“You know he is,” Jo said, her eyes narrowing. “What gives? You’ve got a weird look on your face.” The weird look didn’t stop her from spearing more chicken onto her fork and helping herself to more pasta, but she looked at Maeve after she had filled her plate again. “You still think he’s a good guy for me, right?”
“Do you feel like you know him?”
Jo thought about this as she ate. “I think so.” Finally, she pushed her plate away and touched her stomach. “I think that’s enough.”
Maeve picked up her plate and put it by the dishwasher. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” she said, standing up and stretching.
Maeve scraped the leftovers on Jo’s plate into the garbage and, without turning around, whispered her confession into the trash can. “He’s a cop.”
Jo was in midstretch. “What?”
Maeve turned around and put the plate on the counter. “He’s a cop. Doug.”
Jo let her hands fall to her sides. “I thought you just said, ‘He’s a cop.’ Tell me you didn’t just say, ‘He’s a cop.’”
Maeve tried to make a joke, but it came off poorly. “You might want to get rid of the pot.”
Jo wasn’t amused.
Maeve leaned back against the counter and didn’t say another word, watching the realization of what she had said dawn on Jo’s face. Surprise went to disbelief and culminated in anger. “I’m sorry,” Maeve said finally. It was all that she had.
“You’re sorry?” Jo asked. “Does this have something to do with your goddamned cousin and his freaking murder? Is that what this is about?” She sat heavily in the chair. “Because that would explain why he keeps asking me about you and Jack and your relationship and just how crazy Jack is and how you keep it all together. And where you go most nights.” She looked at Maeve, her eyes shiny with tears. “That would explain all of that.” She stood, unsteady on her feet. “Is that it?”
Maeve leaned back against the counter and looked at a spot above Jo’s head. “Probably.”
“Does he even like pot roast?” she asked.
It was all Maeve could do not to laugh, but she realized that Jo wasn’t kidding. “I think he does.”
Jo looked down at the table. “Does he love me?” she asked. When Maeve didn’t answer, she looked up, her voice coming out shrill and hurt. “Does he love me?”
“I couldn’t possibly know,” Maeve said.
“So what do I tell him when he inevitably asks me if I think Jack killed Sean?” she asked. She choked back a sob. “Because that’s what this is all about. It’s never been about me.” She sank back into her chair. “It never is.”
“I’m sorry,” was all Maeve could think to say.
Jo took a napkin out of the ceramic holder on the table; Rebecca had made it in the third grade, and it had somehow survived intact over hundreds of family dinners. Now, because it was dangerously close to the edge of the table, Jo’s forceful extraction of the napkin sent it crashing to the floor. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, ignoring the shattered pottery beneath her feet. “God, I hate you so much right now,” she said.
“I had no idea, Jo. Not a clue,” Maeve protested, but it was too late. Jo needed someone to blame, and she was “it.”
“So what do I tell him?” Jo asked again.
“Do you think my father is capable of murder?” Maeve asked.
“I don’t know what your father is capable of. Sometimes he’s fine. Other times he’s not.” Her glare was harsh and unforgiving. “I wonder if your father even has dementia or if this is just some ruse—”
“So you do,” Maeve said quietly, stopping Jo’s rant. “You do think that he is capable of murder.”
Jo stood. She didn’t answer, opting instead to head toward the front door, brushing past Maeve in the narrow kitchen. When Maeve offered to drive her home, she held up a hand. “No. Thanks. I’ll walk.”
“It’s two miles, Jo,” Maeve said, looking out the kitchen window. “And it’s dark now.” She heard the screen door slam and Jo’s footsteps as she made time on the porch stairs. By the time Maeve got to the front door, she was gone, no sign of her on the street.
CHAPTER 36
Maeve woke up the next morning with a headache, her pajama pants riding down over her backside, the waistline finally having given way sometime during the night. She pulled at a loose thread and the stitching at the top of the pants unraveled.
