Forever (27 page)

Stunned, Tom sat down on the bed and turned the pages over twice as if by doing so Jacob’s name would suddenly appear. He tried to convince himself that his memory was faulty, that Annie had not actually said she’d read the account of Jacob’s estate from these very pages. But he found it impossible to forget that she’d specifically named items that were listed among his possessions.

He refolded the papers and paused at the sight of them held in his hand.
What does this remind me of
? After waiting a moment for something to come to him, he returned the papers to the drawer.

It made no sense that Annie would lie about the report she’d found and then give him a photocopy of something else. Another thought rocked him. What if Annie was unstable? What if Annie was completely bonkers? What might she do now that he’d rejected her? His hands shaking, he grabbed a shirt and jeans from the closet and dressed. As he walked downstairs, he thought that having a beer with his breakfast toast was not the worst idea he’d ever had.

* * *

During the drive to work, Tom recalled snatches of the nightmares he’d drifted through during the night. In most of them, he’d searched frantically for someone—apparently not Annie, because he ignored her even though she was in plain sight. In fact, in one dream he strolled right through her, as if she were nothing more substantial than smoke. The cold terror of the last nightmare had shaken him awake, but he still couldn’t remember any more details than when he first opened his eyes. All he knew was that he’d been fighting for his life.

By the time he arrived at work, he was tired and irritable. Within the first hour he’d dealt with several work-related problems. Now, his face grim behind a veil of cigarette smoke, he paced the site, wondering if his age was catching up with him. Lately, it was obvious to everyone he worked with that his legendary patience had worn thin. More often than not, it was a new Tom Cogan, foul-mouthed and short-tempered, who dealt with workers calling in sick, materials delivered late, and a dozen other unforeseen difficulties and delays on the job.

On Friday—and this scared the hell out of him—he’d become physically violent. He’d launched a circular saw at the head of one of his subcontractors. He couldn’t remember why. Hell, he couldn’t remember
doing
it. But it hadn’t been too hard to figure out when he snapped out of it and found six of his men with their mouths hanging open and heads wagging between him and the battered saw. Thank God, his aim had been bad. The would-be target, who’d known him for years, had laughed it off after the initial shock, even making a joke about Cogan’s new tough-love policy.

Tom supposed the saw incident might have been excused if not for the telephone episode later that day. He wasn’t in a total blackout for that one; he was conscious of the phone sailing through the air toward the mobile office window. But he could not, for the life of him, remember what had set him off. There was no one in the office with him at the time, but two of his men had been standing just outside, and they witnessed the phone base crashing through the glass. When he stalked to the window to retrieve it, dangling by its cord and banging against the outside of the trailer, they quickly turned away. But he knew, by the wariness in the eyes of his workers since, then that both stories had gotten around.

The window, temporarily sealed over with plastic, was a visible reminder that he was losing control, probably having a mental breakdown. If he were an alcoholic, he could explain the blackouts, but drinking was not his problem. His problem was preoccupation with . . . what? What the hell was he obsessed with? He was forgetting things because his mind wasn’t on his job, but where was it? And his sudden penchant for anger and violence defied explanation.

So far today there were no incidents, just one damned problem after another, but he was handling them. He was cool.
Oh, how you lie to yourself
. Never in his life had he been so out of control. He wasn’t himself. He was lost and couldn’t find his way back. He struggled to do the right thing even in what mattered most to him.

He truly believed—knew in his gut—that Julie had not really wanted to go to California. And he hadn’t wanted her to go, that was the thing. He’d wanted to say it—“Please, don’t go. I love you. Stay with me.” But he’d kept his goddam mouth shut.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he muttered.

Shit
. The headache that had plagued him for days roared back. All this stress was killing him. He needed that vacation. Deserved it. But Julie had screwed that up. She was probably lying on the beach right now. What the hell did she care if he—

The ringing of the phone twanged every nerve in his body. He glared at it, ready to set it sailing across the room again, but it silenced when Bonnie picked it up in the outer room. Thirty seconds later she stepped into his office.

