Her eyes ran along the small mantelpiece: a Palm Sunday cross, an angel Christmas tree ornament, a framed ticket stub for the U2 360˚ Tour. Ha! Darius would puke.
Swiveling Gabriel’s desk chair back and forth, she squinted at his computer. A Dell? How quaint. She was an Apple girl. She hopped into the chair, her thighs making sucking noises against the plastic seat. Giggling, she tugged down the ends of Gabriel’s old T-shirt, but it wasn’t long enough to cover her lace panties.
Gabriel had been on her case to buy some clothes, and he was right. She was living in his old T-shirts—like she used to. Given his skill for shrinking clothes in the wash, she’d had no choice but to take over his laundry. And reorganize his kitchen cabinets so he could actually find stuff. Had he always been this disorganized?
Marianne cracked her knuckles and hit the “Return” key. He left his computer on sleep? How very trusting. Anyone could browse his web history, discover his dirty little secrets. Did he look at porn?
How do you feel about sex these days, Gabriel? Nothing like your brother on that score.
Sexy underwear—a must! And designer jeans that showed off her still-toned butt! And tight-fitting tops with cleavage. Tons of cleavage. She bounced her boobs with her hands. Yup, the girls were still looking good. And she definitely needed shoes. Wedges and flip-flops since summer had finally arrived in England. So cold when she’d landed, but now it must be close to eighty. Capris definitely. Could you buy shorts in England?
She checked all her favorite designer outlet sites and tried to place a few orders. None of them accepted her card. She called her credit card company, explained that she was in England—made up a return date since that seemed so important to the voice at the other end of the phone line—and started again. A few places had a problem with the UK shipping address, which she took from the unopened mail on Gabriel’s desk. She should sort his mail for him. Wait! The Google gods be praised. Oxfordshire had a huge designer outlet mall. Marianne flattened her hand over her chest and squealed. All those stores only an hour’s drive away. Gabriel would take her.
Her hands fluttered around as she searched Gabriel’s desk for a pen.
“Gabriel?” she called out when the stairs creaked. “Take me shopping?”
He appeared in the doorway, barefoot, wearing a too-small T-shirt—another laundry mishap—and slouch pants. His hair was sticking up every which way. Beyond cute. Kinda hot actually. Like an older Simon. Marianne gave her most radiant smile.
“Marianne, can you turn down the music, please? It’s seven in the morning, and I have neighbors, who—”
“You never used to be so boring!” She turned the music back up. “All work and no play makes Gab—” The guy needed slippers. Lots of slippers! She’d buy him a whole closet full of slippers.
Gabriel frowned, which wasn’t the response she’d been going for.
“Your mood’s changed,” he said.
“Yeah, how about that? I feel great! And we need to go clothes shopping. Why didn’t you tell me there was a designer outlet mall somewhere called Bicester?”
“That’s in Oxfordshire.” He scowled. “And it’s Thursday.”
“So?”
“I write my sermons on Thursday. And I have to meet with a family I’m preparing for baptism at six. And I need to . . .”
He droned on and on for all eternity. What drivel. She jumped up, and he stared bug-eyed at her legs. Seriously? He’d seen way more than her legs by the time she’d sprouted breast buds.
“Guess you don’t go skinny dipping in the river anymore?” She flashed her eyes at him.
“No.”
“Good golly, Miss Molly, don’t be such an old fart. Let’s fix breakfast and go shopping. Be a wild vicar and write your sermons on Friday. You need slippers and I need shoes. I have tons of money to spend. Darius is megarich. With family money! I can buy whatever I want. Darius will pay! And I want you to have slippers. My treat. Your feet must be so cold.”
“I like going barefoot.” Now he was plain old sulky. “I have a full day planned, Marianne. There’s only so much I can palm off on Donald and my lay band.”
