Blood Red (15 page)

 

Chapter 8

L
ast night at Marrana's, when Rowan somehow got it into her head that Jake was looking at her strangely, she'd almost believed he sent the box of burnt cookies himself.

What if he'd snuck into the house unexpectedly on that snowy afternoon while she was with Rick?

He wouldn't sneak in, though. He'd have no reason to think he might be interrupting a clandestine tryst . . . or would he?

Even if he did, he couldn't possibly have anticipated that would be the day, the moment when Rick would finally make a move.

Anyway, if he had walked in on them, he'd have burst into the room throwing punches at Rick. That's the kind of guy Jake is; always has been—even-­keeled temperament until something drastic sets him off, and then look out. He wouldn't have waited fourteen years to mail an anonymous package.

Still, it had a Manhattan postmark. Jake's regional sales job occasionally takes him there. It hasn't lately, though . . .

As far as you know.

She's too well aware just how easy it is to make the two-­hour drive to the city and later claim to have been elsewhere.

As she takes her medication, brushes her teeth, combs her hair, and throws on jeans and a sweatshirt—­her own this time, not Jake's—­she tries to convince herself that the man she married would never be capable of doing something so sneaky or hurtful.

Just like he believes you'd never do anything sneaky or hurtful?

Glimpsing the stranger in the bureau mirror, she steps closer, forcing herself to take a good, hard look. Awash in guilt, she finds it difficult to even make eye contact with herself.

I don't know her
, she thinks, staring at her reflection.
And I don't like her.

It isn't just that she still expects to see her familiar red hair. Her face looks older, etched in the shadows of worry lines and dark circles.

How is it that Jake hasn't figured out just by looking at her that something is terribly wrong?

Maybe he has.

Remembering the way he'd studied her across the table last night, she turns away abruptly and walks over to the bed. What she wouldn't give to crawl back under the covers and hide for the rest of the day. Not just from Jake, but from herself.

Maybe she should just tell him the truth.

She dismisses the thought before it's even fully formed.

He might not believe that what had happened between her and Rick had stopped short of a physical affair, or that it was completely meaningless. He probably wouldn't grasp that it had grown out of the circumstances of their lives back then; circumstances that no longer exist. She made a stupid, selfish mistake, but it's one she would never make again. She's older and wiser; their marriage has evolved; she loves Jake and would never . . .

She can hear herself saying all of those things to her husband as clearly as if the conversation actually took place. It isn't difficult to imagine his response; the terrible devastation in his voice and the angry accusation in his eyes weigh on her as vividly as an ugly memory.

No. It can never happen. She'll never tell him. She loves him too much to inflict that level of pain.

She forces herself to make the bed, same as she does every morning. Normalcy. It's all about normalcy.

Downstairs, she steps around the box of indoor decorations Jake left near the foot of the steps, and is relieved to find Mick in the kitchen. He's wearing a striped T-­shirt with plaid shorts—­shorts, in December! Stripes and plaid!—­and standing in front of the open refrigerator gulping milk straight from the carton.

Ah, normalcy.

Seeing her, he hastily puts the milk carton back. “Sorry. I forgot to get a glass.”

“It's okay.”

“It is?”

“I mean, no, it's not okay, but . . . I'll let it slide this time. Did you run this morning?”

“Yup.”

“Did you remember to take your medicine?”

“Yup.”

“Did you eat something with it so you won't get an upset stomach?”

“No, I was about to.”

At too many maternal questions, a scowl begins to work its way over his freckled face, but she deftly erases it with a final one: “Want me to make some pancakes?”

“Yeah! I can eat about twenty, so make a lot.”

Rowan isn't sure she can even choke down one.

Burnt cookies: the weight loss magic bullet. You don't even have to eat them, and they'll kill your appetite for a full week.

