Tell No Lies (26 page)

She approached his side of the bed and bent down close to his ear. "You awake?"

"Yeah," he muttered without opening his eyes. "Sort of."

He listened as she fumbled around with something on the nightstand, and then he heard the groan of the motor as she used a remote to close first the sheers and then the room-darkening drapes that lined the large windows.

"There," she said. "We can pretend it's nighttime as long as we want." She disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Jack rose and went to the window. He searched for the seam between the drape panels and peeked out. The cloudless sky graduated from dark pink on the eastern horizon to deep blue above; the sun had not yet made an appearance and stars were still visible. Steam rose from tall stacks on the far side of the river. It billowed incessantly, like a genie being let out of his bottle.

He thought about Claire's question last night in the bathroom. He
was
happy, now that the election was over. He had the job he wanted, even though it wouldn't seem real until he actually stepped foot in the office. Earl had already told him he wouldn't stick around and would immediately name Jack as Acting DA until the new term started in January. It had been the compromises of the campaign, not the new job, which had caused the distress sensed by Claire.
 

But why was he bothered so much by what Jenny had done? He knew she would claim she was only trying to help, to convince him to do what she knew he really wanted to do. Was it because he'd fallen for the ruse? Because, perhaps, he proved to be as gullible as they believed him to be? She'd embarrassed him, that was true, but he thought it must be something more. It seemed to him as if the whole thing—the campaign, the election, even the party afterward—was somehow based on a false premise. Would he have made the same decision but for the letter? Would he have been able to answer the countless questions about the death penalty so skillfully, so believably,
so easily
, if that letter hadn't always been at the back of his mind?
 

He stepped out of his pants and headed back to bed. He could hear the faucet running and Claire brushing her teeth. He decided not to bring it up; he wondered if she would.

As he was about to lie down, he heard a thump in the hall and giggling. He opened the door and heard a short gasp. Down the hall, next to the door that opened into the living area of the suite, stood Mark and Jenny. Jenny's back was to the wall, and Mark faced her, one arm stretched above her shoulder with his palm propped against the wall. His other hand held one of hers. Jack sighed and crossed him arms as if he'd just caught one of his kids misbehaving. He raised his eyebrows and waited for an explanation.

"Nice boxers, Jack," said Mark, and Jenny suppressed another giggle. Jack didn't move.

"We're sorry if we woke you." Jenny tried to modulate her voice.

"Why don't you just get a room?" Jack asked, his own voice edged in sarcasm.

A shadow crossed her face and she glared at him. She opened her mouth but Mark squeezed her hand to stop her. "We're going out to breakfast," he said. "We're just talking a bit before we meet up with the others."

"Good. Talk away. Have fun." He slammed the door. He grabbed the remote on the way to the bed and, once he'd climbed under the covers, opened the drapes. When Claire came out of the bathroom, she looked at the window in surprise.
 

"I wanted to watch the sun come up," he explained.

She burrowed in close to him. She smelled good, though different, more spicy. She must have tried one of the soaps in the bathroom.

"Relax, will you?" She slipped her hand under his shirt. "Your body is so tense."

She tilted her head up to him, and they looked at each other from a much further distance than the little physical space between them. Had what Jenny done really had no effect on Claire whatsoever?

"What is it?" she asked.

He didn't speak; he just shook his head.

"We're not going to let this bed go to waste, are we?" She began to unbutton his shirt. "You can't sleep in this."

"I already did."

She finished the task and then helped him wriggle out of his undershirt.

"Claire . . ."

"Relax, I said. Just lie there and enjoy yourself." If she knew what bothered him, she didn't plan to talk about it.

He closed his eyes as her hands traveled his body. But he couldn't forget Mark and Jenny in the hall, Mark pressing up against Jenny like he owned her, and Jenny letting him.

He opened his eyes and looked at Claire's face above him. She straddled his waist, her eyes closed and her hands caressing him. He pulled her down close and rolled over quickly so that he was on top. She opened her eyes during the repositioning, surprised by the apparent sudden change in his mood. He kissed her before she had a chance to speak.
 