“But it’s so boring, and I thought you were taking a leave of absence to deal with this long-lost family member who needs to go shopping because she doesn’t have a thing to wear.” She put on the pout Darius could never resist. “Pretty please?”
“Marianne, I have to work.”
“Be boring, then. I’m a grown woman. I’ll go by myself.” She waved her arms and laughed. “But you’re missing out big-time. I’m a world-class shopper. Do you have a GPS? Can I borrow that little thing on wheels you call a car?”
“No.” He turned and shuffled toward the kitchen.
When had Gabriel ever said no to her—except when she’d cornered him with those condoms? How had she ended up with the only seventeen-year-old guy who didn’t believe in premarital sex? And why did that still piss her off?
He opened the pantry door. “Did you clean out my cupboards?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Gorgeous day, all those birds tweeting away like they’re extras in a Disney movie. And your house is a disaster, so I’ve reorganized your kitchen. I could paint it if you like. Put some color in here. Your walls are so fucking drab.”
“Why are you swearing, Marianne?”
“Why the fuck not?”
He rubbed his forehead. “You don’t normally use such colorful language.”
“Fuckety-fuck-fuck. Hey. I can reorganize your study next.”
“Don’t even think about it. And please don’t clean anywhere else. Mrs. Tandy will be here at nine, and she’s very particular.”
Borrring. “Cancel the cleaning lady. I’ve taken care of everything. Did the bathroom too. But you’re the one who told me I needed clothes. Look what I’m wearing.” She pulled up her T-shirt, his T-shirt, and a glorious breeze caressed her skin.
He held her gaze. “If you want to have a conversation with me, please go upstairs and put some clothes on.”
“But that’s the whole point! I don’t have any clothes. Only brought one outfit with me. Now what’s this about not borrowing your car?”
“Marianne”—he turned his back on her—“have you ever driven in England?”
“No but—”
“Can you drive a manual?”
“A what?”
“A nonautomatic car. One with a gear stick.”
“A stick shift? God no. But how hard can it be?”
He sighed. “I’ll take you this afternoon. But I need to be back for my meeting at six.”
“Why wait that long?” She pirouetted.
“It’s seven a.m. I’m pretty sure most shops don’t open before ten.”
“But that’s hours to wait. I want to go shopping.” She put her hands on her hips. “What d’you want for breakfast? Do you have English muffins? I’ll go see if the village shop sells them.”
She made a move toward the door, and he blocked her way.
“No,” he said. “You’re not.”
“Not what?”
“Going down the village half naked.”
“You’re not my keeper, Gabriel Bonham. What’s the matter? Been a while since you saw a girl in lacy panties?” She snapped the side of her Hanky Panky boy shorts.
“John’s doesn’t open for two hours. And if you wander down the High Street dressed as you are, someone will have you arrested for public nudity.” He pulled a loaf from the bread box and hacked off a piece with the bread knife. “I’m going to have Marmite toast at my desk, but if you want bacon and eggs, please help yourself. Give me until one, and then I’ll take you into Bedford. There’s a decent Marks and Sparks there.”
“Are you joking? Mom used to shop there for work clothes.”
He jammed a thick slice of bread into the toaster and pulled out a plate and a knife.
“I want designer stuff. From the Bicester outlet place. And you need new jeans.”
“New jeans are expensi
ve.”
What a grump. “That’s what credit cards are for. God doesn’t care about debt. Your jeans look as if—”
“As if what?” He opened a cabinet door. “What did you do with my Marmite?”
“You mean this?” She snatched it from the counter and held it above her head.
“Marianne.” He sighed. “Please give me my Marmite.”
“Not until you tell me where you get your jeans from,” she sang.
“Oxfam,” he said.
“A thrift store? Honey, no wonder they don’t fit! Time for a makeover. Don’t you care what you look like?”
Gabriel grabbed the Marmite out of her hand and backed away. “I’m a vicar on a vicar’s salary. And no, I don’t care.”
