But now, suddenly, it did. “Have there been screaming, swooning hordes?” I asked.
“Come on, Jules. Do I look like Jon Bon Jovi to you?”
In my book, he looked far better than Jon. Which was saying a lot. But he was deliberately missing the point. “I’m serious, Tom. How many were there?” He crossed the room to me and took my hand.
“Elizabeth’s been dead for two years.” He tucked a strand of wet hair behind my ear. “I haven’t lived like a monk. I’ve dated a few women. None of them stuck around. None of them stuck around because I wasn’t serious about any of them. I swear, Jules, you’re the only one who ever screamed or swooned.” Coyly, I said, “I don’t seem to recall any swooning.”
He leaned over me and buried his nose in my hair. “You smell so good. What’s that scent you’re wearing?”
“Strawberry. It’s my shampoo.”
“Don’t ever stop using it.” His chin brushed my temple, his five o’clock shadow grazing my skin. His breath warm on my ear, he crooned softly: “Julie, Julie, Julie, do you love me?”
“Stop,” I said weakly. It was a private joke between us, that hokey old Bobby Sherman song. “Please stop.”
“You know you love it. So tell me, Jules, is the honeymoon over yet?”
I toyed with a strand of his hair and said, “Not quite yet.”
“Then why are we wasting time? Hand over your weapon.”
I gaped at him stupidly until he pried the hairbrush I’d been brandishing from my fingers. “You could do a lot of harm with that thing,” he said, “depending on where you’re aiming it.”
“Ouch.”
“Exactly. So what do you say, Mrs. Larkin? Time to end the foreplay and cut right to the main event?” I flashed him a huge grin and said, “I thought you’d never ask.”
It was hours later and inky dark when his cell phone rang. Peeling his naked body away from mine, Tom fumbled on the nightstand until he located the offending object. He cleared his throat and said, “Dr. Larkin.” Listened a moment, then said, “Yes, of course. Not a problem.” I raised my head and looked at the clock, then hooked an arm around him and pressed my cheek against his sleek, broad back. Leaning into me, he said, “How far apart are the pains?” A pause. Then,
“All right. I’ll meet you at the hospital.” He hung up the phone and turned to me. “Sorry, Jules. Gotta go.”
Sleepily, I said, “It’s two-thirty in the morning.”
“Might as well get used to it. Life would be a lot easier if babies were courteous enough to plan their arrivals between 9:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.” He kissed the tip of my nose and left the bed. I listened as he dressed in the darkness, then walked to the window and peered through the blind. Quietly, he said, “Looks like the storm’s over.”
“Be careful anyway.”
“Always. Go back to sleep, Jules.” When I woke again, the blinds were open, the sun was pouring in, and the clock read 8:37. I rolled over and spied the note propped against Tom’s pillow.
Didn’t want to wake you,
it read,
you looked
so beautiful asleep. Make yourself at home. Mi casa
es su casa. Literally. Oh—if you want to go
anywhere, the Land Rover’s all yours. Keys are
hanging in the kitchen. Can’t wait to see you
tonight. Love, T.
Smiling, I lay back against the pillow. I must’ve been dead to the world, because I’d never heard him return, never heard him leave a second time. It must have been the fresh Maine air or something. I got up, showered and dressed, then headed downstairs, anticipating a run-in with the dragon lady. But the house was deserted, silent, the morning sun flooding the kitchen with warmth. My new mother-in-law must be a cog in the wheel of the American work-force. Or else she’d fled the house because she didn’t want to deal with me any more than I wanted to deal with her. Wasn’t that the way with most passive-aggressive types? They tended to avoid conflict. And being nice to my face, then talking trash behind my back, was classic passive-aggressive behavior.
Or maybe she was just a two-faced bitch.
With some satisfaction, I pondered that possibility before telling myself to let it go or it would spoil my day. And what a day it was! Abundant sunshine and cloudless cerulean skies. Not a hint of the storm that had raged a few hours earlier. Except, of course, the damage it had left behind. With a bowl of Cheerios in hand, I flung open the French doors that led to the patio and stepped outside. The lawn was littered with branches, leaves and assorted debris. A small tree had been uprooted, and it lay forlorn, felled by the storm’s fury. I found a wooden chair that wasn’t too wet and sat down to eat my breakfast. A pair of bright yellow birds flew past, darting and swooping and twittering before they disappeared in the branches of a massive elm tree. I thought they might be goldfinches, but I wasn’t sure.
