It Isn't Cheating if He's Dead (8 page)

“All right. What about daily habits? How
did he spend his time?”

“Five a.m., run. Five forty-five, shower.
Six, coffee, soy yoghurt, fresh fruit, and low-fat granola. In the lab by seven,
tirelessly researching to find ways to cure his mother. Six p.m. shower number
two. Seven, dinner. Eight, well, between then and his ten forty-five strict bed
time, that was his ‘flex time’ as he called it.”

“What did he do then, TV, surf the internet,
drink with the boys?”

She snorted. “Uh, no. Read medical
journals, putter in his herb garden, clean something, anything, everything.”

“I see.” Finn made some notes then tap-tap-tapped
the eraser on the paper again. “When did he spend time with you?”

“We got up together. Sometimes showered
together. Coffee and breakfast and dinner, if I was home. Once in a blue moon,
flex time did include just being together, just hanging out. If we did go out,
it was to some fundraising event, or the occasional awards ceremony. Once a
year we went to my office party. We were both busy with careers. Our lives only
intersected at meals and at bedtime.”

“Is that why no kids?”

“I suppose. We talked about it, but it
never seemed to be the right time.”

“Was your life with him always like this?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Not when I
was in university. He lectured there. That’s how we met. He was older, six
years. Back then he was a lot more… let’s say normal.” As normal as a genius with
a career trajectory that pretty much guaranteed him a place in the cancer
research history books can be. “He wasn’t as fastidious. Didn’t alphabetize his
CDs or mark time on the calendar. Didn’t make lists.”

“When did that change?”

“It could have been going on for years. But
I didn’t notice until we moved in together. Bought this house. That was when he
started getting paranoid, thinking there was some phantom group trying to steal
his research. It started with stuff like ‘they’ are reading his emails, or
‘they’ are tapping his phone. Soon it was ‘the others.’ Those were the voices
he heard. The others spoke to him from everywhere. But his main connection to
them was my grandmother’s pearl ring. When he started listening to the pearl
and whispering into it, I knew whatever was going on was very, very wrong.”

Her mind wandered to Chief. Did he hear
voices too? Maybe the shrub was some conduit to whoever was telling him to keep
quiet and not go home. Wherever the hell home was.

She tapped her fingernails on the table.
“I’ve done some research into Gerald’s disease since he left. He always said
oranges had been genetically modified because they started to taste like
apples. And the water that came out of the taps in his apartment — before we
moved in together — smelled of gas. I didn’t smell it, and oranges tasted the
same. I found out later those were signs.” She sucked on her front teeth.
“Those, and when he thought the Chinook winds spoke his name, kept seeing a dog
in the lab at the university in his peripheral vision. The same dog all the
time. He used to laugh at himself, said he must be going senile.” She shook her
head. “Nope, not senile. They were just more indicators of the shit storm to
come. According to Dean, all that had been going on for years.”

Jem pushed her chair away from the table
and put her hands on her thighs. “I need wine. You want some?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“You know what?” She eyed the indigo digits
on the stove that offered an eerie glow to the darkening room. Almost eight
o’clock. “It’s getting late and I’m starved.”

“Oh, yeah. All right.” He rushed to gather
papers and tucked them into the file. “I’ll get out of your hair. Maybe I can come
back tomorrow?”

She poured two glasses of wine and placed
one in front of him. There hadn’t been many visitors the past two years. Most
people didn’t know what to say, how to act. Jokes might be misconstrued, simple
turns of phrase took on ominous meanings. The unwavering support wavered. The
daily check-ins from friends and family became weekly, then monthly, then
almost non-existent. Having someone stay for more than ten minutes, even if the
topic was her dead lover, was a comfort.

“No, I don’t mean leave. I mean — do you
like spaghetti?”

“Yeah, I love it.” His eyes seemed backlit
against the dusk, his smile warm and genuine.

“Great. You can make the garlic toast.”

 Jem pulled the pasta pot from a deep
drawer, set it in the sink and turned on the tap. “Bread’s on the counter,
margarine in the fridge. Garlic pot is left of the blender.”

“Yes ma’am. I’m on it. Margarine?”

“Gerald’s old vegan habits die hard I guess.”

