Together Alone

by Barbara Delinsky

  “But she married you.”

  “Not from need. From want.”

  “All the nicer.”

  Brian wasn’t so sure. “She was on the go all the time. Marriage stood for something settled in her mind. Same with having a baby. She was raised in a traditional family that said marriage and children were musts. Her career didn’t allow much time for them, but without them she would have felt like a failure.”

  “Was it the same way with you?” Emily asked.

  He reached for a piece of chicken. “My career wasn’t any more generous than hers. I’ve been known to work round the clock for days in a row.”

  “On murder investigations?”

  “Mm.” He bit into the chicken, salivating even before the meat hit his tongue.

  “Did you have to have a body to launch a murder investigation?”

  He shook his head and finished what was in his mouth. “But we needed some evidence of foul play. It didn’t have to be physical evidence. In the case of a missing person, it usually wasn’t, not in the sense of blood-stained somethings. But there were other things that could get us involved.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a car abandoned where it shouldn’t have been. A wallet thrown in a trash can. Appointments missed. Those cases were always a challenge. Like finding pieces of a puzzle, one by one, and putting them together.”

  “How successful were you?”

  “I had a pretty good batting average—but it took time, which meant time away from Gayle and from Julia.” He wondered if Julia was taking a nap. He would never forgive himself if she cried herself to sleep. Not that he would ever know, since she wouldn’t say.

  He felt discouraged. “There are times when I wonder if we’re going to make it, Julia and me. I’m groping blind on hostile turf.”

  “Not hostile, just new. My husband would have felt the same way if he’d had to jump in all of a sudden and mother Jill.”

  “He wasn’t a do-it-all father?”

  “Not quite,” she drawled, then held up a contrite hand, “which was okay. He had his business, and I was perfectly happy mothering Jill. I didn’t want him worrying about her. So if anyone’s at fault for his not having been involved, it’s me.”

  “He’s lucky to have you. Full-time mothers are few and far between these days.”

  “I have that luxury because he works.”

  “So when will I get to meet him?”

  “Soon. He’ll be back.”

  “John said he was a business consultant. Does he have an office here in Grannick?”

  “In our den. His computer has a fax and a modem, and programs that do incredible things. Several times a day he accesses his mail and messages. It’s ingenious, really. But you must know about all that. Aren’t the police using electronics much more?”

  Brian shrugged. “We can match fingerprints, trace license plates, pull up rap sheets faster than we could before. But nothing substitutes for good old-fashioned legwork.” He thought about legwork while he ate, thought about someone changing Julia’s diaper, putting her rabbit in with her to nap, rubbing her back for a bit. “Like raising kids. Computers can’t do it.”

  “She’s fine,” Emily assured him, reading his mind. “You’ve called twice. She wasn’t crying either time.”

  “She probably cried herself into a stupor.”

  “She’s probably intrigued by the other kids.”

  “She’s never been with others much. We always had a sister at our place.”

  “Then this is good.”

  He figured she ought to know, since she had raised an only child, herself. “Hard to imagine Julia interacting with other children.”

  “She won’t yet. But she sees them. She imitates them. She learns that she can’t have every toy the minute she wants it. And she learns that even though her father leaves her, he always comes back to get her and take her home.”

  He remembered the nightmare of leaving her that morning. “It kills me to think she’s feeling abandoned.”

  “You give her too much credit. Not that she isn’t bright. Not that she isn’t the brightest one there,” this said, with a knowing half-smile, “but kids are fickle. They’re easily distracted. Show them a new toy and they’re fine. She may cry each morning when you leave—”

  “That doesn’t stop?” he interrupted, appalled.

  “Eventually. Jill cried for the longest time when I left her with her playgroup. We were very close, even then.”

  “I’ll bet you miss her a lot.”

  Emily studied the broken-down wall. “Six weeks and counting ’til fall break. That’s why this is good. It distracts me.” She frowned at the window. “What if it rains tonight?”

  He willingly leaped from parenthood to carpentry and the surer footing he had there. “We’ll stretch a tarp over the hole before we leave. Two guys from the station are coming by first thing tomorrow to help with the window. We’ll have it in by noon.”

  Shortly after noon on the following day, Emily sat in the very same spot, feeling awed. The arched window looked spectacular. She was starved for the sunlight and the cheer it added. Doug hadn’t called last night. After the fiasco of the weekend, that hurt. She had hoped he would want to apologize, or mend fences, or simply see how she was. Apparently not.

  “So, what do you think?” Brian asked. He stood tall above her, regarding the window with a well-deserved pride.

  She let the sight of him lighten her mood. He was so different from Doug, so positive, so earthy in a clean, sexy way. “It makes the room into something special. Jill will be angry we didn’t think to do it when she was around.” She offered up a sandwich. “Roast beef on rye, with Russian dressing.”

  “I thought it was my turn to buy lunch.”

  “Tomorrow,” she promised, figuring that otherwise he would argue. Lunch was a small price to pay for his help, not to mention his company. He was easy on the mind. She liked him.

  He sat down beside her and unwrapped the sandwich. “How is she doing—your daughter?”

