“Where to begin? I’ve warmed up Marianne’s supper twice, and I think it’s no longer edible; I have the strangest desire to roll around on the floor kicking and screaming like a child whose teddy bear has been dismembered; and I’m drinking pink gin because gin diluted with tonic isn’t up to the job. Oh, and I can no longer find time to empty my compost bin. I had to dump the coffee grounds in the regular bin, which means I am now a delinquent recycler.”
“Oookay,” she said. The dumping of the coffee grounds seemed to be the big issue. Was he losing it on her? “What’s pink gin?”
“Neat Plymouth and a splash of Angostura bitters.”
“Just what the doctor ordered?” Jade took another bite of muffin. Hmm.
“Indeed. It feels like a flamethrower on my throat, which is exactly what I need after an afternoon of shopping.” Gabriel slowed to his normal talking pace. “The cupboard under my stairs is stuffed with bags from a lingerie shop called Agent Provocateur. I’ve had to hide them so I don’t either give my cleaning lady a heart attack or start a village rumor that I’m a pervert.”
Jade sat still. “What’s Marianne doing right now?”
Winnie placed a huge porcelain cup of cappuccino in front of her with a heart-shaped swirl in the froth. Thank you, Jade mouthed.
“She’s been conducting a one-woman fashion show for the last hour. Thankfully it excludes the underwear.”
“How much stuff did she buy?”
“Enough to fill my boot and the entire backseat. Is Darius a millionaire?”
“No.” Jade stood up. “Is that music in the background?”
Gabriel sighed. “Yes. Not content with buying up half an outlet mall, she also downloaded a ton of new music to my iTunes account. And bought me a speaker that looks like a tiny black ball. Hang on a sec. Marianne, could you please turn that down for the neighbors’ sake?”
The music got louder.
“You might want to close the door,” Jade said.
“I already did.”
“Ah. Your turn to wait a sec.” She asked Winnie for a to-go cup and then transferred the cappuccino from the ceramic cup into the paper one. With any luck Gabriel could deal with a Marianne crisis more calmly than Darius. Still, she would proceed with caution. You never knew with guys, most of them being such babies.
“Did this shopping, by any chance, include useless items purchased in bulk?”
“You judge. I’m now the proud owner of ten pairs of slippers. I don’t wear slippers.”
“Ten?” Hopefully Darius wouldn’t discover that his wife had been buying personal items for another man. Certainly not now that he’d found the focus to become a producer at the top of his game.
“If I can’t return them, I’ll donate them to the next village jumble sale. At least she’ll be supporting a good cause.” Gabriel sipped his drink. “I spoke to my friend Hugh earlier.”
“And what did he say?”
“If he had concerns, he kept them to himself, but he did tell me, twice, that I should not hesitate to call the police if I thought she was a danger to herself or me. He’s working tonight, but he’s coming over first thing tomorrow.”
“How’s her sleeping?”
“Nonexistent.”
“Can you stay up with her tonight, until your buddy can get there?”
“Jade, the moment we hang up she’s not leaving my sight unless she’s in the loo. And don’t worry, I’ve already removed the razor blades from the bathroom.”
The good news was that he seemed to have coping skills. She could push harder. “I know she’s told you numerous times that she’s taking her meds, but you need to snoop. You’ll have to find them and count them.”
“Invading someone’s privacy contradicts all my beliefs.”
“I hate to break it to you, but you have to change your belief system for mania. I’m assuming Hugh agrees she’s manic?”
“He’s a professional. He’s not going to offer a diagnosis over the phone. Why, what do you think?”
Great. Life always came down to what she thought. Jade peered out of the café windows. The rain was falling sideways. “If you want my opinion, she’s manic. And my gut’s telling me she’s off her meds. Which means we need to get a handle on this. Okay?”
Jade shoved what remained of her muffin into her mouth and swallowed.
“I won’t have her locked up, Jade. She’s been institutionalized once because of me. I’m not putting her through that a second time.”
