Intrusion: A Novel (13 page)

“What a weird place,” Kat said. “Really. But I suppose we survived. With only minimal damage.”

“You think?”

Kat found that the wine had begun to hit her hard; her head felt full of clouds. The waiter seemed to be refilling her glass constantly. She resolved to slow down.

“That’s enough wine for me,” she said to Sarah. “It’s making me woozy.”

Sarah laughed.

“Oh, drink up, silly. Why should you worry? You can take a little nap this afternoon. I have a board meeting. Entirely the most boring posse of board members I have ever met in my life. And then a meeting of lawyers.”

“Scott? Will you be meeting Scott?”

“I will indeed.”

“Did you tell him you were meeting me for lunch?” Kat asked.

Sarah regarded her with amusement.

“Aha—you haven’t told him, then? Why not?”

Kat shrugged, the wine making her reckless.

“I told him I was meeting you,” she said, remembering Scott’s predictable surprise, his teasing threat to rat on her to Maggie. “But I didn’t say why. As I said, we haven’t really discussed adoption yet.”

“Fret not,” Sarah said. “Your secret is perfectly safe with me.”

She looked over at Kat, her smile fading.

“You’re serious about this, Kat, aren’t you? About this adoption?”

“Yes. I think I am.”

“Then, we must be sure to make it happen,” Sarah said.

Sarah followed through as she had promised: a messenger delivered the adoption charity details later in the afternoon, just an hour after Kat had been driven home in the Mercedes by Sarah’s driver. A card was attached to the package, referencing someone named Elizabeth Brady. Sarah had scrawled a note: Liz Brady was the person for Kat to contact; she should call Mrs. Brady if she had questions, but she must let Sarah know as soon as she and Scott decided to go ahead.

Kat studied the glossy brochure carefully. It was professionally produced with full-color photographs. It seemed that the charity coordinated the adoption process and also, if the mother-to-be had no insurance, helped with medical costs. There were nurses available, doctors on call. It was stressed throughout the brochure that all fees were paid by the charity, all medical costs funded by it, too; there was no cost to the adoptive parents. It was clear, Kat concluded, that this was no buy-a-baby scheme. She wondered if the goal was a donation to the charity. Certainly, she and Scott could afford to contribute something. It seemed wrong to accept so much without making any payment. The coordinator—in this case, Elizabeth Brady—would be on call 24–7 to answer questions and allay fears. A medical nurse would also answer questions by phone. It was an impressive setup.

Kat still had the package open on the coffee table when she heard Scott’s car out front. Heart racing, she gathered the papers together, jogged upstairs, and placed them at the very bottom of her sweater drawer before hurrying to the window to check on Scott.

Yes, there was his car, parked in the driveway. She wondered why he was home so early when the closing was imminent, and she watched him as he climbed out of the car and began to pull boxed files out of the backseat. Something caught his eye then. He paused, leaving the files on the edge of the car trunk, and walked to the hedge. Kat studied him, puzzled, as he lifted an old basketball that had been hidden inside a dried-out shrub. He stood for a moment, twirling the ball absently in one hand. Then, he looked up at the basketball hoop above the garage door, ignored now, unused.

Kat, seeing the shadow that crossed his face, imagined the memories going through his mind, saw them herself, heard the same sounds: the
thump-thump
on summer evenings as father and son played ball in the driveway while she cooked dinner—their voices, loud, exuberant, floating on the summer air.

She remembered how, finally, tired of calling out that the meal was ready, that it would be cold or spoiled—and annoyed at being ignored, or fobbed off with
Two more minutes, two more minutes
—she would march out to the yard, try to intercept the ball herself, to call a halt to the game. She had done it once or twice, too. Neither her son, nor her husband, wanting to actually knock her over.

“Dinner!” she would yell, holding the ball high and victorious. “Now!”

“Two more minutes! I’ve nearly thrashed him.”

“Yeah, right. Show me, old man. Give it your best shot.”

