Louder Than Love (25 page)

“Hey, heading home? I’m going into town to catch up on some work in the office if you want a ride.”

Liz turned sheepishly to me. “Beats the train . . . and it’s easier than you having to lug Abbey out.”

“Get her there in one piece,” I instructed Mitch.

“Yeah, I’m precious cargo,” Liz quipped, subtly allowing her back to arch, as well as one rogue eyebrow.

“Clean driving record,” Mitch vowed, biting a smile into his bottom lip. “You’re in good hands.”

As Liz reached to hug me, I had to reiterate. “Not a word, Red.”

Warrior Stance

Tuesday morning yoga was a welcome way of returning to the week’s rituals. Karen and I were working through our warrior poses in the corner when she quietly confided that Mitch hadn’t come home the night before. “He was still working on his project at eight p.m. and, poor thing, he slept on the couch in his office.” Karen locked her hips and raised her arms strongly. “He figured the traffic home would be bad with the holiday, and he’d just have to go right back this morning, anyway.” We glided from warrior one to warrior two position. “Jasper missed his daddy . . . he’s not used to waking up without him.”

I leaned back into peaceful warrior, not sure of what to say. The image of Liz eagerly jumping into Mitch’s passenger seat dared me to consider the resulting consequences, finishing with an unwelcomed vision of Mitch’s good hands on Liz’s precious cargo. I saw no happy endings there.

Karen looked so unsuspecting and calm, standing in mountain.

***

“You led him into temptation!”

“The man hadn’t had carbs in a year, can you blame him?”

“I’m not talking about your bagel challenge, Liz. Karen said he didn’t come home last night.”

“I guess that makes two of us who have secrets.” Liz was three counties away, but that was clearly an all-up-in-my-grill comment. I imagined her eyes as a nightmare pool of pure black, all pupils and no iris.

“Yes, but Adrian’s secret isn’t harming anyone.” I clenched the phone hard.

“Are you so sure about that?”

“Liz! Three days ago you were ready to clone him.”

“I didn’t want to say anything before, but when Kevin dabbled with speed in junior high, and had to get his stomach pumped? He’d wanted to gain ‘inspiration’ like Digger claimed he got from various illegal substances. Is that the role model you want around for Abbey? You’ve known him for, what? Two months?”

“
You
don’t know him at all.” I was done discussing it. Adrian had had to bury enough friends; he considered himself one of the lucky ones. Heroin had ruined enough people in his life to make him know he could never flirt with it again.

“Whatever. You’ve got your rock star to play ‘confess the sins’ with,” she snarled, “so don’t go judging me.”

It was impossible to slam a cell phone down like the phones of old, but her defiant click to break the connection stung with the same insult. My own phone barely had time to recover before lighting back up and buzzing with a new call: Adrian.

“Hey.”

“Erm . . . hello to you, too.” Adrian’s husky murmur and the tinny din of Manhattan rush hour tunneled through the line. “Everything all right, luv?”

“Just tickety-boo.” Abbey wasn’t the only one picking up Adrianisms. “Liz and I got into a bit of a scrap . . . a bone-throwing match from the skeletons in our respective closets.”

“Ah. Care to throw me a bone?”

His quip made me wince. I still hadn’t given Adrian so much as a peek into the closet of my past. He was quick to take a shot at any opening lately; the weight of Pete’s loss had morphed into the proverbial elephant in the room, too big to be ignored for much longer.

“This had more to do with, um, you. Liz knows.”

Adrian was silent on the line, but I could hear him singing loud and clear from the other room. Abbey had started watching yet another episode of
Maxwell
, and the intro song was blaring.

“I didn’t tell her, she . . .”
Maxwell MacGillikitty . . . feline private eye!
“. . . figured it out herself. Hold on.” I cupped the mouthpiece and hollered, “Abbey, turn it down!”

“What?” The bleat of a siren echoed Adrian through the phone. “Sorry. Trying to cross West End Avenue. How did she—?”

“She put two and two together yesterday morning. I guess we can blame my brother’s influence on her. I told you they were inseparable in high school.”

“No one else is to blame but me,” he said shortly. “I don’t want to cause a rift between you and your friends.”