  Emily sighed. “She isn’t as wild about classes as she was about orientation, but she’ll be fine.” At least, Emily kept telling herself that. Jill had suddenly realized there was more to college than parties. She was feeling intimidated and lonesome. And she kept asking about Doug.

  “You two ought to plan a vacation,” she’d said. “A real going-away kind of trip, now that I’m gone. My roommate’s parents just got back from Bermuda, kind of to celebrate their freedom. They loved it.”

  “Your father travels all week.” No way would he spring for a weekend away, what with the other expenses they had. Emily knew enough not to ask. “Staying home is his vacation.”

  “But it’s not much of one for you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Really, Mom? Are you okay without me?”

  “How are you doing without her?” Brian asked.

  Emily was a minute in separating his question from the one Jill had asked, and another in deciding how honest to be. She could gloss over the loss and say she was fine. But she was tired of doing that. It wasn’t the truth, not really. “I miss her.” She patted her heart. “There’s a big hole where her presence has always been. She’s been my world for a long time.” She took a breath. “But I’d better get used to it, right? This was what I raised her for, to let her go.” She had read that on a mug once. It sounded good.

  “Did you ever work?”

  From another mug. “Every mother works.”

  “Outside the home.”

  “No. Not formally. I dropped out of college to marry Doug. When Jill got old enough for school, I started taking courses down the street, but more for my own sake than for that of a job.”

  “Did you get your degree?”

  She nodded. “In English. I’ve always loved to write. I write for the local paper sometimes. Fill in for the regular reporter.”

  “Do you really?”

  “Yup. It’s fun.”

&n
bsp; “I’ll bet.”

  “While I was getting my degree, I got to know the professors. I grade papers for them sometimes, or help organize their research, like their own personal editor. It’s a loose arrangement. We swap—my work for a free ride taking extra courses. I’ve taken some good ones. Criminology. Abnormal Psychology. People interest me. Their motives. Why they go wrong or crack up or do bizarre things. Why a gunman randomly opens fire in a crowded subway. Why a motorist plows his car into a crowd of Christmas shoppers. What really happened to the Lindbergh baby.”

  “He was kidnapped,” Brian said.

  “Some say his father took him as a prank, then the prank went awry.” The thought of it gave Emily a bone-deep chill, still she had read it, had taken in every last argument for and against the theory.

  Brian was thoughtful as he ate. Finally, he shook his head. “There was the ladder used in the kidnapping, the ransom note, the money—all traced to Hauptmann. He had a record. He had escaped from a German jail.”

  Emily was delighted that he knew the case. She certainly couldn’t discuss it with Doug. “But there were no witnesses. Hauptmann’s wife protested his innocence to the end.”

  “What about the later threats against the Lindberghs? Did Lindy make those?”

  “He could have,” she said, because anything was possible when minds were warped. “I’m not saying he did. But he was a complicated person.”

  “Many people are. There aren’t always answers to why they do what they do. Motive is right up there with murder weapon in making or breaking a case. That’s most often what the all-nighters are about.”

  “Have you ever been involved in the search for a missing child?”

  “In New York? Sure. Kids disappear there all the time.”

  “Do you find them?”

  “Depends on the situation. If a kid is just lost, separated from a parent, he’ll show up. If he’s abducted, things become more dicey. We usually get them back if there’s money involved, where the intention all along is to make an exchange. If the abduction is the result of a custody battle, it could go either way. If perversion is involved—sex or insanity—it’s not good.”

  “Because the family isn’t contacted, so there’s no trail?”

  “Partly. And because we’re dealing with crazies. They can be brilliant covering tracks. They can lie convincingly.”

  Emily swallowed. It was a harrowing thought. “Did you ever work on a case where the victim was gone for years?”

  “Six years, once.”

  “How did you crack it?”

  “We got a tip.”

  “Hey!” came a bark from downstairs. “Is anyone home?”

  Not now, Emily cried silently, resenting the interruption. But then, that was foolish. Her discussion with Brian would hold. There was no urgency, after all.

  “Must be the floor man,” she sighed and rose. “He’s doing the bathroom this afternoon.

  By late Tuesday, the flooring was in, a simple brick pattern in a pale gray faux-marble that Emily assured Brian wouldn’t show dirt. She also convinced him that bathroom walls papered with vinyl would withstand both moisture and a child better than bare paint, and that a child’s room papered with vinyl had greater potential for excitement. She drove into town and found several rolls of a handsome navy and gray plaid, and several rolls of primary-color paint streaks on a glossy white field, and began measuring out strips for the bathroom and for Julia’s room, respectively, while Brian put the finishing touches on the arched window.

  By Wednesday the bathroom was done and the kitchen had arrived. By Thursday the cabinets had been installed and the appliances were delivered. By Friday the appliances were functional, as were new, bright, modern light fixtures.

  “Not bad for a first week,” Brian decided, looking around.

  Emily agreed. They both looked vaguely worse for the wear, slightly dirty, generally sweaty, and more than a little tired, but they had plenty to show for it. “We may finish next week, after all,” she remarked.

  “Doubted me, huh?”

