He didn’t respond. The silence stretched on, and she wondered if he was afraid to admit the truth even to himself. Afraid to reveal how much he wanted her, needed her.
“Look, just think about who you want in your bed and in your life,” she said. “I can wait, Jack. I can wait as long as it takes for you to make up your mind.”
She took her time buttoning her blouse, zipping up her pants. As she got dressed, he watched her in silence. Even as she walked out the door, he said nothing. It was better that way. Let him regret not saying all the words he should have said.
That night, in her own hotel room, Taryn slept more soundly than she had in weeks.
The next morning, when she came down to breakfast, she found him sitting alone in a booth, a plate of scarcely touched ham and eggs in front of him. He looked terrible, his eyes bloodshot, his skin gray. While he looked haggard, she felt at her freshest and most radiant. She slid onto the bench facing him, and he gazed at her with such hunger it was all she could do not to smile.
“Good morning,” she said quietly.
He nodded. “Good morning.”
“Everything I said last night is still true.”
He looked down at his coffee cup. “Let’s not talk about it.”
“Okay.” She could be casual. She could be breezy. Let him see how mature she was about this.
The waitress approached with a coffeepot, and Taryn smiled at her. “Two fried eggs over easy and hash browns, please.”
“Coming right up.”
As Taryn waited for her order, Jack picked half-heartedly at the food on his plate, which by now had to be cold. She thought of the long drive home in a car with this silent man, and she was determined not to let him associate her with despair. No, she must be the light in his life, the woman he turned to not just for sex but also for love and laughter and joy. “I can’t wait to get back to work on my project,” she said. “This conference has been such an inspiration.”
“Has it?”
“It’s opened a new world for me, and I’ve got a dozen different ideas spinning in my head for other papers after this one.”
He couldn’t help smiling at her enthusiasm. “That’s how I felt when I started grad school.”
“Like you won’t live long enough to get all your ideas down on paper.”
“Yes.”
“Do you still feel that way?”
He shrugged, a gesture of weariness and defeat. “Life gets complicated. Responsibilities. Obligations.”
She leaned toward him and placed her hand on his. “You shouldn’t let them suck out the joy in what you do. I won’t let that happen to me.”
“I hope it doesn’t. I hope you stay as passionate as you are now. In fact, I wish I could steal some of that passion from you.”
“You don’t have to steal it, Jack. You just have to find your own again. And I can help you—”
“Jack Dorian! How nice to see you again. It seems like forever since our last conference together.”
Taryn looked up to see a woman with silver-streaked black hair. She recognized her as one of the presenters at the conference. Her name tag said Dr. Greenwald, Univ. of CT. The woman glanced down at the table, where Taryn’s hand was still touching Jack’s, and her smile faded to a look of consternation.
Taryn pulled her hand away.
Jack went pale but still managed to greet Dr. Greenwald with a stiff, “Hello, Hannah. I don’t think I’ve seen you since, uh, Philly.”
“Right. It was the Philly conference.” She looked at Taryn, studying her as closely as if she were the subject of her next paper.
“This is Taryn Moore,” Jack said. “I’m advising her on her senior project.”
“So . . . she’s your student.”
“Yes, I am,” Taryn cut in brightly. “Professor Dorian’s been giving me great advice, as he does all his students.”
“What’s your project?” Dr. Greenwald asked.
“It’s a paper that explores the theme of romantic betrayal in classical epics. He’s introduced me to other scholars and pointed me to all sorts of relevant resources.”
“I see.”
But what did she see? Taryn wondered. That Jack’s face had stiffened to a stony mask? That he was staying in the same hotel with a student half his age?
“I’ll be interested in reading that paper,” said Dr. Greenwald. She gave a brisk nod to Jack. “Hope to see you at another conference. And say hello to Maggie for me.”
As Dr. Greenwald walked away, Taryn studied Jack’s face. Just the mention of his wife had made his lips snap taut. He knew how this looked, and so did she.
Abruptly he slid out of the booth and tossed some cash on the table. “That should be enough to cover us both. I have to go pack, and you should too. I just got an alert there’s a snowstorm headed our way, and we need to get going before the roads get nasty.”
“Aren’t you going to finish your breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry. I’ll see you in the lobby in an hour.”
She looked down at the fifty dollars he’d left on the table. It was far more money than he needed to leave, and it was a measure of just how desperate he was to escape. The waitress brought her eggs and hash browns. Unlike Jack, she had not lost her appetite. She devoured it all.
They said hardly a word to each other during the drive back to Boston. When they finally pulled up in front of Taryn’s building, he did not get out of the car, did not offer to carry her overnight bag or walk her upstairs to her apartment. He just sat behind the wheel, shoulders slumped.
“Do you want to come in for a cup of coffee?” she offered.
“I need to get back to campus. Catch up on some work.”
“Well, now you know where to find me. I’m on the fifth floor, apartment 510.” She stepped out of the car. “Come by anytime, day or night.” As she walked into the building, she knew he was watching her, but she didn’t look back. Not once.
