by Dale, Lisa
She straightened. “I’m not hoarding anything.”
“Everybody’s got a safety blanket. It’s just that mine collects dust.”
She filled her lungs; he saw the rise of her breasts under his shirt, and even now—while he was furious—he wanted her. He’d come on too strong. Maybe if he’d played it more nonchalantly. Let her go as if it was no big deal, then called to say, I happen to be in Albany this weekend and I wondered what you were doing … But he’d never been cool or sly.
“I should go,” she said.
“Wait.” He moved quick, touched her. He was glad when she didn’t tug away. “You don’t want to go.”
“No?”
He bent down, kissed her. “One more hour.” He pushed his fingers into the short hair at the nape of her neck. He saw her eyes go hazy with want—the same that he felt. He looked into them as deeply as he could, as deeply as she would let him. “Read me, Lauren. What am I not saying out loud?”
“Will?”
He held her shoulders. “Read me.”
“No.”
“Do you want me to say it, then? Do I have to tell you?”
“Don’t do this. Please? Let’s not—”
“If you won’t just read it, then I’ll say it: I’m falling in love with you. And you’re falling for me too.”
She closed her eyes, and he kissed her. She lifted his shirt over his head; he hooked the elastic of her shorts with his thumb. They were both sore and exhausted, but Will went as slowly as he could. He thought if he could draw the minutes out, if he could make her crazy with wanting and keep her in that place, he might make her see—might make her at least want to try. He brought her to his bedroom, to kiss every part of her body, to smother her with patience, stoking the flames until she came apart under his hands.
Afterward, Lauren stood up from the bed, bent down, and kissed him. She stooped to gather her clothes, then looked at him for a long moment, standing naked in the doorway. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“All right,” he said.
He was still in bed, staring at the ceiling, when he heard the front door close.
Lesson Fourteen: Many people come to the study of body language because they want to be able to tell when a person is lying. And certainly, body language can tell us when we’ve been fed a falsehood. However, when a liar believes what he or she is saying, it can be more difficult to discern truth from lies.
CHAPTER 14
Lauren had done a lot of leaving, mostly because she’d done a lot of traveling. She’d left Houston. She’d left Chicago. She’d left Martha’s Vineyard. Denver. Fairbanks, Alaska. She’d left Phoenix, and she’d left Edward there.
But when she left Will’s house, she’d felt as if she were fighting against a current. She’d left enough places to know that drawing out a departure and wishing things were different could extend the moment’s sweetness, but it could draw out bitterness too. If she’d lingered, Will would have tried to convince her. Deep down, she wanted to be convinced.
But because she wouldn’t make promises that she perhaps couldn’t keep, she’d slipped out, saying good-bye only in the quiet of her heart. She’d gone to his living room, to stand before his display of antique keys. Before, the keys had spoken to her as tools that opened doors, that exposed secrets. But in the moments before she walked out the door, they struck her not for the mysteries of what they might open, but for the dead ends of the things they locked away.
Now, as she turned into Maisie’s neighborhood, one additional key hung from her key ring; it opened nothing anymore. She touched it where it hung beside the steering wheel of her car. Years down the line, when she thought of Will, she would not permit herself to think, What if I’d gone another way? But at least she would have something to remember him by.
She wiggled her car into a parking spot a few blocks away from the house. The sun beat down brutally hot in the early evening, the air so heavy and burning that it was difficult to breathe it into her lungs. The tasks before her helped to focus her mind: she would pack, shower, maybe take a quick power nap, load up her car, and then she would head out to celebrate Maisie’s birthday—though she wouldn’t stay long. If she left Richmond at eight, she could make it back to Albany with enough time to grab a little sleep before tomorrow’s vote.
Walking down the street with her purse on her shoulder and her underwear tucked in a pocket, she marveled to think that she’d meant to spend only two days in the city. That had been a lifetime ago.
She was nearly on Maisie’s block when her phone rang in her purse. Her first thought was that Will was calling her. Her second was that, if he was planning to yell at her for leaving the way she did, he probably would have done it by now. She dug out her phone, and when she held it up to glance at the number, what she saw made her stop. She heard someone behind her swear—a young couple had to split apart to go around her. The stoplight changed. She took a breath, moved out of the center of the sidewalk, and answered. “Edward.”
“I’m glad I got you. Sorry if it’s early. Or late. I have no idea what time it is where you are.”
“It’s late afternoon.”
“Where are you?”
She bristled at the notion that he thought he had any right to know where she was. But she told him: “Richmond.”
“What are you doing there? I heard you were up for some big promotion … ”
“I’m on vacation,” she said. Then she was quiet. She walked forward slowly, listening, waiting for him to lead.
“You? Vacation?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“I’m staying with a friend from college.”
“A woman?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said.
There was silence. Only a week ago, she’d been in the habit of glancing at her phone, waiting for his call. Now she hated to hear from him at all.
“So how are you?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“No, I mean … how are you really?”
She thought over the last week. “Really, I’m fine.”
“I miss you,” he said, and the softness of his voice was pitch-perfect, just the right amounts of gentleness and longing.
