t you say those things to me? Didn’t you even put it in writing?”

His cheek twitched. “It’s because I put it in writing that you can trust me.”

“But why would you have to? Isn’t that what marriage implies anyway?”

“An implication isn’t a guarantee.”

“But in this case, isn’t it? And if it’s not, why don’t you say what you really think? That logic and passion can’t coexist. But to be passionate about something is to defy logic and do it anyway.”

“Logic is the basis of everything,” he said. “To think otherwise is ridiculous.”

“Oh really? I know writers who write without ever making any money, artists who paint for years before they ever sell a painting. I know a runner who dropped sixty pounds, fought asthma and diabetes, and trained for three years through snow, ice, and heat before she was fit enough to get into the Boston Marathon. Then, a week before, she broke her leg. As soon as she was out of the cast she started training again, and a year after that, she finally ran it. Now you tell me, what’s the logic in that?”

He was unmoved. “The logic is train hard and you’ll get into the Boston Marathon.”

“But if she didn’t have a passion for running, she wouldn’t have accomplished it.”

“That’s talent, not passion.”

“You’re missing my point.”

“You’re not making one.”

My God, he was exasperating. “Then what’s yours?”

He rose, coming toward me. “I’m not saying there’s no place for passion, but not if it rules you. Better to think things through.”

I laughed. “Like I did? For all of five days?”

“You can always change your mind.”

“Oh—that’s right.” I could feel my neck heating. “We’re a work-in-progress. Thank you for reminding me. I feel so much better now.”

That little muscle on the side of his jaw was twitching again. “That’s not what I meant. Our contract gives you security, with or without me.”

“Is that what we’re calling it—security? Let me tell you something, six weeks ago I learned a hard lesson in what
security
with a man really means, and there’s no such thing, contract or not.” I left for the living room, slugging wine as I dropped to the sofa.

“Where did that come from?” he said, following me. “What happened to you makes our contract even
more
important.”

“But why was it even necessary? Why couldn’t we just date and get engaged like normal people?”

“Please remind me how well that worked out for you.”

“Yeah, well fifty grand’s one hell of a booty call if it doesn’t work out for
you
.”

The color rose in his face. “Then why did you sign it and marry me? Just for the book?” He scanned my face; I was hard-pressed to mask it. “You’d really marry me for a stupid goddamned
story
?”

I wouldn’t answer; I wouldn’t give him the ammunition. I crossed my arms, turning away. “Go to hell.”