“Back up a minute. I’m not talking about anyone going to the nuthouse, so no worries. We’re both on the same page, and I’m going to get you through this.” As soon as it stops raining. “You’ll have to trust me, but first—confession time, Father.” She drew out the word Father, heavy on the irony, and walked over to the counter to hand Winnie the Nightjar credit card.
“Do you have any respect for my office?” Gabriel laughed. A feeble laugh, but it was a start. He just needed to hold it together until she could get back to the studio, pull Darius out of the session, and set her backup plan in motion. The one she’d concocted after her first phone conversation with Gabriel, and the reason she had an overnight bag stowed in Ernie’s trunk and her passport in her messenger bag.
“Truthfully? I’m not a believer, and you’re still a man. A good man, I’m sure, but flesh and blood and full of human frailty.”
Winnie gave her a look, and Jade shrugged.
“Few people make that distinction. Most talk to the collar. Some days I feel the weight of people’s preconceptions—that priests are holy and wise and above reproach. And yet Christ was the suffering servant, and priests are wounded healers.”
Shit. Was he going to give her Bible study next?
“Yeah. Listen, we need to get serious for a minute.” She turned away from Winnie and went back to the window. “I’ve been waiting for this, for her to come off her meds. Nothing tangible, only the gut instinct I have with all things Marianne. Because whatever her endgame, I suspect she wants to do this the hard way. Lots of self-punishment for all the guilt.”
“Endgame? As in suicide?”
Great, Jade, fucking great. Way to reassure him. “I was thinking more about psychosis. She’s not hallucinating, is she?”
“No.”
“Good, that’s good.”
Rain battered the café window. If it didn’t ease up soon, she’d make a run for it and leave the coffees behind.
“Gabriel?” she said. “Talk to me.”
“I’m hopeless at asking for help, but”—his voice competed with a burst of static—“Jade? Help?”
“You’ve got it.” And then she ran back into the rain as her phone sounded a weather alert.
SIXTEEN
DARIUS
Cabin lights dimmed, blinds drawn, the plane rumbled toward his destiny with zero turbulence.
Darius pulled back his legs as Jade stumbled over him yet again to go pee. He should probably have cut her off after the second round of vodkas, which, he couldn’t help but notice, she’d paid for using the company credit card. Maybe shrink number whatever had been right, and he was a classic enabler. At the time it was the word classic that had ticked him off. But thinking about it now, while squashed into the back row of an overbooked transatlantic flight and disturbed by the stereo of every toilet flush, it was the codependent tag that grated.
Behind him the flight attendants chatted; down the aisle a baby cried. He should have packed earplugs. He should have packed, period. But the second Jade had returned, soaked through and without the band’s chai lattes, he knew there was no time to grab more than his wallet, passport, laptop, two changes of clothes, and his toothbrush. And download the new Stephen King, which he’d been meaning to read since June. He’d been meaning to do lots of things since way before June, but his life was disappearing down the sinkhole of another marriage gone south.
He threw his head back against the plastic headrest. This time was meant to be different, and it had been
, because he knew the woman he loved was crazy when he married her. She never hid that fact. From the moment he scribbled his cell number on a paper napkin and tried so hard to play it cool—being Marianne, she saw right through him—he wanted to fall at her feet and say, “Love me for all eternity.” Marianne was the real deal minus all the pretentious shit. Sexy, funny, smart, compassionate, she could spot talent better than half the people he’d worked with in LA. But she didn’t want fame and glory. She chose to work with teenagers and unknowns. People who were as lost as Jade.
Everyone who ended up at Marianne’s door—he and Jade included—was running from something. Jade kept her personal life private, but there was darkness in her backstory. He’d bet his reputation on it. Not that he ever delved into Jade’s past, and he knew zip about her dating life. Come to think of it, he was always dumping on her, and she never reciprocated. Jade knew all about his long history of choosing the wrong women. Except Marianne wasn’t the wrong woman. For the first time in his life, she’d been the right woman. She loved him, she accepted him; didn’t care about his family name or his reputation. She wanted nothing but him. And he’d wanted nothing except unconditional love from her. And now? The restroom door crashed open and he covered his nose and mouth against a fresh assault of chemical toilet. Now? Despite the itching need to throttle her for giving him the worst case of déjà vu, he missed Marianne so much he was burning up from the inside out. Maybe that meant he too was crazy.
