Corbin was right behind her. “Where’d you go?”
She turned to face him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wanted to—I really did. But now that I’m really here and in the middle of it, I just . . . can’t.”
“There hasn’t been anyone since you lost your husband?” She shook her head. “I get it.” He put his arms around her. She stiffened until she realized the gesture was intended to comfort, not arouse. “Come on back to bed; it’s too cold over here.”
She followed him and sat down again. Then she watched while he blew out the candles, one by one. “If you want, you can stay here tonight,” he said. “Nothing will happen. Promise.” The room was dark.
“All right.” She felt tired all of a sudden. So tired. The much anticipated date, the wine, the Polaroids—and now the total flip-flop of her own emotions. “But could you give me something to sleep in?”
“Of course.”
Her eyes had adjusted and she could see him walk over to a dresser and pull out a folded pair of flannel pajamas. He handed them to her. “Brand new. They were a Christmas present.”
“Thank you.”
Clutching the pajamas, she retreated to the bathroom to change. She buttoned the buttons all the way up to the top and tightened the drawstrings on the bottoms. They were too long, so she rolled them up once, and then again. Looking in the mirror, she saw gray reindeer frolicking all over navy blue flannel. Not the least bit sexy—and perfect. When she returned to the bedroom, clothes in her arms, Corbin was already under the covers. She hesitated. Maybe she ought to ask if she could sleep on the sofa.
“There’s plenty of room,” he said. “You won’t even know I’m here.”
The comment disarmed her, and, setting the bundle on a chair, she slipped in beside him.
“Sweet dreams,” he said.
Was he taunting her? “Good night,” she replied. She wanted to add, “I’m sorry” or “Please don’t hate me,” but really, what was the point? She turned over, away from him, her whole body rigid and unable to relax. But eventually, she heard the deep, steady breathing that signaled he was asleep and she turned over to look at him. He was so sexy and she wished she could rekindle the giddy excitement she’d been feeling earlier. Instead, she turned away again, not believing she would actually sleep, but hoping she could at least close her eyes and retreat from the world for a while.
She awoke disoriented, squinting at the very bright light that was visible through the small spaces between the slats and around the perimeter of the wooden blinds. She remembered that they had been pulled up last night; Corbin must have let them down at some point. But where was he? The quilt was pulled back and the bed beside her empty. Then she heard his voice coming from the other room: he was speaking quietly, but she thought he sounded tense.
She was thirsty and she needed to use the bathroom. And her purse was in the other room too—she wanted to text the kids. But she did not want to disturb him, so she stayed where she was.
“. . . he told me he was with us on this,” Corbin was saying. “He gave me his word.” There was a silence and then he said, “I thought I could trust him. I did.” Another silence, this one even longer. “There’s nothing you can say to make it right. Nothing. I’m just disgusted, that’s all. Betrayed and disgusted.” More silence and then the door to the bedroom opened cautiously and she could see him looking in her direction.
“Good morning,” she ventured.
“Not so good.” He entered the room and she could see, with some relief, that though his chest was bare, he was wearing a pair of gray sweatpants.
“What’s wrong?” She sat up and attempted to run her fingers through her hair. She’d gone to bed with her makeup on and she imagined it was smeared all over her face by now.
“Wingate.” The word was uttered like a curse. “I had a verbal agreement from the CEO; then the next thing I hear is that that entire alternative we proposed for disposing of the dye—an alternative, I should add, that took months to work out—has been completely abandoned. He’s gotten some kind of exemption from the governor, something about the need to ‘protect jobs and the local economy.’” He looked over at her. “What a load of crap. If Primrose Pond is ruined, turned to sludge by that damn ink, the town will be ruined along with it. All that waterfront property will go down in value, and when houses lose their value, everything else starts tumbling too.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Sorry?” For a second, it seemed he might turn on her; then his voice turned remorseful, not angry. “Sorry doesn’t even begin to describe it. But for want of a better word, yeah, I’m sorry too.”
Susannah got out of bed, went to the bathroom, and then returned to the bedroom to get her things. But when she looked at the folded dress and jacket, the shiny pumps, she wished she had something more appropriate to put on. Corbin must have sensed her discomfort, because he said, “I could lend you a pair of sweats and a sweater for the drive home if you want. Though the drive may have to wait; we had over a foot of snow last night and the roads aren’t fully plowed yet.”
“Over a foot!” She went to the window and peeked through the blinds. The view outside was dazzling—snow like a layer of whipped cream along the trees and roof of the house next door, snow like marshmallow frosting slathering the trash cans, the wooden fence, the garage. “Does it snow like this all the time?”
“Not all the time.” He joined her by the window. “But it’s not so unusual either. We’re in New Hampshire, remember?”
“Who could forget?”
He smiled, but his eyes looked troubled. He was still brooding over that business with Wingate; well, who could blame him? He got out a pair of black sweatpants and a sweater with a row of angels across the front and handed them to her; like the pajamas, the sweater had a price tag.
“Another Christmas present?”
“Same relative, different Christmas,” he said and then added, “She means well.”
