Harlequin Superromance January 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: Everywhere She Goes\A Promise for the Baby\That Summer at the Shore (44 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

K
ARL
WAS
IN
the conference room at one of the laptops, comparing the notes the staff attorney had made with an email, when he heard Malcolm's heavy footfalls come down the hall and into the room.

“Don't you have someone else to do that for you?” Malcolm asked.

“I'm looking for something specific.” Reviewing documents occupied his hands and keeping his hands occupied kept his mind busy. Not engaged, but at least he wasn't thinking about Vivian. Otherwise, his thoughts had a tendency to wander to her shiny black hair, pink lips and how her skin tasted when he kissed it. Then he would remember how much he had come to enjoy sharing his apartment with her in the short time they'd lived together. Then his mind would slip further and turn to imagining her sleeping next to him every night.

He wouldn't think about the circumstances that had led to her being in Chicago and living with his mother. He wouldn't think about the failure of his previous marriage or how he couldn't get Vivian to move back in with him unless he said words that weren't his to say. He would simply think about her. Then he would think about
them
together. And he would think about a family—their family.

Idle hands were the devil's workshop.

“I don't mean to pry,” Malcolm said with false primness, “but why isn't your wife living with you yet?”

“Between you and Greta, no one in this office ever means to pry.”

Karl looked back down at the laptop screen. Without seeing Malcolm's face, Karl could feel the feral grin spreading across the face of the director of investigations, and the man's smug sense of satisfaction pushed all the air out of the room. Malcolm was great at his job, which meant his inquiries weren't easily fobbed off by a short remark and a metaphorically turned back.

Even though it was a battle he was going to lose, Karl continued to ignore Malcolm in hopes he would give up and leave the room. In response, Malcolm sat down and started spinning in one of the chairs. The heavy chair creaked as it turned and rocked under Malcolm's weight. Karl didn't have to occupy his hands to keep his thoughts away from Vivian; the screeching chair meant he couldn't think at all.

“Would you stop that?”

“Stop what?” Malcolm rocked back and forth, the chair squeaking in time with his movements. As Malcolm was looking for a reaction, rather than an answer, Karl didn't give him either.

For several minutes the only sounds in the room were Karl clicking the mouse and Malcolm squeaking the chair. Then the squeaking finally came to a halt. “I'll stop if you tell me why you're not living with your wife yet.”

Finally.
Karl's determination to wait out his friend was successful. Only Malcolm hadn't given in by leaving, but by further pursuing his question.

“You're the one who told me why she got fired from her job.” Karl spoke to the laptop, even though he was no longer seeing the words on the screen well enough to process them.

Malcolm's shoes clumped on the wood floor. “Since she's living with your mother and working at Healthy Food, I assume she's actually innocent of any crime.”

Innocence wasn't the question. Whether or not he cared about her
near
crime was. And, if he didn't care about her near crime, what other near crimes wouldn't he be able to care about? And would he be able to rationalize away the small crimes, the ones that
seem
insignificant, but were just part of a larger problem? Karl's back started to ache and he leaned back in his chair, rubbing the crick like an old man.

“And—” Malcolm wasn't done “—you've been even more silent than usual around the office, so I know something's on your mind. Being the experienced investigator that I am, I can only conclude that you're thinking of how your pretty and pregnant wife is living with your mother instead of with you.”

“She's helping my mother out at Healthy Food.”

She was still in Chicago, but she didn't need him any longer. Not that Karl wanted her to be dependent on him. No. He preferred the Vivian with a sense of independence over the Vivian who had been trapped in his apartment. But he didn't have anything to offer her, and she expected something before she would move back in.

Her refusal was more frustrating because her “no” wasn't an “absolutely not.” Instead, it was a “not until you give me what I want.” He didn't think he could give her what she wanted. And she wouldn't take what he could give.

“And she can't help at the restaurant while living in your apartment?”

Karl finally looked over to see Malcolm had rested his arms on his legs and was bent over in his seat, his eyebrows raised in concern. Or maybe curiosity. Either way, the man didn't need to know Karl's business. “It's more complicated than that.”

“Explain it to me.”

“We're at work.”

“You're the boss and it's nearly quitting time for normal people. Let's go to a bar and you can explain it to me over a beer.”

Sharing his problems with a coworker, even a coworker he respected and nearly considered a friend, was almost as scary as Vivian and his soon-to-be child.

Something in his face must have given his thoughts away because Malcolm's expression turned sympathetic. The man's expression was near enough to pity that Karl bent over the laptop again and waited for Malcolm to go away.

“Do you have friends?”

“Of course I have friends.”

“I don't mean the people you shake hands with when you see them at the opera, I mean someone you relax and share your problems with. Or maybe someone you just get a beer and watch basketball with.”

Vivian. He relaxed and shared his problems with her. She'd probably watch basketball if he were interested. “I'm a hockey fan.”

“So the answer is no. You smile and shake hands with everyone in Chicago, from the guy selling
Streetwise
on the corner, to visiting senators, and then you go home to your silent apartment and—what? Watch hockey?”

“I'm rarely at my apartment.” And with Xìnyùn there, his apartment was no longer silent.

“Maybe the reason Vivian isn't living in your apartment is that no woman would want to be subjected to that tomb.”

Karl's head snapped up so quickly he got a headache and the oppressive wood paneling in the conference room blurred.

“Ah, you've never considered that Vivian's ‘no' might be permanent. And, from the horror on your face, you're afraid to confess your feelings because she might turn you down. And that might suck.”

Karl folded his arms on the table, finally giving up any pretense of reviewing the staff attorney's notes. “You're right that she didn't commit the felony she was fired for. Middle Kingdom could never prove she cheated because she didn't. And I believe her. But that's not the issue.”

