Mercy (18 page)

He opened his eyes, picked up the pen and began to write. Mia, he said, Now the only thing I need is a cappuccino. I hate drinking al one. Will you meet me?

He did not sign his name. He sealed it in a Wheelock Police Department enve lope and, walking from his office, set it on Hannah's desk with the outgoin g mail.

A Hie wiped her hands on the white baker's apron, scattering bright yellow nasturtium petals over the kitchen floor. She had packed a suitcase to ta ke to Jamie's house in Cummington; she had cleaned the bottom half of the house; and now she was preparing dinner for Cam and Mia, a thank-you in ad vance for taking care of things while she was away.

She was roasting a chicken, stir-frying asparagus, and making her nasturtium

-lettuce salad. It was lovely to look at, all that red and orange and yellow against the greens of spinach and endive. She served it with walnut oil, an d when people got over the shock of eating flowers for dinner, they always c omplimented her on her originality.

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Cam hated it, said it made him feel like Robinson Crusoe, making do with twigs and weeds. But she knew that Mia would appreciate it. She liked the idea of showing Mia something she did not already know how to do.

"Cam," she yelled, "was that the door?" In the living room, Cam was trying to read the evening paper. He had heard the doorbell, had known it was Mia, and tried to stuff the information into the back recesses of his mind. When Allie told him that she had invited Mi a for dinner, he'd felt the blood rush from his head. He could not imagine anything more uncomfortable than sitting across a table from both his wife and the woman he could not stop thinking about.

"I'll get it," he said, pushing to his feet. He walked to the front door and leaned his forehead against it for a moment, considering whether by sheer wil l he could prevent this evening from taking place.

She was wearing a huge beige sweater and an ivory turtleneck and skinny lit tle leggings the color of oatmeal, as if her clothing was her way of blendi ng into the background. Cam wished he'd thought of it.

"Hi," he said.

She did not meet his eye. "Hello." She reached into her big carpetbag knapsac k and pulled out a bottle of blackberry wine. "I brought this. I think it goe s with any kind of entree."

"Allies in the kitchen.' Cam stared at Mia. He wondered if she had gotten his letter. Occasionally, letters that were being sent somewhere within Wh eelock boundaries were delivered the same day they had been mailed. Mia pushed past Cam and walked toward the kitchen. He could hear the two women talking and laughing, high runners of music that reminded him of th e conversation of birds.

He did not know how long he had been standing there staring at nothing whe n Allie touched her hand to his shoulder. Mia was a few steps behind her.

"Cam," Allie said, "can you open the wine? I'm almost done. If you don't m ind taking care of Mia."

"No," Cam said, surprised by the steadiness of his voice. "Of course not." He poured the blackberry wine into fancy glasses they had re-Jodi Picoult ceived as a wedding present, belled like tulips with thin golden stems. When he handed Mia her glass, her fingers shook a little and spilled wine over t he back of his hand.

"Oh," she said, turning around to find a napkin. "I can't believe I did that." Cam brushed his hand against the leg of his pants, not giving a damn if it was going to stain. "It's nothing."

They sat for a few long, quiet minutes at the far ends of the couch, sipping t he wine, until Allie fluttered in with a tray of spanakopita. "This isn't seve nth grade," she said, laughing. "Boys and girls don't have to stand on opposit e sides of the gym."

Cam watched her move back to the kitchen, wondering as always how she man aged to turn simple motion into a dance. He wished she would stand beside him. Then he'd be able to chatter about the weather and the news and he wouldn't have to worry about trusting himself.

Mia was running her finger along the rim of the glass, making an unholy sou nd like the keen of a ghost. "My first boyfriend taught me how to do that."

"Oh?" Cam said, his throat closing. "And who was that?"

"Freddy Hornburger. No joke; that was really his name. He was my best frie nd's brother. He took me aside at her fourteenth-birthday party and asked if I wanted to see an owl turn its head all the way around. But when we go t to the backyard there wasn't an owl, and he pushed me onto a chaise and kissed me so badly I thought I was being swallowed."

"And you still became his girlfriend?"

Mia shrugged. "I figured we had nowhere to go from there but up. I spent on e week ignoring him, though, and swearing that I was never going to kiss an yone ever again." She lifted her glass in a toast. "I changed my mind event ually."

