Close to Home

by Cynthia Baxter

  “I realized that I haven’t been very much fun lately,’’ he went on. He had that hangdog look, the one that always melted Jessica’s heart and made it virtually impossible for her to say no to any request, suggestion, or demand he might make.

  “Oh. Well. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind, with wanting to change your job situation and all.” Jessica stepped into the dining room just long enough to dump her coat on a chair, then sat down at the kitchen table opposite him.

  “That’s part of it,” he agreed. “But, I don’t know, maybe I’ve been guilty of Husbandly Neglect. You know, the old taking-your-wife-for-granted syndrome.”

  Jessica looked at him with surprise—and something bordering on admiration.

  “Maybe you have,” she said softly.

  “I only hope it’s not too late to make it up to you. You know, I haven’t had the guts to admit it up until now, but being worried about you investigating the murders is only part of why I’ve been acting like such an idiot. I’ve actually been a little jealous of this guy Terry.” He laughed. “Isn’t that the craziest thing?”

  Jessica forced a laugh of her own. “Very crazy.”

  “I hope you don’t hold it against me. It’s just my own insecurities coming out, that’s all. I trust you completely, Jess. I hope you know that.

  “Anyway, I’ve planned sort of a special evening for tonight. Just the two of us.” He smiled nervously.

  He’s trying, thought Jessica, bracing herself against the odd sensation that came from having her heart do weird flip-flops. He’s trying so hard. He plans surprises for me, even while I’m off cavorting with another man. Or if not actually cavorting, then at least contemplating the possibility of a quick cavort.

  “What’s the surprise?” she asked, somewhat afraid of what his answer might be.

  “Ah. If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise anymore. But why don’t you go upstairs and get into bed, and I’ll be up in two minutes?”

  “Bed?” Jessica wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly.

  “Well, sure.” He looked a little hurt. “You’ve heard of breakfast in bed, right? I thought we could try a new variation. Dinner in bed.”

  Jessica tried to put Terry out of her mind as she climbed the stairs, her feet leaden. And she was surprised at how easy it was proving to be. Already he was slipping away: the image of his face, lit up by that crazy, irresistible grin; the incredibly warm feeling of his hands on her shoulders; the tickling sensation of his lips on hers.

  Downstairs, she could hear David slamming shut the refrigerator door, crashing about the kitchen as he orchestrated his “special surprise” for her. By the time she reached the bedroom, Terry was nothing more than a dull ache somewhere in the back of her brain.

  It was almost dark outside by now. The lights were off in the bedroom, but David had lit their candle. She was touched by the faith he had shown by allowing a naked flame to burn on the top floor of their tinderbox house, showing unfloundering trust that she would soon be returning. She peeled off her clothes quickly, wanting to be in place, naked and ready, when her husband made his entrance.

  When he appeared in the doorway, he was carrying a tray containing a green bottle of champagne, two iced champagne glasses, and a few other assorted shapes that Jessica couldn’t make out in the dim candlelight.

  “What have you got there?” she asked, craning her neck to get a better look, but modestly holding the sheet up around her neck.

  “You’ll see,” David replied with a mysterious smile. It was obvious to Jessica that he was enjoying this immensely. He sat down on the bed next to her and placed the tray between them. She noticed then that the sheets were different from the ones that had been on that morning, when she had made the bed. So he had put on fresh ones—her favorites, no less, the flowery pink Laura Ashley ones left over from her days as a single woman, a set that she rarely used anymore.

  “First we have to drink a toast.’’ His dark eyes were glowing; whether that was from some sense of rejuvenation or simply from the candlelight, Jessica couldn’t quite tell.

  “Okay. What should we toast?”

  “Why, us, of course.”

  Jessica forced a smile. “Okay, then. To us.”

  “To us.”

  As she lifted her glass to her lips, Jessica felt David’s gently restraining hand on her arm. She watched him, only momentarily puzzled, as he threaded his arm through hers so that they would be forced to drink their champagne with certain body parts interfaced.