She had a splintered, visual memory of leaping bodies, a spinning ball, the
whoosh
of the ball through the net, and the sound of laughter on the warm breeze. Why hadn’t she just let them play for as long as it took, for as long as they wanted to stay out in the fading light? They wouldn’t have cared if the chicken was dry, the steak cold. They could have enjoyed that time together. More of that time.

She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Kat watched as Scott gave the old ball another twirl, then, shoulders drooping, head down, he took it to the trash bin and dropped it inside. He stood for a moment, as if regaining control of himself. Longing to hug him, but not wanting him to know that she was watching, Kat hesitated for too many seconds—and then it was too late. He was back at the car, lifting the files from the trunk, and a moment later, inside the house.

“Hi there.” His work voice. Tired.

She hurried downstairs to greet him. He held the boxed files in both arms. His reading glasses were sticking out of his pocket, and his hair stood up on his head, as if he had been pushing his hands through it all day.

“You’re early,” she said. “What’s up?”

“I’m going to work from here for a bit. Away from the damn phones. It’s an absolute zoo downtown. I might go back later.”

“I’ll make you an early dinner. You could use some energy foods. Some protein.”

“I could certainly use the energy. But hey, don’t worry too much about me. A quick sandwich will do and some coffee,” he said, then turned to her. “So how was lunch with Sarah Harrison?”

“Posh. Nice, actually. I think she’s changed a bit. She’s not so tough. It was a short lunch.”

“Yep, she can do short. She shut Woodruff up in midspiel at the meeting this afternoon. That was something to behold.”

Scott headed into his den, placed the boxed files on his desk. He seemed already distracted.

“A sandwich, then?” Kat said. “You won’t want a drink if you’re heading back to the office.”

“No. Coffee for now. Lots of it. Anything at all to eat,” he said vaguely. “Anything will be fine.”

As Kat made coffee in the kitchen, she heard Scott talking on the phone, his voice irritable. She guessed he was talking to James, because there was an element of
I’m the boss
in the way he gave instructions. He slammed down the phone with a groan.

“Goddamn it,” he said. “Fuck.”

Kat picked up the coffee and his roast beef sandwich and stood in the doorway, holding them.

“It’s going badly?” she asked.

“It’s a closing. It’s supposed to be hell,” he said. “But no. It’s not this damn thing. It’s—” He shook his head. “You know Lindsay moved to Gibson, Harvey?”

Kat had a vague memory of Scott mentioning that a partner was leaving the firm but was unclear on the details. She nodded nevertheless.

“He’s taken TDK Industries with him,” Scott said.

“But isn’t that—”

“Was,” Scott said. “
Was
my client. My oldest fucking client, too. Damn. My fault. I didn’t have time for them. I asked Lindsay to pick up the slack. Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” Kat said, placing the sandwich and coffee on a corner of his desk, careful not to touch any papers. “Can you persuade them back?”

“No,” he said, reaching for the sandwich, barely looking up from his paperwork. “And this thing? Christ. Being surrounded by fools who don’t have their minds on the job isn’t helping.”

“Which fools? Who do you mean?”

“Ah, never mind. The work will get done. It always gets done.”

Kat stood for a few seconds, unsure. She had wanted to show him the glossy brochure upstairs, tell him all that she had learned about adoption from Sarah. At some point they absolutely must talk about it. But—this was a bad time. He was already overwhelmed. She backed out of the door slowly.

Later in the evening, when Scott had returned to his downtown office, Kat paced the living room sipping her wine, wishing she had at least said something, put the idea in his head. Let him think about it, get used to the possibility of it, before they discussed it properly. Or perhaps it was better to wait until the closing was over. When he was calmer, not so distracted. He would be ready to listen. They would talk then. And she would convince him.

FOURTEEN

T
he next morning, the day of the closing, Scott jumped from bed before dawn. Kat stood in the doorway of the bathroom, watching him as he shaved. He looked exhausted: dark shadows had formed under his eyes and his skin had an odd gray sheen.

“You look done in,” she said.

Scott studied his own face in the mirror.

“The color of dead fish skins,” he said. “I look like Methuselah.”