“Oh, Adrian. No.” Abbey had finally abandoned the TV in search of dinner. I mimed hand washing, shooing her to the bathroom. “There was more . . . I can’t really talk about it now, in front of Abbey. Another time, okay?”

“All right.” I heard the tinkling of bells and a sudden sweeping silence.

“One thing, though . . . Are you there?”

“Aye, luv. Indoors now.”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you: There’s a pancake breakfast at Abbey’s school coming up that she’s really looking forward to . . . for Father’s Day. Just be prepared, she might ask you.” I braced myself and strained for a verbal reply. A steady buzzing vibrated through the phone. I pressed on. “I don’t want you to feel obligated or put on the spot . . . really, I’m not going to suggest it to her. Let’s see what she comes up with on her own. Are you still there?”

“I am . . . marveling . . .” The buzz filled the punctuated spaces. “Just thinking about
all
the money strewn about for
years
on Natalie in pursuit of her happiness, and here is a little girl ecstatic at the mere thought of sharing pancakes with me. Is it as simple as that?”

“It’s as simple as that.” An uninvited catch in my throat caused me to gulp hard.

“It would be my—
bloody fuckin’ hell, man!
—pleasure and an honor, Kat.” A crescendo of murderous bees rose up to drown him out.

“Adrian, where
are
you?”

“Tattoo parlor.” I could hear his grin through the line. “It’s a work in progress.”

Father of the Year

“Mommy! There’s a
taxi
at our house!”

“Yes, I know. You need to get dressed, like now. It’s almost time for school.”

“Did that taxi bring Adrian all the way from Mad Hatter?”

“Manhattan.” I scooted her into her room. “Yes.” The 6:40 a.m. train had been the only other option to get him here in time for the pancake breakfast, since we still hadn’t extended our playdates to overnights. But that was about to change; Adrian had asked me to break curfew with him in the city that night.

Marissa practically ran over to pack Abbey’s bag when I asked her to babysit, so elated we were finally breaking the seal. “Don’t let him eat shellfish,” she had warned, “or get you drunk and pukey again. I need you to come back with good morning-after stories.”

What I really needed was to get through my own story—more aptly, my after-mourning story. Returning to the city, reciting it safely within my lover’s embrace without having to say good-bye at night’s end seemed finally . . . fine. I could do this.

“Clothes, Ab. Now.” I hurried to get the door.

Electric blue Gerbera daisies clutched against a suit of the darkest slate gray greeted me.

“So dapper!”

“It’s not every day I get pancakes for breakfast.” He kissed me in the doorway, long and lingering. “These are for Abbey, and this . . .” He plucked out a sunny yellow bloom that I hadn’t noticed stashed within the bouquet and tucked it into the tangle of my morning curls, behind my right ear. “. . . this makes those green eyes glow.”

“I’ll put these in water,” I said, caressing my hands over his. I was still amazed by the zing his fingers never failed to produce when they came into contact with mine. I loved the feel of his flat fingertips with their calluses and grooves, especially his index finger and its permanent indent from the E string of his guitar. “Coffee?”

“Absolutely.” He tossed his suit jacket onto a kitchen chair and grabbed a mug from the cupboard. I wasn’t brand-obsessed, but an impressed chuckle slid out at the sight of the Armani label as the jacket slipped lazily over the ladder-back.

“Oh my God, I’ve never seen you in a tie before,” I marveled.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet!” he breathed into my ear, sending heat to my brain and down my spine until my thighs actually quivered.

I tried to remember how to breathe, but my intake was sharp, the resulting sigh ragged and full of longing. “I want to see that new tat,” I murmured, “and I
will
find it.” I had yet to see him unclothed since his visit to the tattoo chair; in fact, this was the longest we had gone without any feasting eyes or other body parts on each other’s flesh.

“No doubt I’ll enjoy your trying.” He grinned.

“Adrian!”

“What’s new, pussycat?” he called, pouring himself a cup.

Abbey came waltzing into the kitchen, sporting a half-and-half combo of last year’s Halloween costume and this year’s never-worn ballet recital outfit. After just five lessons, she had put the kibosh on ballet by pointing at the neighboring karate dojo and pronouncing her sport of choice. I now had to endure the weekly displeasure of Grant cheering his son on as the kid roundhouse-kicked his way through his classmates.