He left the room to start breakfast while Susannah got dressed—this time she let the too-long pants pool around her ankles—and texted the kids; Jack was ecstatic over the snow and planned to go sledding with Liam, while Calista said she was staying with Alice for the rest of the day. Susannah had a brush and covered elastic in her purse, so she was able to do something with her hair. She also scrubbed the blurred makeup off her face, though there was not much to be done about the sweatpants—loose, baggy, and wholly unbecoming—and the sweater, which was flat-out hideous. Only Calista would have prized it, and added it proudly to her ugly-sweater collection.
Corbin was setting the table when she walked into the dining room. He’d made eggs and bacon and squeezed oranges for juice. They were polite, even formal with each other, and did not discuss what had happened—or failed to happen—the night before. When she asked about Wingate, he said, “I’m not giving up. I’ll just have to regroup and come up with a new strategy.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. But there are people in this community who are with me. I’ll start the triage today as soon as I get you home.”
“When will the roads be cleared?”
“Probably within the hour.” Corbin was on his second cup of coffee and had just refilled her mug as well. “Be sure not to forget these when you leave.” He reached down and placed the small brown shopping bag on the table in front of her. “I know they’re important to you.”
The photographs. She had actually forgotten. Moving her plate aside, she took them out and laid them on the table. Here was one she hadn’t really noticed last night: Corbin was standing shirtless in a small open field while she was on the periphery of the picture, head turned in his direction. Though the image was small, Susannah was sure she was staring.
“It’s the dates that are important,” she said.
“Confirmation of something you wish you hadn’t been
able to confirm, right?”
Even without her telling him the details, he understood. He was looking at her and his expression—curious, interested, sympathetic—made it so easy to just tell him. “When I first moved into the house, I found a love letter that had been written to my mother. Only it wasn’t from my father—I’m sure of that. It was from someone else.”
“Someone you knew?”
Susannah shrugged slightly. “I don’t know. But once I found it, I started looking for other clues. Evidence, really. And I found two ticket stubs and a few other things that made me think she was in Quebec that summer, probably with the man who wrote the note. The dates on the photographs correspond to the days she was there—they’re the proof I needed.”
“Wow,” he said quietly. “That’s a lot to process.” He finished his coffee and put the mug down. “How are you dealing with it?”
“Okay, I guess.” She looked down. “I haven’t told many people. You’re only the second. I told my best friend, but she thinks I should leave it alone, not keep digging.” There was a silence during which she was unable to meet his eyes.
“I’m glad you shared this with me,” he said finally. “And I get what you’re doing. I don’t think you should stop until you’re ready to stop. You’ll know when that is.” Susannah looked at him then, at the steady blue gaze that had drawn her all those years ago and that was drawing her now. She got up from the table and went to stand in front of him. He remained very still while she ran her hands lightly along his brow, his face, and finally his lips. Then she leaned down to kiss him; all the uncertainty of the night before was gone, and she wanted him as much as—no, more than—ever.
He stood, scooped her up, and carried her into the bedroom. She pressed her face against his shoulder, arms clasped around his neck. It was only when they’d reached the bed and he set her gently down that he asked, “Is this all right?”
Instead of answering, she shimmied out of the pants and then pulled the sweater up and over her head. Instantly, gooseflesh prickled her naked breasts and belly, but his hands quickly moved to cover her. They were so warm; he was so warm. She pulled him down beside her so that they were both stretched out on the mattress. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said softly. “Dreaming about you, even.”
“What did you dream?” she asked.
“About this.” He began to kiss the many eager, palpitating places on her skin. “And this, and this, and this.”
I had the same dream, she wanted to say. But then the kisses became more insistent and she simply arched her body up to meet him.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Corbin had just turned off the engine when a shiny black Jeep pulled up. A door opened and then shut and suddenly there was Jack, stomping toward them, the crisp, newly fallen snow crunching audibly as he moved.
“Ten inches, Mom!” he crowed. “It snowed ten inches last night. And the drifts are even higher!”
He was right; the mailbox was practically covered and the snow came up to the windows of the shed.
“We sure got hit,” Corbin said as he emerged from the car. “But luckily, it was the dry powdery kind. It’s the wet clumpy stuff that makes you curse the winter.”
“Why?” asked Jack.
“The weight,” explained Corbin. “When the snow is wet, it gets heavy—that’s when the power lines go down. Or tree branches crack off. Sometimes roofs collapse. Last winter someone was killed when a limb on a hundred-year-old oak snapped and landed on him.”
Grim as it was, Susannah was grateful for this exchange; it took the attention away from her. After the last hour she’d spent naked and rolling around in Corbin’s bed, there was no way she could hide her exultation, and she didn’t want Jack to read it in her face.
“That’s terrible.” Jack’s expression was an equal mix of horror and awe.
“Well, that’s not likely to happen again anytime soon. And not from this snowfall. But there sure is a lot of it. Want to help me shovel?”
Months earlier, Susannah had arranged for Mabel Dunfee’s husband, Tony, to come by with his plow to clear off her driveway and yard when it snowed, and he’d been here this morning. But the wind had blown the fine snow back over some of the areas he’d cleared.
