Tell No Lies (5 page)

Jenny lived in one of the rehabbed Victorian duplexes on Lafayette Square that lined the streets around the park. The taxi was already parked outside, waiting for him, when they arrived. He touched her to wake her.

"I'll be right back," he said to the driver before helping her up the front stoop. The taxi driver nodded in understanding, as if he had watched the same scene unfold numerous times before. Jack fumbled with Jenny's keys, trying a few to determine which opened the door. One finally fit, and he shoved the door open with one hand while balancing her with the other. They were greeted by a Siamese cat; it mewed insistently as it wound its body first between her legs and then his. He pushed it gently out of the way with his foot and kicked the door closed.

It was dark inside, and he felt for a light switch on the wall. He debated whether to try to get her upstairs and into her bed, but thought better of it and steered her to the couch. She immediately rolled onto her side, drew her legs up, and grasped the throw pillow under her head with both hands. He went upstairs, forgoing the interior lights this time in favor of the soft, dim glow of the street lights below. He stopped in the doorway to her bedroom, startled by the imposing mahogany four-poster bed in front of him. He remembered there had been no bed when he and his son, Michael, had helped her move; she'd lived with Alex, of course, before moving here. Now, she'd dressed the bed to rival any linen catalog. And pillows. There had to be at least seven or eight pillows at the head, and a white scarf was draped from post to post. His eyes were drawn to the room's tall windows, which were framed by long white sheers that matched the bed scarf. He smiled a little, amused by the evidence of the difference in their disposable income; he and Claire still slept on the old bedroom set handed down from her parents. And after five years in their house, the bedroom windows were still covered by roller shades.
 

He walked around the end of the bed and looked at the items on her dresser. He picked up a picture, one he'd seen in a box when they'd helped her move. It was an old photo—of Jenny, he presumed—taken when she was a little girl. Despite the difference in age and the lighter hair color, the lips on the little girl in the picture were unmistakably hers. She must have been playing dress-up. She wore a billowy, oversized dress shirt—her father's, perhaps—gathered at the waist by a skinny belt. She had adorned herself with a pillbox hat with a large, glorious bow in the front, and jewelry everywhere. She wore black high-heeled pumps with sharp, pointed toes that, because of the camera angle, actually seemed to fit her tiny feet. What struck Jack most, however, as he studied the picture, was the makeup. This little girl, who looked to be no more than five or six, had on the makeup of a grown woman.

He continued to study the picture. The little girl stared back at him, cocky and self-assured even then. Everything was the same but the hair; he couldn't figure out the hair. He knew hair became darker as one grew older, but from amber to black? He was sure she didn't dye it. He set the picture back down, puzzled.

At the end of the dresser, on the floor, a discarded bra and pair of panties lay carelessly at the edge of the area rug. Their intimacy embarrassed him, and he suddenly remembered why he had come up there.
 

He turned and tugged the comforter from her bed, disturbing another cat, this one a skinny orange tabby curled up in the middle of the pillows. As he gathered the comforter in his arms, something black between the mattress and box spring caught his attention. He stepped closer to the bed and lifted the mattress a bit. A semi-automatic pistol—he recognized it as a Walther PPK .380—rested on the white cotton top of the bed skirt. He immediately thought of Alex, but then dismissed the thought and figured it was just her way of feeling safe in the city. It bothered him, though, that she had never mentioned it to him. But then, why would she?

He returned downstairs and covered her, then squatted next to the couch and moved her hair off her face as an excuse to touch it one more time. "I'll see you later, Jen," he said softly, unsure whether she heard him.

He opened the front door to leave, but her voice whispering his name stopped him.

"Don't deny yourself what you really want." She mumbled as she spoke, from alcohol, from sleep. "It's so close."

"Jenny . . ."

"Jack, do it. Run for DA. Just do it."

Without looking back, he stepped into the quiet still of the night and closed the door behind him. He locked it and dropped her keys through the mail slot.

He settled into the back of the cab and tried not to inhale the sickeningly sweet scent of the peach-shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. And he wondered how one night in his life could have so drastically altered his view of the world.