“Would you stop saying no? Darius never says no to me.”
“A husband’s burden. I, being free of any such obligations, get to say no.”
“Dearest Gaaabriel, please take me to the outlet mall. For old times’ sake?”
Gabriel yanked his toast from the toaster, picked up the plate and knife, and shot from the room. Without bothering to zap a cup of coffee.
“Be ready to leave at one,” he called from the hallway. “And do not go down the village wearing nothing but knickers and my old Elvis Costello T-shirt.”
FOURTEEN
GABRIEL
Clutching the makings of breakfast to his chest like a talisman, Gabriel leaned back against his study door. Mental note: take the car keys off the hook in the kitchen. Although worrying about Marianne using his car without permission seemed the least of his problems.
Never before had he considered the need for bolts, chains, and heavy-duty locks. Heart racing like the clappers, he gave a quick apology to God for his brief lustful thought about a married woman. He also assured God he would not be venturing into the rest of the house until Mrs. Tandy had made her presence known. She would, no doubt, rap on his door the moment she arrived and then express her opinions on the clean kitchen cupboards. Since Mrs. Tandy was thorough in her venting, more sermon-writing time would be lost. He pushed off the door and put his breakfast things down on the desk. Great, he’d forgotten the butter.
Punishment for the lustful thought, God?
He accidentally nudged his computer, and it lit up with scantily clad young women advertising some shop called Agent Provocateur. Did Marianne expect him to take her to a lingerie shop that sold—he leaned closer—something called Naughty Styles? Quickly, he turned off the Internet and opened a file on his desktop labeled “July27Sermon.” It was blank.
Seductive Marianne, looking at him like a very randy, very married woman who wanted to eat him alive, was more disturbing than the busty mother of five who often licked her lips at him as he handed out the sacrament.
He closed his eyes. He had withstood temptation many times, and surely this was part of her illness. Yesterday Hugh had suggested she might be hypersexual, which could be a symptom of hypomania. But Gabriel assured him Marianne had been a sexual creature since the moment she hit puberty. Although, God help him, he worked hard not to notice for years. And all those months they were “taking a break” and he never suspected she was messing around with someone else, he’d found it impossible to ignore the way her body moved. He would never wish to be seventeen again and at the mercy of all those hormones. Life was much easier at forty-seven. Even if she did still scare the pants off him.
Good Lord. Bad colloquialism.
He spread a thin layer of Marmite on his cold, barely toasted bread and munched his butterless breakfast. If only he could text Jade, but it was still the middle of the night in North Carolina. And what would he report: Marianne’s coming on to me? Besides, he’d insisted he could handle her for a week, and if he wanted to be nitpicky, his week wasn’t up until tomorrow afternoon. How hard could it be to handle this for another twenty-four hours?
Piecing together what Marianne had told him and what he could remember of life before Simon’s death, Marianne had been manic for months leading up to the crash, which meant this stage could go on for a while. Surely the dangerous part came when she hit depression.
He stared at his blank Word document. Temptation might be an appropriate sermon topic. Yesterday it hadn’t bothered him that Marianne was wearing his old clothes. Passing on the cashmere sweater had merely ensured it went to a good home. But how could wearing his gardening T-shirts over her naked breasts be appropriate?
Something heavy landed on the floor above, and the bulb in his desk lamp flickered. He grabbed the noise-canceling headphones Jade had overnighted him earlier in the week. A generous gift that he’d insisted he couldn’t keep, and she’d insisted he could because it would help him tune into nothing but U2. He plugged them into his iPod and started listening to “All That You Can’t Leave Behind.” And then he checked off a to-do list on his fingers: morning prayer, a call to Donald to ask him to visit Mrs. Perkins in the cardiology wing and take Sunday’s services, and lastly, rearrange everything on the calendar until Monday. That would give him plenty of time to observe Marianne like a pro and make a full report to Hugh, which meant shopping was a brilliant idea since he would not be participating.