Jade lunged for him as she tripped over his leg. He really should have intervened instead of letting the flight attendant believe the two doubles Jade kept buying were for sharing.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Suuure. Fire away, boss.”
“You’re a beautiful, talented woman. Why don’t you date?”
“None of your fucking business.” She pulled up her armrest and fell against his chest.
Easing one arm around her, he reached down to retrieve his blanket from the floor and tucked her in.
“Darius,” Jade said quietly. “I’ve got this.” And then she fell asleep while he stared at the covered windows, waiting for dawn.
SEVENTEEN
GABRIEL
Gabriel snapped awake to Marianne yelling inches from his ear. Wiping what appeared to be saliva off his cheek, he leaned back from the kitchen table into a pool of morning sunlight. Outside, council workers pushed wheelie bins down the lane. “Alright, mate?” one of them called; another one whistled. Bin day and he’d forgotten to put his out, but then again, the minutiae of life had ceased to exist. His world had tumbled into an abyss of two.
Marianne danced around the kitchen table in his U2 T-shirt. At what point would her body, poisoned by exhaustion and lack of food, cease to function?
All that shopping and still she slept in his old clothes. Not that she had slept. He glimpsed a ray of hope around two a.m. when she announced it was time to brush her teeth, and he managed to pull on his PJ bottoms before she flew out of the bathroom in the middle of a tirade. He never manage to put on a T-shirt. Not that he needed one. The house had been insufferably warm all night, the air heavy and stale.
Now what was she doing? She was riffling through the dumper drawer where he kept elastic bands, biros, and . . . Oh no. He’d hidden all the knives in the rectory and forgotten about his Swiss Army knife. And Marianne knew exactly what to do with a penknife.
Bugger it, where was Hugh?
Pushing back his chair, he walked over to open the kitchen window, and the moment she flitted off to something else, he closed the drawer with his hip. As soon as she left the kitchen, he would retrieve the penknife and toss it in the bin.
“Did you hear what I said?” Marianne screamed. “Brilliance!”
“Yes. Marianne. I was listening.”
“Liar liar sleepyhead!”
Coffee, he would make coffee. Not for her—an appalling idea—but for him. Fill the kettle, plug it in, put the ground coffee in the cafetière. Yes, that was manageable. He stood by the kitchen sink and concentrated on the ping of water hitting the metal bottom of the kettle.
“What was I saying?” she yelled.
If they made it through the day, never again would he take his solitary existence for granted: the silence that hung in his empty house at two a.m. and that first cup of coffee before his phone started ringing and people appeared in his kitchen making demands. He needed a shower; he needed fresh clothes; he needed a gap in time to pray, to breathe, to fill his kettle.
“If I recall correctly, you’re going to win the lottery, get me backstage passes to the next U2 show, and you’re a prophet. Did I miss anything?”
“Global Girls In Motion! In Bedford. In memory. Simon!” She threw her arms wide.
Highly doubtful that Simon, dead or alive, would appreciate the gesture. His musical taste had started with Genesis and ended with Phil Collins. To this day Gabriel couldn’t listen to a Phil Collins love song.
Marianne jabbered through a slalom race of incomplete sentences left hanging in nothing but air. If only she would stop: stop moving, stop talking. If only she would sleep. God help him, he wanted to grab her shoulders, get in her face, and scream, “Enough!” One more day of this and he’d be pleading with Hugh to book him into the nearest mental hospital.
“All work and no play makes Gab—” Disjointed fragments flew from her mouth.
Gabriel rubbed his eyes. Which was worse: the eyestrain from trying to watch her, or the splitting headache from trying to follow her thoughts? It was as if he were watching a ridiculously fast rally on center court at Wimbledon, with his telly on the fritz and multiple channels playing at once. Although her thoughts appeared to crash into each other with more topspin than a tennis pro’s serve.
