The Deep End (20 page)

“You could have made the choice.”

“I didn’t want to make the wrong one!” She promptly burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she cried softly, grabbing a paper napkin from its aluminum container and blowing her nose. “I didn’t mean to cry.”

“No,” he said gently, suddenly reaching across the table and taking her hand in his. “I’m the one who’s sorry.” Joanne stared across the table hopefully. This is the part where he tells me what a stupid fool he’s been and begs my forgiveness, if I’ll only take him back he’ll spend the rest of his life making it up to me. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” he said instead. “I knew this wasn’t the time or place. Jesus, Joanne, you make me feel like such a bastard.”

Joanne covered her eyes with her free hand, biting down so hard on her lower lip that she tasted blood. “Are my eyes smeared?” she asked as he withdrew his hand. She pushed at her hair absently and fumbled with the neckline of her dress.

“No,” Paul said, his eyes soft, his voice tender. “You look lovely. You know I’ve always liked that dress.”

Joanne smiled. “I love you,” she said, not looking at him, her lips quivering despite all efforts to control them.

“I love you too,” he said simply.

“Then what are we doing?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Come home.”

He looked toward the door to the cafeteria as a young couple bounded in noisily, laughing and gaily hurling mock insults at one another. “I can’t,” he said, and
although his words were lost in the sudden swirl of activity around them, Joanne had only to stare at his eyes, which were focused resolutely on his now empty mug, to understand what he had said.

“Mrs. Hunter,” the voice called to her from across the lobby.

Joanne swung around abruptly, almost knocking into a woman in tennis clothes who was passing in front of her.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Steve Henry said, crossing the green-and-white lobby of the country club.

“Did I leave something on the court?” Joanne asked, automatically feeling in her purse for her keys.

“No,” he laughed, a dimple creasing his left cheek. “I had a cancellation, so I was wondering if you’d like to join me for a cup of coffee. We could talk about how much your game has improved over the last couple of weeks,” he added.

“I don’t think so,” Joanne answered hastily.

“You don’t think your game has improved or you don’t think you’d like to join me for a cup of coffee?”

“Both, I’m afraid.” She’d had enough talks over coffee for one day. “I’m running kind of late.”

“Sure,” he said easily, walking beside her toward the door. “What about your friend, the redhead …”

“Eve?”

“Yes, Eve, the one with the weak forehand and the wicked laugh.” Joanne smiled agreement. Eve’s laugh
was
wicked, as if she knew something the rest of the world didn’t but might be persuaded to tell. “Will we ever be seeing her again?”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll resume the lessons as soon as she starts feeling better.”

“I hope so,” he said, “although she’ll have to work hard to catch up to you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Who’s the teacher here?” Joanne tried to return his smile, but there was something about Steve Henry’s blond, effortless good looks that made her uneasy. “You were hitting some very nice shots there,” he continued. “I had you running all over the court, and you were getting to all of them.”

“And sending them right into the net.”

“You’re still not following through all the way,” he agreed. “But, I don’t know, I sensed a new aggressiveness out there this afternoon.” Joanne laughed despite herself. “There, you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

“Look at my toes,” she wailed, not sure what else to say, looking down at the blue-tinted large toenails poking out from under the straps of her sandals. “They look like they’re about to fall off.”

“You probably will lose the nails,” he told her matter-of-factly. “Your shoes must be too small. To play tennis, you need a half size larger. What’s happening is your toes keep jamming into the top of your sneakers because they don’t have enough room to move around.”

“They’re such a lovely shade of blue,” she smiled as they reached the front door.

“Like your eyes,” he told her.

Oh, Joanne thought, surprised and instantly speechless, we’re not talking about tennis.

“Y
es, so then what did you say?”

“What do you mean, what did I say? I didn’t say anything.”

“Joanne, for God’s sake,” Eve exclaimed impatiently, “the man was obviously making a pitch, he tells you your toenails are the same color as your eyes …” Both women suddenly burst out laughing. “All right, so it’s not the most romantic thing he could have said, but it is kind of cute.”

“My eyes aren’t blue, they’re hazel.”

