Jane put the bottle back on the floor and stretched herself out beside him. “Is that why you quit them all?”
“They filled me up. They were what I was.” He closed his eyes and drank some wine. “Then when Michael died…”
“It’s okay, Diz.”
“I know, I know. But I realized all those… passions, they weren’t me. I was just a guy who did things pretty well-played cops, argued, made love maybe…”
“Definitely,” she said.
“… but none of it mattered. Or maybe mattered too much. I guess losing the kid made me realize that. There wasn’t any me- any Dismas-left there to handle it.”
“So you dropped out?”
“I didn’t look at it that way. I changed careers, that’s all, killed off that romantic idiot. You can’t have things be that important. You lose things. That’s life. You gotta be able to deal with it.”
She ran a hand over the stomach of the man who’d been her first husband. He was smiling at her, in spite of what he was saying. Still a wonderful smile. She kissed him on the cheek, the ear, the neck. His arms came around her.
“So have you been happy?” she asked.
“I haven’t been unhappy. I haven’t thought much about it.”
“Except developed your theory of love the attitude, the love-without-pain theory.”
He shrugged. “It’s a good theory. Have you been happy? Who’s happy, anyway? It’s a dumb concept.”
“I’m happy right now,” she said. “I don’t need to think about what it all might mean tomorrow.”
“Another difference between us.”
But really, saying it all as if it were suddenly a pose, his lips curving up a little, eyes twinkling. “But this isn’t bad.”
“Thank you so much.”
The kiss now slow, deep, hands moving. Feeling his breath soft over her body. “This isn’t bad either. Or this. Or…”
“Diz?”
“Huh?”
“Shhh.”
It wasn’t often Rose couldn’t sleep.
The last time had been when they’d had the Paulist missionary for that week, and that had been in February, she thought, or March, she couldn’t really remember. She did know that when the diocese sent around the missionaries, she was more nervous about her cooking, her housekeeping. It was, she felt, a reflection on the fathers, and she didn’t want to do anything to embarrass them, so she tended to stay awake, going over things she might have forgotten or that she could do better.
But on the other, regular nights, like tonight was, normally she’d finish the dinner dishes for the fathers and whatever guests they might have had, then watch television doing her needlework in her room until nine or so, then turn out the light. The days started early at the rectory and she knew she wasn’t a spring chicken anymore-she had to get her sleep.
But the thing with Father Cavanaugh just wouldn’t get out of her mind. And it probably wasn’t even important. She could bring it up to him in the morning, and that would be that. But her body just wouldn’t listen to her, and she lay awake, waiting for him to get back from seeing how Steven was progressing over to the Cochrans’.
She looked at the clock glowing on her nightstand. It was after eleven. She’d be sore tired tomorrow. “Come on, you old woman,” she said to herself, disgusted, “it’ll keep.”
But she kept returning to it, and it might really be something Father would have to act on right away. Even if they had a suspect already, it might make a difference. He’d want her to bring it to his attention, even if she turned out not to be right. If he’d told her once, he’d told her a thousand times, “Rose, nobody’s infallible but the Pope.”
So if he’d just made that little mistake-and she wasn’t even sure it was a mistake (Lord knows, his memory was so much better than hers)-then she thought he’d want to know, especially since it concerned Eddie’s death, to say nothing of the official police investigation.
And it had been gnawing at her ever since morning when Tibbs and Renko (that’s what she called them-wouldn’t that be a good show if they put those two together?) had had that discussion where she’d poured the coffee. She’d gone over it in her mind about fifty times since then, the question of whether it had been Sunday or Monday that Father had gone out with Eddie, and she was pretty sure it was Monday.
The only reason she was sure-or thought she was sure-was that Sunday, a week ago yesterday, they had had Bishop Wright over from Oakland and she’d made a prime rib for the dinner and everybody had commented on how good the Yorkshire pudding was, and the au jus sauce. They’d invited her to eat with them, even, which was special for when they had guests.
She thought she remembered Father Dietrick opening a second bottle of wine, and the three of them retiring into the library after dinner while she cleaned up. But, of course, she couldn’t be a hundred percent sure, since she’d gone to her room after washing up and she hadn’t seen either His Excellency or the fathers again that night.
And she knew it had been an early Sunday dinner-she had timed the roast to be done at 3:30, so she must have served at around 4:00-so it was possible that their “party” had broken up early and that Eddie had come by after that.
The thing was, she remembered somebody ringing the doorbell on Monday night after dinner, but again she hadn’t seen whether or not it was Eddie. Father Cavanaugh had answered the door himself, sensitive to interrupting her, and that had been the last she’d seen of him. He hadn’t come back until after she’d gone to bed, and unlike tonight, she had slept soundly.
But it was her memory of Sunday, of Bishop Wright being there, that made her believe it hadn’t been Sunday that Eddie had come by. His Excellency had never gone home early before. Usually Father Cavanaugh and he would “burn the midnight oil” over some cognac (and nothing wrong with that-the men need to be allowed some release) while they discussed philosophy or theology or politics. She knew what they talked about because Father Cavanaugh would often share with her some of what they’d said the next morning.
She sighed, turning on her side. Eleven-twenty. Maybe she should just wake up Father Dietrick and ask him if he remembered what time their discussion had broken up that night. But no, he’d…
There it was! The back door opening and closing quietly. She swung her feet to the floor and grabbed her robe from where she’d hung it neatly on the chair next to her bed. She wanted to move quickly before Father had had a chance to get to bed-it wouldn’t do to disturb him after that-but she wasn’t about to go out with pins in her white, thin and brittle hair either, even in the middle of the night. She stopped by the bathroom and took them out. She stepped into her slippers.
Father stood in front of the open refrigerator, peering inside. Seeing him, bless him, she knocked softly on the wall by the kitchen door.
“Rose,” he said, smiling. “Caught me, I’m afraid.” She made some gesture. “What are you doing still awake?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” No point in rushing right into it now. It probably wasn’t that important. She moved into the kitchen. “Can I make you something?”
He stepped back, acknowledging the kitchen as her domain. She knew what they had left over. He leaned over and pecked her on the cheek, which made her blush with pleasure. Father loved her, and it was a wonderful feeling, as comfortable as being married.
“I’ll just sit at the table and you surprise me,” he said. “But do you think a beer while I wait would be sinful?”
He opened a Mexican beer while she took out the plate with the chicken on it. (See! It paid to take the extra minutes to slice the meat from the carcass.) Then the Best Foods (nothing but) and Clausen’s pickles. She saw the Swiss cheese. Swiss cheese? Why not. And the potato bread that came in such big slices.