by Karin Tanabe
“It was very good,” I said, grinning. “It was perhaps the best weather I’ve ever experienced.”
“Now shall we talk about … sports?”
“I’d rather talk about you,” I said, looking at him.
“First, let me say something and then you can ask me whatever you want.”
“All right.”
He leaned closer to me, very close.
“I, too,” he whispered, “find you very attractive.”
Every nerve I had stood on end.
“Now, you may ask me what you wish, but let me get in one question first.”
I looked at him with feigned suspicion.
“The time when you laughed the hardest. You said you were in college, that it was ‘banned-books levels of inappropriate.’ Will you tell me what it was?”
“I will not,” I said, laughing.
“Will you give me a hint?”
“Fine. A hint. It was indeed in college, in my friend’s sitting room. She was dating a great-looking man who was also a modern dancer. And when they were in bed together, he … oh, God, I can’t say it,” I said, starting to laugh. “Let’s just say there were some moves. Major moves.”
“Some moves,” he said, grinning.
“She showed us the moves. Like dance moves. But naked. To be clear, she was fully clothed when she told the story.”
“But the moves themselves were naked?”
“Stop! I can’t. Enough about the moves,” I said, hitting his arm before I nearly fainted from embarrassment. “I want to talk about you, I really do. I want to know everything that I don’t already know. I just want to know you.”
“Starting with…”
“Would you say you have a happy marriage?”
Turner seemed unfazed even though my heart was pounding. “My wife is a saint, but the marriage is complicated.”
“How complicated?”
“Perhaps as complicated as yours. But make it five children, thirteen years of marriage, and a job that depends on secrecy and lies.”
“Have you ever strayed outside of your marriage?”
“I have not,” he said quietly. “And until recently, I’d never wanted to.”
I closed my eyes and felt his leg move closer to mine, our thighs touching as the train rumbled on.
By the time we reached Philadelphia, our car had emptied quite a bit. I was about to stand to go to the dining car when the conductor stopped by our seats.
“Ma’am,” he said, smiling at me, his blue eyes focused on mine. “There are several open seats in front of you if you’d like to move. Have some more room.” His eyes flicked over to Turner and then back to me.
“I’m just fine,” I said, smiling confidently. “Maybe passengers boarding in Baltimore will want those seats. But I do appreciate the gesture.”
He nodded, eyed Turner warily, and then moved down the aisle.
“I’m just fine, too,” said Turner toward the conductor’s receding form.
When we arrived at Union Station, we walked down Massachusetts Avenue for ten blocks together before I left Turner for Georgetown.
He pointed to a bus stop. “I have to leave you here.”
I nodded, wanting to wander the city together, like two people without any cares in the world but each other. Instead, I watched him walk away. When he was almost out of view, he turned and winked at me.
I met Nick at a small restaurant called Martin’s Tavern. The exchange was quick. He gave me the materials, film that needed to be developed. He seemed far more on edge than the last time I’d seen him. After we gulped down our drinks and walked out, he said, “Tell Jacob one thing, but don’t write it down. I found out yesterday, and it’s too delicate to be said over the telephone.”
“All right.”
His voice lowered. “Tell him that there’s a door open in the governor’s room.”
I nodded without comment, then hailed a cab to Union Station. If anyone was watching me, rushing to a pay phone was not going to be in my best interest. I looked all over the train for Turner. He wasn’t there. But I knew that somehow he’d be waiting at the coffee shop, looking up at me as I walked in the door.
I returned to my apartment at six p.m., empty attaché case in hand, lips still feeling the lingering kiss that we’d stolen in the darkest corner of Penn Station.
“Gerrit, darling!” I called out. “Sarah, I’m back.” But it was silent. Tom was sitting on the couch, a tumbler of scotch in his hand. He was still in his suit, a light gray one with a window check. His tie was not even loosened.
He looked at me with utter disdain, the way he looked at his father when he drank far more than was necessary and skulked off to call some woman half his age.
“Who is Coldwell?” said Tom, his voice thick with anger.
“What?” I whispered, almost unable to get the word out.
“Sarah Beach said a man called and said ‘Coldwell,’ but then hung up the telephone.”
“I don’t know a Coldwell.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“Then the bigger question,” he said, his eyes red and exhausted, “is how stupid do you think I am?”
CHAPTER 38
Tom and I slept apart that night. Or, Tom slept while I lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Sometime around three a.m., I heard banging on the stairwell door. I kicked off the sheet and sprinted toward it, certain that Jacob was on the other side.
I got there first, but Tom was right behind me. He yanked the door wide open. Standing there was not Jacob Gornev, but Matt Kirkland, Carrie’s husband.
“It’s Carrie,” he said, out of breath. “She’s bleeding. And she’s pregnant. What should I do?”
“I’m coming down. I’ll come right now,” said Tom, flying down the stairs with Matt. “Katharina, bring me my bag,” he called out, but his voice was almost gone, he was moving so fast.
I ran to the library and turned on the light. His medical bag was next to his desk like it always was.