Unravel, she thought. That’s a good word. That describes exactly what is going on in my life, she thought as she rolled over and looked at the clock. Five fifteen. She was late.
The girls were old enough to get themselves off to school and actually preferred that she not be there to harass them before they left. She was cutting it close, though, getting into the bathroom just ten minutes ahead of when Rebecca would expect it to be hers for a half hour or so. So she took the quickest shower she could, jumped into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and headed to work, hoping she could get a few things in the oven before she opened officially at six.
Jo was due in at ten, and Maeve wondered what it would be like once she arrived, if she came in at all. Maeve had tossed and turned all night, thinking about how hurt Jo must have felt upon learning the news of Doug’s real occupation; but she still felt she had done the right thing. Jo needed to know, and hopefully, she would come to that conclusion on her own, without prompting or pleading from Maeve.
Maeve went to the store feeling lower and more dejected than she had felt in a long time. The feeling that things truly were unraveling even overrode any elation she felt when she listened to a voice mail message telling her that the wholesaler wanted a weekly delivery of twenty cases of cookies and ten of brownies. It was news that normally would have made a dance of joy the correct response; instead, she burst into tears, the emotional weight of the past weeks, coupled with the feelings she normally carried, pushing her to the breaking point. She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried, and the never-ending store of tears that poured forth did not ebb. She rested her head on the counter while her body shook and let it out, thinking that when it was over, she would close off again, not wanting to feel like this ever again.
She hastily threw together some muffin batter—banana nut—and put a batch in the oven. Behind her, the screen door to the kitchen slammed and she pulled herself together, ready to face her best friend, someone she hoped would remember all of the years that they had loved each other, supported each other, and been there for each other when no one else had. She wiped her eyes on her apron and turned around to find Cal standing there, absent the baby who usually hung on his front. Of course it was Cal, she thought; it was too early for Jo. And if there was one person she didn’t want to see her in her current state, it was him, but there you had it. Never around when you needed him and always there when you didn’t.
“You okay?” he asked, his look a combination of concern and fear.
“I’m fine,” she said. “The wholesaler called. They want a huge weekly standing order.” She smiled. “I’ve made it, Cal. Almost,” she added, not wanting to jinx it. She told him the specifics of the order and how much she would profit every month from the consistent income. She didn’t tell him that she was stressed out just thinking about what filling this order would entail and how she would have to hire new people, something she was loath to do. She liked that it was just her and Jo, even though some days the schedule and the execution of orders was crushing. Having other people around would upset the order of their little operation and bring her the responsibility of dealing with actual employees.
He gave her a quick, awkward hug, still not sure what the dissolution of their marriage meant in terms of physical contact. “That’s fantastic news.”
She looked at the clock that hung over the sink and then back at him. “What are you doing here? It’s just after six.”
“We’re out of coffee.” He stood there expectantly, waiting for her to serve him, she guessed.
“It’s not ready yet,” she said. Getting up late had put her behind schedule, and she hoped her tardiness wouldn’t make the morning more stressful than it promised to be after her conflict with Jo. “If you wait ten minutes, it will be ready.” An image of Gabriela in some kind of peignoir-type getup flashed through her mind. She was probably reading Women’s Wear Daily while the baby screamed with a soggy diaper as Cal ran off to get coffee.
“So what’s going on?” he asked. “Heather been behaving?”
“Oddly enough, yes,” Maeve said, choosing to ignore the question about what was happening. What wasn’t happening? “Seems she’s flying right, at least for the time being.”
“How’s Jack?”
“I’d joke and say, ‘Out on bail,’ but there’s a ring of truth to that.”
He stood straighter, looking at her to see if she was joking.
“He was questioned again.”
“Again? Why didn’t you call me?” he asked, because if she had learned anything during their marriage, it was all about him, all the time, which was what made his new marriage so confounding.
