"Jim, what was that about? Who was he?" she said, tagging frantically after him.
"A business associate," he told her without looking back. He went into the bedroom and flipped on every switch, washing the room in blinding light.
Squinting, she said, "Business? What kind of business? The man was a thug. What have you got yourself into, Jim? Tell me, I want to
know."
"Just don't worry about it, okay?" he said, pulling out his biggest duffel bag from the dressing room and propping it open on the bed. "He wants some money, that's all. We have plenty of it." He was pulling drawers open as fast as he could, now, grabbing the contents and pitching them into the bag.
"But where are you going?"
"On a business trip," he muttered.
"With
him?"
He shot her a look of contempt. "Yeah. Right."
"You're running away! Where?"
"I'll let you know when I get there."
Stunned, she said, "The way you did when you ran from Zina?"
"That was a different situation," he said as he jammed balled-up socks into the edges of the duffel.
It was an admission, and it flattened her.
Immediately, he saw his mistake. "Look, I said I'd call. I'll work out something with him, but on my own terms. Right now, I've got to get out of here—so stop hassling me!" he snapped.
"If you owe him money, then
pay
the man," she said, amazed that Jim didn't get the connection.
"It's more complicated than that," he muttered as he pulled down three pairs of slacks from their hangers. He folded them into the duffel, then zipped it quickly. The zipper caught in the fabric. With a curse, he gave it a couple of vicious yanks and ended up pulling off the metal tab from the zipper. He swore again, then swung the bag over his shoulder anyway, his clothes exposed in the yawning gap. Ready or not, he was going.
Wendy grabbed at the strap as he moved past her, pulling the duffel from his shoulder. Caught by surprise, he let the bag get away from him and fall to the floor. "What the hell are you doing?" he shouted.
"You can't walk out on this mess!" she said in a whole new rage. "I went to Tillicut today, I saw the grave. You're not James Hodene. I don't even think you're James Hayward. Who are you? What's your real name? At least tell me that!"
He grabbed at the fallen strap and arched it over his shoulder again. "Do you think it makes a damn bit of difference now?"
She stretched her arms, barring the doorway. "It does to your son!"
"Move."
"No!"
"Get out of my
way,"
he said, slamming into her with his duffel.
She staggered back into the hall, unhurt but in shock as she watched him half run through the house and for his car. At the window, she saw him peel away, no less in a hurry than his so-called business associate was.
Mind-boggling! The day that wouldn't end remained determined not to. Wendy ran to throw the deadbolt on the door and then, still jumpy, she locked all the double-hung windows and activated the alarm. Suddenly it seemed unbearably still; she could hear a pin drop, and lots of pins seemed to be dropping.
Clutching a heavy flashlight as a club, she stalked the rooms, checking the closets and under the beds for more surprises. She was on all fours in
Tyler
's bedroom when Walter found her and butted his head into her arm from behind, making her jump sky-high. But then he rolled over and exposed his white belly to her in a luxurious stretch, and that made her smile and calmed her down: if he wasn't afraid, then neither would she be.
Exhausted and bewildered, she went into the kitchen to warm up some milk. She would call Zack. But to tell him what—that her not-husband had run away? Zack wouldn't be surprised; he would point out Jim's track record. For the first time, Wendy wondered if Jim had even been legally married to Zina. Who knew how long the trail was of his ex-not-wives?
I wonder if there's a word for us
,
she thought wearily.
Bigamees?
For all her desire to contact Zack, Wendy had an equal desire to avoid him. What they'd shared back in the house on
Sheldon Street
was still pure raw mystery to her. She needed time to mull over it.
She wanted instinctively to talk to her son, to hug him tight, but it was too late even to phone him; her parents would be alarmed. Better to alarm them after they'd had a good night's sleep. She was glad that she'd called
Tyler
earlier when she stopped on the road for a bite, before the double tumult of events.
Tyler
had sounded happy and distracted; he and his grandpa had just watched the entire
Star Wars
series (again) and his grandma had made cinnamon rolls.
The thought occurred to Wendy: what if her son had been there tonight to hear and see it all? What could she possibly have told him after he saw his father peel away in the middle of the night?
No more Dad, honey; and this time it's for real.
Her stomach tightened. She was going to have to come up with an explanation for
Tyler
by morning.
She drank her milk, but it did no good. Her stomach stayed knotted for the rest of the night.
Zack tried to call Wendy first at the rented house and then at the old house, but he got the machines at both. She was probably out and around, picking up Ty. Most likely.
He called her cell phone number but got her voice mail there, as well, and that's when he began to wonder: was she in fact avoiding him?
It killed him to think so, and yet it killed him even more to think how undisciplined he'd been. When he saw her coming up the stairs so numb and disillusioned, he'd just
... lost it. He had wanted to make everything better for her, and the odds were superb that he'd made things worse. She was vulnerable, he was a jerk: that was his night in a nutshell.
He loved her. He knew that now, and beyond a doubt. But loving Wendy and making love to her—those were two separate stages, and somehow he'd compressed them in his hurry to replace the wrenching sense of loss he knew she felt.
All of that was true, but it wasn't the whole truth.
You've wanted her since the day you saw her in that bastard's arms
,
he admitted to himself.
You've wanted her every day since then, in this painful, frustrating, twisted odyssey toward justice.
Bitter and sorry, he was kicking himself all the way over to his sister's house. He knew that Zina too was reeling with loss, and he was all too aware that she had only a fraction of Wendy's resilience.