Morning patience was for some reason elusive, my criticism a bow that scraped over the tight strings of my nerves, causing even Adrian to cringe.

“Absolutely not,” I said of her kitty cat ears, a ruffled black leotard with a pink-and-black polka-dotted tutu and a long cat tail attached with elastic. “Don’t be ridiculous. Go—”

Abbey stamped her foot in response.

Adrian, sensing I was about to lose my mind, calmly addressed her. “It’s very stylish, Abbey, but I don’t think you should wear that to school.”

“Why.”
Stomp.
“Not?”

Leaning against the counter, Adrian took a sip from his mug before continuing. “Well, polka dots and cat tails are for fancy dress. Purple and stripey are better for school.”

“Oh. Okay!” she quickly agreed, scampering out.

I mouthed a thank-you to him, and he laughed. Abbey was back moments later in her favorite purple leggings with a purple and blue–striped tunic, modeling and pirouetting. Her little plastic pocketbook with its signature happy girly skull dangled from her wrist. “Perfect.” I complimented her choice, before turning to Adrian. “Seriously. Thank you.”

“Look, I know it can’t be easy for you. I was raised by a single parent, remember?”

“How did your dad handle you . . . and your brother?”

“Dunno, really. Well, he drank quite a bit. He’d go out for his ‘nightly constitutional’ down at the Dog and Parrot, maybe meet a lady . . . We had some temporary mum types.” Setting down his coffee, he raised himself a few inches and affected a thicker accent. “Oi kids,” he imitated, propping an unlit cigarette under his top lip and giving me a squinty eye, “say hullo to Doris. She’s ’ere to do a bit of the washing up.”

“Yikes.” I plucked the Marlboro from his mouth and carefully tucked it back into the pack in his shirt pocket. “Waking up to a mother du jour had to be weird.”

“It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s . . .
SUP
er
ABBEY
!” Someone was clearly overexcited about the prospect of rubbery pancakes and a morning of song. I wondered if I should warn Adrian to limit her maple syrup intake or suffer the consequences. She was careening around the kitchen, arms akimbo and mouth puttering like an engine. “Oh, pretty!” She had spotted the flowers in their vase on the counter. “Can I keep them in my room? Please, Mom?”

She went to reach for them with both hands, and before I could do or say anything, her tiny elbow made contact with the coffee mug Adrian had been drinking from. It went skittering, and I helplessly watched it plummet, then smash with a heartbreaking pop and gush; bone china and morning lifeblood scattered and smattered. “Goddammit, Abbey!” I yelled. Adrian jumped to grab paper towels. “Step back . . . go!” Abbey backed out of the kitchen, lips quivering and eyes brimming. I dropped to my knees as Adrian attempted to staunch the flow and gather the pieces carefully in the palm of his hand.
Oh, no . . .
The whimper never made it out of my vocal chords, the words were trapped painfully in the breath from my chest.

“Christ, Kat, it’s not her fault. I set it too close to the edge.” He swiftly rose and deposited the entire mess into the trash. “Calm down, luv. It was just a mug.”

It was.

Just a stupid blue plate special diner mug from Fishs Eddy. But I had watched Pete drink from it every morning since we met. He couldn’t drink coffee from a dark mug. He had fessed up to his quirk with a sheepish laugh; it made him nervous when he couldn’t see how much coffee was left in the cup. Couldn’t see the bottom. Couldn’t see the end coming.

“I know,” I whispered.

As he rested his lips on my temple, I heard the jangle of keys coming off the hook behind me. “Shall I?”

I nodded. “See you back around ten thirty? And then we’ll go pick her up after school at noon.”

Abbey was out on the screened porch, wrestling her feet into her sneakers. I knelt to tie her left, kissing her right knee. “I love you, Abbster. And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”

“I didn’t break Daddy’s mug on purpose.”

The tread of Adrian’s shoes on the hardwood ceased.

“I know.” My words echoed the response I had given Adrian just moments ago. I slowly rose, feeling his eyes upon me.

He cleared his throat. “Abbey . . . Road? Shall we hit it?”

“Pancakes!” she cheered.

He shook out his shaggy hair, as if to shake away any troublesome thoughts, before ushering her out the door. “See you, Kat.”