With the bag on my arm, I too flew down the stairs and knocked on the door. Matt opened it, grabbed the bag, and slammed the door in my face, leaving me alone in the stairwell. Back in our apartment, Peter was howling.
When the boys and I woke up in the morning, all three of us in the master bedroom, Tom was still not home. At noon, he telephoned.
“Tom,” I said, out of breath from rushing to the phone.
“She miscarried,” he said. “Carrie. She was hemorrhaging, losing a lot of blood, especially for how early it was in the pregnancy. If they had stayed home any longer…”
“Tom—”
“The outcome would have been very different.”
“Oh, how horrible. Poor Carrie. I didn’t even know she was pregnant.” She may have stabbed me straight in the back, but I did feel for her.
“She was five months along,” said Tom flatly.
“Was she?” I said, thinking back to our outing in April. She probably didn’t even know she was pregnant yet.
“When will she be home?”
“Could be several days. She’s very weak.”
“But she’ll be all right?”
“I think so. Though having another baby may be more difficult.”
“How awful. I know she wanted more. Poor, poor Carrie.”
“Indeed. I’ll see you at home.”
Three days later, I walked into Carrie’s room with two dozen roses and a new doll for Alice.
“Oh, Carrie,” I said, leaning down and wrapping my arms gently around her shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”
“Rina,” she said, hugging me. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be, you witch,” I whispered as I kissed her cheek.
“I am a witch. It’s none of my business. Your marriage, everything. It’s none of my business.”
“It’s not. But let’s put it behind us. Tom hasn’t divorced me yet.” I didn’t add that I felt certain it was going to be on the table soon
.
“I’m glad you’re here. And thank God for Tom. Your incredible husband. I don’t think a rocket ship could have gotten me to Lenox Hill faster.”
“I’m so glad,” I said, thinking about Tom, and the kind of man he was. A part of me had forgotten, which was very unfair.
“I’m so sorry I told Tom about—”
“Please. Let’s forget it.”
“I should know better than to meddle in a marriage. It’s just, I was in shock.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. “I was not well,” she said. “I suppose I’m still not well.”
“Who would be? After what you went through.”
I would forgive Carrie because the world always forgave people like Carrie.
“My body is only the half of it,” she said, pulling up the covers. “It felt like I was in labor again, and I just kept thinking, it’s not ready to be born. Why is it being born? I’m murdering my own child. It’s going to die.”
“But that’s not what happened,” I said, sitting down on the edge of her bed. I reached for her hand, my weeks of anger shattered by her hours of anguish. “You didn’t have any control over what happened. Sometimes our bodies win over our brains.”
“I know. Tom spent the whole night after it happened sitting in my room with me, talking about it. Did he tell you?”
He hadn’t.
“He explained that miscarriages often occur because the baby isn’t healthy. That there’s a problem with the chromosomes. That it was not because my body decided to fight against my baby.”
“Of course not, Carrie.”
“But I can’t stop thinking about it that way,” she said, her chin quivering. “I keep thinking about mothers as murderers. It’s just in a terrible loop in my head. That word.”
“Carrie, don’t say such a thing. You just need some rest.”
“No, Rina, think about it,” she said, letting go of my hand and sitting up. “Even with our living children we are murderers. By making Alice, I didn’t just create a being who will live, but one who will die. I gave her life and illness and suffering and eventually death. I gave her death. Isn’t that awful to think about? That horrible thought has replaced the one about how we are always tethered to our children. I wish I could return to it.”
“But you can. And you also need to start thinking about motherhood differently. It’s very powerful, like you said. We make the dark and the light.”
Carrie looked at me as if I had just placed an axe delicately against her neck.
“Where have you been, Rina?” she said, looking up at me with her beautiful blue eyes. “Actually, don’t answer that.”
“It’s not what you think.” It was so much better than anything Carrie Kirkland could imagine.
“I understand we are all human,” said Carrie weakly, “but why would you ever jeopardize your family life? And Tom’s happiness? He is one of the best there is, Rina.”
I took Carrie’s hands again.
“I don’t know where I’ve been,” I said truthfully. “I really don’t. I suppose I’ve been a little lost. But I think I’m finding my way again.”
In her sterile hospital room, those words rang true.
That night I made love to my husband. I told him he was an amazing man. And I meant what I said. Be appreciative of what you have, Dr. Creighton had advised. Tom Edgeworth was not a maker of life, he was better. He was the force that pushed death away. What an incredible thing to be.
CHAPTER 39
When I woke the next morning, in my marital bed for the first time in a long time, Tom was not next to me. I slipped out of the covers and walked around the apartment. It was only six a.m. Both boys were still asleep, but Tom was nowhere to be found. I moved quietly down the hall to the window seat. My admiration for Tom, my making love to him, had not diminished how I felt about Turner. It hadn’t changed how magnetically pulled I was to him.
I admired my husband. But I was no longer the girl whose heart soared when he walked in the room. My knees did not go weak when he said, “I lovely smart love you.” Besides, Tom no longer said things like that. We had grown into two very different people sharing one very large apartment, two children, and many fond memories that were growing more distant by the day.
