Faultlines (18 page)

Sandy suspected Emmett talked to her dad on a regular basis, confiding in him while he had almost nothing to say to her. But there again, no one felt they owed her anything. She was the liar, the keeper of the secret that had shattered their lives.

Roger came on the line.

“Jordy’s taken my truck,” she said.

“Uh-oh. That’s not good. What happened?”

“I can’t say anything anymore that doesn’t set him off. He’s so angry with me. This whole thing about his dad—”

“It’s a lot to take in.” Roger was cautious.

Or wary of her. Sandy couldn’t decide. She had burdened him with her confidences, her confessions, telling her son’s lawyer of her affair with Beck, how it had resulted in Jordy’s birth and that Emmett hadn’t known, not until Jenna opened her mouth. She’d talked and talked, as if her tongue were hinged in the middle and flapped at both ends. But she was as isolated as Jordy, and she understood more than he knew about how you reach in your mind for your people, the ones you have loved and trusted and relied on. But they’re gone. And they aren’t coming back. And now there was no one. Only the cold, hollow place they left behind in your heart. That Jordy, at twenty, was experiencing this, too, made her ache. She would take on his pain, if she could.

“He’s gone to see Libby Hennessey.”

“Beck’s wife?”

“The very same. He’s working for her. Beck’s widow, of all people.”

“Is that where he is now, do you think?”

“I don’t know. I feel like I should call the police before something terrible happens. He’s upset. Who knows what he’ll do?” A new worry came. “What if he buys beer and gets caught?” She thought of all the stories she’d heard about kids who were rootless, how they fell in with bad company, drifting into a life of crime, drug abuse, homelessness. She saw, vividly now, how it could happen, and it terrified her.

“Let’s back up.” Roger said this forcefully.

Sandy bit her lip.

“First, let’s not involve the cops just yet, okay? I really think Jordy’s just out to clear his head, like he told you. He’s under a lot of pressure, you know? What he’s facing—it’s a lot to handle for a kid, and he
is
still pretty much a kid. But I keep telling you, he’s doing it, he’s handling it pretty well, from what I see. He’s holding up.”

“You really think so?” Maybe Jordy was talking to Roger more than she thought. She didn’t ask. Roger would only say it was privileged.

“Why don’t I take you to dinner? I bet he’ll be home by the time we get back.”

Sandy started to say no, but then overriding her better judgment, she invited him over. “I’ve got makings for taco salad, if you’re hungry. If Jordy comes home, I want to be here,” she added, and when Roger said he’d bring the beer if it was all right, Sandy said she had some, opening the refrigerator to make sure. She’d bought it for Emmett. She wondered if she should let Roger drink Emmett’s beer.

Ending the call, she wondered if it was smart, having Roger over.

Looking down the length of herself, she thought of changing out of her jean shorts and T-shirt into linen capris and a peasant blouse. She realized she was nervous, and it only made it worse. It struck her that if Emmett were here and she’d invited Roger to the house, it would be entirely different, and somehow it seemed unfair. Why should asking a man to dinner suggest one thing when it was a woman alone and something else entirely if her husband was present?

When Roger arrived an hour later, she had tidied the kitchen, but she hadn’t changed, and she was still nervous.

And he had brought a six-pack of beer anyway. “Hostess gift,” he said, following her into the house.

“You didn’t have to bring anything.” She took it from him, handing him a bottle before stowing the rest in the refrigerator.

“You aren’t having one?” He twisted off the cap.

“I’m not much of a drinker,” she said. “I don’t like the taste unless it’s something sweet like a frozen grasshopper.”

He made a face.

“I know.” She smiled. Emmett made the same face, but he would get out the blender and whip one up for her if he thought she had a yen.

“Nothing from Jordy yet?” Roger leaned against the granite-topped island. He was good-looking for a fiftysomething man who was going gray at the temples and maybe a little soft in the middle. There was about him—that element of mischief she’d noticed before, something boyish and lighthearted in his demeanor. She wondered if he seemed less burdened because he had never married, never had the worry of children.