On the ground beneath the bird feeder, a cluster of sparrows pecked at spilled seed.
Around the corner of the house, a chain saw started up, its obnoxious whine tearing a jagged hole in the smooth fabric of the morning. Startled by the noise, the sparrows scattered. I finished my Cheerios and went back inside to put the bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. Then I went in search of the chain saw.
It wasn’t hard to find. The noise level was appall-ing. In Riley’s capable hands, the lime-green monster sang its own peculiar aria, the whine working its way up and down the scale. Dressed in a Hard Rock T-shirt, jeans, and safety glasses, Tom’s brother finessed the saw with smooth, efficient motions. The branch that had fallen was as big around as my waist, and the chain saw protested loudly as he sliced it into neat, foot-long segments.
I stood watching him until he became aware of my scrutiny. Then he took a step back, turned off the chain saw, and removed his safety glasses.
Birdsong filled the sudden silence, and for an instant I felt awkward, remembering what he’d witnessed last night and wishing he hadn’t. “Sleep well?” he said.
“As well as can be expected.” I raised a hand to shade my eyes from the bright sun. I knew we were both thinking about our last meeting. I might as well bring it into the open instead of dancing around it.
“Your mother,” I said, “doesn’t seem to like me.” Fiddling with the pull cord to the chain saw, he said, “You did seem to bring out the worst in her.”
“It’s a talent,” I said.
He balanced the butt of the saw against his booted foot. “I wouldn’t let her get to me if I were you.”
“I don’t intend to. I’m indomitable.” He studied me with blue eyes very much like Tom’s. And the corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he said. “I can see that.”
“So where, exactly, is she this morning? Your sainted mother?”
“She’s at work. Tessie’s Bark and Bath.” I raised an eyebrow. “Tessie’s Bark and Bath?” He grinned. “Mom’s a dog groomer.”
“And I’ll bet she frightens the poor things into submission.” Changing the subject, I pointed to the pile of wood he’d cut. “This pine branch is enormous.
What’ll you do with all this wood?”
“Split it. Stack it. Come winter, it’ll keep the house warm.”
“Winter,” I said. “That seems like such a foreign concept. I’m a Southern California girl. I’m used to sunshine. The beach. I’ve never done winter. Does it really get as cold as I’ve heard?”
“Take whatever you’re expecting and multiply it by ten. February may be the shortest month, but it’s also the coldest. And the darkest. You’ll want to buy an extra-warm coat. Fur-lined boots. Thick gloves.
And a wool scarf. That is, assuming you’re still here come February.”
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans.
“Are you saying there’s some reason I might not be here?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“She’s not going to drive me away, Riley.”
“I didn’t say that, either. It’s just—”
“What?”
His blue eyes studied me, but I couldn’t decipher what was going on behind them. “Nothing,” he said.
“I have to get back to work. This tree won’t get cut up by itself.”
I stepped away as Riley fired up the chain saw.
He adjusted his safety goggles, nodded to me, and went back to cutting.
I suspected I’d been snubbed, although I wasn’t wholly certain. But I was definitely starting to feel as if I’d stepped through the looking glass and into some otherworldly dimension where everything was a little off center.
But I didn’t allow myself to wallow in it; I had no sympathy for people who sat around bemoaning their fates. Pity parties aren’t my style. I had far too much to do. Since I’d decided against making a run for it, I needed to unpack and try to find space for all my things in Tom’s bedroom.
Our
bedroom, I reminded myself.
I headed back to the house, rummaged through my purse for a notebook and pen, and sat at the kitchen table to make a list of what needed doing.
I’m a compulsive list-maker. I simply can’t seem to stop. Jeffrey used to make fun of me because of it, but list-making helps me keep my life organized and running on track. If I didn’t make lists, I’d never remember anything. I use them in both my private and business life, and my friends and coworkers always point out how utterly organized I am. I just smile enigmatically and accept the compliment, while mentally thumbing my nose at my ex-husband. What can I say? Sometimes even a mature woman has to let her inner child out once in a while.