Jake appears with the Sunday paper in its blue plastic bag from the foot of the driveway. As usual, Mick promptly asks to see the sports section. As usual, Jake reminds him that the paper has been sitting outside since dawn and that Mick was perfectly capable of retrieving it then.

“Come on, Dad. That's not fair. You read all those other sections, too. I just want to check the Knicks score from last night.”

“They lost.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Let me—­”

“You can have the sports section when I'm done with it. Here, help yourself to one of those other sections. Maybe you'll learn something. And by the way—­what time did you come in last night?”

“Around twelve, give or take.”

“Give or take a few hours?”

“No! A few minutes.”

“Don't lie to me, Mick.”

“I'm not! I told you I was home. You must not have heard me.”

Standing at the stove, listening to the predictable rhythm of their testosterone-­fueled argument, Rowan finds herself breathing a little easier.

For now, anyway.

R
unning late, with a pounding hangover headache, Rick takes the PATH train into Manhattan at noon.

He'd lied to Rowan on Friday night when he'd said his schedule was wide open this weekend. In reality, he had—­
has
—­plans for Sunday brunch with his closest friend in the world. He'd have canceled if today had been his only opportunity to reconnect with Rowan, but as it turned out, he didn't have to.

That's good, because he really needs someone to talk to right now, and Bob Belinke is one of the few ­people he trusts.

They met in kindergarten back in their hometown Appleton, Wisconsin, and bonded—­rather, clashed—­when they both wanted to play with the same toy plane at recess. Bob was equally obsessed with all things aviation-­related, and they both wanted to become pilots when they grew up.

Bob learned to fly at sixteen, had his private license at eighteen, went to Aeronautical University, went to work for the FAA as an air traffic controller in Illinois, Oklahoma, and Kansas, and even owned his own plane, while Rick . . .

Well, at least someone's dream came true.

Bob retired to Florida over a decade ago, but he's an avid traveler and pops up in New York every so often. This weekend, he's on an overnight layover on his way home from Scotland and England, and he'd e-­mailed Rick last week to see if he was free.

It's been a while since I've heard from you
, he wrote.
I worry. How are you doing on your own?

On his own—­he's always been on his own. Even when he and Vanessa were still married and going through the motions of supporting each other, they lived separate lives. He felt more alone in their relationship than he has since it ended with her death.

But he wrote back to Bob simply
Hanging in there
, and arranged to meet today at the same diner where he wound up meeting Rowan yesterday.

It's near Bob's hotel and the PATH station and—­most important—­it's affordable. He hasn't told Bob about his recent layoff. He hasn't told anyone, even the kids. With two in college, bills stacking up, and Vanessa's life insurance settlement still in limbo, Rick isn't going to be brunching at the Peninsula anytime soon.

Walking in, he spots Bob sitting a booth away from the one he and Rowan shared only twenty-­four hours ago. The same waitress is handling the section. What was her name? Bertrice? Beatrice?

She spots him heading to the table and waves, cheerfully busting his chops: “What, are you a stalker or something?”

“Only for you—­” He can see her name tag now. “—­Bernice.”

Standing to greet him with a warm handshake, Bob asks if he's a regular here.

“This weekend I am,” he replies, thinking no one in the restaurant is going to mistake Bob for a regular. He's wearing a bright blue polo shirt and has the tanned, relaxed vibe that may be de rigueur in Florida but is rarely seen in New York City.

There was a time, not long after they were married, when Rick imagined himself and Vanessa living that life someday. It was a short-­lived fantasy. Even if they had stayed together—­even if they could have afforded for Vanessa to retire and she'd been willing to move South—­the lifestyle would never have suited her.

“Can you see me on a golf course, wearing a visor and Lilly Pulitzer?” she'd asked, wrinkling her nose when he brought it up. “All that pastel. I could never.”

“You don't have to dress like that. It's not in the Florida rulebook.”

“I bet there
is
a Florida rulebook and it comes with coupons for bug repellent and early bird specials.”

“Why do you hate Florida so much?”