“Didn’t need to,” she said, walking over to the oven and taking out a tray of banana-nut muffins, the tops golden brown, the insides, she knew from years of experience, moist and bursting with cinnamon. She pulled one gingerly out of the muffin tin and handed it to Cal. “It’s hot. Be careful,” she said, thinking that was advice she should have given him before he had walked down the aisle again. He was waiting for her to explain. “They’re not serious about him, Cal. We knew that.”
She went out to the front of the store and grabbed two cups, filling them with the coffee that wasn’t quite ready but would have to do in a pinch. She left them black, bringing them back into the kitchen and handing them to him. “They’re on the house.”
“What makes you so sure?” he asked, returning to their original conversation. He hadn’t moved an inch since he had come into the kitchen, the muffin still in front of him in its wrapper, steam rising from the top. “Did someone say something to you?”
“I had a conversation with Detective Poole.”
He blanched. “Bad idea.” Spoken like a true lawyer. Even one who specialized in mergers and acquisitions.
She busied herself making more muffin batter, steeling herself for the inevitable lecture, which, when it came, was lengthy, filled with all sorts of legalese and insinuations that what she said could and would be used against her in a court of law. “You done?” she asked.
He sputtered for a few seconds, not sure what to do with an ex-wife who wasn’t remotely similar to the woman he had married years before. “You seem to be the only person not concerned with what happened to your cousin.”
“That’s because I know what happened to my cousin,” she said, licking the batter from the spatula before throwing it into the sink. The noise startled Cal, who clearly couldn’t function at that hour of the morning without a jolt of caffeine. “He called a hooker or went on Craigslist or found someone on the street. She—or he—killed him. I don’t know if it was over money or one or the other’s performance or if things just turned violent for another reason. And he’s dead.”
Delivered in a matter-of-fact tone, it seemed very cut and dried and perfectly logical to her, but to Cal, it was different. He looked as if he had seen a ghost when she was done.
“Guy was scum, Cal. There’s no reason to be upset unless my father continues to be involved. He’s the only one I care about right now.” She opened the oven, the blast of hot air putting a flush in her cheeks. “But he’s not involved anymore. It’s over. Trust me.”
“He had kids,” Cal whispered, as if that were a reason to mourn the loss of Sean Donovan. “A wife.”
“They’re better off without him.” She pulled another tin off the shelf. “You always fancied yourself the sensitive one, Cal. Maybe you were right.”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out his wallet.
“I told you. On the house,” she said.
He riffled through the wallet and pulled out a card; he left it beside his uneaten muffin. After he left, planting a brief, soft kiss on her cheek, something that was completely at odds with his earlier hug, she picked it up.
She should have taken his money, because the last thing she needed was a therapist.
CHAPTER 37
Maeve and Jo went forty-eight hours speaking only about baked goods, work schedules, and the weather. By Wednesday, Maeve had had enough and put the BE BACK SOON! sign, the one with a cupcake serving as the dot of the exclamation point, on the door, then dragged Jo back into the kitchen for a talk.
“This can’t go on,” she said, noting that Jo was looking anywhere but directly at her. She grabbed her friend’s face and pulled it toward her, not caring how rough she was being.
“Hey!” Jo protested, trying to release herself from Maeve’s grip. “Stop it.”
“You’re mad at me. I know that. But there’s nothing I can do to change what happened.” She let go of Jo’s face, noticing the red fingerprints that had bloomed under her cheekbones. “For what it’s worth, I think Doug is crazy about you. Cop or not. And I had no idea that he wasn’t who he said he was.”
Jo crossed her arms over her chest, blinking back tears.
“You’ve got to admit, nobody’s got a meet-cute like yours.” Maeve pulled herself up onto the counter. “And if it hadn’t been for this case, he never would have been speed dating. You never would have met him.”
Jo’s expression told her that was small consolation. “Was the murderer there maybe?” she asked. “Was that it?”
Maeve shrugged and made one last attempt to smooth things over, leaving the sarcasm aside. “I’m sorry, Jo. I never would have thought that you would have gotten dragged into this. It’s my fault, and while I can’t do anything to change that, I want you to know how sorry I am.”