First on the list:
Go to bank.
I’d already closed my bank account and had the balance transferred elec-tronically to Tom’s account, but I still had to drop by the bank and fill out paperwork to make it official.
I’d managed to put away a small amount of money in savings, and the sale of my Miata had added a couple thousand to that. I’d hated selling my car, and I’d nearly cried when the used car salesman drove it away. But Tom had said that come winter, the sports car would be useless in the snow, and he’d promised to replace it with a brand-new four-wheel-drive SUV
of my choice. So I’d caved. My life in California was over. Big changes were taking place. If I intended to live year-round in Maine, I needed to start acting like a Mainer. I would drive the SUV, even if my heart did secretly ache for a two-seater sports coupe.
Items two, three and four on the list were more housekeeping stuff:
Get a Maine driver’s license,
Apply for a new social security card,
and
Notify
credit card company of new name and address.
Item five was more generic:
Contact old friends I’ve lost
touch with.
People I talked to once or twice a year, exchanged Christmas cards with. Old school chums, friends of my dad, people Jeffrey and I used to so-cialize with. A couple of great-aunts. People I had little in common with, but that I didn’t want to lose complete contact with.
I paused at number six. Chewing absently at the cap of my Bic pen, I pondered. At some point, Tom and I needed to figure out where to store my household belongings, which were in a moving van headed east on an Interstate highway somewhere between California and Maine. My entire life, packed into a green-and-yellow box truck. The ETA was next Sunday; I expected it would take me some time to go through everything and decide what to use, what to keep in storage, and what to discard. But we hadn’t yet discussed where the boxes and furniture would go in the interim. Number six:
Talk to
Tom about storage!
I underlined it, then circled it several times in heavy black ink just in case there was any chance I might miss it next time I looked.
I thought about putting
Find a job
on the list. I’d been working since I was fifteen. No slacker, I’d worked my way through college, then bounced around the L.A. job scene for a couple of years before I landed at Phoenix. There, I worked my way up the ladder to store manager. I’d always been a high-energy person, and it seemed odd to have no place I needed to be every morning at eight, hi-test cup of java in hand.
But looking for a job now would be pointless.
Tom and I had talked it over, and in January, I was going back to school to get my master’s degree. I’d been thinking about it for some time now. Although I’d loved my job at Phoenix, I didn’t aspire to a career in retail. Actually, to my surprise, I’d realized that what I most wanted to do was teach. My degree in business management hadn’t prepared me for that particular career choice, so it was time to hit the books again. Tom had been extremely supportive, reassuring me that he was fully capable of supporting me financially while I trained for a new career.
When my list was as complete as I could make it, I went back upstairs to unpack. The master bedroom suite had been designed with his-and-hers walk-in closets. I opened the door of the left-hand closet and found Tom’s clothes, his suits and shirts and pants, arranged by color and hung with care, evenly spaced a half-inch apart. His shoes were lined up neatly on two shelves. Some fancy contraption built into the wall held his neckties, hung with a meticulousness that prevented any one tie from touching any other.
Good God. I hoped he didn’t expect me to share his neatness fetish. I generally took off my clothes and flung them. If I managed to hit the chair instead of the floor, I figured I was doing exceptionally well.
Because snooping in my husband’s closet seemed like an invasion of his privacy, I closed the door and moved to the other closet. Not so much as a dust bunny inhabited its vacant space. Ditto for the bureau drawers. Tom kept his underwear and socks—
stacked with razor-sharp precision—in the upright dresser. The bureau must have been Elizabeth’s territory. I was a little surprised to find no evidence that she had ever lived here. No clothes, no knickknacks, no wedding photos, no froufrou female stuff. At some point after her death, Tom had removed all her belongings. Now that I thought about it, I’d seen no evidence of her presence anywhere in this house.
Downstairs, photos of the girls were displayed here and there: school photos as well as candids of them with Tom, and with their grandmother and their uncle Riley. But not a single likeness of Elizabeth graced the house.