Sleeping in Eden (16 page)

“I know,” he said quickly, shaking his head a little as if he hadn't really meant it at all. “I just . . .”

And in a rush of understanding, Meg knew. She was barely fifteen years old, inexperienced and naive in the ways of love, but looking at Jess's face was like peering into a mirror. The way she felt for Dylan was the way Jess Langbroek felt for her. It was all she could do to breathe around the furious storm of that thought. She wanted to say, You're almost eighteen. But
she could tell that as far as he was concerned, that small truth was irrelevant.

Jess must have interpreted her silence as an invitation because he edged close enough for Meg to see the sun-washed tips of his russet hair. His smile was shy when he reached for her hand, but timidity didn't stop him from holding her fingers lightly and lifting them as if to study each curve and line.

“I could walk you home,” he said again.

Meg tipped her head because she couldn't bring herself to look at him anymore. On the floor their toes were almost touching; Jess's sandals looked enormous and impossibly grown-up next to the dirty gray canvas of her tattered sneakers. She wanted to cover the dingy arc of her tennis shoes, to take her fingers back from his grip, to hide.

But Jess wanted to find her. Before she could contemplate moving, she felt the touch of his forehead against hers. It was light, he barely brushed the surface of her skin, but it made her lift her face almost imperceptibly. When she did, he was there, his mouth against hers giving the faintest impression of warmth and nothing more. It was so soft, so subtle, it was almost as if he hadn't kissed her at all.

Later, Meg would wonder why she did it. Why she encouraged him when, before the moment his lips touched hers, it had never once occurred to her to think of Jess as anything other than her neighbor, her childhood friend's older brother. But no amount of future regret could erase the fact that when Jess pulled away Meg leaned into him, finding his mouth so that she could feel, really feel, what it was like to be kissed.

It was a spinning, tumbling, excruciatingly changing experience. It was like flying and falling all at once. It was gentle and perfect and sweet. She never wanted it to end and she couldn't wait for it to stop.

And it wasn't until she pulled away that Meg realized she had imagined it was Dylan she kissed.

J
enna didn't come home that night.

Or, if she did, Lucas wasn't aware of it. He slid between the cold sheets with a sickening sense of remorse, a knot of regret in his stomach that suspended him between relief at her absence and longing to hold her close, to know that his act of betrayal hadn't put the final nail in the coffin of their marriage. But she couldn't know, could she? Her computer was right where she had left it, and Lucas had shredded the printed sheets before he left his office. Somehow, knowing that he would get away with it didn't make him feel any better.

Sleep proved elusive. As he tossed and turned, he continued to slip over the invisible divide in the middle of their mattress where he was supposed to meet the soft resistance of Jenna's prostrate form, and he missed her even more than he had the first night that she was gone from his bed.

Gone.
It was a hollow, echoless word that sank into the marrow of his bones with a heavy finality that made him feel achingly alone. She'll come back, he told himself. She's spending the night at Safe House. But the reminder, no matter how calm and logical, did not offer him any comfort.

Lucas stirred early in the morning, surprised that he had slept at all, and sat up straight in bed as if he had failed to keep vigil. Rubbing his face with his hands, he glanced into the hallway and found evidence of her early-morning return. Her
clothes were abandoned in a tangled pile just outside the bathroom door, and the carpet was sprinkled with damp where she had walked to the attic stairs after her shower. He hadn't heard her?

Still shrugging off the final webs of a grasping sleep, Lucas made his way to the bathroom on unsteady legs. Though he was in a hurry, he went out of his way to step on the dark spots scattered across the floor where Jenna's feet had been. It was a ritual of sorts, a habit that Lucas had started weeks ago and couldn't shake no matter how ridiculous he felt as he touched his toes to the places where Jenna had walked. Sometimes, brushing against the water that had slid from her body was his only contact with her in a day that seemed longer for her absence.

He showered quickly and dressed without giving a moment's thought to the shirt and pants that he yanked off their respective hangers. Years of living with Jenna had taught him that if he hoped to see her at all during the week, his best bet was a few minutes over coffee before she left for work. The gurgle and hiss of the coffeemaker dripping a final cup into the pot whispered up the stairs, and Lucas knew that if he didn't get a move on, she'd leave without saying good-bye.

Taking the steps two at a time, he launched himself onto the main floor of their sprawling house and trotted noisily into the kitchen. Jenna was pouring coffee into a pink breast cancer awareness travel mug, her bag already slung over her shoulder and her shoes on.

“I didn't hear you come in last night,” Lucas said. He sounded a little too cheerful, even to his own ears.

Jenna spun to greet him, her eyes brilliant with something he hadn't expected: joy. She was radiant, emanating a sort of tangible happiness that made Lucas want to hold her at arm's length and study every nuance of her shining face. He was startled into laughter, but Jenna put a finger to her smiling lips and shushed him.

“What?” he asked, crossing the room to embrace her.

“Shhhh . . .” She wiggled out of his grip and took him by the hand, leading him in the direction of the living room.

“What's going on?” Lucas whispered.

But she just shook her head.

