Finding Home (19 page)

The
faint clanging sound broke through the gauzelike haze surrounding his brain, pushing sleep aside.

Noise. What kind, he couldn't tell. Nor did he care. It had woken him up when he didn't want to be woken up. Whatever was left of the dream he'd been having faded almost instantly.

Stretching, Brad turned to his wife. Or the side of the bed where his wife was supposed to be. It was empty. Assuming that Stacey was probably in the bathroom, Brad stretched again before he glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was a little after four.

Ungodly.

He could remember when four in the morning had arrived to find him still on his feet, half-past groggy as he was putting in the end of a marathon eighteen-hour shift at the hospital. Fervently wishing death would take him and put him out of his misery.

Four in the morning had also been the hour Julie had insisted on waking up for the first six years of her life. Like clockwork.

Had that really been eighteen years ago?

Everything passes, he thought with a faint smile. The smile slipped away a little more as each minute made its exit.
He finally decided that Stacey wasn't coming back to bed. So, where was she?

Curious, Brad sat up and tossed off the covers. No light came from the bathroom. Getting up, Brad looked around now in earnest. The bathroom door was wide open, showing no signs that her departure from their bed had been very recent.

What the hell was going on?

Brad made his way to the room's threshold and looked up and down the small hallway for some sign of her departure.

The bonus-room door was directly opposite the master bedroom and dark as well. He began to wonder what was going on.

“Stacey?”

No one answered him.

Brad raised his voice. “Stacey?”

In response, the dogs, who'd been sleeping at the top of the landing like two mismatched guards, were instantly aroused. Awake, they swiftly padded over to him, each eager to grant him his heart's desire and to perhaps score a treat for the effort as well.

“Where is she?” he asked the furry duo. “Where's Stacey?”

Rosie gave no indication that she knew, or cared, where the rival for her man's affections was. But Dog, with his bright, wide brown eyes, seemed to understand. Barking once, he clattered down the wooden stairs, his untrimmed nails announcing his bounding, uneven descent. It sounded like an unpolished rendition of “Chopsticks.”

Brad followed, wondering if Stacey had decided to catch up on some of the work she'd brought home from the medical office the other night. Or maybe get a jump start on tonight's dinner by throwing things together in the Crock-Pot.

He didn't like the idea of leaving something on all day, especially while they were both out of the house. But for some reason Stacey really seemed to like cooking with the Crock-Pot. He'd learned that you had to pick your arguments and leaving a Crock-Pot on just didn't seem worthy enough of an argument.

If he were honest, these days he was more inclined to let ride a great many things that would have once irritated him. He'd stopped letting the little things clutter up his life.

For a while there, those little things obscured the big picture. The only thing that really belonged in the big picture was his marriage and his wife. And what mattered most was enjoying both. But first, he thought, scratching an unexpected itch at the back of his neck, he needed to locate his wife.

The only light coming from the kitchen was the small one they left on before going to bed. She wasn't in the kitchen. Or anywhere else.

An uneasiness slipped over him. What was that clanging sound? Had he dreamed it? Or was it the door, slamming itself shut as Stacey made her way out?

Where would she go at this ungodly hour?

“Stacey?” he called again, this time more loudly. Still there was no answer. Only questions. And increasing uneasiness.

As Rosie followed behind, Dog led him to the rear of the house, to the bedroom that was just off the family room.

Initially, when they purchased the house, the bedroom had been intended to be the servant's quarters. At one point, Stacey had wistfully said it would have been a nice place for a housekeeper. But that hadn't come to pass, either. Neither one of them had wanted a stranger living with them, even if
he'd had money to throw away. Which was never the case, as far as he was concerned.

The door to the back bedroom was closed. But that was nothing new. It was always closed. The state of disarray within the nine-by-twelve room was something neither one of them had any desire to see as they passed to use the powder room.

Over time the back bedroom's decor had given way to sheer clutter. Books were placed there in hopes of eventually being given a more dignified home on shelves yet to be built. As were clusters of CDs, clothes earmarked for charity and golf clubs that had outlived their usefulness but weren't quite ready to be tossed away yet. It was, for all intents and purposes, their version of No Man's Land.

It had been that way for the last ten years. Perhaps even longer.

