by Greta Boris
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Art arrived on campus just as classes were getting out for the day. He found Tyler and Emily in the parking lot waiting by his car, but Jason was nowhere to be seen.
"I got an E for Excellent on my report," Emily said, standing on her tiptoes and waving a paper in Art's face while he tried to scan the surrounding area for Jason.
"That's great, honey." Art took the paper from her hand and dropped it to his side out of his line of vision.
"Why's Jason late? He's always late," Emily said.
"He's not always late," Tyler said.
"Is too. Mom says so. She says—" Emily pursed her lips, sucked in her cheeks and said in her best adult imitation, "Jason will be late to his own funeral." She dropped the act, then asked, "How could he be late if he's dead?"
"It's just a saying, sweetheart." Art put a hand over his eyes and turned toward the trees that sheltered the small stream at the end of the property.
"I have ballet at four. He better be here soon, or we'll have to leave without him." Emily circled a lamppost to amuse herself.
"We can't leave without him," Tyler said. "Dad, want me to go inside and see if I can find him? He had math last. I know where his room is."
"No. Hold up, buddy," Art said. "I think I see him."
The sun was in his eyes, but Art could make out two silhouettes slipping out of the trees and crossing the grass. He was pretty sure the one with the long, skinny arms and awkward gait was his son. With a sinking feeling, he noted the other looked like the older Pratt boy.
After everyone was belted into the car, Art said, "What were you doing down by the water?"
"Nothing," Jason said, his tone sullen.
"You were late," Art said.
Jason shrugged and looked out the window.
Art was too tired to deal with teen drama right now. The conversation with Olivia had added another layer of problems to his life. He felt drained. Nobody spoke for the rest of the ride home, not even Emily.
"You guys keep it quiet, okay?" Art said as he opened the front door. "Mom's got a headache. She might be sleeping."
The kids scattered, the boys to the kitchen to forage for a snack and Emily to her room to change into her leotard. Art walked to his bedroom and opened the door a crack. The bed was empty, but light slid out from under the bathroom door.
He walked across the room, put a hand on the knob and spoke softly. "Gwen."
"What?" she said, her voice muffled by the wood.
"How're you feeling, honey?"
"My head hurts," she said.
"Can I come in?"
"Why?"
"So I don't have to talk to you through the door," Art said with a small laugh.
"K," she said.
The bathroom was warm, steamy, and smelled like lavender. Art closed the door behind him. Gwen was submerged in a mountain of bubbles. A glass of wine rested on the rim of the tub and a half-filled bottle was on the floor. Her eyes were closed.
"Are you sure wine is good for a headache?" he asked.
"It's good for this headache," she said, her words clip and distant.
"Something bad happen? Your day okay?"
"Fine," she said, then fell silent.
Gwen wasn't prone to headaches. If she did get one, it generally had its roots in stress. Over the years, he'd learned to let her percolate when she got like this. It made things worse if he pushed her to talk. She'd tell him what happened eventually.
Maybe she'd open up when they got to Big Bear. Jason was old enough to watch the younger ones at the campsite for an hour if they went for a hike. They always communicated best when they were out walking. It would be good to leave town, to get away from people, problems, and pavement even if it was just for a few days.
"I'm going to get the camping gear out of the attic after dinner. I guess we can shop for food when we get up there if you're not feeling well," he said. They'd planned to pack for the trip that night so they could leave early the next day.
"I'm not going," Gwen said and slid lower into the water.
Art thought before he spoke. He didn't want to minimize her problem, but it was only a headache. "I'm sure you'll feel better in the morning," he said, modulating his tone to sound sympathetic.
"It's not the headache."
A tickle of anxiety ran up his neck. He needed to get away. "We talked about this on Tuesday. You said this weekend was fine."
"We didn't talk about it," Gwen snapped. "You sent me a text. And it was fine, at the time."
The anxiety turned to irritation. She could be so self-absorbed. And cold. Gwen could really be cold. "Gwen, the kids are looking forward to this. They've—"
"Take them." Her voice was frosty.
She was the one who said they didn't spend enough time together. Here he was trying, and she could care less. What was going on with this family?
"Jason was hanging out by the water again today with David Pratt. I didn't smell pot, but I don't like it. It's a red flag. We need to reconnect as a family." He couldn't keep the frustration from his voice.
"We're signing an offer on the Laguna Beach house tomorrow. Sorry."
She didn't sound sorry.
"Gwen—"
"It's a lot of money. We need it."
Her aim was perfect. The words hit him square in the ego. He left the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Gwen started at the bang of wood on wood. Art was mad. So what? So was she. She reached for her glass of wine and drank.
She was glad he was leaving and taking the kids. She needed a weekend alone to think this through. She didn't want to break up her marriage. She'd experienced the devastation divorce caused first hand. She wasn't willing to have her kids go through the pain she had, but she couldn't look at Art right now.
Her glass was empty. "The story of my life," she mumbled.
Gwen leaned out of the bath, dribbling water and bubbles on the tile, grabbed the bottle, and refilled. Lance's perspective on marriage was beginning to make an inverted kind of sense.