His pulse slowed and so did his thoughts. With minimal effort—and headphones—he had achieved what Marianne seemed incapable of doing in her present state: he had ordered his mind.
He picked up the framed photograph snapped during a family holiday in Cornwall and stared at his brother. A reel of memories played: Simon wandering into the cemetery, clutching a bottle of vodka stolen from their parents’ drinks cabinet. Luck had been Simon’s friend that night, because alcohol was the fastest way to Marianne’s heart. No one noticed the vodka was missing until after the inquest. His mother went ballistic and screamed all sorts of accusations: Had his brother’s death meant nothing? Did he not understand the findings of the inquest? Was he trying to torture his own mother? Standing by his belief that incriminating a dead person was morally reprehensible, Gabriel kept quiet. To this day, his mother assumed he, not Simon, had stolen the booze.
Would things have been different if he’d tattled on Simon that night? No. Because already it was too late. Even without the benefit of moonlight, he was aware of Marianne sidling up to his brother. As Gabriel walked her home later, he knew something had changed between them. All because Simon couldn’t keep it in his pants; because Simon was weak and selfish; because Simon took whatever he wanted.
Gabriel threw the photograph against the wall, but it landed faceup on the sofa, refusing to smash. A taunt from a ghost.
Right, then. Not quite as calm as he’d thought.
FIFTEEN
JADE
The crepe myrtles thrashed back and forth, the water in the fountain blew sideways, and the green space that normally buzzed with kids and arty types was deserted. Jade looked up at the sky and ran. But not fast enough. Hail pelted her head and shoulders as the clouds dumped a motherfucker of a payload a block and a half from Sweet Winnie’s Café.
She hurled herself inside the door, her stomach rumbling loudly as she eyed the seven-layer bars decorated with coconut flakes and stacked under the glass cake dome. Her personal record was three in one sitting.
“Gracious, girl,” Winnie called from behind the counter. “Have you plumb lost your mind? There’s a severe thunderstorm warning out.”
Jade put her hands on her hips and panted. “Been . . . recording . . . didn’t know . . .” She pointed at the sky.
“Sit yourself down and Winnie’s going to bring you a warm carrot cake muffin on the house. I’m guessing five decaf chai lattes, one double espresso, one cappuccino, and a green tea?”
Jade held up her index finger.
“Only a single shot for Darius today?” Winnie put her hands on her hips and gave a dramatic tut. “He misbehavin’ again?”
Jade gave her the thumbs-up. Being the studio flunky was a new experience, but since the band had settled on Sasha and Darius as their team, Jade had pulled back in
to the shadows. It wasn’t so bad, since it meant she got daily samples of all the baked goods in Winnie’s café. There was a reason this place displayed a wall of framed “Best Of” plaques.
“And can you add a seven-layer bar to the to-go order, please?” Jade sat down at a small table by the window. Something dug into her butt. Shit. She pulled her mercifully dry phone from her back pocket and turned it on, which she should have done the moment she’d left the studio.
A text from Gabriel: Call me.
Double shit.
Sorry, she texted. Control room’s a no cell zone. What’s up?
Give me 2 secs to fix a drink.
“Problem?” Winnie carried over a huge muffin on a square red plate.
Jade inhaled. “Nothing the smell of a warm muffin can’t fix. I owe you big-time.”
Winnie waved her off. “Honey, the good Lord’s not keeping count and neither am I. But you best stay here until that storm’s passed. Looks like we’ve got us a tornado watch.”
“Won’t get any argument from me.” Jade peeled off the paper and took a huge bite of muffin. “You’re the best.”
“So you keep telling me, girl. I’ll bring your cappuccino over while you wait out the storm.”
Going into her contacts, Jade hit the number for the rectory. Gabriel answered on the first ring.
“Rough day?” Jade chose to not think about the cost of a transatlantic phone call.
Echoes of Family Page 11