Dog went directly to the back bedroom door and began scratching it.

Brad frowned. So much for a dog's keen sense of smell. “She's not in there, Dog. Look.” He took hold of the doorknob and turned it. “I'll show you.” Brad opened the door.

And stared.

Stacey didn't immediately realize that her inner sanctum had been breached. She was on the cross trainer, her eyes shut, her concentration intense. To complete the sensation of isolation, she had on a pair of large headphones, which were plugged into the small TV set right in front of her. She had the headphone jack in the set to keep the noise level as far down as possible in order not to wake Brad up.

The longer he didn't know about her exercise program, the
more of a head start she had to get to her ultimate goal: knockout.

Standing in the doorway, his hand resting on the doorknob, Brad felt his initial surprise die away. But he remained there a moment longer, watching her. Marveling at what he witnessed.

The look of sheer intensity on Stacey's face was incredible. How long had she been at this? Days? A week? Longer?

He looked around the room. The clutter had all been shoved to one side, like a guest who had overstayed his welcome and was being urged to leave. The freed-up space had been taken over—every inch of it—by gym equipment.

Seeing his wife in the same place as steel objects intended to reshape the human body seemed somehow incongruous to him.

When had all this shown up? Damn, he needed to take a more active part in his own home. She'd been drawing him in, urging him to help more and he had gotten to enjoy weighing in with his opinion, but obviously there were still areas that had been left untouched.

The cross trainer's wheel was moving faster.

“Stacey?”

Locked away in her private world, her eyes shut, the headphones on, Stacey neither saw nor heard him as he came closer to her. She was completely oblivious to the fact that she wasn't alone in the room.

Until Brad tapped on her arm.

And nearly gave her a heart attack.

Her eyes flying open, Stacey yelped even as she shucked in air. Instantly, her pace was broken, her concentration
gone. She very narrowly avoided falling off the cross trainer because the large pedals continued moving even if she didn't.

Gulping in air and trying to rein in her surprise, Stacey pulled the earphones down around her neck. The faint sound of someone talking now softly echoed in the background. Both dogs yapped at her, but she hardly noticed. Her attention was on the man wearing only pajama bottoms and a scowl.

“Brad, what are you doing here?”

“I live here, remember? That means I usually get to know if something's going on.” And obviously, she hadn't felt like sharing, he thought. “What
is
all this?” he asked. His wide gesture took in the cross trainer and the red bench with its cluster of various weights underneath it.

She answered as if it was the most common thing in the world for her to have them. “My cross trainer and my bench. I've only got a few free weights.”

He blinked, wondering if he'd wandered into a parallel universe. The Stacey he knew considered going for a short walk enough exercise for a year. The one in front of him glistened with sweat.

He had to admit that a part of him found that rather arousing. But that wasn't the point. He didn't like being in the dark.

“Where did you get all this?
When
did you get all this?”

“At one of those fitness stores.” Getting off the trainer, she reached for the towel she'd thrown on the bench. Stacey began to dry herself off. She was going to be out of time soon. She'd make it up tomorrow, she promised herself. “Sven helped me out. He told me just what I needed and what I didn't.”

“Sven,” Brad echoed. “One of the construction crew?”

“No, Julie's new boyfriend.” She draped the towel around
her neck. “Sven's studying to be an anesthesiologist. I had no idea so much was involved in putting people to sleep.”

Stacey was wearing sneakers, he noticed. She
never
wore sneakers. He couldn't remember the last time he's seen her in anything other than high heels, except when she went barefoot.

There was something kind of sexy about her and he found himself more than a little attracted. “Okay, you answered where and when, now why?”

And suddenly, he had an uneasy feeling he knew why. Because Stacey was trying to catch someone's eye. He'd finally become aware of his wife again and he'd stumbled across that awareness too late.

No, damn it, it wasn't too late. If she was doing this to get someone's attention, or because she wanted to be available again, he'd find a way to deal with that. And to change her mind.

“Because I want to look better,” she told him simply.

He took the towel from her, slowly drawing it along her neck. “I think you look fine.”

“I don't want to look ‘fine.'” Fine was what something was when it hardly measured up. When it was adequate. Mediocre. “I want to look terrific.”

“For who?” he demanded, feeling his adrenaline climbing.

