Nan gave a knowing smile when Caroline told her she planned to trim the tree. “It took me a long time to get used to the noises this place makes at night. There’s nothing here to harm you, nothing to worry about.”
Caroline considered this in silence.
“If it’s bothering you I’ll have one of the ranch hands come out and trim it.” Onions and peppers sizzled in a cast-iron skillet. Nan was cooking a batch of sirloin chili, her first of the season. The secret to good chili was to let it sit for several hours, she explained, giving the contents a stir.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll trim the tree myself. I don’t want you to bother any of the men,” Caroline said. The truth was she’d be embarrassed to have any of the ranch hands come. The branch was small and didn’t really make much noise. Just enough to make Caroline wonder what the sound would be if someone attempted to break in through the back door.
“But Federico usually takes care of these things. I’ll call him now.” Nan set her spoon down and reached for the portable phone. One look at Caroline’s face stopped her. “Well, if you want to, suit yourself. There’s a saw and some gloves in the garage.”
“Great.”
“The rest of the day is yours, though. Take a hike.” With a soft chuckle to indicate her suggestion was serious, Nan turned her attention back to the cloves of fresh garlic waiting to be peeled and chopped.
Caroline found the gloves where Nan said they’d be, hanging from a peg among an orderly collection of tools on the wall at the back of the four-car garage. The workbench was shipshape except for a thin film of dust.
The gloves were meant for a hand much larger than Caroline’s, but she managed. The branch causing the problem was crossed with another. Caroline had read once in a gardening book that the lower of two crossed branches should be pruned back at its base. She’d had to satisfy her interest in gardening with books. Porter did not want to live in a house with a yard in the suburbs.
The memory brought an ache so strong she placed a hand on her stomach, remembering the old hurt. She’d wanted, expected, to bear Porter’s children. She had imagined playing with them in a sun-drenched yard, maybe Falls Church or even Bethesda, making an event out of Porter’s return from the city each night.
A shadow had crossed Porter’s face when she raised the possibility of a house in the suburbs, and Caroline realized too late she had said something wrong.
“The suburbs? Tell me something, Caroline. Where are the bookstores? Where are the museums? Where is the culture? Can you tell me that?”
Caroline stared at him, feeling her heart sink. She didn’t know her way around any of the towns outside the Beltway. In fact, she hadn’t ventured much beyond the reach of the Metro during her four years on a scholarship at GW. She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The dark look on his face intensified, as tension mounted inside.
It was a look Caroline was beginning to recognize. Most of the time their life together was what she had always wanted. Porter was attentive and loving, in bed and out. He always took time to compliment her when she dressed nice, always made sure to walk ahead to open doors for her, and cooked a roast with all the trimmings every Sunday. He was always leaving small gifts for her to find around the house, just to please her and, he said, to make his princess smile. Caroline learned they were happiest in private, when they were on their own with nobody else around.
But sometimes, even when they were alone, Porter’s temper rose up out of nowhere. As now. A shiver of fear rippled through her. She tensed. “You’re right,” she said quickly, hoping to head things off. “We don’t need to live in the suburbs.”
Porter blew air from his nostrils and gave a quick shake of his head. “Correct. The suburbs are a place for men with too little money and not enough brains. And do you know what their wives do out there all day, Caroline?”
He leaned in close to her so she could see each individual white lash around his eyes, close to the vein that was throbbing bluish gray under the thin skin of his forehead.
She swallowed and tried not to let him see her wince. She felt her shoulders hunch up around her neck and drew her arms in close.
He noticed.
She read it in the flicker of his eyes.
Her heart sank. They were slipping down again into a vortex. No matter how she tried, once it started there was nothing she could do. They were sucked down, down, down. No matter how their arguments began or how she tried to stop them, once that spiral began there was no pulling out. It always ended the same.
Caroline’s mind raced. If she could find the right thing to say or do, maybe this time would be different. “No,” she whispered. “I have no idea what wives do.”
His lips tightened, and he shook his head as though he was weary of her and sighed. “They cheat on their husbands.” His lips curled around the word “cheat” and he watched, gauging her reaction.
She shook her head, stalling while she reached for the right words. So much would depend on how she answered. “That’s terrible.”
“Terrible?” He leaned in close, his nostrils flaring. “You say it’s terrible? Yes, Caroline, a wife who cheats on her husband commits a terrible crime. On so many levels, it is a violation.”
He was so close she felt his breath on her face. A faint ringing sounded in her ears. The room began to spin slowly around them. It was their downward spiral. Their dance.
She closed her eyes now in an attempt to block out the memory of what followed, events that were typical of their routine of betrayal and punishment.
Things didn’t start out that way. The change had come gradually, an inch at a time, so that at first she wasn’t aware of how much her life was changing. She moved into Porter’s apartment after they were married while they looked for a bigger place. She was lonely, lonelier than she had ever been in her life. Her school friends had graduated and gone off in search of jobs at art galleries in New York, Miami, and even London. Caroline was alone with her new husband.
