Michael bent to gather up leaves. A trash bag lay nearby. Deborah held it open. “For what it’s worth,” he said as he tamped the leaves inside, “I’d probably have done what you did. Don’t know as I’d have let her off the hook for the beer, but I’m not the best authority on that score. She asked me some good questions about drinking, by the way, better ones than you’ve asked. Why’d you wait so long to open your mouth about that?” he asked, but in a gruff, face-saving way that demanded no answer. When he picked up the rake again and went at the bed, she felt an odd bit of peace.
Closing her eyes, she inhaled. “Ahhh. The smell of my childhood.”
“Your mother loved spring. She loved these hydrangeas.”
“Adinaldo will do this, y’know.”
But her father didn’t stop. “I’m doing it for Ruth,” he said. “And for me.”
“Want to take a break for lunch?”
“Nah. I’m feeling good. Don’t you have to get home?”
“Actually, Greg took the kids back to Vermont.”
“Grace willingly?”
“Uh-huh,” she said with a smile. “But I am hungry. I’m going to get something with Jill.”
“A sticky bun for lunch?”
“Try roast turkey on a croissant, with lettuce, tomato, mayo, and a thick slice of cheddar.”
“Where?”
“At Jill’s.”
“Since when does she serve lunch?”
“Since they started serving lunch at Dunkin’ Donuts.” Deborah glanced at her watch. “I also want coleslaw, so I’m heading there now. They run out of that pretty fast.”
He sniffed. “Your mother’s recipe was the best.”
“That’s why they run out,” she said and set off. Minutes later, she was in line at the bakery. When she reached the counter, she ordered sandwiches for Jill and herself, and took the only table left.
Her sister delivered the sandwiches and pulled a chair close. “I’ve been dying,” she said, gently cross. “You couldn’t call and tell me how it went?”
Deborah picked up half of her sandwich. “I couldn’t until we finished talking, and then it was too late, and I saw patients this morning.”
“Is Greg still here?”
“No. He took them back to the farm.”
“Grace, too?”
Her mouth full, Deborah nodded.
Ignoring her own lunch, Jill sat back. “Where’d he stay last night?”
“At the house. In our bed.”
“With you?” Jill asked warily.
“You’re as bad as he is with the questions,” Deborah said, but she wasn’t angry. There was nothing to hide, nothing to feel guilty about. “Not that it’s any business of yours, but he slept in our bed, and I slept in mine. We did not sleep together. He’s married to someone else.”
Jill was incorrigibly curious. “How’d you feel about that?”
“Fine.”
“Were you tempted to tiptoe down the hall in the middle of the night?”
“Absolutely not.” She took another bite of her sandwich.
Jill lifted a fork to poke at the coleslaw. “Was it awkward?”
Deborah finished chewing. “A little, actually, but only until I told him I had moved in next to the kids. I mean, I don’t know what he thought. He knew there’d be a chance he’d sleep over. He brought a change of clothes—”
She stopped talking, because Jill was no longer listening. She was looking out the window. Turning, Deborah saw Michael in the same khakis and plaid shirt. Without missing a beat, like he did it every day of the week, he came in the door, looked around, and headed their way.
“Talk about awkward,” Jill said.
Watching her father, Deborah was speechless.
“Hey, Dr. Barr,” called a teenaged boy who was having lunch with his dad.
Michael put a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he passed. “Hey, Jason,” he said, but continued on. He was soon at their table, looking from one sandwich to the next. He pointed at Jill’s. “What’s in that one?”
She cleared her throat, her only concession to what had to be a wave of emotion. “Organic chicken breast, lettuce, tomato, and Dijon mustard on home-baked multigrain bread. Toasted.”
“I’ll have one,” Michael said. “With coleslaw.” He paused, unsure. “Where do I order?”
For a minute, Deborah feared Jill would simply point him to the ORDER HERE line. But her sister came through. She raised a hand in the direction of the counter and called a loud, “Pete!” Seconds later, her chief sandwich-maker appeared. “My father will have my special. Would you please bring it over when it’s done?”
“Sure, Jill. Let me get you a chair, Dr. Barr.”
“He can take mine,” Deborah said, holding out her plate. “Would you wrap this for me?”
“Don’t leave,” Jill ordered quickly. She sounded alarmed.
She wasn’t the only one. Deborah could feel the tension in her father’s arm as she guided him to her seat. But they needed this time alone.
Besides, she couldn’t have eaten another bite anyway. Her throat was too tight.
What to do then? For the first time in years, Deborah had no kids, no patients, no plans. Feeling oddly unsettled, she got in her car and headed out of town. She didn’t want to go home. The house was empty. She might have driven to Grace’s favorite boutique one town over and bought her something special for summer. She might have driven to the music shop where Dylan was eyeing a speaker for his keyboard. She might have gone to the mall and just walked.
But none of those things appealed to her.
Thinking of Dylan, she drove aimlessly along wooded suburban roads, crossing one town line, then another. The woods thinned; traffic picked up. When she reached the highway, she found herself taking the on-ramp and heading toward the city. Turning off the highway just shy of Boston, she crossed the river and entered Cambridge.