When his cell phone vibrated at his hip, Lucas yanked it out of the holder with his free hand and studied the screen. Had it been anyone other than Alex, he would have ignored it altogether, but Jenna saw the screen, too, and nodded briefly.

“Take it,” she whispered.

“Hey,” Lucas said into the phone, wrinkling his forehead in the direction of his still-grinning wife. “What's up with you?” he mouthed to her.

“Lucas, we gotta talk,” Alex barked.

But Lucas was barely listening.

Jenna winked at him as they stopped just behind the sagging plaid couch that sat smack-dab in the middle of their spacious front room. She put a finger to her lips again, then pointed over the back of the couch, indicating a pile of blankets and pillows that rose and fell in a silent, steady rhythm.

“Lucas? You there?” Alex questioned, his voice small and faraway as the phone slipped a little from Lucas's hand.

There was a woman on the couch.

She was buried beneath a heap of afghans that had been pulled all the way up to her chin. One hand had escaped the press of blankets and rested on the pillow beside her face. The white-blond sweep of her long hair half covered her cheek and the splay of her fingers with a smooth wave of soft curls. Her skin was tan, her lips still stained with yesterday's lipstick and parted slightly as she breathed.

Lucas took a step back.

“Are you listening to me?” Alex asked, raising his voice as if the connection was bad.

“Yeah,” Lucas finally muttered.

“It's not her.” The words came out in a rush, a sprint of excitement at sharing the news they had all waited for. “The dental records are not a match. The body isn't Angela.”

“I know.”

“What?”

“I know,” Lucas repeated, forcing himself to speak around the numbness. His eyes flashed to his beaming wife, back to the still figure on the couch. “I know it's not Angela. She's in my living room.”

“What is she doing here?” Lucas demanded when Jenna dragged him back to the kitchen. He had all but hung up on Alex, insisting that the police chief keep his distance until Lucas could at least make a little sense of the situation. If Alex had his way, he would have jumped in the car in his boxers and driven to the Hudsons' house for an on-the-spot interrogation. But Lucas was insistent, and in the end, he won. Though he seriously doubted that Angela managed to sleep through the hushed ruckus of their discovery. It unsettled him, the thought of her lying on his couch, awake and listening. “What is Angela doing here?” he repeated, his voice tripping over the syllables of her name.

“Where else would she be?” Jenna seemed to think the question was ridiculous.

He stumbled. “I thought . . .”

“I know what you thought. You were wrong. If I were the type to say ‘I told you so,' this would be the perfect time to break out a little victory dance.” Jenna did an off-balance pirouette and grabbed her coffee off the counter with a triumphant sweep of her hand. Taking a sip, she sucked in her breath as if scalded. Lucas interpreted the sound as reprimand.

“Where has she been? Why did she come back? How long is she going to stay?”

Jenna shrugged. “We've got lots of time to deal with the specifics. For now, all you need to know is that she showed up at my office last night. She heard about Jim and flew in from the West Coast.”

“The West Coast?”

“Yup.”

“But . . .”

“Tonight, okay? We'll talk about it tonight. I've got to go.”

Lucas glanced back at the living room and shot his wife a desperate look. His mind was a snarl of shock and confusion, but there was one thing that he knew without a doubt. He did not want Angela Sparks staying under his roof. “Do you think it's a good idea for her to be here?” he asked. “I mean, in our house . . . She's a former client, after all.”

“I want her here,” Jenna whispered. She grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the mudroom attached to the kitchen. It was cool, and she pulled her coat off the hook beside the window and tugged it over her sweater and the strap of the bag she had crisscrossing her chest. “Look, she's going to be here awhile and that's just the way it has to be. Don't make her feel uncomfortable. You two haven't always had the best relationship.”

You don't know the half of it, he thought. He wanted to say something in response, something keen and intelligent that would make her realize that having Angela in their house was not a good idea. Instead, one look at the fierce edge in Jenna's eye and he deflated as if her words were pinpricks; they pierced the core of his intention and all his careful plans leaked out. The only remnant of his former conviction was a stone of tepid resignation, a hard and bitter fragment that reminded him of the distance between them. It was still there in spite of her irrepressible delight at seeing Angela again after all these years.

“Okay,” he said. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” She groaned and reached over his shoulder for her car keys. “You're impossible. I can't figure you out.”

“What do you mean?”

Rather than turning to leave, Jenna paused for an instant and looked at her husband. Really looked at him. Her eyes were clouded somehow, dark and unreadable beneath the fleeting thrill of having Angela in their home. Surprise rooted Lucas to the ground when she stood on tiptoe to kiss him full on the mouth. It was a fierce, selfish moment of contact, an intimate act that somehow felt analytical and detached. But Lucas
leaned down anyway and tried to kiss her back even as she broke away from him and reached for the door.

“Jenna?” he called.

She glanced at him. “This is more than fine, Lucas. This is great. I've waited eight years for her to come back. Do you understand that? Eight years.”

The door was half open when Lucas caught her from behind. She spun easily in his hands, her waist small and familiar and lovely beneath his fingers. Something inside Lucas had fractured—the fine, strong vein of his self-control—and he lifted her off the ground. Kissed her again. Soft and sweet. Long. A kiss on his terms.