Jo found her voice. “You’ve changed. Since Sean died. You’re different.”
“Happier?” Maeve asked.
“No. Not happier,” Jo said, the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Why weren’t you sad? Why didn’t you ever cry?” she asked. It was clear that Doug’s questions about Maeve had infiltrated her subconscious, making her suspicious of her best friend.
“I did,” Maeve lied. “When I was home.”
“I don’t think you did,” Jo said.
Maeve tried to be honest. “You know we weren’t that close.”
Jo considered that. No one, at this point in Maeve’s life, knew her better than her co-worker and friend. “It doesn’t really matter to me how you felt about him. But I want to know why it changed you.”
The BE BACK SOON! sign was rapidly becoming false advertising; the conversation they were about to have would take far longer than either would have predicted. Maeve looked at Jo and wondered what would be the point of revisiting the past. It was gone, and so was Sean, and although it might make her feel better for a while, it would be a burden to Jo, one that she didn’t need.
“There’s more to this story,” Jo said.
Maeve closed her eyes and nodded. “There is. But I’m not sure you want to know.” She opened her eyes but turned her head away so that Jo couldn’t look directly at her. “I don’t know if I can even say it.”
“Tell me everything.”
Maeve was anxious to get it out and then go back to work, but she knew it wouldn’t be that easy. She started with the first day, two days after her sixth birthday, the day that he had knocked her off the curb and she had skinned her knee on the edge of the sewer grate; it was her earliest memory. She told about her cracked tooth and her broken arm and how he would pinch her hard where nobody would see or whisper things in her ear that she wasn’t supposed to tell and how it was one day when she realized that the hurt that she thought was only on the outside was now becoming a piece of her heart, the thing that made up her soul. “And when he stopped beating me, or hurting me in that way that he had that made it look like I was just clums
y, he started molesting me.” She rubbed her arm. “I was ten.”
Jo’s mouth hung open, a gasp trapped in her throat.
“He was my babysitter. He was saving money for a new record player,” Maeve said, laughing a little. “Remember record players?” she asked.
Jo nodded, silent.
“Well, that’s what he wanted. So Jack paid him a dollar an hour to take care of me. He took me to the Bronx Zoo and he took me to Arthur Avenue and he even took me to the Botanical Gardens. My big, handsome cousin. The one the girls all liked. And it was times like those when I wasn’t sure if what had happened was actually true or if I had made it up in my own mind.” She wrapped her arms tight around her body, her one hand caressing the spot where her arm had broken. “I hadn’t, though. I hadn’t made it up. It was all true,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“Why didn’t anyone help you?” Jo asked, her sadness turning to anger, her tears coming fast and furious. “Why didn’t you tell?”
As Jo cried, Maeve told her how she’d wanted to tell but didn’t and why. Jo looked sick when Maeve got to the part about Claire. “He killed my mother, Jo. And he would have killed Jack.” Her mind went to her sweet, lovely father, the man who had tried so hard to give his girl the best life she could have but had failed. “And I couldn’t lose him. Not after I had lost my mother.”
“Jack failed you, Maeve,” Jo said, and while there was truth in that statement, it was nothing Maeve ever wanted to pin on the man she loved the most.
“I can think that, but you can never say it,” Maeve said. He had failed her, but he just didn’t know that he had. Working day tours, night tours, overtime and then some, he worked as hard as he could to give her the best life he had imagined for her. The private school in New York City, the tuition at the CIA ready and available when she was accepted, he thought he had done all the right things. Sure, she had been a latchkey kid far earlier than the term had even been coined, but she was the best little girl in the world, as he always said, and would never get into any trouble. But what he didn’t know was that when he needed help, he had left her in the care of a sadist, someone who wore the costume of a big, strong, loving cousin; someone who would never let anything happen to Jack’s perfect daughter, the daughter who would never tell.
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