  My, he’s getting corny, thought Jessica. But it was kind of nice.

  “Look. Your favorite,’’ he announced next. From underneath the tents made of linen napkins emerged a dinner of Chinese food, a staple back in their days as newlyweds but something they rarely thought of ordering in these days. There were egg rolls, rice, and two of their favorites from olden times, chicken with cashews and beef with broccoli.

  “Oh, David. You remembered everything.”

  “Except the fortune cookies.” He frowned as he surveyed the tray. “I guess I left those downstairs.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. We don’t need any inside information on the future, do we?”

  “I hope not,” he replied. Then, brightly, he said, “So here are your chopsticks, and I’ve got a bunch of napkins.”

  “Wow. Champagne, Chinese food, clean sheets, candlelight,” said Jessica. “This is heaven.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” David did, indeed, look pleased. Perhaps even a little bit smug, as if he were confident that he was proving to his wife not only that he valued her, but also that he knew how to let her know it.

  They chatted amiably, not only about how difficult it was to eat in bed, with chopsticks no less, but also about the things that had been going on with each of them. Jessica was careful to edit her report, but she did tell him about her futile effort to play sleuth that morning at the Sea Glen.

  David, meanwhile, briefed her on his plan for starting his own business as a free-lance engineer. She forced herself not to think about the nervousness she was bound to feel during a period of financial insecurity, reminding herself every seven seconds or so that as a responsible adult, David had every right to make his own choices about his career.

  And then, when the champagne was gone and the two of them had eaten about a third of the Chinese food, David gathered everything together on the tray and deposited it on the dresser.

  “And now . . .” he said, leering at her.

  And then everything changed. Suddenly it was all too much for her. First Terry and her confused feelings for him. Now David, her husband, suddenly turning on the charm after a particularly difficult period, during which disappointment and frustration had been as much a part of her life as the peanut butter sandwiches she always seemed to be making.

  He was asking too much, she realized. Or at least more than she could give right now.

  “David, I can’t,” she said softly.

  “What’s the matter?” He was trying to sound sympathetic, but there was definitely at least a hint of irritation showing through.

  “I don’t know. I just feel so ... so confused.”

  “Confused? About what?”

  “I don’t even know. You, me, my life, everything.”

  “You feel confused . . . about me?”

  By now the mood was completely shattered. David sat up in bed and snapped on the light. Where once there had been candlelight and shadows, there was now half-eaten Chinese food and a terrible fire hazard.

  “I’m not sure what it is, David. You were right before when you said that things between us haven’t been that great lately.”

  “I didn’t say that,” he insisted, indignant. “I believe that what I said was that things between us had been a bit strained lately.”

  “Well, whatever. The point is that I can’t just turn on me intimacy all of a sudden, as if we were dealing with a faucet or something.”

  David was thoughtful for a few seconds. “W
ell, maybe you’re right. Maybe things are more serious than that. Maybe it was naive of me to think that champagne and egg rolls could cure whatever it is that’s ailing us.”

  “Maybe it’s not us,” Jessica offered, making one more attempt at this tense situation, one for which she felt totally responsible. “Maybe it’s just me.”

  But David had already left the room, pulling on a bathrobe before stalking out the door, gripping the tray as if he were trying to hold on to a lot more than leftovers.

  Chapter Eighteen

  There was something hostile, even threatening, about nightfall in the suburbs. In the city, the darkness had contained an element of excitement for Jessica, the promise that at any moment something wonderful might happen. It was a feeling that was reflected off the bright lights throbbing against the backdrop of blackness.