Gerald had loved to cook. She was always in
his way when he had control of the stove and the knives and the vegetables.
When he had control of himself. He was a master, each component of a meal, each
course all ready and served in perfect time. Nothing undercooked. No soggy noodles,
never a burned carrot. Perfect.

She’d managed to feed them both in his
decline, when he couldn’t connect with his love of cooking. Couldn’t connect
with her. She ate nothing but take-out early in his disappearance. If she never
saw another pizza again it would be too soon. But she’d figured out the kitchen
and cooked for herself in the years since.  She took command. She was now the
master. Or at least not a total bumbling fool.

Finn’s presence in her arena brought nerves
bubbling to the surface, as if Gerald was back and she wasn’t good enough to
share the space. Except that Finn was nothing like Gerald. For one thing he
took up twice as much room. And he didn’t shuffle her aside and take over her
tasks. Even so, she was tempted to sit and drink while he made dinner for them
both.

What would Gerald think of another man in
his kitchen? The fact that Finn was using his utensils would be far worse than
discovering that she’d spent so much time with the detective. Worse than
knowing she couldn’t deny a growing attraction to him.

Gerald never was the jealous type. Not when
it came to Jem.

She moved about the small kitchen dancing an
awkward music-free waltz with Finn, vying for floor space and counter room.
Hyper-aware of his presence, she did everything she could to keep her distance.

Finn scooted behind her and reached for the
fridge door.  His leg brushed her dress, shifting it around her rear before the
hem settled at the back of her knees. He reached over her shoulder and plucked
a bulb of garlic from the pot. His whole body invaded her space, subtle cologne
filled her head. He sidled two feet away, snatching a paring knife from the
knife block on the way. He was comfortable in the kitchen. In her kitchen.

When the pasta was
al dente
and the
sauce bubbled in the pan, he pulled the garlicky bread from the broiler and set
it on the counter. She tossed pasta with sauce then sprinkled fresh parsley and
shaved parmesan over top. Every time she shot a glance his direction he was
staring at her. When she pulled plates from the overhead cupboard, staring.
When she fumbled with the forks and they clattered to the counter, staring.  

She tugged her dress down and smoothed her
hair. “Have a seat. Please. More wine?”

“Sure.” He sat and continued to watch while
she dished up their plates. He slid steaming garlic toast on the side. “Just a
fork?”

“Sorry, do you want a spoon? I never did
learn to eat it that way. Any time I try, the spoon usually ends up flying in
the air and splashing sauce all over the table.”

“So how do you roll it?”

“Like this.” She stabbed the fork into a
shallow pile of pasta until stainless hit the plate. She twirled the fork until
the right amount of noodles clung to the tines, lifted the fork and shoved it
in her mouth. Errant pasta strands were slurped through pursed lips. The tail
end of the noodles whipped up and slapped the tip of her nose.

He leaned back and laughed. “Very ladylike.
Okay, let me try.” Most of the pasta fell from the fork before it hit his
mouth. He slurped anyway, and ended up with sauce on his nose, one cheek, and
dripping down his chin.

“Good job, sir. It takes years of practice
to perfect that technique, but you picked it up first try.” Jem reached across
and wiped his chin and nose with her napkin, then froze on the way to his
cheek. Her face warmed. She pulled away and shifted her gaze to her plate.
“Sorry.”

“It’s all right. That was nice.”

They ate in silence, discomfort like a Plexiglas
wall between them. Or maybe that barrier was only in front of her. Each time
she glanced up, he was watching her and smiling. He was different since the
night he told her Gerald was dead. Relaxed. Human.

“So. Now what?”

She looked up. “Now what, what?”

“For you, Jem. Now what? He’s gone. You’ve
spent all this time on hold, waiting for him. Waiting for an end. Now what?”

“I don’t want to think about it. I’m going
to just get up each day and see where life takes me.”

“Still feeding the homeless every morning?
I get why you started, but he’s not out there anymore. You won’t find him. Why
keep doing it?”

 “Because of the rest of them. It stopped
being about him and became about them. They need me. I can’t abandon them, now
can I?”

“No, I suppose not.” He broke his bread
over the plate now empty of noodles and sopped up the remaining sauce, shoving a
large piece of toast in his mouth. He was not a dainty eater. He chased the food
with the rest of his wine and filled both of their glasses.