Why do you hate everything?

Ignoring the question he'd asked, Vanessa added, as if to answer the one he hadn't asked: “And the sun. I hate the sun. I burn and I freckle.”

Rick had to bite his tongue to keep from saying he likes freckles.

With Vanessa, he had to bite his tongue to keep from saying a lot of things.

It wasn't healthy. A lot of marriages aren't. Some survive anyway, but most end in some kind of heartache, Rick thinks glumly as he throws his jacket on the hook beside the booth and slides onto the bench.

“You're looking good,” he tells Bob.

“So are you.”

“Yeah, right.” Rick is well aware that the return compliment is perfunctory. He looks about as great as he feels today.

“I like your shirt.”

“Now you're really laying on the bull.”

“What? I like your shirt. Why is that bull?”

“Because men don't say they like each other's shirts.”

“They do when they've rooted for the same team together all their lives. I thought you wore that just for me.”

Looking down, Rick sees the familiar Green Bay Packers logo, grins, and nods. Might as well let Bob think he's wearing this T-­shirt in honor of their shared hometown, which is only a half-­hour drive from Lambeau Field, as opposed to it being the only clean item of clothing in his drawer.

He asks Bob about his trip and finds himself envious again as his old friend describes his adventures in En­gland and Scotland, plus a journey last winter to Antarctica, which is where he was when Vanessa died and why he was unreachable for several days afterward.

“The farthest from New York I've been is Appleton,” Rick tells him, “and I haven't even been back there in years.”

“Why don't you come down, spend some time on the beach and the golf course . . . If you haven't been traveling, you must have some vacation time coming.”

Rick sidesteps that, saying, “I haven't even touched my clubs in over a year.”

“Then let's plan something.”

Rick pretends that's a possibility. He's good at that—­letting ­people treat him as though he's not flat broke, or lugging around this burden of guilt like a boulder on a chain.

The waitress arrives at the table with a pot of hot water and a selection of tea bags. “I didn't know if you wanted caf or decaf.”

“Thanks for remembering, Bernice, but I'm actually having coffee today. Black and strong.” He makes a point of looking her in the eye when he speaks with her. ­People in the ser­vice industry appreciate that, and when you use their names, Vanessa told him years ago. It establishes respect and trust.

She was right about that—­about a lot of other things she taught him back when they first met, often saying that he was “a little rough around the edges.” She was right, of course—­and he didn't resent her for it in the beginning.

“Uh-­oh. Tough night?” Bernice asks sympathetically, but he chooses not to answer that.

She fills his coffee cup, refills Rick's, and takes their orders: sesame bagel with butter for Rick, a Western omelet with a side of sausage for Bob.

“Hey, he has a better appetite than your friend yesterday did,” she tells Rick with a wink.

“You're dating?” Bob asks after she's bustled away.

“What makes you think that?”

“Bernice said you were here yesterday with someone.”

“She said
friend
, not
date
.”

“I'm pretty good at deductive reasoning.”

“Sorry, Sherlock, you're wrong about this.”

“I don't think so.” Bob has been a Sherlock Holmes buff since they started their own detective agency when they were kids. “Who was she?”

“Old friend.”

“Female.”

“Yes. And don't look so smug. You had a fifty-­fifty chance of getting that one right.”

He's trying to keep it light, but Bob is earnest.

He's also the only person in the world Rick told about his near miss with adultery. Besides Vanessa, anyway.

And she doesn't count, because she's no longer even in this world anyway—­thanks to me.

Rick had told Bob about it in a moment of weakness. Now he wishes he'd kept his mouth shut. Bob knows him better than anyone, and he is a damned good detective. The next thing Rick knows, he'll have guessed that Rowan was his lunch date yesterday.

I don't want to talk about that. Not even with him.

Rick tries to change the subject, but it isn't easy. Bob is sincerely concerned about his well-­being and thinks he should be dating.