Fireproof (4 page)

CHAPTER 5

C
aleb Holt was off duty, ready to get some sleep and time away from the guys. He knew Catherine would be heading to work in a few minutes. Through the tinted windows of his truck, he saw her car in the garage between his mountain bike and a stack of supplies that included a blue Igloo.

How many times had they used that ice chest? Once? At that lake party last summer?

And the bike?

Catherine had bought it for his birthday last year, but he preferred jogging. It burned more calories and gave him some physical outlet after his twenty-four-hour shifts.

He parked his burnt-red GMC Sierra in the driveway. Purchased from Jay Austin Motors, the truck was his pride and joy. He left just enough room for his wife to back out, and headed into the kitchen through the garage.

She emerged from the hallway, hair brushed and shiny over her pin-striped suit. The flared pant legs gave a fluid look to her movements. She'd always had a presence about her, a catlike grace befitting her nickname.

Not that it did much of anything for him anymore.

She cut around the bar into the kitchen. Remained silent.

So that's how it would be, huh? All these amenities—stone flooring, marble countertops, frosted-glass chandeliers—and they had nothing to say to each other.

Caleb set his duffel bag on the dining table and removed his captain's jacket. He tugged at his shirt, loosening up for a day off, and turned to the refrigerator—so new and shiny, he could almost shave in front of the monstrosity. One day, Catherine had reasoned, they would need the refrigerated storage space when they had children. Well, their professional existences had kept that reality at arm's length. At this rate, he wouldn't be a father till age forty.

Across the kitchen, Catherine was fiddling with that coffee grinder she adored. The woman and her caffeine. What was wrong with Maxwell House from a tin?

“You have breakfast already?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He grabbed the milk from the refrigerator, shook it, and set it on the bar. “What'd you eat?”

“I had the last bagel and a yogurt.”

He passed her on his way to the cupboard, where he pulled out a nearly empty box of Coney Bombs cereal.

Great. When was she going to get around to buying another box? He turned to chastise her, even as she returned the half gallon of milk to the fridge. The one he'd just pulled out.

“I was going to use that,” he said.

“Then get it back out when you're ready.”

“I am ready. Would you just let me do things in the order I want?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Catherine said. “You leave stuff out, and it usually sits there till I come cleaning up after you. Like I have nothing better to do.”

“What about the shopping? You planning to make a grocery trip soon?”

She poured creamer into her travel mug. “Caleb, with the way your schedule works, you've got more time to go than I do.”

“Hey, I just asked you a simple question. You don't need to get smart with me. You could've at least saved me some breakfast.”

“Well, I never know when you're eating at home or going out. You don't tell me these things.”

“Catherine, what is your problem?” Caleb's scavenging turned up a granola bar. Better than nothing. He slammed the cupboard door and turned. “Did I offend you by walking in the door this morning?”

“No. You just can't expect me to work every day and still get the groceries, while you sit at home looking at trash on the Internet and dreaming about getting your boat.” She dipped a spoon into a bowl of sweetener and stirred her coffee.

Couldn't she even extend the courtesy of looking at him?

He stabbed a finger at the air. “Hey, you chose to take this job, and no one said you had to work full-time.”

“We need the income, Caleb—especially since you tuck away a third of your salary saving for a boat we don't need. You've got twenty-four thousand dollars in savings when we have things in our house that need fixing.”

“Like what?”

“The back door needs to be painted, the yard needs better landscaping, and I keep telling you I want to put more shelves in the closet.”

“Those are called preferences, Catherine. Those are not needs. There's a difference. If you wanna spend your money on that stuff, go ahead. Fine. But I've been saving up for my boat for years.”He turned his back, disgusted by this whole conversation. “You're not taking that from me.”

“This is so pointless. I don't have time for this.”

“Yeah, go on.” He watched her scoop up her belongings as he tore into the granola bar. “And shut the door on your way out.”

She did. Forcefully.

In the hallway something clattered onto the carpet, and when Caleb went to investigate, he found one of their wedding photos dislodged from the wall. He jammed it back onto its hook, not even waiting to see if it settled evenly.