Many days, she met Porter for lunch. She got to know the waiters at the small café near his office, and soon realized Porter was more relaxed when they were seated at a table served by the café’s sole female waitress. Caroline learned to ask to sit in the woman’s section, pretending to be especially fond of her, even bringing her a small bouquet of flowers one time.
At night, they stayed in. They didn’t entertain. Their wedding china sat in boxes, unused.
By July, they found a house. It was a historic townhouse on an immaculate street in the heart of Georgetown, in a row of homes dating from Colonial times. Porter designed an office on the ground floor for his psychotherapy practice. The upper floor would house their residence.
Caroline was giddy at the prospect of living with her brand-new husband on a street of million-dollar homes while her college chums were crammed into group rentals in places like Astoria and Adams Morgan.
Porter rose each day at six-thirty, showered, and brewed coffee while Caroline slept. He collected his Washington Post from the front stoop and skimmed it in his office before returning to wake Caroline at eight.
He would stand soundlessly in the doorway until she woke. At first she wouldn’t stir until he took a seat on the edge of their bed, but as time passed she learned to waken when he stood in the door. The idea that she sensed his presence in her sleep pleased him. She yawned and stretched, knowing he enjoyed watching her while her defenses were down. “You’re like a teenager,” he would tease. These were the happy times.
He would ask what she had planned for the day. At night, over dinner, he would ask about her comings and goings. If she forgot something, he would point it out.
“Smile at me when you pass my office window,” he told her. “Not a big smile. Just a small one that only I can see.” They practiced until she got it right.
Gradually, she stayed inside more and more often except to walk her dog, the one vestige of her single life that she refused to surrender. She had inherited
Pippin from one of her suitemates, and never quite believed Porter’s claim that he was allergic to animals. Pippin came to represent Caroline’s only diversion; she spent most of her time with Porter. They did the major grocery shopping at a Safeway on weekends together, and if she needed something during the week Caroline did without or waited until Porter could accompany her. Finally, they agreed that two walks per day for Pippin was enough. Twenty minutes was enough, unless she explained it ahead of time. Too late, Caroline realized the folly of living above her husband’s workplace. The townhouse in Georgetown had become her prison.
Those days were gone and best forgotten, Caroline told herself. She would never let it happen again. Never. Tightening her grip on the wood saw, she clenched her teeth and attacked the Austrian pine as though she could set right her part in the wrongs that had been committed back in that townhouse.
The saw bit deeper into the wood, releasing a fresh pine scent with each pass. Caroline worked the tool until she was breathless and sweat stung her eyes. She was rewarded for her efforts when at last the branch dropped to the ground with a satisfying thud. She grunted with satisfaction.
A car door slammed close by and she jumped. She wheeled around and heard Pippin and Scout inside the house, barking.
She saw a familiar Jeep.
Ken Kincaid stopped and flashed her a peace sign. “Hold your fire. I mean no harm.”
She realized she was brandishing the saw like a weapon.
He grinned.
She lowered the saw, feeling her cheeks redden. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you pull up.”
“Don’t mention it,” Ken said easily. “I should know better than to interrupt someone working in the yard.” After a moment he added, “Especially a woman with a saw in her hand.”
“I decided the tree needed a trim.”
“Nice job,” Ken said, eyeing the trunk’s fresh cut. “Like a pro. I got some at my place that need pruning, if you’re interested.”
She was. Embarrassed, she swallowed and looked away.
“That was a joke there, Alice. Not a very good one, I might add.”
She looked at him, all happy grin and big white teeth and plaid shirt. She couldn’t help but smile back.
“I came to ask a favor. If you’re done cuttin’ down trees, that is.”
She couldn’t imagine what favor he might ask of her. “Sure.”
“Will you come into town with me to pick up my other car? I need to lend it to Nan. Gus is laid up and can’t finish the repairs on the Buick today.”
Caroline thought of big Gus and his kind face. She frowned. “I hope everything’s okay.”
“It’s just his arthritis acting up. He’ll bounce back in a day or two. He always does,” Ken said lightly. But there were small lines of worry around his eyes.
“Sure,” Caroline said. “And thanks for lending your car.” It was a generous offer, the sort of thing nobody would offer to do in a big city or the hardscrabble exurb in Baltimore where she’d grown up. Or maybe they did all the time, but she didn’t know it because she and Porter didn’t have any friends.
Inside, Nan was ready with a covered pot to go. “Put this on the stove and let it simmer for an hour or two before you serve it to Gus.”
Ken lifted the cover and sniffed. “Mmmmm. Gus is going to be one happy man.” He winked at Caroline. “Nan makes the best chili in the county. Probably the world.”
“I don’t know about that,” Nan said with a laugh. “But it’ll tide Gus over for tonight. And there’s plenty more where that came from. You tell Gus I said not to lollygag in bed too long. I want him to fix my old boat.”
Caroline donned her jacket, hat, and sunglasses and followed Ken out to the Jeep.
He held the passenger door and waited till she was settled inside before closing it.
The small act made Caroline feel as though they were out on a date. Which, she reminded herself, was not the case. But a small thrill came over her like sunshine on the cool mountain breeze. It felt good just to sit next to him with the windows rolled down as they drove along the county road.