“For myself,” she answered, and then, because that wasn't the real truth, or at least, not the entire truth, she added softly, “and for you.”

He was just about to launch into a tirade. And then she went and took the last bit of wind out of his sails.

“Oh,
well, if you're doing this for you,” Brad murmured, “I guess I really shouldn't say anything to stop you.”

His eyes washed over her. How long, he wondered, had it been since he'd
really
looked at her? It seemed to him that all these years, he'd been interacting with a shadow, an image of her that he had in his mind, without really seeing Stacey.

He looked at her now. And liked what he saw.

She was older than the girl he'd taken as his wife all those years ago, but there was an appeal to her maturity. If asked, he wasn't all that sure that he would have had the same reaction to her had Stacey somehow managed to be caught in a time bubble.

For one thing, she would have looked younger than their daughter. Too young for him.

“But if it's just for me,” he told her, “you don't have to bother.”

“No?”

If she didn't know better, she would have said she felt a warmth building between them. Something pulling them toward each other. After all these years, it was rather an incredible phenomenon to experience. And then she dismissed it. She was probably light-headed from the last half mile she'd pedaled.

“And why's that?” Her voice sounded a little breathy to her own ear.

“Because I like you just the way you are,” he told her simply. The unadorned statement thrilled her. “With a little meat on your bones. Something to hold on to instead of worrying about breaking.” He winked at her, evoking a shiver that slid along her spine. She remembered that he used to wink at her all the time, whenever their paths crossed at school. Brad wove his fingers through hers. “It's still early.”

That all depended on which side of the clock you were on. She had a workout to finish before she could continue with the rest of her morning.

“Relatively,” she allowed.

He nodded, slowly drawing her away from the cross trainer, away from the rest of the exercise equipment. Across the threshold and out of the makeshift gym.

“And I don't have to get ready for another couple of hours,” he told her.

Was he saying what she thought he was saying? With anyone else, she would have said yes. But this was Brad, who, except for the first couple of years, had a fairly low sex drive.

She attempted a deadpan line. “You might as well go back to bed.”

She watched his mouth curve and felt another thrill shimmying along her spine. “Just what I was thinking.”

She would have liked nothing more than to lose herself in his arms. But there were rules to obey, schedules to keep. And that meant continuing with her ritual. Nothing ran on mere whim and luck. “I'm all sweaty,” she pointed out. “I'd have to take a shower….” Her voice trailed off.

He grinned, not smiled, but grinned at her as if she'd said exactly the right thing. “We can do that together.” He was gently tugging her in the direction of the stairs. “After.”

“Together?” she echoed. “You know, we've never done that before.” She wondered if he remembered. “In all the years we've known each other, we've never showered at the same time.” A slight hint of concern nudged at her. She put the back of her hand to his forehead. “You feeling all right?”

He laughed, moving her hand aside. “Never better.” They were on the stairs now, with him one step ahead of her and still holding her hand. She had no choice but to follow. Not that she would have done anything else, anyway. “Maybe it's the black onyx tiles.”

He led her to the bedroom.

“Maybe,” she mused. Stacey raised both her hands up over her head as Brad slipped her exercise bra from her body.

 

After Brad had gone to the hospital and she was left to deal with the glass man, who'd incorrectly installed sliding doors on the tub, she realized those lyrics were no longer running through her head, haunting her.

Peggy Lee's song, the one containing the sad question, “Is that all there is?” hadn't popped up in her head in weeks.

Not once.

Not during the busiest of times, and not, more important, during the few lulls, when she had time to think about some thing other than getting the next project under way and completed. Not even when her nerves had gotten frayed over incompetent suppliers.

The emptiness that always seemed to precede the refrain was absent as well.

It wasn't that she no longer had the time to raise the question, she just didn't feel lost and hollow anymore.

In the middle of pointing out the mistake to the glass installer, it hit her. Somehow, some way, while she and then Brad became immersed in renovating the house, taking down walls and opening the rooms up to the sunlight, they had wound up doing the very same thing with their marriage.

Walls were coming down. Sunlight was coming in, reaching out to the corners that had previously only known shadows.

Oh, they were a long way off from achieving the eternal matrimonial harmony showcased in a classic episode of say,
Ozzie and Harriet,
and most likely always would be, but they
had
undertaken the long journey back from the brink of the abyss where their marriage had been tottering for so long.