LATER IN THE afternoon, Catherine hosted Robin Cates and her passel of scented candles. Robin was on the couch, the Holt wedding album in her lap. Catherine took a seat next to her, with a bag of cookies and two drinks. She was dressed casually, done with the headaches of her workday. From the unlit candles on the table, she selected a lavender one and drew in its floral sweetness.

“Oh,” Robin said. “Just look how happy you are. Catherine, these pictures are gorgeous.”

“Thanks.”

“Someday . . . ,” her friend said wistfully.

“Robin, you're a hopeless romantic. That's not real life, you know?”

“But it's every little girl's dream, right?”

“Yeah. And then we grow up.”

Sounds of a car in the drive were followed by a visitor's knock on the door.

“Caleb,” Catherine called down the hall.

He emerged from the master bedroom, outfitted in a gray T-shirt and navy sweatpants. Catherine saw Robin give him a quick approving look, then drop her gaze back to the album.

Another knock.

“I got it,” Caleb said. He passed through the dining room.

Catherine didn't need to see their visitor to know it was Lieutenant Simmons. Simmons had arrived in Albany five years ago, after serving in Iraq, and quickly become one of her husband's best friends.

“Hey, Michael,” Caleb was saying.

“You ready?”

“Yeah, let me get the drinks.”

Catherine saw him duck into the kitchen and heard the fridge open. “Caleb, are you leaving?”

“Told you already, I'm going out with Michael.”

“You didn't tell me.”

“I did too.” He appeared in the archway, bottles of Gatorade in hand. “It was this morning. Or maybe last night.”

“Well, when will you be back?”

“Later.” He turned to leave.

“You think, on your way, you could go by the store and—”

The door slammed on her sentence and she clenched her jaw.

Beside her, Robin was still looking through the album as though nothing had happened. “Oh, I love this one. You were such a beautiful bride.”

Catherine dared not open her mouth. She nodded in feeble agreement, thinking how much easier it was for some people to hold on to the fairy tale. The reality was that this castle was no longer big enough for a fair maiden and her handsome prince.

SIMMONS LEANED OVER the Sierra's truck bed, his dark eyes taking in the blanket of greenery that stretched toward the woods. “That your property all the way out there?”

“Last time I checked,” Caleb said.

“And is that a pond I see back through those trees?”

“I've never taken you out there?”

“No. But, uh, I'm not into romantic walks with my guy friends, thank you. You ready to bounce?”

“Ready.”

“You tell Catherine we're going to the gym?” Simmons asked.

“Nah, she's good.” Caleb opened the driver's door. “Oh, hold on. I left my wallet inside, and I need to put some gas in this beast. Man, if I go back in there, she's gonna think up some errand to send me on.”

“I can go in.”

“Then she'll just ask you, and we'll both be in the doghouse. Hold tight. I'll be right back.”

Caleb bounded back through the garage, turned the door handle slowly, and eased himself through the opening. He could hear Robin and Catherine still talking, could hear the flap of the wedding album's pages and the crinkling of candle wrapping.

“Mmm, that smells so good,” Catherine said.

“Aren't those incredible?”
Flapp.
“Oh,” Robin said, “I love this church. Does it still look like that?”

“That was many years ago. I have no idea.”

Caleb glided into the kitchen on the soles of his tennis shoes.

Flapp.

“And your cake—oh my goodness, Cat.”

Seven years ago, Caleb had been so enraptured with his new bride and thoughts of the honeymoon suite that he couldn't even remember what flavor that cake had been. Vanilla? Carrot? A Christmas fruitcake, for all he knew.

Flapp.

“Your dress was so pretty, I can hardly stand it,” Robin gushed to Catherine. “Okay, so if you could go back to your wedding day and talk to yourself, what would you say?”

No reply.

Caleb palmed his wallet from the counter, then started to sneak back out, but his wife had still given no response and he found his curiosity getting the better of him. What did women talk about when the men weren't around? Would she exaggerate his attributes, as guys were known to do? Brag about his earning power and the silky nightwear he'd bought for her last Valentine's Day?