“Picky, picky. That’s not the point. The point is that he was telling you that you have beautiful eyes. When was the last time anyone told you that?” Joanne smiled, remembering that she had asked herself that same question not too long ago. “The point is,” Eve continued, “that he’s obviously interested.”

“In me,” Joanne stated, though it was unmistakably a question.

“Why not in you?” Eve demanded. The two women were standing beside the built-in stovetop in Eve’s kitchen looking over the Saturday-night dinner Eve had prepared. “Loosen up a bit, put a few blond streaks in your hair, and you’re a very beautiful woman.”

“I think all those X-rays have affected your brain,” Joanne told her friend playfully, though she was grateful for the compliment.

“You’re the one who’s crazy if you don’t take advantage of what Steve Henry is offering you.”

“Which is?”

“One of the nicest twenty-nine-year-old bodies I’ve ever seen. Come on, Joanne, if for no other reason, do it for me.”

Joanne laughed out loud. “I can’t,” she said finally.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I’m a married woman.”

There was a long pause before Eve spoke again. “You think Paul is sitting home nights telling everybody he’s a married man?”

“What do you mean?” Almost before the question was out of her mouth, Joanne was sorry she had asked it.

“Look, I’m not saying that he has anything serious going …”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“I don’t know anything for sure,” Eve backtracked.

“What have you heard?”

“A few people have seen him around.”

“With whom?” The question was pushed out of her throat by the sudden rapid beating of her heart.

“Some girl. Judy somebody-or-other. Nobody anybody knows.” She shrugged, her face registering proper disdain. “A blonde, naturally.”

“Young?”

“Mid to late twenties.”

Joanne braced herself against Eve’s kitchen counter for support.

“Listen,” Eve said quickly, “I did not tell you about this blond Judy whatever-her-name-is to upset you. I told you about her to get you off your ass. This is opportunity knocking, for God’s sake. How many chances like this do you think you’re going to get? Steve Henry is a certifiable hunk. Do you know the stamina that twenty-nine-year-old men have? Think about it, Joanne. That’s all I’m asking you to do.”

“What the hell’s going on in there?” a masculine voice called from the dining room. “I thought we were going to have some dinner around here.”

“Coming,” Eve called out, noisily maneuvering the various pots on the top of the stove without actually doing anything. “The point is, Joanne,” she continued in a whisper, “that Paul isn’t spending all his nights alone in his new apartment thinking things through; he’s also going out and … not thinking.” Eve gathered a large casserole dish and a few side plates around her and began organizing the dinner she had prepared. “Brian’s in a rotten mood,” she informed Joanne as they neared the connecting door to the dining room, their hands loaded with the various delicacies. “Try not to talk about his work, okay?”

Joanne nodded, feeling numb from the top of her messy brown hair to the bottom of her bright blue toenails. She was no longer hungry, despite the delicious smells, and she doubted she’d be able to say anything at all to Brian with the huge lump that was blocking her throat.

“So, how are the girls?” Brian was asking, his large mouth full of food.

“They’re fine,” Joanne replied automatically. “Well, actually, no, they’re not fine,” she corrected, looking up from her untouched plate of Chinese-style beef on a bed
of rice, which Eve had no doubt spent the entire day preparing. “I mean, healthwise, they’re okay, I guess. But Lulu’s driving me nuts about her final exams, she’s convinced she’s going to fail everything, and Robin is driving me nuts because she’s convinced she’s going to pass everything without having to do any work. She’s out tonight because God forbid she should stay home on a Saturday night! And Lulu, who
is
home studying, is crying because her history exam is Monday and the only date she can remember is the start of the Boer War, and naturally they didn’t study the Boer War this year.”

Brian laughed. “Why the Boer War?”

“Oh, it’s the combination for the numbers on our burglar alarm system.”

“I understand you had another false alarm this morning,” Brian said, helping himself to more salad.

Joanne nodded. “After lecturing the kids a million times about checking to make sure the alarm is off before they open the door in the morning, guess who forgot and did just that? Oh well,” Joanne smiled sadly, “it gives me something to talk to my grandfather about.”

“How is he?”