And she was happy. It was the kind of happiness she'd always hoped to have in her life. She was content with moments that leaned toward wild happiness.

She couldn't ask for more.

“Is it clear now what I want?” she asked, enunciating her words slowly to the stocky workman. It wasn't that English was his second language. The man didn't appear as if he could have managed more than one. Words of more than one syllable were apparently challenging.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said with less enthusiasm than displayed by convicted killers on death row. But at least he was polite. And he was trying. That was all she asked.

Stacey smiled to herself as she got ready to leave for the
office. Leonardo DiCaprio might have been king of the world as he'd stood on the bridge of the
Titanic,
but she was the queen.

At least, she certainly felt that way.

Stacey hugged the sensation to her. “Don't forget to pull the front door shut,” she reminded the man. She knew Alex would be by later to check on progress and he could be relied on to lock up once he was done, but it didn't hurt to repeat the warning.

The glass man smiled sheepishly as he nodded his head.

 

She was tired. Bone-meltingly tired. From her brain on down.

Stopped at a light, Stacey stretched a little, rotating her shoulders to relieve the tight feeling. It did no good. A cramp threatened to move in and take possession of her. The three miles left between her and home felt insurmountable.

And her eyelids kept insisting on drooping.

It was almost eight. She'd had to stay late at the office. Later than she'd wanted to. A virus appropriately named “Gotcha!” had infected their computers early this morning. In before office hours officially began, Gina, the new temp she'd hired to help with the work overflow, had decided to check her personal e-mail and opened an attachment from someone. That was all it had taken.

That was all it ever took, Stacey thought darkly. Just an innocent-looking attachment.

By the time she'd come in to the office, everything was in shambles. Dr. Desmond had acted as if it was the second coming of the plagues of Egypt. Within three minutes of entering the office, she had rolled up her sleeves and sat
down in front of the main computer, where she had remained except for two bathroom breaks for the entire day.

She'd fought the good fight, as the old saying went. Valiantly trying to restore patient files belonging to all seven doctors. Every one of them had been corrupted in one form or another, some completely, some partially. There was no rhyme nor reason to it.

The challenge had demanded every bit of her own computer expertise as well as calling in tech support. It had been a tough, hard battle, but eventually she found herself on the road to victory. Little by little, scraps of things were restored, files that had vanished materialized—not in their entirety, but enough to make sense of. And for the uphill battle to continue tomorrow.

When she recovered her own strength and energy. Right now, both were missing in action.

She couldn't remember when she had been this exhausted, this drained. At the same time she felt good. And it was nice to know she was getting somewhere.

As she turned the corner onto her block, a new thought occurred to her. She began to pray that the white pickup truck would be absent tonight. She was just not up to dealing with workers, or even Alex, despite the fact that the contractors were polite and charming. That took energy and she had none.

Might never have any again.

There was no sign of the white pickup on either side of the street. Grateful, Stacey breathed a sign of relief. All she wanted was to kick back, have maybe a glass of wine and rest before she had to think about making dinner.

As was his habit, Brad was probably going to be later than she was.

But Brad wasn't later than she was. He was earlier.

He was here, she thought as she pulled up into their driveway. His Mercedes was visible through the open garage door.

How long had he been home? There'd been no call to her cell, asking her where she was, so it couldn't have been very long, she reasoned.

Bringing the car to a stop, she yanked up the hand brake and got out. On the few occasions Brad had arrived home before she did, he'd foraged through the refrigerator to find something to eat. But she knew for a fact that there were no leftovers in the refrigerator and Brad had no idea what a meal looked like in the precooked stage.

Hopefully, he wasn't gnawing on a box of frozen peas, his stomach growling as he waited for her to get home.

Her exhaustion taking a backseat to survival, Stacey unlocked the front door and sailed in.

“Sorry I'm late,” she called out. She tossed her purse onto the closest receptive surface, never breaking stride. Her objective was the kitchen. “I was doing battle with a virus.”

It took several seconds for the sight to register. When it did, she stopped dead.

There were candles in the dining room. Candles all
over
the dining room. Not just in the center of the table, but on every flat surface that didn't have something flammable in the immediate vicinity.