He plugged in the kettle and, tuning her out, picked up his mobile. Nothing from Jade, but their flight probably hadn’t landed. In the meantime he was hanging on tight until Hugh could ride in and save the day. Conferring with professionals when parishioners were in crisis was standard practice, but he’d always maintained emotional distance. Everything Marianne-related, however, went straight to his core. Once again she’d shot down his defenses.
“Quit your job! Move to . . . Caribbean. Dance!” Marianne tripped and slammed into the fridge.
“Are you—”
“Gabriel has a girlfriend,” Marianne sang over and over. “I saw you. Texting. Smiling.”
“No, I don’t, I—” Why bother to reason with insanity?
She turned the music back up and started singing in screeches of frantic energy blasted through a voice worn thin. The lyrics made no sense, and she jumped from one verse to another, her angelic voice perverted into a pneumatic drill shattering his skull.
Where the bloody hell was Hugh?
Marianne skipped into the living room. He followed—coffee unmade, penknife still in the drawer. She dropped to her knees, scribbling over the lined pad he’d given her when she announced she was writing the great American novel. Ripping out the page, she tossed it onto the pile of screwed-up balls of paper that had created a small snowdrift in front of the patio doors and started singing again.
“Marianne,” he said. “I know you love to sing, but would you be so kind as to implement five minutes of silence?” Before my eardrums explode.
“Boring boring boring!” she sang, and started to pull off her T-shirt. Gabriel covered his eyes at the first flash of stomach. His U2 T-shirt landed on his head.
Marianne cackled—yes, cackled. And then ran upstairs like a torpedo and slammed the bathroom door. The doorbell rang and seconds later rang again. Hugh normally knocked and walked in, as did everyone who knew the rectory had an open-door policy between nine a.m. and nine p.m.
“Come in, Hugh,” he called out.
The bell rang again. Oh, for Pete’s sake.
“Hugh, I told you—”
The bell kept going.
With a glance upstairs at the closed bathroom door, Gabriel shrugged on
the still-warm T-shirt in his hand and headed down the hall.
“Hugh, you don’t have to—” He yanked open his front door, but Hugh wasn’t standing on his doorstep. It was a couple who seemed more suited to a fashionable life in London than breakfast in Newton Rushford. The man, who glowered at Gabriel as if he were an insect worthy of squashing, had a mass of shoulder-length hair—dark but turning gray—and was wearing a black leather waistcoat over a tight long-sleeved T-shirt, rolled up to reveal tattoos on both forearms. Rather muscular forearms. He was also carrying a laptop and had a black duffle slung over his shoulder. The young woman had smooth caramel skin, hacked hair in the most alarming shade of clown red, and appeared to be weaving around. The knee-length black canvas boots laced with tartan ribbons and worn with a tiny black miniskirt were an interesting choice, too. Half falling against the doorjamb, she looked him up and down with huge brown eyes. The absence of makeup compensated for all the hardware stapled into her ears. But not the diamond stud in her cheek.
She dumped a leopard-print duffle bag at his feet. “Not bad looking for an older white dude. But don’t worry, Father, I gave up men for Lent.”
“Jade?”
“Yup.” She reached into her jacket pocket and held up two pill bottles. “And we brought emergency supplies. Not easy to organize with only a few hours’ notice.”
Until that precise moment, Gabriel hadn’t realized he’d pictured a woman to match the voice and the texts. Someone soft and pretty. Yes, she could have been beautiful—how surprising that she was black—but she’d worked hard to disguise that beauty. Jade in person was all jagged lines that said, Leave me alone. The hair was appalling.
“Where the fuck is my wife?” the angry guy said.
“Darius?” Gabriel extended his hand. Darius didn’t take it. Instead he frowned at Gabriel’s bare feet, and Gabriel nearly said, I don’t wear slippers, and I certainly didn’t ask your wife to buy me a lifetime supply. His cheeks burned.
Darius’s eyes moved up to Gabriel’s chest. “I hate U2,” he said.
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