The Consequences (15 page)

He moved through the house, turning off the lights and shutting the doors. After locking up, he climbed into his car and pulled out his phone.

“Stephanie. I don't know what's happened. I don't know where you are. It's just after 2:00 a.m., and I'm leaving your house. There's no sign of you. I'm leaving this message in the hope that you return, hear it, and answer me. I'm hoping you're with your friend, Izzie. I think I remember you saying that she was supposed to be getting engaged tonight . . . no, last night. My God, I've just realized it's Christmas morning.”

It was two thirty by the time he reached Brookline. It was still snowing, quick flurries, followed by odd spiraling flakes, followed by another quick flurry, driven on by an increasingly icy wind. Driving alone, he felt as if he were the only soul in the world.

By the time he turned down the road to his house, he was desperately tired, both physically and emotionally exhausted. The snow was so bad he felt like he was crawling. At one stage he had cracked open the driver's window, slices of frozen snow caked on the glass falling into the car, and breathed in the bitter night air in an effort to stay awake. Climbing out of the car, he thought he saw the bedroom curtains twitch, but he was too tired to even care. Opening the door as silently as possible, he stepped into the hall, and climbed the stairs to his study, wincing as the third step from the top protested with a squeak.

Where was Stephanie?

Still fully dressed, wearing his heavy leather coat and gloves, he slumped into his office chair, started up his computer, and checked his e-mail. Besides the usual junk, there was nothing from Stephanie. He started to scroll through his contacts, looking for Izzie's name. He was sure Stephanie had given it to him. The problem was he could not remember Izzie's last name—Williams, Wilson, Wilton—something like that. He hunted under the word
Izzie,
but that returned zero hits. Perhaps Izzie was short for something. Isabelle? He tried every combination, but nothing came back. He knew she was a doctor, but her hospital would never give out her private number. Still, maybe he could leave a message for her if he hadn't gotten in touch with Stephanie by the afternoon.

Okay, so maybe she'd gone out to a party last night and stayed over. If her friend Izzie had gotten engaged then it was likely the party had gone on to the early hours of the morning. He knew Stephanie had her cell with her and that she could use it to retrieve e-mails. He'd tried calling the house and her cell; e-mails were all that was left.

Opening his Outlook e-mail program, he composed a message to Stephanie.

He read it twice over before he sent it. There was nothing but the truth in it, and the only line that gave him any pause was the sentence, “I love you.” That was the truth, but he wondered how Stephanie would see it. Surely she'd realize that if he'd driven through a snowstorm to check up on her, then he must have genuine feelings for her?

He hit Send.

He wondered how long it would take for him to get a response.

The computer pinged, the sound like that of a door creaking open, and then his instant message program, which usually ran silently in the background, popped up.

Stephanieburroughs123 is now online.

Would you like to send a message to stephanieburroughs123?

Thank God! Before he could type a letter, a single word appeared onscreen: Yes?

He was all fingers and thumbs, and practically misspelled every word in his haste to communicate with her. Thank God. Are you all right? I was worried sick.

I'm fine.

But where are you? Was she home? She must be if she was online with him now. Could he call her, would she answer?

I'm fine.

He frowned in annoyance. What game was she playing now? Are you not going to tell me where you are? he typed, fingers moving more slowly now.

No.

Tell me you're all right? Surely that was the least she could do. If she was online, surely she'd just seen his e-mail; surely she had to understand just how worried he'd been.

I'm all right.

Stephanie, please talk to me. We have a lot to talk about. Okay, so she was pissed off; he could understand that. But why couldn't she just answer his questions?

We've nothing to talk about. I want my key back. Don't go near the house again. Stay away from my boss. I don't want to see you again.

That was like a slap in the face. He flinched away from the screen. It doesn't have to be this way, he typed quickly.

Actually, it does.

Please. I need to talk to you. About today. About the future.

We have no future together. Go back to your wife, Robert Walker.

A message box popped up: stephanieburroughs123 has signed off.

Robert sat in front of the screen, watching the cursor blinking rhythmically after the last sentence she had written:
Go back to your wife, Robert Walker.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to think, to make sense of what had just happened.

The nightmare that followed was particularly unpleasant, although when he awoke, he could remember none of the details, only the incredible feeling of loss and searching, of traveling through a long gray-white tunnel where a figure seemed to be constantly running away from him. He thought the shape in the distance might have been Kathy, but it could just as easily have been Stephanie.

CHAPTER 28

R
obert came suddenly awake.

He was sitting in his chair in his office, wearing his leather coat, gloves, and outdoor shoes. He groaned aloud. His feet were blocks of ice. Rising out of the chair and standing took an effort; he felt like an old man. Peeling off his gloves he dropped them on the floor, then shrugged off the heavy coat. He sank back into the chair to fumble with the laces of his shoes. His socks were damp, his shoes lined and stained from the snow. Padding barefoot into the bathroom, Robert found a towel and sat on the edge of the bath to dry his feet.

Christ, he felt hungover. He felt exactly as if he'd spent a night drinking with Jimmy Moran. He tried arching his back and rotating his shoulders, but it didn't help ease the tension.

He wandered down to the kitchen and glanced up at the wall clock as he made the coffee. He pulled out the Peet's French Roast and poured the beans into the coffee grinder. He grimaced at the noise. It was seven thirty, and he was surprised the kids hadn't come down yet; he smiled, remembering Christmases past when they would be up at three and four in the morning. He and Kathy would lie in bed, listening to Brendan and Theresa whisper excitedly together in the next room, wondering if Santa had come. They had been good times, happy times. But it had been a long time since the children had hurried downstairs on Christmas morning to fall upon their presents. It had been a long time since he and Kathy had been happy.

