Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) (50 page)

“You told Mrs. Martin about that one time?”

“She asked me about him. You know, about me working for him. Said she knew how hard it was to work with someone every day and not get—I think the word she used was ‘involved.’”

“And you told her about the weekend?”

“Well, not right out.” She looked at her hands. “I—well, I asked her what I should do. You know, if my boyfriend ever found out, he’d be really mad. Really mad.”

“What did she say?”

“She asked me if there was any proof. You know, letters or such. I said no. And I said there wouldn’t be any trouble because we had signed in with our own names. You know, we had separate rooms.”

“Did you mention the name of the hotel?”

“I might have.” She looked at him, suddenly curious. “Why? You aren’t going to tell anyone, are you?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Randy won’t find out?”

“Not from us.”

“Good. I sure wouldn’t want him to find out. And you know,” she said confidingly, “I thought it would be exciting, but it wasn’t. We were both too worried somebody would find out.” Her voice was wistful. “It wasn’t any good at all.”

Douglass Fischer sat alone at his desk. Before him was a paper full of writing; in his right hand was an empty glass.

He had a decision to make.

Life couldn’t go on this way. He couldn’t take it. Neither, it appeared, could Anne.

Manziuk had recommended counseling. But he didn’t know a good counselor. There were a lot of duds out there. How did a person find one worth taking the chance on?

And would Anne even go?

Well, it was that or what? Give up?

Who should he blame for the way his life had become? His kids? Anne? His job? Society? Himself? And why on earth hadn’t he realized what was happening? Why had he never once sat down and thought about it? Anne had tried. He had to be honest. She’d tried to get him to talk about the kids. About her needs. But he’d been too busy to listen. No. That was a cop-out. He hadn’t wanted to listen. Hadn’t wanted to bother.

And now look at the mess they were in.

But it wasn’t too late, was it?

They were still alive.

They were still young enough to change.

Well, there was no harm in trying.

Maybe Anne’s doctor knew the name of a good psychiatrist.

He looked at his empty glass. A refill? No, he really should go into the office.

No. No more escaping. No more running away. He would go upstairs and talk to Anne if she was awake. And if she wasn’t awake, he would sit in the chair across from the bed until she woke up. And then he would do something he hadn’t done for a very long time. He would tell his wife he loved her.

Bart and Shauna ate a late lunch. She’d ordered contact lenses, bought several new dresses and other items of clothing, and made a hair appointment which she would keep right after lunch.

Bart told her what George had said. He expected sympathy. He got scorn.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said simply. “I may not know anywhere near as much as you do, but at least I can support myself.”

“Oh? What’s this about Peter’s sending you to art school?”

Her cheeks flamed. “I’ll pay him back. Every penny. It’s only that I’ve given most of my money to my family. Otherwise I’d have enough.”

“You aren’t giving them any more, I hope.”

“Not my parents. But I’ll have to see if I can help the girls. Otherwise, they’re sure to end up like Jillian. They may, anyway, but I’ll have to try.”

“Well, Sleeping Beauty, you’ve awakened with a vengeance.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Where is this art school?”

“New York, I hope. Peter said something about Paris, but that’s a bit much.”

“Who knows? If you have talent, and I think you do, the world is yours.”

“I don’t want the world.”

“What do you want?”

“Just to be left alone. To be able to be me. Lorry said something about everyone’s needing to be loved and to have a sense of importance—something you do that is yours. I can’t really expect someone to love me, but I can do what is inside me to do. Maybe—I don’t know—maybe that will be enough.”

“Why can’t you expect someone to love you?”

“Why should I? Anyway, that’s out of my control.”

“Not entirely.”

She looked puzzled.

“It partly depends on you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Imbecile. Do you think I called you up because I had nothing else to do?”

Her eyes widened in dismay as she whispered, “Oh, no!”

Hildy set down the phone. It was done. She’d reserved two tickets to Vancouver. In one week they’d be gone.

Was she being foolish? With Jillian dead, there was no apparent reason to do this.

She shook her head. They had to go. Yes, it would be difficult. Hard to be so far from her sister. Hard for Stephen to leave his school and friends. But they had to go. Had to start a life someplace else where every street corner didn’t remind her of Peter.

For a brief moment back at the Brodies’ she’d thought maybe there was a chance. That Jillian’s death might have changed him. When he told her that he’d been in her room looking at Stephen’s picture, she’d held her breath, barely daring to hope. But it was no good. Peter didn’t love her. And he didn’t love Stephen. He liked them. But deep in her heart, she knew he didn’t care.

Next Friday, she would start a brand new life with nothing to remind her of Peter. And in time, who knew? A boy needed a father. No, a dad. Somebody to play catch with him and build a train with him and teach him to drive a car. Someday, maybe, she’d find a man like that. Someday. But not right away. Just now the very thought gave her a choked feeling in her throat.

Blindly, she grabbed a pitcher from a side table and threw it across the room. It hit full-on against a mirror and the two crashed together onto the floor, showering the room with a thousand bright slivers. “Oh, Peter, I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

A tremulous young voice said, “Mother?”

She spun around.

Stephen was standing in the doorway of his bedroom. His face was white, his chin quivering. “Mother? You’re scaring me.”

George Brodie opened the door of his office and came face to face with his son. This was a moment he’d waited for. A proud moment.

“We have an office all ready for you,” George said as he put his arm around Kendall’s shoulders. “I think you’ll be pleased.”

They walked down the hall, and George opened a door. “We’ll have your name put on it tomorrow.”

Kendall looked inside. A mahogany executive desk. A large matching credenza. Wine leather chairs. Heavy wine and cream curtains. Cream carpets. His face broke into a wide grin.

“Like it?” asked George.

“Like it? I love it! It’s perfect!”

“We’re still looking for a secretary for you. Should have one by the end of the week.”

“No problem. Although the secretary is a good idea. I never have been very good at typing. Nick has usually done it for me.”

“He hasn’t changed his mind?”

Kendall shrugged. “He told me this morning that he’s moving out at the end of the month. Says we’ll be living in different worlds now. I’m not sure where he’s going, and neither is he. But that’s his problem. If he’s going to turn down all this—” Kendall’s hand swept over the office as he spoke. “He’s got only himself to blame.”

It was pouring rain when Lorry walked out of the mission office. Nick was walking toward her.

“Oh! Nick! I—I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Have you any plans for dinner?”

“I’m staying with the man who runs the mission. At his house, I mean. I’ll be eating there.”

“How about going someplace with me tonight?’

“I—” She searched for an excuse that would sound reasonable. “I think that might be rude. I mean, considering I arrived yesterday.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“I’m here now.”

“I—I’m not sure.”

“Lorry, can’t you spare me a couple of hours? Or do you prefer giving your time to strangers?”

Her laugh sounded forced to her ears. “Nick, you’re basically a stranger. I’ve only known you since Friday!”

His eyes begged mutely as he said, “But I don’t want to be a stranger.”