Ken steered with his left hand and looked at her often, his smile bigger than ever beneath his aviator shades. At one point, he slowed the car to a stop and leaned over, pointing up into the tops of the trees.
“We’re in luck,” he said in a low voice, shifting so close on the seat beside her that she could feel the muscles in his broad back. His scent filled her nostrils.
She breathed deep.
“Look there.” His voice dropped to a whisper, low and close and way too intimate, until she practically squirmed in her seat. But what she saw next made her forget her discomfort.
“Look.” He pointed straight up. “An American bald eagle.”
Caroline ducked her head through the open window. There, some fifty feet up, atop a towering pine, was a big messy nest. Peering over the edge was the largest bird she’d ever seen.
Ken pulled binoculars from the glove compartment and pressed them into Caroline’s hands.
She focused on an enormous brown bird with a crown of snow white and a mighty yellow beak. It moved its head, and she glimpsed the fierce expression she had seen only in textbooks.
“Ooh,” she murmured. The bird was noble, just as she had imagined. But nothing had prepared her for the real thing, and the thrill that swept over her now.
She looked at Ken, and he smiled like he was a teacher and she was his star pupil. “No matter how many times I see her, she takes my breath away.”
Caroline ducked her head out the window for another look. Without the aid of the powerful field glasses, she would have mistaken it for a hawk, if she had bothered to notice the bird at all. “Wow,” she breathed.
Ken leaned lower on the seat, looking up through the windshield.
She thought how easy he was with his body, how free of tension he was, how relaxed. As though he didn’t have a care in the world. He didn’t. Most people didn’t. There were people who went about their day, not explaining anything to anyone and not worried about anything. Caroline marveled at the thought. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until Ken straightened up.
“You can usually find her here,” he said. “That’s her nest. If you check back in spring, she’ll have her little ones with her.” He replaced the binoculars in the glove compartment, which overflowed with Audubon Society guides, trail maps, and a large knife inside a worn leather holster. It was a comfortable clutter, filled with items required by a man who spent a great deal of time outdoors.
“Sorry about the mess,” Ken said, pushing the jumble to the back of the compartment so he could snap it shut.
Caroline found the clutter reassuring, a sign of messy sanity.
He put the Jeep back into gear. “I know this is her home, and I know I’ll probably see her every time I drive down this road. But it still knocks me out every time.” He smiled. “Birds are smarter than you think. They build their nests near the road, which you might not expect, but it works out. They don’t have to worry about hikers. Most people drive right by and don’t ever look up. So she can raise her young in peace.”
Caroline was intrigued. “Hide in plain sight.”
Nodding, Ken turned and gave her a look of approval. “Alice Stevens, you’ve just named the basic rule of survival. Hide in plain sight.”
Slowly Caroline had withdrawn from life. She tried to draw as little attention to herself as possible. She didn’t want to provide Porter with ammunition when he fell into one of his black moods.
Looking back, she couldn’t pinpoint when her goals had shrunk so small.
She had dressed with care for her second date with Porter, making sure she was early. She waited in the lobby to save him the long walk from the elevator to her dorm room and the round of introductions that, she feared, would be awkward.
She perched on the edge of the worn lobby couch for a time before standing to pace, checking the clock on the wall again and again to be certain she w
as prompt.
His cab arrived exactly at the appointed time. He wore a black coat of pure cashmere, with a white scarf of silk knotted loosely at his throat. Despite the light snow, he got out to greet her properly. “You’re on time,” he said approvingly, taking her hand in his gloved one, brushing her cheek with his lips.
Caroline quivered with nervous excitement.
They were off to see his friend’s art show at a gallery that was crowded, and well beyond the reach of the Metro. Caroline was younger than most of the patrons, and noticed with smug satisfaction she appeared to be the only college student in attendance. She took many small gulps of white wine from her plastic stemmed glass, content to let Porter lead her through each room. Once, she caught her reflection in a mirror, ghostly and pale, a fact she attributed to poor lighting rather than nerves.
They wound slowly through the gallery. He stopped and asked her what she thought about each and every painting. It was flattering, at first. She had dedicated the last three years of her life to studying art, after all, laying the foundation for her life as a fine artist. She hoped one day to see her own paintings for sale in a gallery such as this. Not in a big city, but maybe in a small town with wide-open spaces where she could clear her mind and paint what she saw.
Porter introduced her to a well-dressed, older woman. Another psychoanalyst. The three chatted briefly before leaving.
In the cab, Porter informed the driver there would be two stops. First stop would be Caroline’s dorm in Foggy Bottom.
“That was fun,” Caroline said.
Porter stared out the window, wordless.
Caroline wondered if he had heard. “I like going to art shows. And it was fun meeting one of your friends.”
“She is a professional colleague, not a friend.” His tone was ice.
Caroline sat, aware that she was witnessing one of Porter’s mood changes, which happened lightning-quick. She was annoyed, and was about to tell him so, but the mournfulness in his tone stopped her before she said anything.
“I’m so embarrassed, I just don’t know what to do.”
A Dark Love Page 11