Kat touched his shoulder and turned away.

“You’re just tired. You really need to rest.”

“I’ve aged fifty years,” he said.

When he called in the late afternoon to say that the closing was going smoothly, that all the papers had been approved, his voice sounded brighter.

“The end’s in sight. Thank God,” he said.

“Do you want me to prepare dinner? Or wait for you?” Kat asked.

A pause while he thought about this.

“Wait on mine, just in case.”

“You don’t think Sarah expects to take you all out for a celebratory meal, do you?”

“No. Well, whatever she expects, it’s not going to happen. I’m too busy for celebrations. But anyway, you go ahead and eat, sweetheart. We can grill a steak for me when I get home.”

Later in the evening, Kat opened the fridge door, pulled out cheese and ham and some salad items, set them on the counter, then shrugged, turning away. She was not hungry. She was restless and edgy. The feeling was not like the icy stupor of grief. It felt like something else; it felt very similar to fear. She wanted to call Scott to talk to him, but didn’t dare. She couldn’t talk to Brooke—she had gone out in the Miata earlier. She wondered about calling Sarah, just to be able to discuss the adoption idea. Discuss it with somebody. At least Sarah was sympathetic. She would listen. But Sarah would be involved in this closing, along with Scott. Maggie? No. Maggie wouldn’t understand. Maggie would talk about healing, and stages of grief, and God knows what.

Kat made the sandwich anyway, but took only one bite. Instead of eating, she poured a large glass of wine and took it with her to the French windows overlooking the garden. The wind was strong again, Santa Ana strength, so that the palm swayed. She could hear a dog barking, somewhere over in the far canyon: a lonely sound.

She stood for a long time, sipping the wine, watching the trees bend. When the phone rang, she jumped.

“Kat,” said Sarah. “Is our hero back yet? I have one quick question on this thing.”

“No. Not yet,” said Kat. “Is it over? Did it go well?”

“Oh, very well indeed,” said Sarah. “Everything signed, sealed, and delivered, one assumes. Now, I wonder if he can give me a ring here. I’m downtown at the Ritz-Carlton. Where
is
that number?”

Kat could hear Sarah rustling about. She could hear, too, the sound of a shower. Sarah was obviously preparing to duck into it.

“Here it is,” Sarah said, and read off the number of the hotel.

“It’s the Ritz-Carlton?” asked Kat.

“Yes, the one near the office. I didn’t really need to stay here after all. I thought the thing would take half the night but we finished early. I could have driven back to Malibu. Actually, I wonder if I could still do that?”

Kat held the phone, waiting, while Sarah thought about it. The noise from the shower shut off abruptly. Kat frowned, puzzled. It sounded as if Sarah had someone with her.

“No. I may as well stay here for one night,” said Sarah at last. “Ask Scott to give me a ring. Tonight, if he can. If not, tomorrow morning will do. And how are you, Kat?”

“I’m fine,” said Kat. “Thank you. I’ll have him call you.”

“And—” Sarah said, a hint of something odd in her voice, “I have some news for you.”

“For me? What news?”

“I talked to Liz Brady this afternoon. I gave her details about a couple I know who are interested in adopting a baby. I told her your situation. Told her the truth. I believe, if you allow me to handle this for you, I’ll be able to do it, though I may need to omit some of the less important facts. You’ll need Scott’s signature. That’s all. Liz Brady will need to do a home visit. But she’ll call you on that once the initial papers are signed and in.”

Kat sat down abruptly; her body felt liquid, unreliable.

“Oh, it’s really possible? That’s such good news. Thank you, Sarah.”

“My pleasure,” Sarah said. “You’ll need to have Scott sign the application. Then, let me know how it goes. Oh, I have to move.”

The phone clicked. Kat replaced the handset and roamed the house, feeling an odd, burning excitement. A feeling so long dormant she had almost forgotten how edgy, how sharp these sensations could be. A baby. Would he be tall? Would he walk early, chuckle a lot, and not want to sleep at night? She held on to the dining table for a second, thinking about this. He might be tall and slender, and graceful. And good at languages. And musical. And beautiful. Or he might not. He might be short and stubborn and difficult, but, oh, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

She found that she was crying as she sat down on the sofa.