  “Maybe a little, at first. But I’m learning.”

  “We’ll start the walls on Monday.”

  “I may start tomorrow. Doug’s been delayed.” She tried for nonchalance, but she was upset. He had called last night, apparently for the sole purpose of telling her, since he hadn’t had anything else to say. He refused to talk about his week, and when she told him about work on the apartment, he answered with bored uh-huhs. Five minutes, and he’d been off the phone with what she guessed was relief.

  “Is everything all right?” Brian asked. He was studying her with those iridescent eyes that saw too much.

  “Yes,” she said, smiled, frowned, shook her head. “No. I wanted to have both nights. I’m disappointed. It’s scary with him gone so much.”

  “Scary staying alone?”

  “No. Scary—” she gestured, hard put to say the words aloud—“his work. No free time.”

  What was scary was the thought that this was her life. Doug wasn’t apologizing. He wasn’t saying things would change. Whenever she alluded to loneliness, he got angry, as though it were her fault, something she had brought on herself.

  Maybe it was. But that didn’t ease the hurt, or the confusion. If she couldn’t get through to Doug, where were they headed?

  “Want to come shopping with Julia and me tomorrow?” Brian asked. “We’re buying furniture.”

  Something inside her lifted. It was a better offer than Doug had made her in weeks. “When are you going?”

  “We’re flexible. When’s good for you?”

  She and Kay were spending the morning pampering Celeste, but otherwise she was free. “Noon? One? Two?” She was without pride.

  “Noon.” He grinned. “See you then.”

  They bought a long oak-framed sofa that opened to a large bed, and two matching side chairs. They bought a low coffee table, a large wardrobe, several book-shelves, and a table and chairs, all in the same warm oak. They bought two large impressionistic landscapes for the main room, and two small circus prints for Julia’s room. They bought a rattan coat tree.

  Everything was scheduled for delivery the following Friday.

  Doug came home in time for dinner Saturday night. Emily served a rack of lamb that had been absurdly expensive, a Silver Palate pasta dish that had been absurdly complicated, and fresh broccoli. She had made an English trifle for dessert.

  It was an ominous choice.

  Doug took a bite, chuckled softly, and announced that he was going to London for two weeks.

  Emily was startled. “Two weeks?”

  “This is a new account. A good one. There’s a whole day of travel at either end.”

  “But that’s twelve days there. You never spend twelve days straight working on one account.”

  “This is London, Emily. It’s a new door opening to me.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she said, trying to see his point. “But where does it leave us?”

  “A little more comfortable financially.”

  She felt a sudden fury at his insensitivity, his blitheness. “Damn the money. Where does it leave us?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Us, Doug. You and me. Our marriage. The time we’re supposed to be spending together now that Jill is away.”

  “I don’t know who told you about that time.” He tossed his napkin on the table and rose. “It’s a fantasy.” He walked off.

  “Wait! Let’s talk about this!”

  He turned back with a long-suffering look. “What’s there to say? It’s my business. What can I do?”

  “Change it. Shorten it. You don’t need to go so far.” She sounded desperate. She was desperate. Her husband was growing less and less familiar to her, more and more distant. She felt that if she reached out to pull him back, he might just slip through her fingers and dissolve.

  “Are you kidding?” he countered. “I’ve been waiting for years for this kind of contract
to come through. I’m not giving it up.”

  “Can I come?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It isn’t appropriate.”

  “Why not? I can spend the day at museums.”

  “And then what? What’ll you do at night when I’m working with people over dinner?”

  “I’ll listen in. I can be a pleasant dinner companion.”

  “Now, what would you have to say to those people?” he asked, stopping just shy of a belittling laugh. “Absolutely nothing. Your world and theirs are light-years apart.”

  “And yours?” she asked, thinking of the man who had once lived in jeans, an honest smile, and a healthy sweat.

  He was slower in answering, but no less confident. “Mine is somewhere in the middle. I want it to move closer to theirs in the course of this trip. Don’t you understand,” he pleaded, “this could be a breakthrough for me. It could mean the beginning of an international reputation. Do you know what that’s worth?”

  It struck Emily then that he wasn’t hearing her. He had no idea what she was trying to say, and, worse, he didn’t care. They were at opposite ends of a marital spectrum. She might as well be his maid, given his level of involvement with her.

  That thought shook her from head to toe.

  “I’ll be in the den,” he said.

  She carried the dishes to the sink, loaded the dishwasher, then turned back to the table, where the English trifle sat. It was a beautiful creation, a froth of berries, sherry-soaked cake, and whipped cream, as artistic as it was indecently good.

  Lifting the bowl by the stem, she up-ended it in the sink and washed the lot down the drain.

  Monday morning, she was back at work beside Brian, painting the walls while he labored over the wood-work. She tried not to think about Doug—thinking about him brought a pain she couldn’t do anything about—but the thoughts were as stubborn as her emotions. They ate at her, monopolizing her mind.

  “Emily?”

  She jumped, startled to find Brian beside her.

  “You look like you’re about to cry. Is something wrong?”

  She shook her head. “Just thinking about things I shouldn’t.”