“Tom?”

“Yes, Bonnie,” he said in his best Jack Nicholson smartass voice. She winced. He didn’t care.

“That was Mr. Jacobsen on the phone. He said to tell you he’s on his way over.”

“Oh, is he?” He punctuated his reply with a good imitation of Nicholson’s maniacal grin. Bonnie took a step backwards. His grin widened. She spun out of the room back to her safe little nook on the other side of the wall. His headache was gone. In fact, he felt fucking marvelous.

Fifteen minutes later, the developer who’d hired Tom’s construction company walked into his office and shut the door. Forgoing any pleasantries, not even taking a seat, he got to the point. “Tom, there have been some problems on this site lately. Too many problems. A lot of people have been covering your ass because they think a lot of you. And until now, I’ve never had any reason to complain about your work. Hell, you came in under budget on the last two projects I hired you for. So I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.

“I understand you’ve scheduled a vacation in a few weeks. That was supposed to be after we wrapped this job up, but it’s obvious we’re going to miss that deadline. You’re running a good ten days behind.”

Tom opened his mouth to protest, but Jacobsen shut him up with a glare.

“Yes, I know you can’t control the weather, but the delays started
before
the rain. I’ll cut to the chase. If you expect to work for me again, go home. See if you can get your shit together long enough to finish this job. Steve can handle things for a week.” Jacobsen turned on his heel and walked out.

Tom sat at his desk, stunned into silence. Humiliation washed over him, scouring away any residue of cockiness, and along with it, his headache. He’d been close to being fired. Tom Cogan—
fired
. It was unthinkable. An oxymoron if he’d ever heard one.

Jeezus, what’s happening to me
?

He had to get his life back on track. My God! He was on the verge of losing his wife
and
his business. What he wanted to do—what he
needed
to do—was talk to Julie, apologize and ask her to help him make things right. He started to push back from his desk and—wham! His headache returned with a vengeance. With his palms cradling his temples, his fingers splayed over the top of his head, he cast a dark look at the plastic covered window.

“Oh, yeah, this is turning out to be another goddam perfect day.”

Ignoring Bonnie when she asked if he wanted any calls forwarded to his cell, Tom stomped out of the mobile office. Outside, his anger mounted when he saw Steve and Jacobsen talking. He climbed into his truck.

Steve called, “Hey, Tom take as much ti—”

Tom slammed his door shut.
Goddam ingrates. They can all go straight to hell.

Tires spewing gravel like ammunition, Tom careened away from the job site and headed home. He detoured past the LiquorMart. Getting his shit together sounded like a thirsty job.

* * *

As it turned out, his instincts were right. Hunkered down in his chair, watching the cigarette smoke curl up to dissipate into a general haze hanging lower as the day progressed—fuck Julie’s no smoking in the house rule—Tom drank and drank and drank.

When Lindsay came in from work, he gave what he hoped was an Oscar-worthy performance of a sober man.

“Hey, Dad, you’re home early.”

“I need a break. I’m taking some time off.” He knew he didn’t dare stand, but he soon discovered it was best he didn’t move his head too much either.

“Good for you.” She glanced at the near empty liquor bottle on the table beside him. “Did you eat yet?”

“I was getting ready to order something in.” A lie. “You staying?”

“Nope, can’t. I just stopped in to change clothes for work. You remember I’m going to King’s Island with friends tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, sure.” If she’d told him that, he’d either not heard or forgotten. “You have enough money?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, you can never have too much. Take forty bucks from my wallet. It’s on my dresser.”

“Thanks. You’re the best.”

He gave her a thumbs up.
Not even in the ballpark, baby girl
.

Lindsay ran up to her room. Ten minutes later she breezed back into the room and smacked a kiss in his direction. “I’ll be home late.” She eyed the bottle again. “Pace yourself with that, okay?”

“Will do.”

Lindsay was already at the front door when she called back, “Oh yeah, Mom phoned this morning. Have you talked to her?”

“Not yet.”