CHAPTER TWO

BY THE TIME Jack got home it was after midnight; most of the porch lights his neighbors turned on at dusk had been turned off for the night. He decided to leave the car in the driveway to avoid setting off the automatic garage door. The rumble might wake Claire and the kids.

He opened all the car windows and turned off the engine. He reclined his seat and looked at the black sky through the open sunroof. The night had cleared and he stared at the stars but didn't see them. He could see only Jenny's face, the intensity of her dark eyes, and her lips, slightly parted. He closed his eyes, trying to block out her image, to no avail. The noise of the cicadas in the trees behind his house magnified; their relentless high-pitched droning became louder and louder. "Cheat-er! Cheat-er! Cheat-er!" they sang out at him.

"It was just a kiss," he muttered to himself.

He lay there for a while; he didn't know how much time had passed. He started to think about when he and Claire had first started dating, the heady feeling of those first few months. He'd met her almost immediately upon starting law school; it had been Claire's first year, too. He'd seen her from afar during the second, maybe third week. He'd just come out of his Torts class and was still worked up over a debate with his professor. Claire was sitting in the Pit, the sunken, common area in the center of the school where the students gathered between classes to socialize or study.
 

Once he saw her, he forgot all about Torts class. He suddenly let go of every bit of skepticism he'd ever had about love at first sight—those stories he'd heard about knowing, upon first meeting a woman, that she'd be the one you'd marry. It was the late eighties, and Claire sat there on the worn, modular furniture in the Pit amid students dressed in khakis and polo shirts or oxfords, the guys with hair shorn close and the women with neat, chin-length bobs, guaranteed to look appropriate with their interview suits. But not Claire. She looked like a leftover hippie who hadn't yet realized Reagan was in office, much less nearing the end of his second term. Her curly blond hair had been even longer then, almost to her waist, and it cascaded carelessly over her shoulders and down her back and arms. Every once in a while, in an apparent effort to keep it behind her, she'd gather it with her hand into a makeshift ponytail and then flip it down against her back. She wore a print sundress made of a gauzy material; its mottled blues and greens reminded him of the ocean on a still day, the subtle colors illuminated in the reflecting flashes of the sun. Some sort of woven rope bracelet graced her wrist. A trace of red lit her cheeks and shoulders as if she'd been in the sun earlier that day.

When he thought back on it, he was surprised that he'd scored well on his exams that first semester, given how distracted he'd become by his pursuit of her. She hadn't been easy to snag, either, like the other girls he'd dated. At the beginning she'd been uninterested in him; she told him later that he seemed like too much of a 'pretty boy' to her. He'd had to work on her, and he hadn't even realized at the time that his boyish good looks were a handicap. It was almost Halloween before he finally persuaded her to have lunch with him. To this day he remained convinced that she only agreed because he promised to make the lunch himself for a picnic in Forest Park, where she could bring her dog, and she didn't really think he'd follow through.

"Jack?" Claire's voice was soft, far away. "What are you doing out here, babe?"

Jack shot up suddenly, surprised to see Claire standing right outside his car door. He realized he'd fallen asleep.

"Hi." He blinked to bring her into focus. She stood on the pavement in an oversized white nightshirt, her face scrubbed bare of all makeup. She'd pulled her hair back into a braid at the nape of her neck, as she did every night to keep it from getting tangled while she slept. But now, stray curls stood out against the halo of backlight from the lamps over the garage.

"Are you all right? What's the matter?" Claire opened the car door.

"I fell asleep." It sounded as good as anything else he could have said at that point.

"I can see that," she said, laughing a little bit. "Why didn't you come into the house?"

"How'd you know I was out here?"

"I was half asleep when I thought I heard you pull into the driveway. Later I got up to use the bathroom and saw it was three, but you still weren't in bed yet. So I came looking for you."

Jack opened the door and swung his legs out, but decided against standing up just yet. He stared straight ahead into Claire's shirt, the white cotton glowing against the black of the sky and the driveway. He reached out and grabbed her hips, pulling her to him. He turned his face and pressed his cheek into her stomach. Although it still appeared flat, it was soft from her pregnancies and gave a bit when he leaned into it. He liked that. He inhaled the clean scent of the shirt.