Answering Roger, she said she hadn’t heard anything. “I called his cell phone, and it rang in his bedroom.” She’d gone there and looked in, and then, defeated by the mess, she’d left, closing the door behind her. She used to nag him about the dirty clothes and the endless, mostly nacho cheese–flecked paper plates thrown everywhere. But at some point, she realized she had to pick her battles. A messy room, even a filthy, food-encrusted room, wasn’t as life threatening, say, as AIDS. Or driving drunk. At summer’s end, when he’d returned to college, she’d wade into the garbage pit, feeling as if she needed a hazmat suit. If history was any indicator, it would take her four days to restore the area.

Roger said, “He’s not going back to UT. Did he tell you?”

“Yep, and he knows I’m not happy about it. His dad will be furious.” But maybe Emmett would be relieved, Sandy thought. He could argue then that there was no need to hang on to Jordy’s college fund. She found Roger’s glance. “Won’t it look bad if he doesn’t go back?”

“It would certainly be better for him to be occupied. The trial’s months away. It’s a lot of time to fill. He needs something to do.”

Sandy thought of his new job, working for Libby Hennessey. Why had the woman hired him? Did she know the circumstances?

“He can’t drive,” Roger said. “I think that’s a huge roadblock, not to mention a blow to his pride. He’d have to hoof it around campus, and never mind the dent it would put in his social life. I told him he could get a bike, a good one, pretend he’s training for the Tour de France.” Roger laughed. Sandy didn’t.

She invited him to sit down on the small overstuffed sofa in the breakfast nook. She rarely had time to curl up there herself, although that was how she’d envisioned using the space when she’d furnished it.

“I really like your house,” Roger said. He unfolded his arm along the sofa’s back, propped his ankle on his knee, looking around admiringly. “It’s comfortable, pretty, like a garden, but without being—” He paused.

She eyed him, brows raised. “Without being?”

“Froufrou. You know, a lot of that lace-doily stuff like my granny had.” A flush bladed his cheekbones, and the look in his eyes was abashed and yet delighted. He’d cut himself shaving beneath his left ear, and a bit of tissue clung to the spot. It was somehow endearing. Sandy looked away. But it took effort. She had wanted to keep holding on to his gaze.

She got tomatoes, a head of lettuce, and an onion out of the refrigerator.

Roger asked if he could help, and it startled her to find he was right beside her, near enough that she caught the scent of his aftershave, something lemony.

“I’m a pretty good prep chef.”

“I think I’ve got it,” she said. “But you could get the meat for me. It’s in a saucepan in the fridge.”

He found it and set it on the counter. He got a second knife from the rack and diced the onion while she chopped the head of lettuce. She looked at him, at his hands, the sure way he handled the knife. The muscles of his forearms knotted and unknotted smoothly below the rolled cuffs of his oxford shirt.

As if he felt the weight of her attention, he turned to her, their eyes locked, and she felt the jolt of his desire. The slightest twitch, and he would close the distance between them, lower his head, and fuse his mouth to hers. She would be lost. Sandy doubted they would make it farther than the little sofa, and a part of her desperately wanted that, wanted to abandon herself to him. It had been weeks since Emmett left, weeks of fighting to keep her panic at bay, keep her head level, keep working and earning, keep food on the table. Pay the bills, see to the household chores. She was tired, so tired of the fear, of carrying it alone.

She lowered her glance and kept still, almost afraid to move.

“I’ll get the salad bowl, if you tell me where it is.” His voice, so close she felt the warmth of his breath, was pitched low. It seemed intimate, like an invitation.

Heat flooded her face, the back of her neck. “The cabinet to your right,” she said. “It’s white with green stripes.”

He stepped away from her.

Had she imagined his interest, then? Flattered herself? She felt deflated and relieved. And horrified. Some combination. What was she thinking? Suppose Jordy came home and found her—she swallowed, and finding her breath, told Roger about Patsy accosting her in the parking lot. “You said I should expect it.” She brought plates, silverware, and napkins to the table.

“It’s unfortunate.” He followed her with the salad. “I’m surprised Michelle’s parents have waited this long to file.”

“But you haven’t heard from their attorney?” She sat down.

“Not yet.”

“If Michelle doesn’t recover—”

“Don’t take that on, Sandy. Not now.” Roger sat across from her, his gaze intent, purposeful. He was trying to keep her whole, keep her functioning. She thought without him she might spin straight off the planet.

“I didn’t tell Jordy about it—the run-in with Patsy.”