Seconds later, Tom picked up the phone. He dialed the nearby market—the one with
personalized delivery service
—to place his dinner order. He was on a liquid diet tonight.

Tom had long since roused himself from his La-Z-Boy lounging to stumble into bed, but he lay awake. Sleep was a prize hard won when your wife was eighteen hundred miles away. By the time the house phone rang just after midnight, he was halfway to sober.

“Hi,” Julie said. “I called Lindsay earlier.”

“So she said. She went out . . . somewhere.”

“She was supposed to work tonight.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s where she went.” He was in no shape for polite chat, but he missed Julie and desperately wanted to keep her on the phone. “Did you have a good flight out?”

She paused before answering. “Well, yes, but that’s not what I’m calling about.”

Dread grabbed his heart in its cold fist. “You’re not coming back.”

“What?” She gave a half-laugh in surprise. “Of
course
I’m coming back, but . . .”

His jaw tightened. He forced himself to take a deep breath, but not a muscle in his body relaxed. “But what?”

“This isn’t easy to say.”

What little cool he had evaporated. “What the hell’s going on, Julie? Or should I ask, what the hell’s Patricia harping on now?”

She sighed as though she were dealing with a whiny child. “Don’t start, Tom.”

“Okay.” He took another deep breath and blew it out slowly. “All right. So what’s the real reason you’re calling?” Her breathing was audible, but she didn’t answer. “Julie?”

“I’m filing for divorce,” she said in a rush.

For days, Tom had expected to have this conversation, but hearing the actual words was a punch to the gut. “Aren’t we even going to
discuss
this?”

“We’ll discuss the details of the settlement when I come home, but I’m getting the divorce.”

So, just like that. She’d decided they would marry and now, almost twenty-four years later, she’d decided they would divorce.

And you have nothing to do with her wanting out
?

He ignored his conscience and turned his anger on her. “
Goddammit
, Julie, we
have
to talk about this! We’ve been together a long time. We have a child. Don’t you think we ought to try to work this out?”

“Tom,” she paused to clear her throat. “There’s nothing to work out except the settlement.”

“What are you—”

“No. I’m not going to argue about this over the phone. Surely you’ve been expecting this. We’ll talk when I get home.”

He started to protest, but at the sound of a male voice in the background the words died in his throat.

“I have to go now. I’ll call you back . . . tomorrow. Goodnight, Tom.”

He sat there with the dial tone in his ear. His first thought was that Julie was in California with another man. Then his left-brain explained that she’d called from a public place, and he’d only heard the voice of a stranger walking by. Still, something nagged from the back of his mind. He hadn’t made out all the background words clearly, but now he was sure the man had called her by name. It was someone she knew. And then it hit him. It was someone
he
knew.

“Dear Old Eddie!”

Julie was in California with Eddie. The conversation he’d had with the creep at the Coach House flooded back into his mind. “We all have our secrets, Tom,” he’d said. Now he was with Julie. Tom realized he was still holding the phone, slammed it down, and pulled on the jeans and T-shirt he’d dropped on the floor an hour earlier.

Max jumped up from his place at the foot of the bed and followed Tom downstairs to the kitchen. Grabbing a six-pack from the refrigerator and a fresh pack of cigarettes from the drawer beside it, he and the dog went outside.

The moon was almost full, the warm night air soft and fragrant. The serenity of the night mocked him as he sat there with his life like a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle dumped from the box. Two thoughts carouseled in his head—Julie didn’t think their marriage was worth saving, and to save his marriage he’d ended his fling with Annie. The irony of that could make you want to kill someone. Tom visualized himself beating Dear Old Eddie to death.

After a while, Max grew tired of making the rounds of the yard and stretched out on the bricks at his feet. When Lindsay came home, Tom was still sitting in the dark, four empty bottles and a full ashtray beside him.

Suddenly, light spilled from the kitchen and Max jumped up, barking. Lindsay called out, “Daddy?”

“Out here. Goodnight.” He prayed she would go on up to bed.

She opened the door and stepped out. “What are you doing out here at this time of night?”

He caught her glance at the empty bottles on the table beside him.