She wished she could pretend she was going to shop at her old student haunts, only they no longer existed. She wished she could pretend she was going to get a facial, but she wasn’t a spa person. She wished she could pretend she simply wanted to walk along the river on a beautiful May day. Only it wasn’t beautiful. Muggy and overcast, it looked like rain, which should have been reason enough for her to turn around and drive home.
Working her way through Harvard Square, she drove out Brattle Street, turning off onto a narrow street that was overhung with trees and lined with parked cars. One pulled out as she approached.
She pulled in. Then she sat and thought of all the reasons why this was not a good idea, one of which was the pending lawsuit, another the fact that Tom might have friends visiting. Or he might be out, in which case she could head back home with no one the wiser.
Deciding that heading home would be best, she was about to start the car again. But the thought of the way he had held her hand last Thursday stopped her. There had been comfort in his grasp.
Her father would tell her to drive off. Hal would say the same. Grace would be appalled, but Jill would smile crookedly and egg her on, and maybe Jill was right. Deborah had followed the rules all her life, and where had it left her? Sitting alone in her car on a side street in Cambridge, afraid to open her door.
In a burst of defiance, she got out, crossed the sidewalk, and climbed three steps to the door marked 42. His house was a free-standing brick one, tall but narrow, as were most on the street. The door was black with a shiny brass knocker and bell.
She rang the bell, at which point her defiance dissolved, but it was too late to leave.
“Yeah?” she heard from high above. She had to back down one step to see where he was on the roof. He stared at her for a minute, then disappeared, at which point Deborah felt a qualm. She imagined him up there with a woman, or the widow, or even the D.A.
She should have called, she thought. But she hadn’t known she was coming.
He opened the door, wearing old jeans and a T-shirt. His hair was messed. He hadn’t shaved
. He looked as startled as she felt.
The ball was in Deborah’s court. Taking a page from Jill’s book, she grinned with mock brightness. “I was just driving around, when I saw your door and thought I’d say hi.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Seriously, she said, “Bad timing?”
His eyes held hers. “No. Want to come in?”
Nodding, she stepped into a small front hall. On the right was a living room, on the left a corridor leading back, straight ahead a staircase that turned twice on its way up. “Doesn’t look messy to me,” she remarked. He had called himself a slob, yet a ten-speed hung neatly from hooks in the corridor.
He made an amused sound. “You can’t see the kitchen.”
“But the living room looks nice.”
“I don’t use it often. So it’s neat.”
“You were just on the roof?”
“That I do use. A lot.”
“What’s up there?”
Gesturing with his chin, he led her up the stairs. From the second floor landing, she saw three doors, one of which was open to his bedroom and a tangle of bedding and clothes. Up another staircase, the third floor had higher ceilings and was completely open, with columns placed for structural support. The walls were white, made even brighter by two pairs of skylights. She saw one desk with a computer, one without, and a table in the center of the room. Papers were strewn over every surface in sight.
The staircase to the roof was a free-standing spiral of wood. She went first this time, drawn to the open door. The rooftop was a small patio, complete with a table and chairs, lounges, and a grill. Shrubs grew in pots around the perimeter, and trees from the street were high enough to provide shade. A single section of wood fencing, cedar aged to gray, had been built for privacy, she guessed, but the rest was open to a leafy view, all of it bordered by a waist-high brick wall.
The grill was open; used cooking utensils, glasses, and plates filled an attached tray. The table here, too, was covered with papers. She wondered if he had been working and turned back to ask him, but the words never came. He was looking at her with such longing that Deborah was struck silent.
She might have come for this. She had refused to think about her feelings for Tom since their meeting in the park. But she knew that she was drawn to him.
Her own eyes must have said as much, and then some, because he said, “Not wise, huh?”
She shook her head. “I’m starting to wonder, though. We can be responsible all we want, then it’s shot to hell when something happens that we didn’t plan, didn’t want, can’t control.”
“Like my brother.”
“Like my daughter, my father, and my ex-husband.”
“Not your son?”
“Him, too, only what happens to him at this age involves less an act of will than a preordained physiological condition.”
Tom looked at the papers on the table, then back at Deborah. “Do you think my brother’s condition was a physiological one? Was he born with a chemical imbalance?”
She had no way of knowing for sure, but Tom needed a reason for Cal’s behavior, and a chemical imbalance might be one. “Possibly.”
He considered that, then went to the table and took a small envelope from the papers. Returning, he handed it to her. Inside were three childhood snapshots, taken in varying years. The boys were handsome, together in the first two pictures and with their parents in the third. The most obvious element of each shot, Deborah thought, was Cal looking away, leaning away, or turning away.
She pointed at one of the prints. “How old was he here?”
“Three,” Tom said, sharing her thought. “I don’t remember him being any other way. It’s like he was born without the ability to relate to people. I’ve often wondered if he had a form of autism, only I always find things that don’t fit the profile. He was a great student and a great teacher. But at home—in his personal life—something was missing. Selena swears he wasn’t depressed, but how could she have known, if he kept it all to himself?”
“No note yet?”