Mr. Fahrenheit

I watched as Adrian snapped all the correct car seat buckles, smiled wanly at their inaudible banter. Even after the car doors closed and the Mini coasted up the street, I lingered on the porch. What was waiting for me inside? Shards of Pete in the dustbin, the silent husk of the empty house. I was exhausted, and it was only eight fifteen. A tiny funnel cloud of depression was forming, one like I hadn’t felt since first moving back to Lauder Lake. Had the futon still lived on the porch, I would have collapsed onto it and slept until Adrian’s return. My eyes dropped onto Abbey’s boom box. The porch had become her private DJ booth where she spun tunes and danced. Some afternoons it resembled an adolescent version of an after-hours rave club; hands flailing with juice boxes held high, kids dancing the dust up from the floorboards and singing at the tops of their lungs. Other days, it was her ballet studio, where she practiced slow, complicated, and possibly self-invented dance moves, her tiny tongue pushing from the corner of her lips, mirroring her father. Somewhere in the house, harbored deep inside one of the many boxes, was a baby picture of Pete, his earliest documentation of this particular habit. I had observed it many times over the years, while he worked under deadline on various stories and even on our wedding day as he attempted to push that platinum band over my nervous knuckle.

Last night, I had witnessed a prebedtime air guitar porch performance, unbeknownst to Abbey. She had plenty of material to draw from: at least a half dozen of Adrian’s children’s performances and countless other times he had played guitar to her audience of one. Still, I was flabbergasted to see her little mouth twist up and over to one side, exactly like Adrian. It was a tug-of-war of nature versus nurture; fascinating to watch, but one I wanted to remain a tie game. An even draw. A dead heat.

I cranked the player, not caring what CD was in rotation. Anything that could cut through the silence and motivate me to move. I spent the next hour robotically moving every last box into the attic. Sweat and dust formed a protective film that enveloped me, prevented me from thinking about the life and the death within the boxes. Box after box piled up. I stood back to survey the result: a wall built of my life, pre-Adrian, next to a wall of Adrian’s life, pre-me. I wished for a way to seal off the attic, for both our sakes. So we could move forward with our present and our future, leaving the excruciating excavation of our pasts for the archaeologists to uncover.

Standing in my now-uncluttered living room, the clocks warned me of the approaching hour. Hastily, I jumped into the shower. There were still my bags and Abbey’s to pack for our respective overnights, and Adrian was due back any moment.

Queen was playing on repeat out on the porch when I emerged. I dueted with Freddie Mercury and finished straightening up, swiping at the checkerboard patterns of dust the boxes had left on the hardwood. I watched for the telltale blue-and-white streak to swing into the drive with increasing frequency. Where was Adrian?

Ten thirty had come and gone, as had eleven. His cell rang until voice mail came on. Could the car have broken down? Did he crash? Had something happened at the building? A fire, a bombing . . . I contemplated calling over to the school, but decided to lay my psychosis on Marissa instead.

“Hey, is Rob back from the Father’s Day thing?”

“Yeah, he had to get back to the high school to proctor a test. But we spoke briefly and he said it was beyond cute.”

I craned my head toward the street again, seeing nothing but the green hedges and empty asphalt. “Did he . . . did he say Adrian was there?”

“He said Adrian ate as many pancakes, if not more, than he did. You sound freaked, Tree. What happened?”

“He’s not back. It’s eleven thirty and he isn’t home.”

“Think he got lost?”

“No, he’s been back and forth with me tons of times. Besides, he’d call. Mariss . . . tell me I have nothing to worry about.”

“Tree, I’m sure he’s fine.” I could hear the controlled pitch of her voice, quite different from her usual unrestrained Yonkers tongue. “I’ll get both girls if you can’t make pick-up. Maybe he stopped to buy you flowers or something.”

“He brought flowers this morning. And I went all thirty-two flavors of crazy on him and Abbey earlier.” I relayed the story of Pete’s mug, pacing the length of the porch.

“I don’t blame you for being upset . . . but did you explain why?” she wanted to know.

“No, I told myself tonight would be the night when I tell him everything, but—” I heard the pop of gravel and a door slamming. “He’s here.” I breathed.

“Go, go . . . see you later.”