The Consequences (9 page)

CHAPTER 18

“H
i, Stef.”

Robert's appearance shocked her. He looked terrible, skin pale and lightly sheened with sweat; his hair was greasy, and there were deep bags under his bloodshot eyes. His black suit was rumpled and creased. There was a dark stain around the collar of his pale blue shirt, and the knot on his pale charcoal silk tie—one she had bought him—was dark where grubby fingers had tugged it. When he stepped past her, she caught the faintest odor of stale perspiration. And that shocked her more than anything else: Robert was, if nothing else, fastidiously clean.

Stephanie closed the door behind him, took a deep breath to calm her suddenly thundering heart, and followed him up the stairs into her apartment, into the living room. She found him standing beside the chair, looking down at the Christmas presents he'd brought last Tuesday.

“It's good to see you again,” he said, his voice flat, emotionless.

Stephanie nodded, unsure what to say. She finally fell back on the old reliable. “Would you like some tea or coffee or something stronger?”

“Tea would be great, thank you.”

Stephanie disappeared into the kitchen, and Robert took up his usual position, leaning against the entrance to the kitchen, arms folded across his chest. It looked as if he was trying to hold himself upright. As she filled the kettle with water from the Brita pitcher, she was aware that he was watching her.

“You got back this morning?” he said finally.

“A couple of hours ago,” she said shortly.

“I'm sorry I wasn't there to meet you. . . . Believe it or not, I didn't check my e-mails.”

“I believe it,” she said evenly.

“Flight was okay?”

“Fine. I booked a last-minute ticket and came in via Detroit, so I had to stay overnight, but I checked into the Westin and treated myself to a massage so I was able to relax a bit.”

“Good. Good.”

Stephanie found a cup for herself and a mug for Robert—he preferred mugs to cups—and hoped she had enough milk for the tea. It was low-fat, which he hated, but he would have to make do with it. Looking into the fridge, watching him out of the corner of her eye, she asked, “How was the removal? Were there many people there?”

“Yes. I was surprised by how many. Shocked. I think Jimmy would have been too. He made a lot of enemies over the years, but far more friends it seems. They all came out today.” His voice broke then, and Stephanie saw him fumble in his pockets for a handkerchief.

The water in the kettle started to boil, and Stephanie concentrated on making the tea, deliberately not turning around, not wanting to look at him with tears on his face. She had imagined this moment a dozen times since she had decided to come back to Boston; she had rehearsed her speech, first in Madison, then on the plane to Detroit, and then again at the airport hotel, and knew exactly how she would handle this encounter. She would be cool, controlled, as unemotional as she could be. There would be no recriminations. They—she and Robert—had a situation to resolve, and all they were talking about was the most practical and logical way to go about it. That was the plan. But from the moment she had seen him standing on the doorstep, looking sick with exhaustion, she'd felt her resolve start to slip away. And now, listening to him trying to compose himself and not show emotion, to do that stupid thing men did, she felt all her carefully thought-out plans begin to fragment. And she suddenly—unaccountably—felt guilty that she'd been so hard with him earlier.

“Tea's ready.”

He'd managed to compose himself by the time she turned and passed over to him the steaming mug of tea.

“I've added two sugars.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Been an intense few days; I haven't had much sleep.” He followed her into the living room, taking up his usual position on the couch facing her.

Stephanie made herself another cup of tea. She cradled the tiny porcelain cup in the palms of her hands and sipped. “Tell me what happened?” she asked. Although she really wanted to discuss her current situation, she recognized that he needed someone to talk to. She raised her cup to hide her wry smile. That was how their affair started eighteen months ago. Robert had simply needed someone to talk to.

Robert took a moment to answer. “I got a call on Christmas Day . . . not long after yours. Jimmy Moran had been taken to the hospital with a suspected heart attack. I immediately went to see him. Oh, Stef, he looked terrible. . . .” Robert breathed deeply and took a mouthful of tea. “He was awake. He said that at first he was trying to make light of it, thinking it was nothing more than indigestion. He had been cooking his own Christmas dinner and had sampled the turkey. When he got the pains, he thought that maybe the bird hadn't been cooked through. It was when he felt the pain move into his left arm that he realized it was serious and dialed 911. But it was Christmas Day, and it took the ambulance forever to arrive.”

Robert sipped a little more of the hot tea. His eyes glazed, and Stephanie became aware that he was reliving the events of Wednesday.

“They'd put him in a private room. He looked old, so old and frail . . . and the moment I saw him, I knew he wasn't going to make it. It was almost as if he'd given up. The spark had gone. Turned out he'd tried calling Angela, but she wasn't taking his calls, nor was Frances. He asked me to contact Angela. She spoke to me, but she wouldn't come in to see him. She was finished with him, she said. He'd broken her heart with his lies and his affairs, and she was afraid that this was just another one of his tricks.”

Robert fell silent. Stephanie could see the muscle twitching along his jawline and the sudden welling of tears in his eyes.

“I called Frances,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “She wouldn't come either. They'd had a fight, and she'd thrown him out. I think she thought it was a trick too. She told me that he was incredibly manipulative, and that this was just an act to get sympathy.”

“So you stayed with him?” Stephanie asked.

“I stayed with him throughout the day and into the night until . . . until he died,” he finished simply. “He died.” There were tears on his cheeks now, but he seemed unaware of them. “He squeezed my hand and then . . .” He drew in a deep, sobbing breath.