Well. Well.

She wanted Scott home. She wanted to tell him.

Kat reached for the wine bottle and poured herself another large glass. She was drinking too much, she told herself, even as she sipped it. She should cut down and she would. Soon. But this—this was special. A toast to a new family. But wait, wait. Scott must agree. Must agree. It was not yet a final decision. Kat tried to steady her racing thoughts. Dear Christ—where
was
Scott? Sarah had said the closing was over. Why wasn’t he home?

She thought of the shower shutting off in the hotel bedroom as Sarah talked to her on the phone. The abrupt way Sarah had ended the call. Surely, Scott was not there, in the shower? The pain of that possibility caused a clutching sensation in her gut, but Kat pushed the thought away at once. Of course not. He knew what Sarah was like; Maggie had warned him. They had both warned him. He wouldn’t be taken in by her teasing games. Sarah was beautiful, though. And sexually willing. Kat dismissed these thoughts fast. No. He was late because he was working. He was always working.

It occurred to her that she spent much of her life waiting for him these days. Waiting for him to call, waiting for him to come home. She wondered whether he thought of her, alone here, as he busied himself with closings and trial preparations and all the things that kept his mind occupied and away from the reality of what was left for them now.

When Scott walked in, two hours later, Kat had finished the bottle of wine and started on another.

“Where were you?” she asked. “Sarah called hours ago. She said it was over.”

“I had to go back to the office. I’ve lost one client. We neglected another client while we worked on this damn closing. I had to catch up.”

“You’ve been ages. Ages and ages. Are you going to slowly work yourself to death? Is that the plan?”

“One of them,” he said tiredly. He moved toward the bedroom. “I need a shower.”

“Wait,” Kat said. “I want to talk to you. Let me get you a glass of wine.”

“No wine, Kat. And we’ll talk tomorrow. I’m bushed.”

“Now. Please.”

He stopped, waited wearily.

“You were right about not having another baby,” Kat said. “It would be difficult maybe for me. My age. Hormones.”

“I know that.”

“So why not adopt? So many children need homes, and a baby—”

“For Christ’s sake, Kat. Leave it alone.”

Kat looked at him, bewildered.

“What?”

“I can’t talk about it right now.”

“So when will you talk about it?”

“Please. It’s been one hell of a day. I’m tired. Leave it. Please.”

“No wonder you’re tired. Work has become an obsession with you, Scott.”

The word
obsession
slurred and Scott looked at her sharply.

“An obsession,” Kat repeated carefully.

She reached for the wine bottle, to refill her glass.

“You’ve had enough of that, Kat, don’t you think?” Scott said, and began to walk toward the door. Kat took a sip, called to his retreating back.

“You weren’t screwing Sarah at the Ritz-Carlton, then?” she asked.

Scott stopped dead, turned around slowly, his face stiff.

“What the fuck kind of question is that?”

“Someone was with her. I heard the shower.”

“And you thought it was me? Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

Kat stared at him.

“Listen,” she said. “I’m sitting here all night, waiting. I want to talk to you. The thing finished hours ago. You could have come home. But you didn’t. You could have called me to explain. But you didn’t. You go to your office. Or somewhere else. Who the hell knows where you go? Is it me you don’t want to come home to? Or the house? Or what?

“I wanted to talk to you about something important,” she continued loudly, aware that she was mouthing the words in a theatrical fashion. “Important to us. Important to our marriage. And you don’t care.”

This was too much for Scott.

“Oh, get over yourself, Kat,” he said, and turned again to walk out of the room.

Kat’s annoyance, fueled by the wine, grew fast. She tried to stand up, intending to follow him, but found herself momentarily unbalanced and sank back onto the chair.

“And that’s all you have to say?” she yelled after him.

He paused in the doorway and said, through gritted teeth, “Can you
try
to understand? I have a lot to do. A lot to catch up on.”

