His Partner's Wife (19 page)

"Yeah, well, no more." John sounded hard, almost
angry.

Their eyes widened. After a moment, he sighed and rubbed the
back of his neck. "Maybe sometimes."

"We ate our carrots," Maddie said, almost timidly
for her. "So we've had a vegetable and a fruit already. Can we order pizza
for dinner?" She added innocently, "Then you wouldn't have to
cook."

Natalie saw him on the edge of refusing before his mouth
twisted. "Maybe." He held up a hand. "You guys scoot. Let me
think about it."

They were smart enough to obey without another word.

"I'm weak," he said, once they had clattered
downstairs.

Tempted to laugh, Natalie stopped herself. "Because you
want them to be happy?"

"Instant gratification doesn't make for a healthy,
well-adjusted child."

"Nor does an occasional pizza corrupt your
children." The moment the words were out, she shook her head. "Wait a
minute. What do I know? I don't even
have
kids."

"You were one."

"So was Scrooge."

"My two love you."

"I'm a novelty," she argued.

He shrugged, but a faint smile played at his mouth.
"They didn't like the novelty of Daddy packing carrot sticks for lunch
instead of driving through Hamburger Heaven."

She rolled her eyes. "That's because I'm not issuing
orders or frowning disapproval. I'm like … like candy."

The smile lingered in his eyes. "Versus carrot
sticks."

Knowing she was being laughed at, still she said stubbornly,
"Right."

The grin showed. "Suit yourself." He watched her
hang up a blouse. "So, what do you like on your pizza?"

She smiled over her shoulder. "Anything not
fishy."

He nodded and disappeared.

Natalie finished unpacking and then loitered in her room,
having a cuddle with her cat and listening for the pizza delivery. Cowardly,
maybe, but she was most comfortable with him when Maddie and Evan were around,
too.

She emerged when she heard the doorbell half an hour later.
The kids, crowing in triumph, barreled down the hall. For safety's sake,
Natalie let them pass before following.

The evening was fun. They ate at the dining room table, but
with paper plates. John brought pop cans and no glasses. "This is Maddie
and Evan's night to clean up," he said.

"Okay," Evan said agreeably.

His sister surveyed the table first with quick suspicion to
make sure she wasn't being tricked before nodding as well.

Natalie noticed they didn't talk about their mother. Instead
it was school, soccer practices, dance lessons and Uncle Hugh, who apparently
could make a really great farting sound with his armpit.

"He always was good," John admitted with a
reminiscent gleam in his eyes.

After dinner they played board games, including a
cooperative one where deep-sea divers shared oxygen and tools to bring up
treasure from the bottom of the ocean. Natalie laughed and bickered and felt
positively childlike.

Except, of course, when she met John's quizzical, amused
eyes. Darn it, this evening was not aiding her determination to regain her
feelings of pure friendship toward him.

When he told the kids to get ready for bed, Natalie stood
and stretched, too. "Good idea. Where do you keep the games? I can put
them away."

"Why don't you have a cup of coffee with me?" The
tone was one he might have used when telling a suspect he couldn't leave the
area.

Half amused, half annoyed, she asked, "Am I in
trouble?"

Passing her, Maddie wrinkled her nose. "Dad always
talks like that."

He raised a brow. "What?"

"Nothing," his daughter said hastily, scooting out
the door.

"You sounded dictatorial," Natalie told him.
"Maddie says you always do."

"Sorry." This tone wasn't particularly repentant.
"Stock in trade."

She hesitated, her hand on the back of the chair. "Was
there something you especially wanted to talk about?"

"No, I … just hoped for your company." His
expression became shuttered. "But if you're tired, we can skip the coffee."

His awkwardness and quickly hidden disappointment got to her
where a demand didn't.

"No, I'd like to keep you company." Still on her
feet, she said, "I'll pour the coffee."

When she came back from the kitchen, he still sat at the
table, but he was massaging his temples. When he heard her, his head came up
and he dropped his hands to his sides.

"Headache?" she asked.

"It would seem so." He grimaced. "Another of
those every-other-Sunday symptoms."

"Hard day, huh?" She remembered his previous
reaction to that choice of words. "Harder for her, I know," she
amended as she set his cup in front of him and took her own to a safe distance
on the other side of the table. "Which doesn't mean it can't be stressful
for you."

"You know what hits me every time?" He cocked his
head, and she realized he was listening to be sure Maddie and Evan were really
upstairs and unable to hear him. "It's discovering all over again that she
and I can't just talk. I can't say, 'Please don't make Maddie and Evan feel
guilty because they can't come more often.' Hell, no, if I say that she accuses
me of trying to get between her and the kids. I pull my punches because she's
in a wheelchair, but on the way home I remember that all of our conversations
were like that, even when we were married. Every word I said was loaded, every
word she said was. Nothing could be simple. No, 'Hey, I had fun tonight.'
Because if I had fun at a party it must mean I'd rather spend every evening
with the guys instead of her. If she said she had fun, it was a challenge.
'Didn't you see me flirting with so-and-so? Aren't you jealous?'"