He cleared his throat. “Are you finding happiness?”

“Sometimes.” She held his gaze for two
seconds before she had to turn away. She stood and took their plates, turned
her back on him and put the plates on the counter. She squeezed soap and ran
the water until glistening bubbles crested the rim of the sink, then slid the
dishes beneath the suds.

His chair squeaked against the tiles. One
muscular arm reached around her and placed the pasta bowl at her elbow.

No, she hadn’t found any happiness. Not
until tonight.

He leaned against the counter, bread and
garlic forced back by his hips, his arms crossed against his chest. “What about
love?” His voice had a softer quality than usual.

Finn pushed a strand of hair from her cheek
and tucked it behind her ear. “You’re young. Beautiful. Brilliant. Any guy
would be lucky to have you. Maybe it’s time to look for that kind of happiness
again.”

She stared at him in silence. She’d thought
about it many times. When Gerald had been missing more than a year she started
taking notice of other men. When she lost hope she would ever see him again, loneliness
consumed her and everything had a bitter, jaded edge. But no matter how long he
was gone, no matter how nuts he was when he left, the mere thought of it smacked
of betrayal. Disrespect. What if being with another erased the gorgeous,
formerly sane man she loved from her memory banks? What if he came home and
she’d been unfaithful? She couldn’t do that to him. Even though he’d abandoned
her without as much as a goodbye.

“Jem?” Finn’s long fingers grazed her arm.

She snapped out of her daze. For the first
time since she’d met him, he looked vulnerable.

His eyes locked on hers. He licked his
upper lip then scraped his bottom teeth across it. He took a deep breath. “What
about me?”

She blinked hard. “You?”

“Look, I know we’ve only ever talked about
Gerald. Every time we’ve met, every conversation we’ve had. It’s all been clues
and leads, questions and hard truths. Pain, coping, grieving. But Jem.” He
stepped towards her and took one soapy hand in his. “I’ve grown very fond of
you.”

She felt like a high school nerd being
asked to prom by the star quarterback. Until Gerald died, she’d never looked at
Finn as anything except the tough-but-kind cop who was searching for the man
she loved. He was handsome, sexy. That was hard to miss. But not her normal type.
And she was certain she wasn’t his.

She stared at his tan face, the furrows
between his trimmed brows. The deep green flecks in his pale blue eyes. The
dimple that dented only one cheek, even when he wasn’t smiling. Why hadn’t she
noticed that before?

He bent his head towards her but stopped
shy of a kiss.

She froze. It had been more than four years
since a man had stood so close. Since her heart fluttered and her legs flushed
with warmth. Gerald had only been dead for a month. This was not a good idea.
She was not ready for love. Not romance. Her breasts hollowed and then filled
the cups of her bra with each heavy breath. Maybe three glasses of wine had
muddied her judgment.

Screw love and romance. But sex? Hell yeah,
she could handle some of that.

She tipped her head back, threw her arms
around his neck and crushed her lips to his.

His hands went up her back and entwined in
her hair at the nape of her neck. He smelled of wine and cologne and musky,
sweet sweat. She pushed her body against his hard form, her breasts pressed
against his torso.

He slid his lips down her face, along her
jaw line, then feasted on her neck. The stubble of his nine o’clock shadow
scratched at her delicate skin and sent a shockwave aching through her body.

Four years. Four damn years.

She tugged his shirt free of his belted
waistband and slid her hands along his smooth skin, from his waist up to his
broad back. She couldn’t stop herself. Didn’t want to. She fumbled his belt
open and popped the button of his pants.

He stopped kissing her neck, pulled back and
looked into her eyes, his breath heavy.

He shoved the bread aside. Garlic bulbs skittered
across the counter. The margarine tub slid and landed in the dishwater. He tucked
his hands under her armpits and lifted her with little effort. He sat her on
the countertop, reached under her dress and peeled off her underwear. His pants
landed at his ankles, the belt buckle clanged against the adobe floor. His eyes
locked on hers and he pulled her towards him.

“Finn, wait.”

His brow creased. “But…”

“Condom?”