“No. He was up to date paying bills, even ahead with a couple. Maybe a sign that he planned to be gone?” He answered with a shrug. “I’m still getting things from his P.O. boxes. They’ll probably keep coming for a while.” He looked at her. “I talked with the D.A.”
“You did?”
“I told him I disagreed with Selena. He didn’t back down. But I wanted him to hear an opposing view.”
Deborah was grateful—and grateful that he had talked with the D.A. before this visit. That gave it more weight. Here, now, they felt like friends.
She had a wild urge to tell him everything about Grace and the accident, about Grace and Greg, about what she thought had to be done. She wanted his feedback, perhaps his advice.
But that wouldn’t have been any wiser than falling into bed. There was still too much that had to play out, and, in that, they were opponents.
Seeming to read her mind, including the part that held regret, he asked, “Are you hungry? It’s late, but I haven’t eaten. Want to walk into the Square?”
Deborah didn’t have red meat often, but the burger she had at Mr. Bartley’s was the best thing she had eaten in days.
“This is sinful,” she said, mopping a ketchup drip with the last of her bun.
“Only one of the nice things about living here.”
“Have you been here long?”
“Ten years.” He sat back. “Selena claims Cal moved here to be closer to me. It would’ve been nice if he’d told me he was here.”
“Maybe he just wanted to know you were close.”
“Maybe. Anyway, I rented for the first few years, but I liked the area so much that buying was a no-brainer. If you went to school here, you know what I mean.”
She did. “My friends are gone, though.” She smiled. “Yours are taking their spaces.” He had acknowledged half a dozen people since they had entered the Square.
He shrugged. “I’m at Starbucks every morning for coffee. I browse at the newsstand several days a week. I eat at local restaurants. Even with students moving in and out, some familiar faces stay. You get to know people. And then there’s my bike group. Lotsa road bikers in Cambridge. We meet most weekends.”
“You have a satisfying life.”
He smiled sadly. “For what it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have no family.”
Deborah knew he wasn’t talking about his parents or brother. She recalled wondering why he didn’t have a family of his own. At that time, she couldn’t ask. But they were friends now. “Do you not have a wife and kids because of your own experience?”
“No. It just never happened.” Seeming to catch himself, he looked troubled. “You’re probably right. Some of the other, too. Nervousness. Fear I’d blow it.”
“You’re not like your parents.”
“Can I be sure of that?”
When Deborah didn’t answer, he gestured her up. “Let’s walk.”
They went to the river. The sky had grown darker. The grumble of thunder was distant and low. On her own, Deborah would have sought shelter. But Tom was quiet company. They walked slowly, stopping occasionally to watch a scull skimming the water.
Finally, she stopped and looked at him. “I didn’t know your parents, Tom. I didn’t know your brother. But you do communicate. Doesn’t that make you different from them?”
“Maybe. I’d be taking a big chance, though.”
“Not such a big one, if it’s really what you want.” She felt a raindrop. “I don’t know what I’d do without my kids. And I don’t mean just filling the time. They satisfy me. Of course, not everyone needs that kind of satisfaction.” She felt another drop. “Maybe you don’t.”
“Who knows? Am I thinking of it now only because Cal’s gone?”
“Did you think about it before?”
“Not the same way.” He held out a hand. “Rain.”
They had c
ome a distance. Deborah was uneasy. “We’d better head back.”
“Just when the conversation was getting good?” he asked with an indulgent smile.
It was, she decided, setting off. And suddenly she felt cross. “I hate rain. Why does it ruin everything?”
He walked beside her. “What does it ruin?”
“Clean cars…new shoes…hair.”
“This is a gentle rain.”
“It still gets you wet.”
His smile turned curious. “Is that bad?”
“The memories are.”
“Then you need new ones,” he said and, taking her hand, stopped her from moving.
“I think…we should…keep going,” she sang.
Looking self-satisfied, he shook his head.
The rain picked up.
“Tom,” she protested and tugged on his hand. She was starting to get wet.
“It’s only rain.”
“But I don’t like rain,” she said, laughing, and pulled free.
He caught her, this time wrapping his arms around her from behind. “Nuh-uh, no, you don’t.”
“I’m getting wet,” she warned. Her hair was heavy, her jersey splotched.
“And how does it feel?”
“Wet.” She tried to pry his arms loose, but they didn’t budge.
“Think about it,” he coaxed in that same patient voice. “Does it feel cold?”
Her face was wet now, too. “No. Not cold. Just wet.”
“Does the rain hurt when it hits?”
No more than taking a shower, she realized. Actually, less than that. He was right; it was a gentle rain.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
Of my mother, she wanted to say and if not that, Of your brother. Either was safer than thinking about Tom and how well he handled her.
“My hair,” she wailed. “It’s messy enough dry. Wet it’s unruly.”
“Turn your face up,” he urged softly.
She did, closing her eyes when the rain hit her lids.
“Now breathe, slowly and deeply. Just feel it, Deborah.”
Again, she did what he said. She breathed slowly and deeply, slowly and deeply, thoroughly soaked now, but not minding it. Even when his arms loosened, she stayed with her face turned to the sky.
The Secret Between Us Page 26