Lauren bit the inside of her lip. Edward had always been a fantastic orator; being a trial lawyer required a certain amount of showmanship and flair. And yet, Lauren believed him—just like she always did. Probably, he did miss her in his way.
“What are you calling about?” she asked. “Is there something you want?”
“I’m leaving my wife.”
Now she did scoff. “Uh-huh.”
“No. I really am. Margaret is just so … I love her. But I just don’t feel that—you know—that thing anymore. I’m not in love with her. And I’m leaving her.”
“Do you still live with her?”
“I told her that I’m leaving.”
“But you’re still living there.”
“I’m sleeping on the couch.”
Lauren was nearly at Maisie’s house, with its front door set back a short way from the sidewalk and its green awnings to shield the sun. Her body was sore. The night had passed and she hadn’t closed her eyes except to squeeze them shut when the pleasure was too much to stand. And though she wondered if she might never see Will again, the whole afternoon suddenly seemed to fill her up with a sense of freedom and optimism and promise. She switched her phone to the other ear and got out her key.
“Edward, I wish you good things. I really do. But please don’t call me again.”
“But I’m leaving her for you.”
“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re only telling yourself that you’re leaving her because you’re bored. Say good-bye to me now.”
“I won’t stand for this. I’m not giving up this easily.”
“I am,” she said. And then, because she knew there would be no polite way to get off the phone with him, because he was tenacious and pushy and didn’t like to lose
, she hung up. Not her most graceful moment, but effective. She stopped before Maisie’s door, and she’d just taken in a deep, triumphant breath when her phone rang again.
She laughed—Edward was so predictable—and looked down at her phone. But it wasn’t Edward. It was her office.
The phone buzzed and buzzed—a loud sound that seemed to be buzzing through the whole neighborhood, all the way to the center of her skull. Before she could talk herself out of it, she hit ignore. And, just like that, the street was quiet again.
After she dropped by Maisie’s birthday dinner, she would leave Richmond, and tomorrow, she would throw off the covers and go back to the hard grind of daily life. Whatever someone at work was calling her about, it could wait. Whatever anyone was calling about could wait. She flipped her phone open and then, for the first time in more years than she could remember, she turned it off.
She pushed open Maisie’s door—thinking about packing, showering, dressing, napping, a thousand things at once—and the sound of paper scraping across the floorboards made her look to keep from tripping.
At her feet, she saw an envelope with her name on it. Slowly, and with a feeling of dread, she bent down.
Eula led Arlen through her house in the late afternoon. She wanted to say, And here’s the living room, and down there’s the bath, and the bedrooms are down the hall. But he already knew the layout, though it had been a long, long time.
She took him into the small dining room, and she was surprised when he recognized the oak table as the one that had been in her mother’s house before they sold it. In the kitchen, she watched him run a hand along the Formica countertop as fondly as if he were a musician touching a baby grand. She walked him down the hall to the bedrooms that were meant for children, but which had instead become a craft room, a guest room, and a relatively unused gym.
“Hey.” She stopped him at the bottom of the stairs that led to the second floor. Under her hand, his shoulder was firm and warm. “You doing okay?”
“Great,” he said. “I’m great.” They walked slowly up the carpeted stairs, Arlen following behind her. “You did a lot with the place.”
“But not too much.”
“Nope. Not too much.”
At the top of the stairs she pointed out the space where she’d had a wall adjusted to make a bigger closet in the master bedroom. And Arlen stood with his hands on his hips, looking over the wall and nodding his head, considering the handiwork. He asked polite questions about builders and permits. He wanted to know how long the work took and how much it cost.
His voice was low and thoughtful. “Shame I wasn’t here. I would have done this for you. Piece of cake.”
“Oh, well,” she said, pleased. “There’s plenty of things to repair. Believe me.”
They peeked into the upstairs bathroom with its seashell motif. And then they were standing in Eula’s room, which had once been Arlen’s room too, for a short period of time. The dressers were decorated with lace runners made by a great-aunt; the windows let in light through sheer yellow curtains. The bed sat like a life raft, square in the middle of the room, a soft pink bedspread tucked neatly beneath white pillows.
“Looks like you got some water damage,” Arlen said, looking up.
“Just a little. From a snowstorm last spring. It hasn’t leaked since.”
“I can take a look at the roof. See if I can’t figure out what’s going on.”
She smiled. Arlen was wearing his serious face; though his features seemed longer now and thinner, his expressions hadn’t changed. “You ever think of doing handyman work? I bet you could be real good at it. You always were good at working with your hands.”
“Maybe,” Arlen said.
“Arlen … ” He turned to her. She didn’t quite know what it was that she wanted to say. A feeling of deep tenderness had welled up inside her—but it was more than tenderness too. It was gratitude for the fact that he was here with her. It was the fierce urge to promise him that things would be okay. That she would make them okay if he let her. She hadn’t spent too much time with him last night; he was in many ways still a stranger. But her heart was telling her in no uncertain terms: here was the man she’d married. Generous, forgiving, strong, and, most of all, not gone.