Cam raised his glass too. "Here's to Freddy," he said, but found when he too k a sip he could not seem to swallow.

Mia shifted on her side of the couch, which Cam could feel all the way down t o his end. "I have a lot of trouble talking to you," she admitted. "I don't f eel very comfortable."

"I know what you mean. I feel like that too." And he truly did not understand it. In a way he felt as if he knew Mia better than he

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knew himself, and vice versa, but he could not seem to get past the polite si mplicities. He wondered if, like him, she sensed that there was a dam to thei r conversation, and that the tiniest trickle would rush into an unstoppable f lood. He wondered why she did not mention his letter, or the fact that she ha d sent him a note in the first place.

"Dinner," Allie called.

Allie was a very good cook. She said it was only a matter of being a voracio us reader, since finding the right cookbooks made all the difference. "God," Mia said, slicing into her chicken, "I could never make anything like this."

"It's not too hard. You stick it in the oven and wait for the little button to pop out its side."

"Still," Mia demurred. "I haven't gotten much past Spaghettios." At this, Allie frowned. "I was going to ask you to have Cam to dinner over t he next few days, but I guess he can heat his own can of Spaghettios.'

Cam dropped his fork. He listened to its ring, and all the subsequent echoes.

"I can take care of myself."

Allie placed her hand on his forearm. "I know that. I just didn't think you'd li ke to."

"Besides," Mia said, "the kitchenette in my room isn't equipped for much pas t boiling water."

Allie took a helping of asparagus and passed the serving bowl to Cam. "That settles it, then. Cam will have you over here."

Cam will have you over here. For a moment, Allie's words hung in the air i n front of Cam, palpable and festooned and so conspicuous that he marveled no one else was commenting on them. Cam will have you over here. He pictu red Mia, flushed and waiting, the quilt upstairs pulled haphazardly over h er bare, fine limbs.

"So," Mia said, "how long do you think this will take?"

"Cummington, you mean? Or the trial?" Allie did not wait for an answer, but b egan to speak again. "I don't know, really. I'm figuring on three or four day s to speak to the neighbors and people Jamie left on his list; a day to go th rough his house." She paused. "I feel so strange about it. Like I'm stepping into someone else's place."

"It's not snooping." Cam was careful not to look at Mia. "You have Jamie's permission."

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"Well," Allie said, chewing thoughtfully. "There is that." When there was only a scatter of platters and bones, and circular bruises on the tablecloth from spilled blackberry wine, Mia pushed back her chair. "I'

m doing the dishes," she said, "I'm not taking no for an answer." After Mia had cleared the table and the water began to rush in the kitchen sink, Allie pulled Cam out of his chair and propelled him toward the living room. He sank deeply into his leather wing chair, surprised when she chose to sit on its arm beside him. They each had their spots in the room: his w as the wing chair, hers was the couch. Allie wrapped her arms around his ne ck and yawned with her cheek against Cam's hair. "I hope she'll go soon." Cam looked up at her. "Why'd you invite her?"

Allie grimaced. "I feel responsible. She doesn't know anyone else around here

, and I'm leaving her with a whole store to run." She bit her lower lip. "I m ean, it was a nice dinner, but I'd like to say goodbye to you without an audi ence."

"I'm sure she'll leave," Cam said, tightening his fingers on Allie's shoulde r. "I know she'll leave." He thought of Allie as she would be an hour from n ow, her white cotton nightgown buttoned to the throat so that he could take his time removing it, the night-stand lamp on his side of the bed casting he r body into a familiar pattern of shadows. He knew she would brush her teeth and then go to wait for him in bed; he knew that she'd be the first to reac h out under the covers. He knew the exact pattern their lovemaking would tak e, and in spite of Allie's intention of saying goodbye, he knew it would be a familiar welcome.

He suddenly did not want Mia Townsend in his house. If you removed the te mptation, you had nothing to worry about.

Cam stood abruptly. "Where are you going?" Allie said, recovering her balan ce without him in the chair.