His mind was back in the parking garage again with Jenny, but this time he didn't fight it. He'd been fighting it for seven months now. He had been winning, of sorts, but it had been exhausting and now he felt entitled to just give in. If he let himself think the forbidden, then maybe it would go away. His thoughts hurtled between the real kiss in the garage and an imagined one in the hotel corridor. His cheek brushed Claire's and he heard her utter his name from deep in her throat, but he suppressed his voice for fear of what he might say. He closed his eyes tightly, and the taut muscles responding to his touch became Jenny's. He thought of them together on her large bed, her hands pressed firmly into his backside. He heard a faint voice in his head—his own—telling him to come back, but another louder, more insistent voice—also his—prevailed.

As their bodies rocked together in a fast, rhythmic motion, he grabbed Claire's arms and held them above her head, gripping them by the wrists with one hand while the other pressed into the hot skin of the small of her back. She wriggled a bit underneath him and he tightened his grasp. He knew she didn't like to be held like this, but he felt strangely indifferent to what she wanted just then. She didn't protest aloud but she squirmed some more and tried to free her hands, her body and her mind disagreeing even as she continued to move with him. She grunted loudly and said, "Let me go!" He loosened his grip just as she jerked her arms down. For one brief instant she pushed against his shoulders, then relented and gave in to the needs of her body.

He continued as if nothing had happened. He was all but gone.

Later, there was a rap on the door to the suite. Jack lay prone, one side of his face smashed into the pillow. He opened one eye to look at the clock on the nightstand. Eleven a.m. Through the open French doors he saw Claire sitting on the sofa, looking out the window, her bare legs bent and pulled up close to her body. She wore a long green silk camisole, and her hair cascaded over her arms. She didn't move to answer the door, so he decided the noise had been a dream.
 

The knock was repeated and then a voice called, "Room service!"

She turned her head toward the door and sighed so loudly he could hear her from the bed. To his surprise, she answered the door without putting on the hotel-supplied robe.

"I'm sorry, but we didn't order room service," she said quietly.

"Mr. Scanlon ordered it last night for you, ma'am."

"Oh," she said, sounding surprised but pleased. Jack heard the valet roll the cart in.

He climbed out of bed and pulled on his shorts. By the time Claire shut the door, he was standing in the doorway from the bedroom, watching her.

"Morning," he said.

She lifted the covers to peek at the food.

"Anything good?"

"Earl knows you well, doesn't he? Eggs and bacon. And they're over easy."

It seemed like a normal conversation, but he knew from her flat tone that it wasn't.

"When did you get up?" he asked, moving toward her.

She shrugged. He waited but she didn't elaborate. He wrapped his arms around her from behind. "Don't I get a hug?"

She nudged his arms off and walked away. "I think you got whatever it was you wanted a few hours ago."
 

Stung, he watched numbly as she pulled up a chair to the edge of the small cart.

"You'd better eat before it gets cold," she said without emotion.

He didn't move. He stared as she spread a napkin on her lap, removed the silver lid from the plate in front of her, poured maple syrup on the strawberry pancakes Earl had ordered for her, and picked up her fork and began to eat. He tried to gather his thoughts, determine his next move, but he couldn't get past deciding whether to just sit down with her or retreat into the shower. She made the decision for him.

"Jack?"

He grabbed a chair from the dining table and sat across from her. He didn't think he'd be able to eat, but once he'd taken a bite of the eggs, he realized he had that ravenous, grease-craving hunger that always follows a night of drinking. They ate in silence without looking at each other. Despite her head start, he finished first. He fiddled with things on the table while he sipped his coffee and waited for her to finish. He noticed a folded note card. "Take your time, the room is yours as long as you want it." It wasn't Earl's handwriting, but Jack knew the message was his. He lifted the card and held it in front of Claire's face so she could read it. She eyed it as she chewed, but didn't react. He contained a sigh and suspected he was going to need at least until mid-afternoon to warm her back up.