“Sure thing.” Jack picked up a handful of snow and tamped it into a hard white pellet.
“I know you have a shovel, because I sold it to you. Is it in the garage?” Corbin asked Susannah.
“I have two, actually,” she said. “After I bought that one, I found another buried behind something in there.” She began making her way toward the house, eager to get inside to change before Jack noticed her clothes, all of which belonged to Corbin, including the boots. They were too big, and she was carrying her own clothes and the bag of Polaroids besides, so the going was slow. But Jack was busy talking to Corbin and not paying attention to her.
Unlocking the door, Susannah took off Corbin’s jacket, eased her feet out of his boots, and was about to head upstairs when Calista appeared. Damn. She must have come in through the porch door on the other side of the house, so Susannah would not have seen her footprints.
“Mom?” she said, and Susannah could feel her gaze taking in the baggy sweatpants and the ugly sweater whose price tag still scratched against her neck. “What are you wearing?”
“The sweater? It’s pretty awful, I know. But I thought it might fit into your collection—I’m sure Corbin would—”
“That’s Corbin’s sweater? And his sweatpants too? How about that?” She pointed to the shiny blue puffer Susannah had left on a chair.
“Well, yes. We went to dinner last night and then when the snow started coming down so hard, it seemed safer to stay over than to drive back.” If only she’d gotten up the stairs before Calista had come in.
“You spent the night with him? How could you? What would Daddy say?”
Susannah saw her daughter’s expression nakedly processing her emotions: incredulity, anger, grief. What should she do? Maintain the fiction and say she’d slept on the couch? But the lie would lead to further and even more bitter recriminations when the truth eventually came out. And it would come out, wouldn’t it? It always did. “Daddy would be glad I had met someone who could make me happy. He wouldn’t want me to be alone forever. I know he wouldn’t.”
“A year is hardly forever, Mom.” Calista was practically shouting at her. “A year is, like, no time at all.”
“A year alone is a long time when you’re used to being with someone.” She would not raise her voice; she would not. “A year is a long time to be lonely.” Calista didn’t answer, so she went on. “Besides, you don’t even know him—you haven’t given him a chance. He’s a good man. Jack thinks so.”
“Jack’s not exactly what you call discriminating. And just because he’s willing to forget about Daddy when some tool monkey in a down vest shows up doesn’t mean that I am. Daddy was an artist, Mom! He wasn’t just the owner of some backwoods hardware store.”
“Who said anything about forgetting Daddy? And what’s wrong with a hardware store owner anyway? People need hammers and nails and screwdrivers; your father admired anyone who could do anything with his hands and he would have admired the man who sold them what they needed.” She was shouting now too; so much for her good intentions.
“If that’s what you want to tell yourself, you do that.” Calista was heading toward the porch. Susannah followed her and saw her yank the door open and let it fall shut with a bang. “Cally!” Susannah called, forgetting that she was not supposed to use this nickname. “Cally, come back!” Cally did not answer and she did not turn around.
The light reflecting off the snow was harsh and bright; Susannah had to squint to keep her daughter in sight, her zebra-striped coat easily visible in all that white. Susannah was pretty sure she knew where her daughter was going, but she would not call—at least not now—to conf
irm her hunch.
Instead, she went back into the house and upstairs, as she had been planning to do. Her hands were shaking, and when she looked in the mirror, her face was splotchy and red. She splashed some cold water on it, stripped off Corbin’s clothes, and kicked the resulting heap away. Damn, damn, damn. What she had wanted to do was to relive every moment of their time in the bedroom this morning: how avidly he’d kissed her, the solid feel of his chest as he pressed against her, the way he kept his eyes open the whole time. Charlie had been playful and languorous in bed; there was nothing playful about Corbin. He was serious, focused, and passionate—almost feral, really—and even thinking about the sex they’d had made her want it all over again.
Susannah looked down at the heap of clothing still on the bathroom floor. It was not Corbin’s fault Cally was being so difficult. She knelt and retrieved the pile, bringing it into her room to fold. Then she brought everything downstairs to where Corbin was in the kitchen; he had made grilled cheese sandwiches for the three of them and Jack was already wolfing his down.
“I figured you’d be hungry,” was all Corbin said, but something in his tone made her feel so—what was it? Seen? Known? Cherished?
Jack looked up from his plate. “We cleared a path to the house, Mom. You can go look when you’re done.”
“Thank you,” Susannah said. “For everything.”
“Where’s Calista?” Corbin asked.
“Out,” said Susannah.
“I’ll bet she’s over with that horse lady down the road,” Jack said. “Alice, right? That’s her new BFF.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Susannah said. She did not want to admit that he might be right.
“Oh, don’t be too hard on Alice Renfew. She’s probably lonely.” Corbin took a bite of his sandwich. “Her husband died over twenty years ago. No kids. She tries to stay busy—she’s the president of the garden club and on the board of the historical society and the library. She’s active in town, knows a lot of people. But I’m guessing that Calista fills a need in her life.”
The House on Primrose Pond Page 22