He measured out the ground beans and put them in the filter, adding enough water to make a full pot. As the coffee brewed, he reached up to the cabinet for a mug—the one Theresa had made for him at Color Me Mine years earlier. It was a ceramic mug with her handwritten scrawl, World's Best Dad. Most of the letters had faded, and the once bright red was now faded almost to a dull pink. He was about to pour a cup for himself, then, on impulse, he decided to pour a second cup for Kathy. He reached for another mug and then changed his mind. She liked hers in a cup and saucer. He added the soy milk she preferred and then carried both coffees upstairs. Leaving his World's Best Dad mug balanced precariously on the banister, he gently opened the door to the bedroom and peered inside. He immediately knew by the way she was lying that she was awake. Her posture was too rigid, and normally, when she slept, she'd kick the cover off, but now the sheets were tucked in tightly beneath her chin.

He moved around to her side of the bed and put the cup of coffee on the small nightstand, alongside the fat piece of historical fiction she was reading.

“Kathy,” he whispered. “Kathy . . . ?”

Her dark eyes snapped open, and she looked at him.

“I brought you some coffee.”

Kathy continued to look at him, saying nothing.

“Merry Christmas,” he said eventually, and thought about leaning in to kiss her, but decided not to.

“You went out last night.” The simple statement held a world of accusation in it.

“The office alarm went off; I got a call from the alarm company. I had to go in.” He kept his face impassive, but the irony wasn't lost on him: lying to his wife first thing Christmas morning, having promised only a few hours previously to be honest with her.

“You were gone for a long time,” she said, pushing up in bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.

“Roads were terrible. Mine was the only car out; I crept along. And then when I got there, I had to make sure everything was okay.” That was the problem with lies: They built upon one another, a second lie bolstering the first, a third to add credence to the second.

“I take it there was no problem with the office.”

He shook his head. “Probably snow or ice falling off a neighboring building, hitting our roof, and setting off one of the sensors. I could hear other alarms ringing out across Storrow Drive as I drove home.” More lies. Did you lie to a woman if you really loved her, he couldn't help but wonder. And yet he had lied to Kathy every day for the past eighteen months . . . and to Stephanie too, he realized. He had lied to Stephanie when he'd led her to believe that he was going to leave his wife to be with her. Because in the beginning he'd had no such intention. It was really only in the last couple of weeks, when Stephanie began pushing him for commitment, that he'd been forced to really consider leaving Kathy.

“Drink your coffee,” he said. “I'm sure the kids will be up soon.” He padded silently out of the bedroom, retrieved his cup from the banister, and locked himself in his study.

Well—leaving aside the lies—that hadn't gone too badly. At least they were talking to one another.

Drinking his coffee, able to clear his head for the first time in days, Robert finally made a decision. Now that he and Kathy had gotten over the initial shock of discovery and had started to deal with it, he had slowly and inexorably come to the conclusion that he was not prepared to spend the next couple of years constantly looking over his shoulder, wondering if his wife was checking up on his every move. He'd lived like that six years earlier, when Kathy had mistakenly accused him of having an affair with Stephanie. He'd been conscious in the weeks and months that followed that she was spying on him. He remembered standing in the bedroom and watching Kathy climb out of the car with a pen and notepad in her hands. It took him a while to work out that she was noting down the mileage. He'd quickly realized that when he stayed away from home on business, Kathy always made a point of calling the hotel with some excuse. It was a horrible, horrible feeling. He didn't want to live like that. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life knowing that his wife was watching his every move, not trusting a word he said, spying on him.

He wanted to get through Christmas, clear the air with Kathy, then talk to Stephanie. Stephanie was his future, he'd decided.

Except now she wanted nothing to do with him.

If he could only talk to her, he was sure he would be able to convince her that he genuinely loved her and wanted to be with her. If she knew that he was going to leave Kathy, he was sure she would come back to him. Wouldn't she?

It was time to make changes, radical changes. At the age of forty-nine, he had the chance to start again. Over the next year, he'd concentrate on the business, build it up, really make it a force to be reckoned with. He'd work on those scripts he'd always been planning to write, maybe even apply for a film grant for funding. He'd talk to Jimmy; although they'd often worked together in the past, maybe it was time they formalized their relationship—entered into a partnership. Jimmy could run the business, and he could look after the creative end.

And he would work with Kathy to make the separation amicable, but she would have to be reasonable. He would do a deal with her for her portion of the house, if she was prepared to do a deal with him for her percentage of the business. He'd make certain to let the children know that he would always be there for them, that he would always love them. They were teenagers; he was sure they were old enough to understand.

And he wouldn't make the same mistakes with Stephanie that he'd made with Kathy. He'd pay attention to her, and he knew she'd pay attention to him. They worked in the same type of business, so work would be a shared interest. He'd move into her condo and help her with the mortgage. Although Stephanie had talked about possibly having a baby, she was thinking two or three years down the road. A lot could happen in that time. Frankly, he'd done all that, knew the amount of time and effort babies took, and he definitely didn't want to do it again. Once Stephanie started moving up the corporate ladder, she wouldn't want children to distract her. It would be just the two of them, no diversions, no interruptions. They would be happy together.

A new beginning, a new future: That would be his New Year's present to himself.

All he had to do was convince Stephanie that he was genuine. And the one way of doing that was to spend New Year's Eve together and start the New Year with her.