“What is the issue?”

He sighed. Malcolm was right that he didn't have anyone to talk with about this, but he didn't
want
to talk with anyone about this. But Malcolm was also probably right that he needed to talk with someone before he exploded.

“Her father came to her for money because he lost more than he could repay while playing poker. Vivian agreed to the scheme and then changed her mind at the last minute.”

“People have committed felonies for less compelling reasons. Does she regularly help her father out with such schemes?”

“No.” Karl thought about the conversations he'd overheard her have with her father. “I gather she sends him money when he asks, but also tries to avoid hearing him ask. She keeps him at arm's length as much as possible.”

“So, she has a scheming father, but is otherwise all sweetness and light.”

Karl stood up so he could shut the door. Talking this over with Malcolm was one thing. The entire office hearing it was another. “The lesson she seems to have learned from her father is that schemes don't pay and an honest living is better.” Her father's schemes had cost her dearly twice that Karl knew of—first her college fund and then her livelihood. Of course, it was the rare child who watched their parents' mistakes and didn't repeat them even as they tried to do something differently.

“So, what's your problem?” Malcolm looked confused.

“I understand why she considered cheating. And I appreciate that she didn't cheat—I respect her for that. But I think I would even understand if she
had
cheated.” He thought back to what he remembered about the waste of Melville's “Billy Budd,” when those who had been responsible for dispensing justice had chosen to
not understand
and what a tragedy that had been. Was that why he had decided to pick up the book again?

“But if I forgive my wife for being willing to let her moral standards slip because her father was in hot water, how do I hold a man accountable when he took a bribe because his salary won't pay his wife's hospital bills?” The words sounded so simplistic, but his arteries clamped around his heart as he said them. “I'm not talking about the alderman who's trading favors for the extra slice of power or a few more pennies in her campaign fund, but the guy just trying to live his life.”

His entire worldview had been snapped in two. And there was no clamp that would fix that rend. The confession exhausted Karl so completely that he had to take a seat in one of the damned squeaky chairs before he fell over and further humiliated himself.

“Ah,” Malcolm said with understanding. “You've worked with corporate lawyers and inspector generals, but you've not had enough interaction with law enforcement to know your problem isn't unique.”

“Of course it's not unique,” Karl snapped.

Malcolm kept talking as if Karl hadn't just splintered into pieces. “But in your favor is the fact that the gray world you've happened upon will make you better at what you do. Maybe the guy taking bribes because he's trying to keep his wife alive is guilty, but he's not guilty in the same way as the alderman. You can be understanding of the first guy's motivations while still believing he's guilty. Life in the gray is harder, but it's more rewarding. And more fair. Compassion can only help you.”

“Justice can't always be fair. And it's rarely compassionate.”
Or just
, if Karl were being honest with himself. Watching
Jenůfa
should have reminded him of that fact.

“Justice is a theoretical concept constructed by society and understood differently by different cultures. It's only as good as the people responsible for enforcing it. But people do have feelings. They can be compassionate. And, by seeing the gray you can be a part of making justice more than a noble goal. You won't always succeed, but it's better to at least try.”

Karl pondered Malcolm's argument for several seconds. “I never imagined you as a touchy-feely guy.”

“I have depths you will never uncover.” Malcolm's laugh was full and hearty. “My wife will tell you that I can be as tenderhearted as the next guy.”

“Love really does give people rose-colored glasses.” The words came out false as Karl tried to follow Malcolm's lighter tone and failed. If Malcolm noticed, he ignored it.

“So what does all of this have to do with Vivian living at your mother's?”

Instead of answering, Karl stood and walked over to the laptop he'd been working on. Slowly, deliberately, he saved his work and closed the screen. Then he put the notes back in order. The sharp slice of pain through his finger meant he now had a paper cut along with the embarrassment of confessing his soul to his coworker.

Malcolm was silent until Karl stood back up. “What does all this have to do with Vivian living at your mother's?” he asked again.

“She says she won't move back while I still judge her for being fired.”

“But you no longer judge her for being fired. I don't even think you're certain of your position to judge her at all.”

“I don't. I'm not.” Karl shoved a chair under the table. “I don't
care
anymore.”

“Have you told her that?”

“No.” The next chair wasn't sticking out from the table, but Karl gave it a shove anyway. The hard plastic of the arms clinked off something under the table. He shoved it again before moving on to the next chair.

“Have you at least told her that you love her?”

Shove. “No.” Shove. “She hasn't told me she loves me, either.”

“Didn't you learn anything about women in your first marriage?”

“Apparently I never learned anything about Jessica, much less something I could extrapolate to the greater world of women.” The next chair caught on something when he shoved it, and Karl caught the back of it in his gut. He had to take a deep breath before he could get the next words out. “This is the twenty-first century. I shouldn't have to say ‘I love you' first.”

“No, but what's stopping you?”

She could be one less person he'd have to worry about driving down the road, at the mercy of drunk drivers, people texting and the old man who should've given up his license years ago. If a fireman did pull her broken body from a collapsed car, Karl wouldn't have said “I love you,” and so the loss would hurt less. If she had to have a closed-casket funeral because the damage had been so severe, the face covered by wood wouldn't be the face he had woken up to every morning.

“I just don't think I can do it,” was the answer Karl gave Malcolm.

Marriage to Jessica hadn't been this hard. But Jessica hadn't been the wife he'd wanted; she'd been the wife he'd thought he was supposed to have. If Vivian really became his and he really became hers, how would he survive if something happened to her?

Malcolm stared at him for several
long
seconds before responding. “I didn't take you for a coward.”