"I missed you," he said without looking up at her.

"I was only a few steps away. Funny you should decide to sleep in your car."

"It's been a weird night." He lifted the shirt and ducked his head under it. Now, skin to skin, his cheek against her stomach, he could smell her scent, the indescribable essence her skin gave off when she was sleeping. He just needed to be honest with her. After all, it was simply a kiss. "Jenny got really drunk tonight. She's upset about something happening at Newman, and probably about Alex, too. I had to drive her home." Did he imagine her muscles tense? When she didn't say anything, he added, "And Earl's quitting."
 

"What?" Claire backed up, forcing Jack's head out.

"He announced it tonight. Says he's going to Clark and Cavanaugh. He claims they made him an offer that's too good to pass up."

"Wow," she said quietly, looking over his head and down the dark street. Jack knew Claire was as surprised as he had been. She knew how long Earl had been in the DA's office. Every lawyer in town had assumed he would retire there.

"What do you think this means for you?" she asked finally. He understood her question. They'd both seen the turnover at other state offices after someone new took over.

Jack turned and reached for his briefcase on the passenger seat next to him. "I don't know," he said, getting out of the car and quietly closing the door. "It's late, Claire. Let's go to bed. I'm too tired to even think about this now."

He sensed her watching his face, but he didn't look at her. He hadn't meant to sound so abrupt; she probably had a lot of questions, but he couldn't think about Earl's announcement without thinking about what had happened with Jenny. He needed time to figure out how to tell Claire.

They didn't talk when they went into the house. Claire went back into their bedroom while Jack brushed his teeth and checked on the kids. Michael slept as usual, his body curled up in the fetal position with the covers pulled up close near his chin. It was his three-year-old son, Jamie, who caused Jack to pause. He stood next to Jamie's bed, staring at his small body lying uncovered on a tangle of sheets and blankets. His mouth was open, his still-girlish lips forming an imperfect circle. In the darkness of the room, with only a few shadows visible from the starred but moonless night, Jack stared at him. The guilt from Jack's long-abandoned religious upbringing surfaced, and he hated that he still allowed it to haunt him. Finally, he sighed, bent down, and kissed Jamie's sweaty, sweet-smelling forehead.
 

When he returned to the master bedroom, Claire was still awake, sitting up in bed in the dark, waiting for him. He climbed in next to her, but in the room's blackness the images of Jenny and her parted lips returned. He rolled over on his side, away from Claire. The cicadas had stopped for the night and the room was still.

"Jack?" Despite the softness with which she spoke, her voice shattered the fragile silence.

"Yeah?"

"What is it? There's something else on your mind."

"Yeah."

She didn't say "tell me" or "what is it?' or anything at all. She just waited. Jack wondered whether relief would come once he'd told her the truth. But what happens if you tell your wife that you kissed another woman? She'd be hurt, he'd say he was sorry—it didn't mean anything, and then it would all just blow over, wouldn't it? After all, he reminded himself again, it was just a kiss.

"I've been thinking . . . what would you think about me running for District Attorney?"

The next day, Jack slept in. The first time he woke, around seven, the bed was empty and he could vaguely hear the noises downstairs of Claire getting Michael and Jamie ready for school. He smelled coffee and he knew this was Claire's way of tempting him to get up; she didn't drink it. He knew he should drag himself out of bed and go down and have breakfast with them, especially since he hadn't seen his children last night. But he didn't feel he could face his wife. He wondered if he would ever be comfortable around her again, and felt a sick kind of admiration for men who had real affairs and seemed unaffected by them. It was just a kiss, he reminded himself once again. Resolving to just forget about it, he pulled the covers over his head and tried to go back to sleep.
 

By the time he woke for good, at close to ten, the house was quiet. He was surprised that she hadn't wakened him to say goodbye. Maybe she was on to him. No, she couldn't be. She hadn't inquired more about Jenny, and she'd been genuinely interested the night before when he'd suggested the idea of running for DA. His paranoia was nothing more than that; his own exaggerated fear of being found out.