She looked at him, and—bless him—he could not hold her eye. But she wanted him to. Oh, how she wanted him to. Look at me, she thought. And when he did not, she stepped closer, stood up on her tiptoes, and kissed him. His lips were soft under hers—a kiss not quite returned.
She didn’t need to ask him. She knew it had been a long time since he’d been with anyone. And she didn’t need him to lead. She took him by the hand to the edge of her bed, sat him down among the pink ruffles. Then she stepped back, and, button by button, with her head high, offered herself, as if with her skin she might somehow smooth over even the smallest part of his hurt. He watched with his hands on his knees, flexing and curling, until she was in only her panties and bra.
She walked toward him, feeling slightly outside herself. She ran her hands along his hair. Where it hadn’t thinned, it was still thick and rich brown.
“Eula.” Her name seemed to break on his lips. He still did not touch her. “I haven’t … See, it’s been a while, and … ”
She shushed him, then bent to kiss his lips. They were soft and sweet—until his arms came around her, pulling her hard to the bed, and then his weight was on her and his mouth was so demanding that for a moment she worried about what she’d done. But her confidence returned—this was Arlen, after all—and she met him with a need that had been dormant until now. She’d meant to give to him, to only give. And yet, for the first time in years, she actually wanted. She felt a loosening like a cramped muscle, part pain, part relief, and then there was only Arlen, his hands, his mouth, his breath on her skin.
Will did not get out of bed for a long time after Lauren left. He lay and watched the late-afternoon light skate across the floor. He got up only to open the window when a little roving thunderstorm came through because he wanted to smell the rain. When the sun began to set, he dragged himself to the kitchen, his rumbling belly leading the way. He made himself a peanut butter sandwich and ate it standing at the counter. Then, because he didn’t quite know what to do with himself and he was feeling lost, he called his sister.
“What’s going on today?” she asked brightly.
“Nothing much,” he said. He washed a bit of peanut butter from his hands. “How’s the baby?”
“Loud. I’m calling him my little fire engine. Because when he’s hungry he wails and turns beet red. I wouldn’t be surprised if his head spun around.” For a moment, Annabelle slipped away from the conversation to coddle the baby. “Am I talking about you?” she sang. “Yes? Are you the little fire engine? Yes, you are!”
Will climbed the stairs to the second floor very slowly. He could picture the baby looking up at his sister with bright but utterly uncomprehending blue eyes. A great heaviness made his feet hard to lift, one over the other, until he reached the top of the stairs. Lauren was gone, but his stuff—all his stuff—was still right where he’d left it. It wasn’t going anywhere.
“So what’s going on with you?” Annabelle asked. “What’s Lauren up to today?”
“Leaving,” he said through clamped teeth. “Back to Albany.”
“Will you see her again?”
“Not likely. She was here for Arlen.”
“That might be why she came in the beginning, but it wasn’t Arlen who she was looking at like he hung the moon.”
Will sighed. Around him, in the hallway that stretched along the second story of the house, his collection had taken on a dull, gray-brown sheen. Normally, when he saw his stockpile, it seemed to him to be vitally alive, full of promise and verve. But now it was just a collection of crap that the life had gone out of. It was garbage—other people’s garbage that he’d made into his garbage. He had no love for it at all.
Lauren had not been the first woman in his
life to see that he had an illness. One woman, with whom he’d been serious for six months, simply hadn’t been able to understand that his problem was more than mere laziness. She’d told him he was a slob and he’d been glad to let her go. Another woman who’d discovered his problem early on had simply turned tail and run. Men who hoarded like he did were not suitable husband material. It wouldn’t be possible to raise kids in a house that looked like a junkyard.
Already, Will missed Lauren. He would miss going picking with her, would miss listening to her “interpret” the people they met, would miss the way she always tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking. Although her leaving corresponded almost immediately with her discovering his illness, he didn’t get the sense that she’d been scared off. More than any woman he’d met before, she seemed strong enough to actually handle what he was. She was tough enough to be with him. If she wanted to. If.
“So what are you going to do to get her back?” Annabelle asked. “You’re not just going to let her go like that. Are you?”
“She wants to go.”
“Oh, come on. Will—it’s a teeny tiny little world these days. Just because she lives up north and you’re here doesn’t mean you can’t see each other.”
“We can’t,” Will said. He kicked an old claw-foot end table with his toe, and the whole pile of junk that sat on top of it threatened to collapse. He put out his hand to steady it, but still, a few pieces of paper fell. He felt himself to be on a dangerous precipice, and he was shuffling inch by inch closer to the edge. “I’ve got no future with her. There are things besides geography standing in the way.”
“What things?” Annabelle asked slowly.
He took a deep breath. His legs felt weak. His mouth suddenly felt overly full of teeth. “I … ” The years flashed in frames, the rooms filling box by box, bag by bag, thing by useless thing. “I have a problem,” he said.
Already he felt a little better.
“Oh, Will,” Annabelle said. And it wasn’t pity he heard in her voice, but relief. She’d known. She’d always known. Probably, the whole family did. “As soon as you say the word, we’re all here to help. You know that.”