It was a far cry from the idyllic visions she and Art had nattered about in the beginning, when they'd had constellations in their eyes. How young she'd been. How idealistic. She’d really believed she'd found her soul mate. Her hero.
She raised her glass to the ceiling in a toast. "To reality," she said to no one and gulped. Maybe a fling would help her cope with Art's infidelity—an eye for an eye. If someone slaps you, turn the other cheek. It didn't say which cheek. She laughed bitterly.
The water and wine warmed and wooed her. She rubbed her tired legs one against the other. Skin, smooth and slippery, brought images to mind of other legs, other skin. She allowed her thoughts to wander down roads they'd never traversed before. Refill her tank, wasn't that what he'd said?
That sounded good. She'd been running on empty for a long time. No tenderness. No love. No lovemaking. Why not pull up to the pump? The idea of sex with Lance, once planted in her mind, began to take it over like weeds in a garden.
She closed her eyes and submerged hoping the surface of the water would create a barrier strong enough to keep her from reaching for the phone. It lay on the floor next to the tub—a serpent ready to strike. When she came up for air—and more wine—she eyed it again. It flickered to life as if she'd willed it. Gingerly, like someone reaching for a hot coal, she lifted it off the bathmat and opened her text messages.
She read, "You okay?"
After several moments she typed, "Not really."
"What are you doing?" came almost immediately.
"Taking a bath."
Gwen sipped her wine.
"Nice," flashed on her phone.
She paused, then typed, "Still on for tomorrow night?"
"You bet," Lance messaged.
An idea had been forming in her mind while she soaked. "Let's not go to a restaurant," she typed.
"No?"
"Picnic."
"Where?"
He didn't respond for a full minute and a half. It seemed an impossibly long time. She stared at her silent screen until the light dimmed. Had she said the wrong thing?
She knew she was sending a dangerous message, one she had no business sending. But he was the one who brought up bending biology and empty tanks and all that. She was just playing along. She didn't plan to have an affair, but she could flirt. She could imagine. She could try on the role of the wanton woman like a costume for one night. See how it fit.
The phone reanimated. "Is that safe?"
"Yes. They're gone until next week."
Another long pause. "When?"
"Seven." Her heart thudded against her ribcage.
"Okay."
It was done.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I wasn't sure why I was there, parked across the street from the house on Sailor's Haven, other than that it was Gwen's listing. Maybe I was hoping it would prove to be a place of vulnerability, her Achilles’ heel. I'd had success with other agents in other empty properties. The prey tended to be distracted by their own hunt. They lusted for a sale, while I, you could say, lusted for blood. But I had other plans for Gwen.
"Hello."
The voice startled me. I looked up to see a lanky, old woman with a knobby, gray head of hair striding up the street toward my car, sweater flapping in the wind.
"Excuse me," she said.
I sat up straighter and waited for the inevitable. I knew the type. Every neighborhood has one. A bored, senior citizen who reads too many amateur sleuth novels out looking for a crime to solve.
"Hello there," I said and graced her with my most melting smile.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
I gave her a quizzical look.
"I couldn't help but notice you've been parked here for..." she looked at her watch, "twelve minutes, thirty-two seconds. I thought maybe you were lost."
"That's very gracious of you," I said. "But I'm not lost, just looking at the flier on this house."
"The Frobisher's house? It's a very nice place, but they're out of town."
"Oh, are they?"
"Are you looking for something in Dana Point?" she said.
"Possibly. I'm considering several beach communities." Then, digging for more information, I added, "This seems like a nice, safe neighborhood."
"Oh, it is. We have a very active neighborhood watch committee. I'm on it. I live right next door." She pointed to a house in bad need of a paint job.
"Your neighbors must be grateful to have someone like you on the block."
She threw her shoulders back and displayed a set of crooked teeth. "I'm sure you could get Gwen Bishop, she's the agent, to show you the house."
"Maybe I will," I said. "Maybe I will."
I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw a silver Honda advancing toward me. Gwen had a silver Honda. I didn't want to be seen here. Not yet. The darkening sky opened, and a sprinkle of rain hit my windshield.
"I'd better get going, and you'd better get inside where it's dry," I said. "It's going to be a nasty night."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The sun was setting. Deep magenta clouds bloomed above a midnight blue sea. They were the same color as the roses Gwen had bought on impulse on her way out of Gelson's Market. It was a romantic, fairytale sky—a perfect setting for a fantasy. She was in free fall, hurtling toward a storybook land, parachute unopened. The classical station she kept her car radio tuned to played a Leclair violin concerto. The music added to her Cinderella's-ball mood.
She exited the 5 freeway and turned onto Pacific Coast Highway. Her cell phone rang-hunting horns jarring through the strain of strings from the radio. The foxhunt clarion was Art's ring. She felt anger rising in her chest. She wouldn't answer. She didn't want to mar her evening with images of Art and the waitress.
The horns sounded again. She looked at her phone and bit her lower lip. She didn't want to talk to him, but maybe it was best to get it over with. She answered on the fifth ring. "Hi."
"Hi, honey. How're things back at the ranch?"
"Fine. Did you make it up the mountain in one piece?" She struggled to keep her voice even and controlled.