“Oh shit.” He stooped down, pulled his
wallet from the back pocket of his pants and fished out a shiny packet.

A grown man who kept a rubber in his
wallet. Interesting. Had he known she’d be this easy? Or maybe just hoped so. And
who the hell cared anyway?

He rolled on the condom. His fingers
trembled and fumbled with the latex.

She wrapped her legs around his body and
pulled him into her before he even finished. He took one ass cheek in each hand,
slid her to the edge of the counter, and kissed her.

She devoured his mouth, the wine and garlic
that lingered on his tongue better than any dessert.

She gripped the edge of the counter with
both hands, his thrusts coming fast and hard. Her head bounced off the pine
cupboard behind her and she laughed.

He picked her up, stepped out of his pants
and carried her to the living room, never leaving her body, kissing her all the
way. He kneeled on the area rug and laid her down as light as a feather. Then
he shifted gears, made each movement long and slow, nearly withdrawing, then filling
her with each push.

Every rhythmic thrust arched her spine and
tilted her head back. He drew out her pleasure, maximized her enjoyment, took
her to the brink and then stalled again and again before sending her over the
top. He was in full control of himself. And of her.

His movements intensified, shorter, faster,
deeper. Sparkles of light exploded behind her closed eyelids, her heartbeat
pounded in her ears. Was that her screaming?

He pulled her into him while pushing hard against
her and stopped fully inside.

Her arms dropped to the rug, her legs as
limp as the spaghetti they’d shared.

He collapsed on top of her, his gasping
breath rasped in her ear.

They lay still for minutes, their sweat
mingling where his forehead rested against her collarbone. She ran her hands
over his crew cut and drew a finger behind one ear.

He propped up on his elbows. “Wow.”

She laughed. “Yeah, you could say that.”

He buried his face in her cleavage and
sighed.

“Finn?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Was it Gerald’s case you obsessed over?
The one that ended your marriage?”

He lifted his head and looked at her for a
few seconds. He nodded once.

She swallowed and brushed the back of her
fingers across his lips and up to his temple. “Was it because of Gerald?”

A quick huff of air from his nostrils
tickled her collarbone. The tips of his mouth turned up in a slight curl. “No.
Not because of Gerald.”

I fixed you
two

Jem sat in front of Chief and watched him
nibble at the egg salad on whole wheat. “Not your favourite?”

Chief glanced up at her and shrugged.

“I mentioned Gerald yesterday. Do you mind
if I talk about him?”

Another shrug.

“Gerald is my fiancé. Or at least he was.
He disappeared about four years ago. He’s dead. They found him last month.”
Sorrow welled up in her core, constricted her throat, and threatened to unleash
more tears. She set her jaw and looked at her hands clasped in her lap.

“He was paranoid schizophrenic.” She looked
at Chief. “Do you know what that is?”

His eyes released their squint for a split
second.

“He disappeared one day. I still don’t know
why. He was off his meds and he was hearing voices. And he was erratic as hell,
all over the map with emotions and anger then complete and utter exhaustion
followed by hyperactive bouts of energy.” She let the tears come. “I miss him,”
she whispered. Not crazy Gerald. She missed sane Gerald. The man she fell in
love with. Before he became fastidious Gerald. Before the devolution of his
brilliant mind. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and then wiped it
on the grass. “I wish he could come home.”

She reached out and took one of Chief’s
filthy hands.  “Do you have family? Is there someone looking for you, wondering
where you are? Someone who wants you to come home?”

Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes. A
slight quiver shook his hand.

“Oh, Chief. What happened to you? Why are
you here?”

A scratch of noise whispered from his mouth,
his voice so quiet she wasn’t even sure that he’d spoken. “Pardon me?”

He looked into her eyes and cleared his
throat with one grunt. “Joseph.” His voice cracked out the syllables of his
name. How long had it been since he made any sound?

Her heart raced. “Nice to meet you,
Joseph.” She’d broken through. Now she had better back off before he scurried
into the night, never to be seen again. “Can I leave you more sandwiches? You
can have them later, maybe for dinner.”

His head bobbed in a slight nod.

“Great. I’ll leave you two.” She looked
behind her and then whispered. “Don’t tell Angus.” She winked and patted his
shoulder then stood to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Joseph, okay?”