CHAPTER 23
JACK
He’d never known guilt could be so annihilating.
After he dropped off Taryn, instead of heading to campus, he drove home. He needed time alone to center himself and maybe knock back a stiff drink or two. Maggie should still be at Charlie’s house, so at least he wouldn’t have to face her yet. He’d have a few hours to resume his role of happily married man and upstanding English professor.
But as he pulled into the driveway, he saw Maggie’s Lexus parked in the garage, and his heart clenched. Why was she home so early? Had someone emailed her that he was at the conference with another woman? Had someone seen Taryn slip into his room just before midnight?
As he got out of the car, his phone chirped with a text message. It was from Taryn.
Last night we shared something that I will never forget. I love you.
Panicked, he deleted the message and powered off the phone, as if to erase the last twenty-four hours. For several minutes he sat in the garage trying to compose himself, but his heart wouldn’t stop thudding, and he half imagined it exploding out of his chest when he entered the house. But he could not sit in the garage forever. He inhaled the final breath of a condemned man, stepped out of the car, and walked into the kitchen.
Maggie was sitting at the counter, sipping a cup of tea.
“Hey, you. I’m glad you missed the snowstorm,” she said, smiling. “How was the conference?”
He shrugged. “Like every other conference.”
“How many students went with you?”
“What?”
“You said you were going to bring a few students with you.”
“Oh. Um, three.” When had he gotten so glib at lying?
“Lucky students. I never had a professor invite me to any conferences. Such great exposure for them.”
Great exposure. “Yeah.”
He was the Allegory of Deceit. A man who cheated on his wife. Who could tell lies on cue. A teacher who’d just slept with his student.
“We’re supposed to
get ten to twelve inches of snow tonight,” she said. “So what do you say we send out for a pizza, light a fire, and snuggle up?”
Snuggle up—her old synonym for lovemaking. A little over twenty-four hours ago, he had snuggled up with Taryn. “Sounds great.”
While she changed clothes, he ordered a pizza from Andrea’s, made a fire, and opened a bottle of Malbec. He filled two Waterford crystals, and as he set them down on the coffee table, he was tormented by the memory of Taryn filling their wineglasses. The memory of what had happened after that.
He dimmed the lights to mask his shame. When she came down, Maggie was dressed in her pajamas and bathrobe, her face glowing. “The snow’s starting already. Maybe next year we should go someplace warm for a change. Aruba or Saint John.”
His nerves were buzzing. He could only respond with a rote, “Sounds good.” Saint John was where they’d spent their honeymoon.
She frowned at him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, why do you ask?”
“I don’t know; you seem so distant. Did something happen?”
“No. I’m just a little wiped out. All that traffic, with this storm blowing in and all.”
“And being with all those students, you’re probably constantly onstage,” she added. “Well, you did a good deed, and I’m sure they all got something out of it.”
“Maybe.”
Taryn’s voice echoed in his head: Jack, please. Just for tonight.
They went upstairs. Made love with the lights off so she couldn’t read his face. When they were done, they lay next to each other in the darkness.
“Was that okay for you?” Maggie whispered.
“Of course.”
“Sometimes I forget to say it, but I love you.”
“I love you too,” he said, thinking that he had to end things with Taryn. He couldn’t live a double life, and he was not going to betray his wife again.
While Maggie slept, he tossed and turned, unable to think of any way to right all the wrongs he’d committed. Desperate for sleep, he finally reached for the bottle of Ativan and gulped down two pills. As he lay waiting for the drug to take effect, he thought: This is not going to end well.
CHAPTER 24
TARYN
For the better part of spring break week, she stayed away from Jack. She spent her evenings working on her “Love or Glory?” paper, hauling home books from the library. She exchanged half a dozen emails with Dr. Maxine Vogel to discuss the paper they were cowriting about Queen Dido. She stayed busy and focused because it was all part of her plan: Get into the doctoral program. Impress the department. Most of all, impress Jack.
She had no doubt he was thinking about her. How could he not be after what had happened between them? She imagined him lying awake beside his wife while longing for her instead. Had he told his wife about her yet? Eventually he would have to, and how relieved he’d feel when it was all out in the open. To start a new life, one must burn the old one.
And Sunday afternoon, when she received his text message, she knew he was finally ready to choose her.
At five fifteen that evening, her apartment bell buzzed.
She let him into the building, and by the time he climbed the stairs and rang her doorbell, she had already stripped off her blouse, her jeans. Half-naked, she opened the door, and he stepped into her apartment.
There was no need for words, for any preamble at all. She wrenched open his shirt, unzipped his trousers, and reached for him. He grabbed her hands as though to stop her, but she could feel he was already hard and ready for her. It took only a few strokes to make him surrender. With a groan, he shoved her toward the sofa, spun her around, and took her from behind. She cried out in pleasure as he thrust into her again and again, his need so urgent that he had no time to be gentle. This was a desperate fucking, and it was exactly what she wanted, what she craved. While he thought he was taking her, she held all the power, and when she climaxed, it was a cry of triumph. He was hers. He was hers.