“Not good.” Joanne lifted her fork to her lips, then lowered it without having taken any food into her mouth. “He’s starting to look a little gray around the edges.”

“You keep the alarm on even when you’re in the house?” Brian asked, his professional instincts returning them to the original conversation.

Joanne nodded. “I feel safer since the phone calls.”

“What phone calls?” Brian asked.

A sudden loud noise—Eve’s fork cracking against the side of her plate as it fell from her hand—transferred the
focus of attention back to Eve’s end of the table. Eve jumped to her feet clumsily, knocking over her wine glass, spilling what was left of the expensive burgundy into her salad. “Oh God,” she exclaimed, “I seem to be having a sharp pain.”

“Where?” Joanne asked, immediately at Eve’s side.

“The usual places,” she gasped, trying to laugh. “My heart, my lungs, my stomach, my groin …”

“What should we do?” Joanne asked Brian who remained in his chair.

“There’s some Valium in the medicine cabinet in our bathroom,” he began.

“I don’t need Valium,” Eve shouted. “I need a doctor who knows what he’s talking about. Shit, look at this tablecloth.” Joanne glanced down at the bright bloodlike stain that was shaping itself almost like a placemat around Eve’s plate.

“It’s all right, I’ll wash it out,” Joanne offered. “Maybe you should go upstairs and lie down.”

Eve glared at her husband, who sat impassively across the table, not moving. “Okay,” she agreed.

“I’ll help you.”

“No, I can manage.” She wiggled out of Joanne’s protective grasp, her body doubled forward. “I’ll be down again soon,” she promised. “You finish eating.”

“You sure you don’t want me to come up with you?”

“I want you to rinse out the damn tablecloth before it’s ruined completely,” she answered, trying to smile. “And I want you to follow through with Steve Henry, damnit.” She disappeared up the steps with proper dramatic flair.

“What was that all about?” Brian asked as Joanne began soaking up the spilt wine with her napkin.

Joanne started clearing away the dishes. “I was about to ask you the same question,” she said without looking at him.

“Sit down,” he told her casually, but with an unmistakable air of authority. “I’m not finished with my meal yet. And you haven’t even touched yours. Come on, Eve’s mother will be only too happy to buy us another tablecloth. It’ll give her something useful to do and it’ll keep her off my back for ten minutes. Eat.”

Joanne reluctantly returned to her seat and stared coldly at Eve’s husband, whose face was surprisingly soft despite the gruffness of his voice. She made no effort to hide her displeasure.

“You think I’m a cold-hearted son of a bitch, right?” he said.

“I probably wouldn’t have put it that way,” Joanne admitted, “but yes, that’s an essentially accurate description.” She was surprised at her own directness. Normally she would have found some way to soften her words, so as not to risk hurting his feelings. But at this moment she doubted Brian Stanley had any feelings.

“You don’t know the whole story, Joanne,” he told her simply, his deep-set eyes revealing nothing. A policeman’s eyes, she found herself thinking.

“I know that my best friend is in terrible pain and that her husband looks like he couldn’t give a damn.”

Brian Stanley tapped his fingers impatiently on the table. “I repeat,” he said, his voice steady, “you don’t know the whole story.”

“I may not know the whole story,” Joanne began, using his words, “but I do know Eve. This is not a woman who gets hysterical about a few small aches and pains.
She’s always been very much in control. Even after she lost the baby, she just picked herself up and carried on with her life.”

“You didn’t think that was just a little bit strange?”

His question caught Joanne off guard. “What do you mean?”

“A woman tries for seven years to have a child and she finally conceives at the age of forty, finds out that the baby is a girl, selects a name, Jaclyn, immediately—over her mother’s loud objections I might add—then loses the baby and goes right back on with her life as if nothing happened. Doesn’t shed a tear. Christ, Joanne,
I
cried!”

“Eve was never one to show her emotions in public.”

“I’m not the public—I’m her husband!” Brian realized he had raised his voice and took a long, deep breath, looking toward the stairs. “There are other things.”

“Like what?”

“Individually they don’t amount to much,” he admitted, “but when you put them all together … it’s a little like solving a crime.”