  Out here in suburbia, however, the blackness of night was deep and forbidding. It seemed to absorb whatever dared to venture out. Dark streets were illuminated only sporadically, the feeble bulbs in the streetlights striving valiantly but with little success to take back the night. Everywhere there were long shadows that lay in wait like animals. They remained motionless for a time, then moved suddenly, with no warning and for no good reason. In between the houses lurked more ominous blackness, hollows tucked among the shrubs, between the garages, at the edges of empty lots, gray undefined areas that could contain . . . well, almost anything. And superimposed over it all was the fact that somewhere out there, a murderer was skulking around.

  Jessica sat upright on the living room couch, West Point-style, staring at the television screen, unable to relax. She couldn’t let down her guard, not now. Except for Sammy, asleep upstairs, she was alone in the house.

  And the simple truth was that Jessica had never quite mastered the art of being alone in a house at night. She heard sounds, many of them the same ones that went on all the time but that never seemed to matter much until there was no one else around. The hot-water heater turning on, the gate with the capricious latch banging against the side of the house, the neighbor’s cat prowling around, looking for some late-night action. Any one of these could turn out to be totally innocuous ... or it could turn out to be a warning signal that an uninvited visitor was about to pay a call.

  “You’re a grown-up now,” she reminded herself, talking in a normal tone of voice even though there was no one else in the room. “So what if you’re all alone in this big, creaky house? So what if David is in Boston, two hundred miles away? You don’t need him or anybody else to protect you from things that go bump in the night.”

  Besides, the voice of reason went on encouragingly, the doors and windows are all locked. And it’s a known fact that if the television is on loud enough, it’s guaranteed to make potential intruders think that there’s a wild party going on. Or else that whoever lives in the house is extremely hard of hearing.

  Most important to her right now was the fact that she had the good fortune to be the owner of a telephone. At the moment she had it right next to her on the couch, its hard plastic form leaning comfortingly against her thigh. This was her lifeline, her source of communication, her connection with the outside world. In the event of something, anything out of the ordinary, like the sound of breaking glass down around the basement windows or the arrival on her front steps of a large angry-looking man wielding a not-easily-identifiable metal object, all she had to do was dial 9-1-1 and help would be on its way.

  She tried not to think about the things that could happen in the three or four short minutes before the police arrived.

  With a loud sigh, Jessica reached for that week’s issue of Total. Hopefully she would manage to find something more appropriate for the occasion than some old Alfred Hitchcock rerun or one of those teenaged movies in which a pretty blond babysitter with about as much sense as a jar of applesauce is terrorized by some horrible thing—perhaps of this world, perhaps not.

  She poured herself a glass of wine and turned up the volume. Then she attempted to lose herself in a television show informing the world about Morgan Fairchild’s latest decorating endeavor. At the very least, an evening spent this way would enable her to converse comfortably with her mother.

  The wine had just begun to relax her when the telephone rang. She jumped as the shrill sound-cut into the room like a scream. A loud scream, too, since it was emanating from an apparatus that was leaning languorously against her leg, rather like a pet cat.

  Her first thought was, Don’t answer it! But ignoring a ringing telephone was something she had never been good at. It could be David, after all; he could even be in some kind of trouble. Or it could be her mother or her brother Peter or Nikki or any number of people who might need her.

  “Hello?” she said breathlessly.

  “Well, hello there, Jessica.”

  “Terry.” She swallowed hard. “It’s you.”

  “Gee, and here I was hoping for something more along the lines of, ‘Why, Terry! What a treat it is to hear your voice!’”

  “Oh, I’m just a little jumpy tonight, that’s all.” She laughed nervously.

  “Uh-oh. Don’t tell me you’ve been hitting the caffeine again.’’

  “No, it’s just that I’m alone in the house, and that always gives me the creeps.”

  “Alone? Where is everybody?”

  “Actually, Sammy is here, but he doesn’t really count. At least not when he’s asleep and not making any noise to distract me. David’s out of town, in Boston. He’s at a three-day conference. So for now it’s just me holding down the fort.”

  There was a long pause. “That’s not an invitation, is it?”

  “Uh, thanks, but I don’t think so.” Thinking quickly, she added, “To tell you the truth, I’m kind of tired. I thought it’d be a good night to turn in early and catch up on my sleep.’’