“Don't do it,” Catherine answered at last.

Caleb froze.

“What?”Robin said.“Don't do it, as in . . . you wouldn't marry him again?”

“I mean, if you want me to be honest.”

Caleb felt his head spin, knocked off balance by his wife's confession. She didn't mean that. Did she? Every couple had their ups and downs. It would pass. She was just being a woman, living in the emotions of the moment.

“But I thought you guys were doing pretty good, Cat. I mean, you've been married for seven years.”

“Seven
bland
years,” Catherine responded. “I don't know. We started off great. It was so romantic, but we just went downhill from there.”

Caleb stood at the counter, trying to stay still. He heard Simmons come back inside, and even the lieutenant seemed to recognize the need to be quiet.

“I don't even feel like I know who he is anymore,” Catherine said. “We fight more than we do anything else. Lately, I just catch myself thinking that . . . that this is not the man I wanna grow old with.”

Turning, Caleb saw Simmons give a jerk of the head. It was time to leave. Yeah, that was the best plan right now—to leave before it got worse. But how much worse could it get?

“Catherine, I am so sorry. I had no idea it was that bad.”

“It's all right,” she said to Robin. “I . . . I'm just tired of playing this game, you know? We've been heading in different directions for a while.”

“So, what're you gonna do?”

Caleb held his breath, straining to hear his wife's answer.

Silence.

Simmons was gesturing, trying to curtain Caleb's eavesdropping.

Still not a word.

Well, Caleb figured, that was about right. Catherine had been giving him nothing for weeks now—no affection, no understanding, and certainly nothing close to a civil conversation. Was it wrong of him to expect those things in his own home?

He eased outside with his wallet and carefully closed the door. He climbed behind the Sierra's steering wheel, turned the key, and cranked up the stereo. Simmons, to his credit, nodded his chin with the music and made no comment.

CHAPTER 6

I
n the station weight room, Simmons completed his final bench press and sat up for a breather. Sweat was glistening on his forehead and dripping down his jaw. His stereo was plugged in beside him, blaring music and keeping the adrenaline flowing.

On a nearby universal machine, Caleb churned out the rest of his reps, letting the weights smash against each other—up, down,
clang . . .
up, down,
clanggg
—as he worked out his frustration.

At last he sat up, panting. “My triceps are burning.”

“You're complaining?” Simmons said. “Man, I think those weights are ready to apologize for whatever they did wrong to you.”

Caleb smirked, then reached for his Gatorade. Simmons turned down the music and wiped at his neck with a towel.

“It ain't working, Michael,” Caleb said. “How is it that I get respect everywhere I go except in my own house?”

“I've been there. That's a hard place to be.”

“What'd you do about it?”

“I realized that it wasn't my marriage that was broken. I just didn't know how to make it work.”

“What does that mean?”

Simmons thought about it a moment, then pointed to a treadmill. “That treadmill's not broken, but if you don't know how to run it, it ain't gonna work for you.”

“What? Are you saying I need counseling?”

“Well, I think everybody needs counseling.”

“Hey.” Caleb raised a finger. “Look, man. I am not about to go talk to somebody I don't even know, about something that's none of their business.”

“All right. Well, Catherine does need to respect you. But just remember that a woman's like a rose. If you treat her right, she'll bloom. If you don't, she'll wilt.”

“Where'd you get that?”

Simmons took a sip of his juice and grinned. “Counseling.”

Caleb threw his empty bottle at Simmons, who only smiled as Caleb smirked and looked away.

CATHERINE WAS STRAIGHTENING up the house. She and Robin had shared Papa John's pizza after a relaxing, soul-sharing afternoon. On top of that, Catherine had bought some beautiful candles. She lit one now, trying to set a mood, to establish some atmosphere in this cold, immaculate dungeon. The house was like one of those model homes—presentable, even impressive on the surface, yet empty and lifeless within.