"Yeah, no problem. We stopped at In-N-Out on the way, but we still got here in time to pitch the tent before dark. The kids are scrounging for kindling now."
"Don't let them wander too far. There are bears up there."
Art laughed. He had a nice laugh. A round laugh that used to roll out of him often. She'd almost forgotten what it sounded like. "They're fine. The only bear they'll see this weekend is the one in the Big Bear Zoo. Emily wants to visit tomorrow."
"Humor me and keep an eye on them." Gwen's voice sounded peevish, even to herself. She cleared her throat.
"So, what're you up to tonight? Working?" Art asked.
"Yes, I told you that. I may stop by Maricela's later if I get my paperwork done." The lies came so naturally, it made her a little nervous.
Art's voice softened. "Well, we wish you were here. Emily is missing her mommy already."
A parental hand reached around Gwen's heart and squeezed. Doubt and fear dropped like a pebbles into her belly. Yesterday she'd been so positive about what she'd seen in the alley. Now, listening to Art's familiar chatter on the line, she felt unsure. Yesterday, she hadn't known him. It was like he'd been body snatched. Now, he sounded like her husband.
"I gave the boys the talk, you know, 'Be nice to your sister. You're the big guys. You need to include her in what you're doing and keep an eye on her.' Tyler is taking it almost too seriously. He hasn't let her out of his sight since we hit the campground."
"Good for him," Gwen said.
"Hey, Jason, put that down," Art yelled. "I gotta go. The natives are restless."
"Okay, have a good time."
"Will do. Call you tomorrow." His voice went deep and throaty. "Love you, babe." The line went dead.
The car felt hollow.
Love you, babe.
Did he?
A dark, Wagnerian symphony had replaced the violin concerto. Gwen reached out, shut off the radio and heard the rumble of thunder. They'd been threatening rain all week. Art had almost canceled the camping trip.
She returned her phone to her purse and her arm brushed the roses lying on the passenger seat, releasing their scent. Unexpected memories of her grandmother's funeral came to her mind. She shook them off.
As Gwen pulled off the freeway into Dana Point, the first fat drops hit her windshield. The magenta clouds looked like they were bleeding. Morbid thoughts. Tonight was supposed to be about celebration. She'd lick her wounds tomorrow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
"I give up," Jason said, threw his flint and steel down and crossed his arms over his chest. "There must be something wrong with it. I did it just like the package said."
"It's pretty damp out." Art rested a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. "We can try again tomorrow." Art pulled a Bic lighter out of his jacket pocket and soon had the kindling the kids had collected blazing. Jason slumped onto a tree stump and began thumbing through his Boy Scout Camping Merit Badge book.
Art was glad they'd made the trip even though Gwen hadn't joined them. He needed to spend some father-son time with Jason. The sullen attitude his oldest had adopted since the beginning of the school year, peeled away with the miles. By the time they'd pitched the tent, Jason seemed to forget he wasn't supposed to be excited about dumb things like camping, or nature, or having fun with his family.
"I'll find something else to do. Most of this stuff is pretty easy," he said.
"How about campfire stew?" Emily said, wiggling onto the log next to him. "We did campfire stew in Jenny Andrew's backyard for Brownies, but I didn't eat any." Emily stuck a finger in her mouth and mimed barfing.
"Nah, I don't want to do any cooking stuf
f." Jason turned some pages. "How about this? Dad, could we build a shelter out of twigs and things? Then me and Tyler could sleep in it."
"I want to sleep in it," Emily's head jerked up, her blond braids bounced, and her voice rose to the whining pitch she'd perfected since starting third grade.
It was nice to be here, away from St. Barnabas. Art was already feeling a perspective shift. Since he'd been angling for the principal job, he'd lost his focus on his family.
Thunder rumbled through the night air. "Well, I don't." Tyler's chin tilted to the treetops. "I want to sleep in the tent." Rocket must have felt the same way. Art watched their brave defender slink across the dirt on his belly and disappear into the Coleman six-man tent.
"Me too. I want to sleep next to Daddy." Emily jumped from the stump and wrapped her arms around Art's waist. Emily didn't like storms almost as much as Rocket didn't like storms.
"I'll sleep in the lean-to by myself. It'll be cool, like Survivorman." Jason started to walk toward the edge of the campsite. "Every man for himself."
Every man for himself. That was the problem. Art and Gwen had been living like independent agents under one roof. They'd become roommates, instead of husband and wife.
"Hey, J-Man, not so fast. Let's all sleep in the tent tonight. Rocket's upset enough. He'll freak if we don't stay together. Tomorrow we can make the lean-to and you can take a nap in it. It doesn't say you have to sleep all night, just sleep." Art held out the merit badge book Jason had dropped. The sky growled again, and Jason returned to the fire.
"I don't want Rocket to be scared." Jason squared his jaw.
"Thanks. I need you, buddy." Art ruffled his son's hair. Jason looked like a male version of Gwen at this age. He was tall and a little too skinny. He had her thick auburn hair, the same sprinkling of freckles across his nose and her jump-first-look-later attitude. Art's chest squeezed. He missed her. When he got home, he was going to make the past six months up to her.