“Good. Don’t, okay? It won’t help him. I wish to hell the woman had left you alone.”

“Better me than him.” Sandy drew her napkin across her lap and picked up her fork.

Roger took a bite of salad and sighed, eyes closed, savoring the flavors of spicy meat, freshly diced vegetables, grated cheese, her special cilantro-and-lime dressing. “Delicious,” he said, and tucked another bite into his mouth. He ate the way he did everything else, with eagerness and gusto. It was refreshing.

Sandy thought how she missed it, the pleasure of having someone here who enjoyed the meals she prepared. Jordy ate in his room these days, or in front of the television. In ordinary time, TV during meals was banned. But these weren’t ordinary times.

Roger finished his beer, and she brought him another.

He picked at the label on the bottle, watching her for a moment.

“What?”

“You’re not eating.”

As if to defy him, she picked up her fork and tucked a bite into her mouth, keeping his gaze, hoping for—what? Something to happen between them? These feelings she kept having—they were disgraceful, warped, even, and yet somehow they enticed and beguiled her. She didn’t know what to do about them.

“I’ve got some news,” he said, and when he looked away, her stomach tightened.

She set down her fork, waiting.

“You won’t believe it, but it turns out there’s a second witness. The cops have known from day one, but they only let me know a couple of days ago. They said his statement got separated from the accident report somehow. I’m not sure I buy that excuse—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to hear what the guy had to say first.” Roger’s glance dropped from hers and came back.

The knot in Sandy’s stomach tightened. “What?”

“Well, first thing after I got the word, I texted the guy photos of Travis and Jordy, and he ID’d Travis as the driver. That was a couple of days ago.”

“But that’s good. That’s the best news—”

“He’s got a record. I just found out.”

“What kind of record?”

“He’s a trucker, Nat Blevins, out of Detroit. I asked a friend of mine up there to check him out. According to what he faxed over, it’s mostly domestic stuff. He and his wife evidently like to drink and knock each other around on a regular basis. There have been multiple calls to the Detroit cops, a whole avalanche of restraining orders.”

“Please don’t tell me he was drinking the night of the accident.”

“Says he was as sober as a judge, but that’s not really the issue. God, I hate having to tell you this.” Roger looked at the ceiling, brought his gaze back. “When I called to ask him about his trouble with the law up there this afternoon, he told me he wasn’t a good witness anyway. He’s not sure anymore who was behind the wheel.”

“He changed his story?”

“Looks that way.”

Sandy fiddled with her napkin.

“It’s possible he was pressured.”

“By who? Huck?”

Roger shrugged. “It would help a lot if I knew the motivation for his harassment of Jordy.”

“I don’t understand it, why Jordy won’t say. On the one hand, it’s as if he wants to end up in prison, but I know he’s scared, too. Really scared of going there.”

“Yeah. I’m getting the same impression. Look, try not to worry, okay? We’ve got weeks to go before the trial. Anything could happen.” Roger went on, saying all the right things in an attempt to comfort her, to reassure her.

The dishwasher was on the fritz, and he helped her do the dishes by hand, drying what she washed. When they were finished, he had a look at the machine. It was a simple fix, he said. He’d get the part tomorrow when he went to Georgetown, and if she would be home, he’d stop by after work and do the repair.

“I don’t want you to go to all that trouble,” she said, but it wasn’t only that. It was the intimacy they’d shared earlier, coupled with the further intimacy that allowing him to do a home repair—a job that was essentially a husband’s duty—suggested. Or else she was imagining all of it. She didn’t know, and it disconcerted her that her world, the one she’d been accustomed to, was so chaotic now, so altered by events beyond her making or choosing, that she couldn’t tell anymore what was real or where the boundaries were, or how to feel about any of it.

“It’s no trouble.” Roger pulled his keys from his pocket. “But I should go now. I’ve got court first thing in the morning.” He headed for the door, and she followed him. She didn’t want him to go, to leave her to wait for Jordy alone. She thought of his embrace, of how it might feel to be held by him, to lean against him, to lie down next to him, even to make love with him.

They stepped onto the front porch, and he turned to her. Her hands hung at her sides, and he circled her left little finger with his own fingers, and his look was heated, regretful. “If things were different,” he began, and she gave her head a brief shake.