Still, Zina, at least, had answered her phone that morning. Zack had had no experience in wronging her, so he didn't know what to expect—but somehow or other, she had sounded too blithe. So
,
impulsively
,
he'd asked her if he could drop in on his way down to
Providence
, and she had answered, "What a good idea."
When he pulled in front of her side of the duplex, he saw her watching him through parted curtains. She gave him a startlingly cheery wave and then ran to get the door, greeting him with sweet enthusiasm and expecting, and getting, a warm hug from him.
"Hey, kiddo," he said in a muffled voice, rocking her back and forth in his arms. "How you doin'?"
"Oh, I'm fine, Zack," she said. "I'm doing really, really fine!"
She seemed adamant, which put him even more on guard. "Well, that's good," he said. "Is that fresh coffee I smell?"
"Just for you," she said in a happy voice.
"You're a doll." Their one and only falling-out had been after she eloped with Jim, and that time, she hadn't been nearly so quick to forgive. This was too painless. His heart began to sink.
"Come sit," she coaxed. "After you called, I ran out and got muffins. Blueberry for you, cranberry for me. With big, sugary crusts the way you like them; I'm keeping them warm."
Smiling tentatively, he let her take him by the hand and lead him over to the round table in her tiny kitchen. She had covered it with yet another pretty quilt—she called it a wedding-ring quilt—that he knew she'd been working on. A big vase of wildflowers took up too much of the tabletop but was pure Zina. She had put out her favorite plates,
yellow and green, and bright-blue cloth napkins.
He sat on a chair, heard something crack, and remembered, too late, that he'd promised to glue it for her.
"I'll take this one home," he told her, and he moved it out to his truck.
By the time he resettled himself, Zina had sliced and buttered his muffin for him and poured his coffee. With sweet ceremony, she folded his napkin across his knees. After that, she placed one of the cake plates on the floor with a couple of muffin chu
nks on it for Cassie the skunk-
cat, who seemed perfectly willing to partake in the ritual.
Anyone watching Zina would have seen a preschooler playing house. Zack's heart sank lower.
"You'll never guess who came to visit me, not here but at the shelter on Sunday," she said, propping her chin dreamily on her fist as she watched Zack bite into the muffin with feigned pleasure.
In fact, Zack didn't have to guess. Wendy had told him about her visit to Zina as they lay entwined in the dark on the bare mattress. Zack had found out that Wendy was as concerned about Zina as he was.
"C'mon, Zack. Guess."
"Well, I hope it was the mayor of Hopeville, there to give you the Volunteer of the Year award," he said with gentle gravity.
"Zack! I work at the shelter because I
have
to be there; it's not volunteering, it's who I am. Do you volunteer to blink your eyes? To breathe? That's how it is for me. I have to be there. But anyway, no, it wasn't the mayor of Hopeville," she said with an affectionate laugh. "It was Wendy!"
"Really," he said, acting surprised.
"Yes. She actually found my address and then drove all the way up here just to see me. At first I was afraid of her. She was very stern, especially about you. But after I told her—well, about you, about how you've taken care of me ever since Mom and Dad, well, she changed completely."
The muffin turned to ash in Zack's throat. "You told her about Mom and Dad?"
"Yes. Otherwise, she would have kept on thinking you were a criminal," Zina said simply. "I wanted her to realize how good you are."
Wendy hadn't admitted to knowing about their childhood trauma. Suddenly he had a vivid recollection of her lying curled up against him in that brief eternity before they went their separate ways. Had pity been part of the mix for her, then? It was a depressing thought.
"She's a good person, Zack," his sister said quickly, seeing the double take in his face. "I liked her a lot. And you won't believe it, but she adopted Walter. Right there on the spot! No one has ever been able to do that without getting screened before. I think she may have made a really big donation. Sylvia came right over to do the paperwork, and you know she plays bridge on Sunday afternoon."
"Bridge
... hmm." His mind was a million miles away, in an upstairs bedroom on
Sheldon Street
.
"Zack—you're not mad at me, are you?" his sister asked, her face pinching in distress.
It yanked him back
to the present. "No, Zee," he said. He brushed the backs of his fingertips along her brow to smooth the furrows there. "Why would I be mad?"
"Oh, good." She settled back with her teapot, removing the knitted cozy from it, and she launched into a new but related subject which made Zack no less uneasy.
She said as she poured her tea, "Have you been to Wendy's house yet, the one she's renting?"
When Zack gave her a vague shrug, Zina sighed and told him, "It's so pretty. It's right on the beach. There are roses
everywhere
,
I smelled them right away when I stopped in to visit that day."
Stopped in to
visit?
"Wendy seems to have lots of friends, lots of family," she informed him. "That's good, because I'm sure they'll be a comfort.
Although
—there were one or two that I met who were not very nice." Zina rolled her eyes and shook her head, apparently dismissing unpleasant thoughts.
Without distracting his sister with a response, Zack studied her as she went on with her bewildering teatime chatter.
"I'm sure we'll end up living on a beach ourselves, somewhere," she told him. "Maybe in
Newport
. There's so much more to do there, don't you think?" she asked her brother cheerfully.
Zack didn't know what to say to that; as close as they were, they hadn't shared a house since they were kids. He was beginning to feel the first faint stirrings of panic—as if he were in a doctor's office, and the doctor was taking his time getting to a frightening diagnosis.
"I think that a beachfront property might end up being a little pricey," he said vaguely.