He fell silent abruptly, then swore. "What am I telling
you this for? I sound so damn petty. Debbie's entitled to a few temper
tantrums. Who can blame her? Don't listen to me."

"But I am listening. Just because she's ill doesn't
mean she can do no wrong."

His lean, handsome face looked gaunt and older, lines
deeper. "My trouble is, somewhere near the end of our marriage I realized
I don't even like her. Fine thing, isn't it, marrying a woman you don't like.
Apparently, it took me a few years to notice." He took a deep breath.
"And now I feel guilty, because the woman I don't like is condemned to
life in a wheelchair at an extended care home. If she's lucky."

And he had it all.

Natalie touched his hand, lying slack on the table.
"There's no way for you ever to feel better about this, is there?"

His hand closed on hers. "Looks that way, doesn't
it?"

"Tell me about her, when you first got married."
In a way, Natalie didn't want to hear. She didn't want renewed jealousy to
replace her deep pity for the pretty, lighthearted blond woman she had briefly
known.

He said nothing for a moment, seeming to study her hand.
Finally he released it and exhaled.

"You knew Debbie. She was my high school girlfriend.
Always cute, popular, a cheerleader. I felt lucky to have her. I went away to
the University of Washington, she took classes at the community college. I
didn't see enough of her during breaks to get disillusioned. I graduated, went
to the academy, was offered a badge, and proposed."

When he fell silent again, Natalie prompted him. "Were
you happy at first?"

He squeezed the back of his neck. "Sure. Why not? Until
you have kids, life doesn't get complicated. Yeah, I started wishing she had more
interests, wishing she had the stomach to listen to me talk about my job, but,
hey, she was pretty and feminine and she'd smile and tease me out of any mood.
And I had Connor and Hugh and my friends if I needed to talk." John
shrugged. "She wasn't cut out to be a cop's wife. She loved to entertain,
would have been great as the hostess for a businessman." He gave a crooked
smile. "She actually dated our esteemed mayor when we were all in high
school. Think what a mayor's wife she'd have been."

Natalie didn't speak the obvious: Debbie would still be in a
wheelchair.

John's face closed, and she knew his thoughts paralleled
hers. "She could have been happier with someone else," he said.

"And so could you have been."

His flash of anger startled her. "Meaning?"

She lifted her hands. "Life's a bitch."

Anger extinguished, he gave a humorless laugh. "Yeah,
yeah. And then you die. In other words, what's done is done."

"Something like that."

"And she would have come down with MS no matter
what." The admission, however obvious, seemed dragged out of him.

"Well, she would have."

He rotated his neck to ease the headache she could see
shadowing his eyes. "I did love her."

When Natalie said nothing—didn't know what to say—he
grimaced. "I'm good company. Sorry."

"I didn't mind listening." However inadequate that
was.

John gave her an odd look. "Do you know, I've never had
a woman friend before."

"I'm not sure I've ever had a man as a friend,
either," Natalie admitted. "I mean, I have lunch with men from work,
but I don't tell them my deep, dark secrets, either."

He cocked his head. "Have you ever told me your deep,
dark secrets?"

"I guess I don't have any juicy ones." She made a
face. "I'm not a very exciting person."

Cradling the coffee mug in his big hands, John contemplated
her. "You're very guarded. I sometimes wonder how well I really know
you."

"Would you believe I'm shy?"

His reflective gaze stayed on her face. "From what I
hear, you're a bulldog at work."

"That's different." Natalie looked down at her
own, nearly untouched, mug of coffee. "It's like acting a part. There's a
certain excitement." She gave a small laugh. "Like hunting for
antiques in out-of-the-way junk stores. When I bag a big account, I get a rush
of adrenaline."

"You want to stuff 'em and hang 'em on the wall?"

Her chin came up. "You're laughing at me."

"No." His smile faded. "I feel the same when
I make an arrest that really counts. Triumph, pure and simple."

Natalie nodded, pleased that he understood. "But I can
do my job without it being personal."

"You don't have to give anything of yourself
away."

She dipped her head.

"Which you don't much like doing."

Natalie stiffened. "Why the psychoanalysis?"

Frustration flared in his eyes. "Because I've just been
baring my soul, but you're not about to do the same, are you?"

Strangely, it was fear that rose in her. Fear of him? Fear
that he could somehow compel her to reveal parts of herself she wanted hidden?
Or fear that if she didn't, she would lose his friendship?

With dignity, she said, "I didn't realize this was a
game. What is it, truth or dare?"

Eyes glittering with intensity, he searched her face for a
disquieting moment before he shook his head, slammed down the coffee mug and
shoved back his stool. "Forget it. I'm in a bad mood. You already knew
that."

She tried to make her tone light, as though nothing had
happened, but her voice shook slightly. "Yeah, I kinda guessed."

"I've got to get the kids in bed." He turned away.

"John?" Her heart pumped fast and hard; she
already knew she was going to be rash.

He stopped but didn't turn. "Yeah?"

"I think it's because you're a man," she said
hurriedly. "I can't seem to get past that."

Now he did turn slowly, expression arrested.
"Why?"

She was chickening out. "I don't know. Because you are.
Because I never had brothers or male friends in high school or…"