He picked up a miniature ketchup bottle and read the label. "Do you know anybody who actually puts ketchup on his eggs?" he asked.

She gave him a disgusted look.

"What?" He could feel himself sinking further and couldn't seem to grab hold of anything to pull himself back up.
 

She shook her head. "Is that all you can think of to say to me?"

Her eyes were becoming glassy and her bottom lip quivered. He didn't want to end their stay in the room like this. He wanted to say something, but he didn't know what. How had they gotten to this point? This was supposed to be a good day.

When he didn't answer her question, she calmly placed her napkin on the table and stood up. "I'll be ready to go home in a half hour," she said.

He stared at the yellow yolk drying on his plate, barely registering the loud slam of the bathroom door. What was he supposed to say?
I'm sorry, I was thinking about another woman when I was making love with you
? Right. Anyway, she'd probably done the same thing at some point in their marriage, hadn't she? No one was perfect. He knew, though, that there'd never been a time when he felt she wasn't right there with him. With his elbows on the table, he cradled his head in his palms and closed his eyes. He wished that the day were already over.
 

He finally went into the bedroom. He held his ear to the bathroom door but didn't hear anything. He knocked on it softly. "Claire, can I come in?"

There was silence for a moment, and then: "Sure, you're king of the world. I guess you can do anything you want."

He glanced at the ceiling. This wasn't going to be easy. He turned the knob and opened the door; at least she hadn't locked it. She was sitting in the empty claw foot tub, looking out the window. She'd taken a blanket from the bed and had it wrapped around her.

"I think you forgot the water." He tried to say it softly, teasingly.

"Fuck you, Jack," she said.

He looked down. In the thirteen years they'd been married, she'd said that to him on only two occasions, both having to do with his run for DA: the first when he announced his candidacy, and now, after he'd won. He'd deserved it each time.

He approached the tub cautiously and squatted next to it. He almost reached over and touched her, but decided to wait. "I'm sorry."

She didn't respond, didn't even acknowledge that she'd heard him. He knew why: she wanted to hear
what
he was apologizing for. Just to make sure, say, he wasn't apologizing for his dumb comment about the ketchup.
 

"I'm sorry about last night." Finally, a look in his direction. But she still wanted more. "I guess I just got carried away."

Her eyes narrowed. "Carried away?"

He looked at her manicured feet sticking out from under the blanket. He couldn't look her in the eye. "Well, I—"

"I felt like I was being raped, Jack." He looked right at her then. He opened his mouth to protest but she stopped him. "I'm not saying that's what it was. I'm just saying that's what it felt like." Her eyes filled and he couldn't look away. "I don't know who was in bed with me, but it wasn't Jack Hilliard." Tears began to trail slowly, silently, down her cheeks. They glistened in the warm sunlight beating through the bay window.

"Claire, you've gotta believe—"

"You're different. Ever since your decision to run for DA, you've been different. I don't know you anymore."

"I'm not. It's just—"

"You are. And . . . and I'm afraid now that you've won, it'll just get worse."

"It won't. I promise."

"But will it get better?"

"Yes."

"I tried to tell myself you were under a lot of pressure. I tried to make it easier for you." It seemed that she was talking to herself now. "And last night, I realized you were upset about what Jenny had done." His pulse quickened at the mention of Jenny's name. "It took me a bit, but I did realize it, once I sobered up some. And I was trying to make you feel better. I felt bad for you. I know you felt like you'd been tricked." He reached up and with his thumb wiped tears from the side of her face. She gripped his hand. "But it felt like you were taking all your anger out on me. That's what it felt like. You were so angry.
It
was so angry."
 

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"The Jack I know isn't an angry person. You've never been an angry person."

"I'm sorry," he repeated. He meant it, but he couldn't give her a better explanation. He had been angry, but of course it had been about more than the letter. He couldn't tell her anything to make her understand how angry he was at himself for not having control of his emotions.