I felt my stomach muscles quiver. I didn’t know if it was guilt or sadness. I flicked on the radio and lowered the volume. Adlai Stevenson, who had been at the UN when I was there, was speaking about his presidential ambitions again, but this time, he was addressing women.
“In modern America, the home is not the boundary of a woman’s life,” he said crisply. “There are outside activities aplenty. But even more important is the fact, surely, that what you have learned and can learn will fit you for the primary task of making homes and whole human beings in whom the rational values of—” I flipped the radio off and glared at it. Even the most liberal male believed that women could do no more than cultivate the minds of our babies.
The phone rang, and I leapt on it before it woke the boys.
“Katharina Edgeworth,” I said brightly, quite sure who was on the other end of the line.
“It’s Coldwell.”
I said nothing, afraid he would sense my disappointment.
“I don’t want you to think that every time your phone rings someone else is dead, but someone else is dead.”
“What?” I asked, gripping the desk, utterly panicked. There were very few people left whom we both knew. My body went cold. “Who?”
“Gornev.”
I reached for a chair and sat down. For a few seconds, I feared he was going to say Turner. Now, conflicting emotions were flying through my mind, but relief was winning.
“He wasn’t in good health, as you know. He died of a heart attack. He was found by his neighbor. He was in bed. Alone,” he added.
“Ava is dead, and now Jacob is dead.”
“It’s strange, isn’t it,” said Coldwell in his flat voice. “They’re two of the sharks we wanted, and we didn’t even have to throw the harpoon. That said, now it’s going to be a lot harder to get to Nick’s group. We know some, but I want to know more. We’ll have to really scrape to keep that going.”
I knew what he meant—scrape to keep me going. For with Jacob and Ava dead, what purpose did I serve?
“It’s strange news, I know. I hope you’re fine,” said Coldwell. “You’ll hear from me soon.”
The phone cut out. I rested my fingers on the buttons and dialed Turner. After two rings a woman picked up. I let the receiver fall back in its cradle.
I sat down and pressed my palms against my eyes and started to cry. I cried because I wanted to hear Turner’s voice. I cried because I heard his wife instead. I cried because Jacob was dead and I had loved him once. I cried because of the man he had turned into. I cried because with him gone, I was gone. The FBI couldn’t use me much longer. Coldwell might be dancing around it now, but in his next phone call, he would say it.
I heard Peter stir and wiped my face with the sleeve of my robe. I fed the boys, played with the boys, fed the boys again, and collapsed with them in the afternoon, so emotionally spent that I was sure I’d fall asleep alongside them. But I couldn’t quiet my mind. I ran my fingers through Gerrit’s dark hair, taking in his peaceful face, listening to Peter’s quiet breathing. They were so easy to love when they were asleep.
No Jacob meant no Nick. No Nick meant no meetings with Turner in Penn Station. No reason to see Turner at all. The KGB wasn’t going to let Nick and the rest of their government sources just disappear into the starry night. They’d find him a new contact and fast. I needed to figure out who it was and ingratiate myself to them.
The only place I knew to look for information was Jacob’s apartment. It was the last chance I had of proving my worth, and of keeping any remaining connection to Nick. I remembered that the space was spare, monastic even, but maybe something was hidden there. A phone number. An address. An alias. Anything.
Sarah came while the boys were still s
leeping and I paid a cabdriver five dollars to speed like the taxi was on fire to Jacob’s apartment by Chelsea Park.
Outside his building, I slammed the taxi door and sprinted to the fifth floor. Before I could second-guess myself, I reached for the doorknob. I’d barely turned it an inch when the door was yanked open and my body was slammed into the hallway.
I looked up to see Turner Wells.
He stared at me in shock, put his fingers to my lips, and then helped me inside the apartment, locking the door behind us.
He pointed to the bedroom.
“Rina!” he whispered. “Are you all right? I can’t believe I just tried … I didn’t know it was you. Are you all right?” he said, his hands cupping my face.
“I’m okay, I am,” I said, catching my breath. We both sat on the ground in the empty room while I regained my wits.
“I don’t understand,” he said, still looking at me like I might crack in two. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m—”
“Never mind. I’ll go first,” I said, putting my hands on my knees as I leaned against the wall. “Turner, I don’t want to become irrelevant. To you, to Lee Coldwell, to the FBI. I want to keep doing what I’m doing. I want to keep seeing you. All I did with Nick Solomon is go where Jacob directed me. But now I don’t know where to go. So I came here. I thought maybe there would be something of Jacob’s that would guide me to Nick, so I wouldn’t lose my place in all this.” I paused to catch my breath. “In other words, I’m desperately grasping at a dream that I would like to keep dreaming.”
Turner moved next to me.
“It is obvious to me, and probably Lee, that your worth to the Bureau does not begin and end with Jacob Gornev. Also, we’ll now watch Nick Solomon’s every move. If Lee wants you to run into him, I’m sure he can arrange it. But to be frank, I don’t know what Lee wants anymore.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling foolish and wholly out of my element. I looked down at the floor, remembering how I had sat there with a very alive Jacob just weeks before. “I can’t believe he’s dead,” I said, looking around the empty room.