“
Catch up on?
Oh, it’s Chris’s fault, then. For dying and making you get behind with your work.”

The words had flown unbidden, unconsidered, from her mouth. Stunned and cold with shame, Kat gasped. She wanted to take the words back, unsay them, but they hung in the air. Scott stiffened; his eyes were gray slate as they regarded her.

Kat shook her head.

“God. I’m sorry, sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

But he turned away fast. The door slammed behind him.

She waited, rigid, for his return, listening to the sounds coming from the bedroom. A few minutes later, she heard the shower, and later still, the creak of the bed and the light clicking off. He had gone to bed.

When she entered the bedroom, his face was to the wall. Kat pulled off her clothes, did not brush her teeth or shower; she just fell into bed. Scott did not move when she lay down next to him, and though she tried to puzzle it all out, tried to understand what all this anger might mean, the alcohol did its devious work and she was swept immediately into a deep and troubled sleep.

She woke, some hours later, with an aching head and a mouth impossibly dry and gritty. She sat up, reached for the glass of water by the side of the bed, and gulped at it.

“Headache?” Scott asked.

She turned. The bedroom, in the early-hours light, was shadowy and gray. Scott lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“A monster,” Kat said. “I deserve it, I suppose.”

“Yes. You do.”

She lay back down, turned onto her side, and studied his profile. Then, she reached across and took his hand.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I said stupid things. That thing about blaming Chris. That was unforgivable.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry.”

He gripped her hand.

“Okay. I’m sorry, too. For being so late. I just got tied up.”

“And I’m sorry I said that about Sarah Harrison,” Kat said, watching his face. He didn’t look at her; he continued to stare at the ceiling. “I didn’t really believe it.”

“So why say it?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to shock you, I think. Except somebody was with her at the Ritz-Carlton.”

“Could have been anybody. A personal friend. James. Brian Saunders.”

“Brian?” Kat said, astonished. “The new associate? He’s just a boy.”

“I think he amuses her. He’s so keen to work on her new acquisitions. But last night? I have no idea.”

“Or James?” Kat said, awake now. “You said James.”

“Well, it’s possible. Anyway, that’s his business, not ours, Kat. Okay?”

“But what about Glenda? I thought James and Glenda were maybe . . . ?”

“We don’t know that.”

“I might have misread the body language. But no, I don’t think so. That night at Sarah’s house? Oh, poor Glenda.”

Scott sighed, clearly not wanting to talk about the personal entanglements of his colleagues and clients.

“And so—you were talking about adoption? What was all that about?”

“We can adopt a child if we want to. It’s possible. We can do it. Even though we’ve lost a child. I checked.”

He frowned.

“Kat, you have to work through your grief first. You know that.”

“It doesn’t have to be right this minute. In a few months maybe.”

“Nothing will change in a few months.”

“You can at least consider it.”

“Right. I’ll consider it.”

He didn’t sound certain. He was fobbing her off. Kat looked hard at him. He looked so tired and sad. Obviously, he had not slept much.

“You don’t mean it. Please don’t lie to me.”

“We have a lot of grieving to do, Kat. And other things in our lives to consider right now. And what about your new job? On that paper?” he asked.

“I don’t want it. Not really. I’d never fit in there. I’d feel like everyone’s old aunt. I’m going to call that young editor tomorrow and withdraw. I’d rather get something part-time. Until we decide.”

She settled back in the bed for a few seconds, then shot up, sitting up on her pillows, snapping on the bedside light to check the date on her watch.

“Oh God, oh God,” she said.

“What?”

“Martha Kim! Damn, I completely forgot. I had an appointment yesterday.”

“You forgot?”

Kat fell back onto the pillows.

“Yep. Just vanished from my memory. Damn. I’ll call her tomorrow. Apologize.”

“How can she help you if you miss appointments?”

“How can she help me anyway?”

Scott was silent for a few moments. When he spoke, his voice was weighted with tiredness.

“You have to get back on track, Kat.”

Kat thought about this for a while.

“And what track is that?” she asked finally. “Where exactly is this track going?”