He smiled at her. "I'm going to hurry things along." He walked into the kitchen and found Mia standing at the sink, her sweater rolled up to reveal sharp pink elbows. He stood silently, watching the natu ral grace she exhibited even when using an S.O.S. pad, seeing the curls at the bottom edge of her hair jump when she scrubbed particularly hard. In re trospect, he did not understand how he had managed to survive dinner, to sa y the right

things, preoccupied as he was with the rhythm of Mia's breath, the pitch of h er questions, the curve of her brow.

He picked up a dish towel and began to dry.

"You left Allie alone?" she said, the very name putting a thick, viscous bar rier up between them.

Cam nodded. He ran the striped blue and white cloth along the edge of the o val roasting pan, feeling the material dampen and give with subsequent stro kes. He picked up a serving fork and worked the cloth between its tines. Wh en he realized there was nothing left to dry, he looked up to find Mia watc hing his hands.

"What did you do with the napkin?" she whispered.

"I kept it in the pocket of my shirt all day." Cam watched Mia reach for his hand, slowly, as if it were an action beyond her control. She laced her fin gers through his and he could feel the soap and warm water sealing them. He thought of the old Scots custom of handfasting, by which two people cou ld marry simply by clasping palms and announcing their intent in front of witnesses.

"That drink," she murmured. "I'll meet you tomorrow at seven." rhe moon sat cross-legged on the windowsill, its white skirt reaching to th e plush bedroom carpet. It turned Allie into a creature of light, someone s he would not recognize in a mirror; someone who was as sure of her worth as she was of her beauty. She lay with her head propped on the pillows, watch ing Cam.

He kissed the curve of her throat and then traced a snaking path between her breasts to her stomach. Allie watched Cam's hair spill over her ribs and she touched it, surprised for a moment by the soft, cool strands she'd been pictu ring as fire.

She liked foreplay. She knew she had the better end of the deal; Cam would, by ritual, move gently over her body, and then when she started to feel guil ty she'd push him onto his back and run her fingertips over his chest and be tween his legs. But Cam always built to a fever pitch quickly, and it would be only a matter of minutes before he pressed her against the mattress and d rove into her for release.

He began to skim his way up her, pushing her knees apart. "Not yet," she w hispered, and Cam looked at her from under a

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fringe of hair. He took her hand from his shoulder and kissed it, then broug ht it down between them to rest on the folds of herself. She could feel his fingers between hers, and the sweet, damp heat.

"Now," he said.

She clawed at his back as he came deep inside her so forcefully they scooted inch by inch across the sheets. She waited until his head was thrown back a nd a moan tore from his throat before she let herself go. As always, Cam immediately jumped to his feet and walked into the bathroo m. Allie heard the water running and knew that he was soaping himself and washing off whatever remained of her.

She knew this was nothing but force of habit, but she always wondered exac tly where Cam thought she'd been. She liked to imagine that just once, he would lose himself so completely during sex he'd be unable to move afterwa rd, incapable of doing anything more than reaching for her hand in a silen t, joyous connection.

Once, shortly after they were married, Allie had been sick at home and ha d watched "The Newlywed Game" on TV. One of the questions the wives had b een given was, "When you're making whoopee, it's most like which Olympic sport: marathon running, gymnastics, or ice hockey?" When Cam came home f rom the station, she'd asked him what he thought. "Hockey," he had said, without hesitation. And he was right--there was a fury to their lovemakin g, as if they were punishing each other for being something different fro m what they each had hoped. Many nights after that game show she had lain awake, listening to the tide of Cam's breathing, wondering why one of th e multiple choices hadn't been something slow and lovely, like pairs' ska ting or water ballet, something partnered in grace and beauty and trust. Cam slipped back under the covers, smelling of mouthwash. He gathered her against his chest. "That was nice," he murmured into her hair. Tomorrow she would sleep in Jamie and Maggie MacDonald's bed. Allie won dered how firm it would be, what secrets would seep into her dreams. "G

oodbye," she said.

J

ust so you know," Maggie MacDonald had said, "I'm against this on principl e."

Jamie laughed and pushed her down into the chair that had been set up in the deserted lab. "You won't feel a thing."

"It's not that. It's the very idea of it. I feel like a Barbie doll, and every one knows that no living woman has her measurements." Jamie walked over to the device that could produce a design of a female bod y with lasers that would map a three-dimensional scan of Maggie's form. "Yo u're not a Barbie doll," he said.