  “Too bad.” In a softer voice, one that definitely had intimate overtones, Terry said, “You know, Jess, I’ve been sitting here all alone, missing you. I mean, our last encounter ended so abruptly. I feel like we need to talk, you and I.”

  “Gee, I’m sorry, Terry,” she said brightly, “but this really isn’t a very good time.”

  Another long pause. “Are you sure that’s all it is?’’ She could hear his quiet breathing. “I’d like to see you again, Jessica. On whatever terms you want. It’s up to you to call all the shots— scout’s honor.’’

  “I need some time, Terry,” she said. Her voice sounded oddly husky.

  “All right,” he agreed. “I understand that, Jess. But please, don’t keep me waiting too long. I’m here if you want me. In fact, I’ll be here all evening, in case you change your mind. Who knows?’’ he added. “Maybe I’ll find it so intolerable without you that I’ll come and hunt you down.’’

  When she hung up the telephone, Jessica was shaking. The memory of the other day—and what had almost happened the other day—was suddenly fresh in her mind. And she no longer knew what was worse: her fear of being alone in the house or the temptation to use that fear as an excuse to invite Terry over.

  But she was certain of one thing; watching Morgan Fairchild drape sheets over bay windows to create makeshift balloon shades was no longer going to cut the mustard. She leaned over and snapped off the set, aware of how quickly the silence of the house surrounded her once again.

  After only a moment’s consideration, Jessica picked up the telephone again.

  * * * *

  “I’m so glad you could come over, Lorraine,” Jessica said breathlessly as she ushered her next-door neighbor into the living room and offered her the most comfortable chair in the house.

  “Oh, I wasn’t doing much,” Lorraine replied with a wave of her hand. “Big Jim and I were just watching TV, that’s all. And he wouldn’t even let me watch the show I wanted to watch. There was this really fascinating thing on. Morgan Fairchild was demonstrating how to make balloon shades out of sheets.’’

  “Gee, I’m sorry I missed that. Hey, can I get you anyt
hing? Some wine? Oh, that’s right. You’re not much of a drinker, are you? How about coffee, then? I’ve got decaf.”

  Jessica had always discouraged Lorraine Denholm’s dropping by whenever there was a lull in her day—while waiting for the kitchen floor to dry, for example, or while killing time before four o’clock, when the back-and-forth switching between Oprah and Phil would commence. Tonight, however, anything was preferable to being alone.

  “Oh, nothing for me, thanks. I just finished cleaning up all the stuff from dinner, and usually by the time I’ve gotten that whole ordeal out of the way, the last thing I want to do is eat.

  “Gee, the house looks great.” She looked around, nodding approvingly. “What have you done in here?”

  “Actually, nothing major. I just straightened up a little.”

  “Oh, really?’’ There was a short pause. “You should do that more often. So where’s David tonight?”

  “He’s away. Up in Boston, at a conference. He’ll be gone for a few days. Something boring, as usual. This one is on beams, I think.” Jessica had sat back down on the couch, observing how different everything felt now that there was someone else in the room with her. Her wine was long gone, but its calming effect remained. In fact, her fears of half an hour earlier were almost beginning to seem downright silly.

  “You don’t mind being alone?”

  “Oh, no. In fact, it’s . . . Well, it sounds kind of silly now, but I was getting a little bit nervous tonight, being in the house by myself and all.”

  Lorraine smiled. “Hearing all those strange noises that you never noticed before?”

  “Sort of. Actually, I’ve been extra wary because of the murders.”

  “Of course. Who hasn’t been? I’m always extra careful about locking my doors these days, where I used to be much more trusting. . . .”

  Just then the telephone rang. For the second time that evening, Jessica jumped. She let out a tiny cry of surprise.

  “Jess, are you okay?”

  “I guess I’m still a bit spooked. Here, let me just get this.