“I'm sorry, Robert. So sorry.” It took an enormous effort of will to remain seated in the chair. She had the urge to go to him, wrap her arms around his shoulders, and comfort him, but she knew that would be a mistake. “I know you and Jimmy were very close.”

And Stephanie abruptly realized why Jimmy's death had affected Robert so strongly. Although he had three brothers, they were all estranged. Robert's parents had separated when he was fourteen, and he had gone to stay with his mother. He rarely mentioned his father, who had died fifteen years ago, and when he did, the comments were always tinged with bitterness and regret. Jimmy Moran had been Robert's mentor, friend, and father figure.

“He died alone, Stephanie,” Robert said very softly.

“Not alone. You were there.”

“But his wife . . . his mis . . . his girlfriend should have been there. Someone more . . . more significant than me. Someone who loved him.”

“You loved him, Robert,” Stephanie said firmly. “In the same way that he was very significant to you, then you too must have played a significant part in his life. Why else would he call you when he went into the hospital?”

Robert nodded. “Yes, yes, you're right. Thank you for reminding me.” He finished his tea in one quick swallow and put the cup on the floor. “I'm sorry, I guess I'm all over the place. Since everything that happened here on Tuesday”—he waved his hand around the room—“then frantically looking for you, then your call on Wednesday, and then Jimmy's death, it's just been an incredibly emotional time.”

“Yes, I can see that. And Christmas is the most stressful time of the year too.”

He attempted a smile. “There were times I thought I was having a heart attack myself.” He pressed the palm of his right hand against his chest. “I think it was just stress.”

“You should get it checked out, just in case,” she said immediately. Then she stopped, realizing what she was doing: She was assuming responsibility for him.

“Jimmy was fifty-two—only three years older than I am.”

“He lived a completely different lifestyle,” she reminded Robert.

“Not that different,” Robert said quickly, unable to disguise the note of bitterness in his voice.

“He smoked.”

“He did. And he liked rich food,” Robert added.

“And he drank,” Stephanie reminded him, “a lot more than you.”

“Yes, Jimmy did that too. I'm only sorry now that we didn't get a chance to have that meal at Top of the Hub before Christmas. We had drinks around the corner in the Union Oyster House instead—You suggested that, remember? That was the last time I saw him until . . . until I saw him in the hospital on Christmas Day.”

“At least you had the chance to see him.”

Robert nodded. “Yes. I'm glad I did.”

“Would you like some more tea?” Stephanie asked, filling the long silence that followed.

“Yes. Thank you.” He picked his mug up off the floor, handed it across, then sank back onto the sofa, resting his head on the back of the cushion and closing his eyes.

Stephanie stepped back into the kitchen. She was unsure what to do: let him talk out his thoughts and feelings for Jimmy or raise the subject of her pregnancy? But she wanted him clear-headed when she was talking about that, and right now he was simply too emotional. As she filled the kettle again, she called out, “Jimmy's life was also incredibly stressful, and I can guarantee you he never exercised.” Other than the horizontal kind, she thought, but didn't say aloud. She thought she heard Robert grunt in assent, and she continued on. “Plus, the whole situation with Angela and Frances must have taken its toll on him, and I'm sure the prospect of the looming divorce just added to the stress level.”

There was no reply.

Stephanie turned and looked into the living room. Robert had shifted sideways on the couch, his head tilted onto his shoulder. He had fallen asleep sitting up. She replaced the kettle, but didn't switch it on, and returned to her chair. She sat down and watched Robert. Even in sleep the exhausted lines around his eyes and mouth didn't relax, and she could see his eyes darting madly beneath the closed lids. She wondered what dreams haunted him.

The events of the past few days twisted in the back of her mind, assuming a dreamlike quality all of their own. From the moment Kathy Walker had appeared on Christmas Eve and slapped her across the face, everything had just spun out of control. Even though she'd only been back home a couple of hours, her quick visit to Wisconsin was beginning to fade and recede into memory, and she was already beginning to feel like she'd never been away. Stephanie was concerned for Robert too; he looked like he might keel over at any moment, a combination of the high emotion of the past few days, too little sleep, and, she imagined, little or no food.

As she looked out the window, a shape passed below. Then she realized it was Mrs. Moore, the nosy neighbor whose condo was directly beneath hers. The old woman glanced up, and she managed a weak wave. It was impossible for anyone to see up into the window, but Stephanie still wondered what the scene must look like from outside: the woman curled up on the chair, the man dozing on the couch.

The irony of it was, of course, that she'd sometimes imagined a scene very much like this: It was from sometime in the future when Robert left his wife and Stephanie and Robert were living together. He'd come home from work, sit on the sofa, and nap. In her fantasy, the house would be warm and welcoming, smelling of baked bread or roasting meat. Some jazz—Etta James or Louis Armstrong—would be murmuring on the stereo. The couple would eat and talk, and he would tell her about his day, and she would fill him in on her activities. Then they would have a bath, and go to bed, making love into the evening before falling asleep comfortably wrapped around one another.

The reality had turned out to be different: While the house was warm, it smelled stale and slightly bitter with the scent of the desiccated flowers and just the hint of Robert's perspiration. There was no music, no sounds except Robert's shallow breathing.

Leaning forward, she propped her elbows on her knees, rested her chin on her fists, and looked at his face. He looked old and tired; he looked beaten. He was a workaholic, and the stress of trying to run a business was finally taking a toll on his body. If he kept working this obscene schedule, he would be dead in a few years. Just like Jimmy. And she did not want that to happen. Earlier that week she'd let him go, allowed him to return to his wife. But that didn't mean that she'd stopped loving him.