They collapsed, panting, onto the sofa, where their naked bodies lay entwined. She pressed her cheek against his chest, listening to the gradual slowing of his heart. Here was where he belonged, and he knew it. Not with a wife who no longer thrilled him but with her. It was why he was here, why he could not stay away. She’d never doubted he would show up at her door.
She was half-asleep when he rose from the sofa. Only when he sat down to tie his shoes did she stir fully awake and see that he was already dressed and preparing to leave.
“Why are you going?” she asked.
“I have to. I’m supposed to meet my father-in-law for dinner.”
“Just your father-in-law? Or your wife too?”
The guilty look on his face was all the answer she needed. He reached down to stroke her cheek, and then he turned away.
“I love you, Jack.”
Her words paralyzed him. For a moment he stood torn between leaving and staying. Instead of the words she hoped to hear, the words a lover should speak, there was only silence.
“Taryn,” he finally said. “You know I care about you. But what happened between us—it never should have happened.”
“Why are you saying this? Right after we made love?”
“Because it’s not fair to you. You’re so much younger than I am, and you have your whole life ahead of you. I’d be like a rusty old anchor, slowing you down.”
“That’s not really what you mean.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, you’re thinking about yourself. About how our affair affects you.”
With a look of defeat, he sank onto the sofa. “People are starting to notice. Starting to talk.”
“So what? Let them.”
“I could lose my job. Which might threaten your application to grad school.”
That was something she hadn’t even considered: that if Jack Dorian went down, he could drag her down as well. He had been her most powerful advocate. Without his support, without his letters of recommendation, what chance did she have?
“Then we have to be careful,” she said. “We might—we might need to stay apart for a while longer.”
He looked up at her, and she didn’t like the expression of relief she saw in his eyes. “I agree.”
“But only for a few weeks. Only until it’s safe, right?”
He rose back to his feet without answering and went to the door.
“Jack? You know I’ll wait for you. As long as it takes.”
He didn’t look back at her. “I’ll call you.”
AFTER
CHAPTER 25
FRANKIE
Flanked by boxes filled with her dead daughter’s belongings, Brenda Moore looks as worn down and used up as the sofa she’s now sitting on. She is only forty-one, and once perhaps she was as attractive as Taryn, but life has not been kind to this woman. Her skin has the sickly pallor of a night shift worker, and judging by the length of her gray roots, it has been months since she last visited a hairdresser. Her tattered jeans and flannel shirt—practical attire for cleaning out a dead daughter’s apartment—hang shapeless on her bony frame, and her hands are raw and chapped, no doubt a consequence of frequent handwashings at her nursing home job. Everything about her radiates defeat, and no wonder. What more devastating blow can life deliver than the death of your child?
“This place needs to be cleared out and cleaned up by next week,” she says and gives a weary sigh. “The fifteenth. Or I’ll owe another month’s rent on it.”
“Given the circumstances, I’m sure the landlord will make an exception,” says Frankie.
“Maybe. But it’s not something I’m counting on.” She looks down at the box of her daughter’s clothes and reaches in to stroke a sweater, as if comforted by its feathery softness. “I haven’t even started cleaning yet. Or would you rather I not? I mean, I’ve watched those CSI shows, so I know the police like things kept as is, until they’ve finished all those tests.”
“No, we’ve finished with
this apartment. You’re fine to do what you need to do.”
“Thank you,” the woman murmurs. There is no reason to thank them, but she seems like a woman who is grateful for any courtesies. “I wish I had more information for you. But my girl and I, we weren’t as close as we used to be. It kinda broke my heart, you know? You raise your kid and you love her and you want to stay part of her life. But then they grow up, and they push you away . . .” She clutches her daughter’s sweater, desperately wringing it in her fist.
Frankie cannot imagine the pain this woman is feeling, the heartbreak of collecting your dead child’s clothes, folding them, pressing them to your face. Clothes that will be hard to surrender because they still carry her daughter’s scent.
“When was the last time you spoke to Taryn?” Mac asks.
“It was a few weeks ago, I think. She hadn’t called me in a while, so I had to call her.”
“How often did you usually speak?”
“Not often enough. Not since we had that argument, back in January.”
“About what?”
“I wanted her to come home to Maine after graduation. I told her how tight the money’s been and how I couldn’t afford to keep sending her more. Oh, she got upset. So upset we didn’t talk to each other for weeks.”
“Didn’t she see your side of it?”
“No. She couldn’t. All she could think about was being with him.”
“That would be her boyfriend, Liam Reilly?”
Brenda sighs. “I knew it was never going to work out, the two of them. I’ve been telling her that for years, but she never believed me.”
“Why didn’t you think it would work?” asks Frankie.
Brenda looks at her. “You said you’ve met him.”
“Yes. We interviewed him right after Taryn died.”
“And did you think he’d ever marry a girl like my daughter?”
Frankie doesn’t know how to answer this, and she’s taken aback that any mother would have such a harsh opinion of her own child. “Taryn was a lovely girl,” she says.
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