Her clenched teeth blocked the profanities she wanted to yell. She knew she had to make her point slowly and clearly. “I don’t want help. Don’t baby me, don’t coddle me, don’t touch me. Not ever again.”
“As you wish.” His flat tone conveyed hurt, but her own pain filled her too much to care.
When the door closed behind him, the flimsy box she’d constructed around her fears finally split. The room filled with a ragged tearing noise that sounded like packing tape pulling off cardboard. Despair stung her eyes and tasted salty on her lips. Covering her mouth with her fist wasn’t enough to stop the sounds, so she buried her face in a pillow and tried not to listen to her own sobs.
In contrast to the darkness swirling inside Theresa, the next morning was one of those glittering winter days with a blue sky and no clouds. No one could stay in bed with that much sunshine, no matter how much she wanted to hide, so she gave up and dragged a desk chair to the bathtub. Maneuvering in and out had become less challenging after months of therapy. Afterward she found black yoga pants stretchy enough to slide over her stump sock, a T-shirt, and a man’s periwinkle cashmere cardigan piled inside the bedroom door. A gym bag she recognized as her own held underwear and her ankle charger. Wulf must have gathered them before they left the house.
As she haltingly descended to the main floor, the art collection in the stairwell temporarily diverted her from seeking a telephone. Was it Ivar or Wulf who liked sketches of dancers? She recognized the work of several Impressionists and Cubists, and suspected the others were also by artists she should have known. The money hanging on this wall alone was more than three years of medical school tuition. What had Wulf flung at her during their argument at Camp Caddy—the people in these brownstones have problems like everyone else? Right.
It had been months since she’d walked through a house unaccosted by someone trying to make her eat or drink or talk or do something. Her mother definitely wasn’t there, which made her stop and close her eyes to hold back tears. She’s fine. Ivar said so, and he presumably doesn’t care enough to lie. It has to be true.
A swinging door led to the kitchen, where a dark-haired woman turned from the counter. “Good morning!” The greeting and grin belonged to the reporter from Afghanistan, the one who’d known Wulf. “Dr. Chiesa, right? Can I call you Theresa?”
“Um, sure. You’re...” She searched for a name. “Laura?”
“You remembered! Wasn’t sure since we met so quickly.” The other woman fiddled with a chrome espresso machine. “Coffee?”
“Please.” The kitchen’s dark wood cabinets and shiny appliances were as sleek as the coffeemaker. Mica flecks in the countertops and a row of white dish towels contrasted with the rest of the dark palette. It was the complete opposite of her mother’s terra-cotta-and-fruit themed kitchen. It was cold.
“Glad to see the stretch pants work. Wulf asked for a skirt, but I didn’t have one.”
Learning that Wulf had asked to borrow Laura’s clothes for her felt odd. Unsettling. “You live here too?”
“I’m not in town enough to get a place of my own, and my grandfather works for Ivar.” She pulled half-and-half and strawberries out of the refrigerator. They looked lost on the long counter. “Hopefully I’ll be gone next week.”
“You’re returning to Afghanistan?” Watching Laura dart around the kitchen stirred a cauldron of emotions, but she didn’t want to dig too deeply to figure out whether she was more jealous of the darting, the job or the familiarity with Wulf’s home.
“Afraid not. I’m persona non grata at the military embedded media program.” Laura found bowls, a chopping board and a knife without having to search. “Feels like I’ve been stuck with lawyers for months, but it’s bogus to charge me with revealing classified information for exposing a crime, so I imagine I’ll be cleared soon.”
“What’ll you do? If you can’t go back?” How could Laura be so casual about losing her career?
“There’s a dozen other conflicts to cover besides Afghanistan and plenty of soldiers who aren’t Americans. Maybe I’ll head to Africa.” After rinsing the last strawberry, she set bread and butter on the counter. “What would you like for breakfast?”
“You don’t have to wait on me.”
When Laura froze, hand partially inserted in the bread bag, to stare at her, Theresa realized her words had emerged louder and more defensive than she’d intended.
“I’m sorry. That was—” She didn’t have a chance to finish before Laura waved her off.
“No offense. I know I tend to roll over people.” She gestured at the fixings. “Please.”
They settled on opposite sides of the kitchen island. Sharing the newspaper with Laura, who refolded each section as she finished, was pleasant enough that her shoulders relaxed. She drained her coffee and turned a page. The photo of a large colonial-style house surrounded by emergency vehicles was typical inside-page fare.
Second Tragedy Strikes Senator’s Family. This was the home of the senator who’d died next to her in Afghanistan. She dropped the paper and pressed against the stool’s backrest, almost tipping, while the black letters grew and swam on the page. Three dead. One daughter missing. Not more death. Not another family.
Wulf hadn’t known this family, and he hadn’t drawn Unferth to them.
“Oh.” Looking from the paper to her, Laura asked, “You okay?”
Without words to describe how or why a crushing weight had lifted from her chest, she nodded. This black-and-white picture forced her to be honest. Wulf wasn’t responsible for what had happened to the senator in Afghanistan, or to his family, or even to Ray. The blame belonged to Unferth.
“I got the short version from Wulf.” The reporter patted her jeans pockets and then squinted and shook her head. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” Right now she’d welcome a new subject. “How’s quitting?”
Laura snorted. “This is my third try. Maybe fourth.”
“Ouch.” A rumble from the kitchen alerted Theresa to another door past the refrigerator.
“Car in the garage. Wulf went shopping.” Laura’s eyebrows rose suggestively. “I suggest you prepare to be inundated.”
Seconds later, he shouldered through the door with a computer-store tote in one hand and department-store bags in the other. “Good morning. You found the clothes.”
Intellectually she understood that he wouldn’t be wounded, and she’d seen him recover other times, but his perfect smile was such an unsettling contrast with last night’s gruesome wounds that she didn’t know where to look or how to reply.
“I bought a few things that might fit better.”
“Thank you.” His presence heated the kitchen until she almost felt like she was back in the sandbox.
Laura tidied her mug and bowl into the dishwasher and headed for the door. “Sorry to miss this, but I have legal bills to go incur.”
Her departure didn’t make speaking easier. After rejecting him last night, Theresa wasn’t sure how to cross this distance. Her arms ached to wrap around him, but she hugged the blue sweater closer instead. It smelled faintly of evergreen.
“So.” Outwardly he looked and sounded calm, but his tight-fisted grip on the shopping bag handles hinted that, like her, he was nervous this morning. “Maybe you’ll prefer these.”
The new clothes wouldn’t hold his essence.
“Did Laura show you this?” He opened a third door she’d assumed led to a pantry or a powder room and revealed a blue-and-white-wallpapered nook. Sun streamed through a window to an enclosed courtyard, highlighting a toile-patterned chair and ottoman. “We eat at the kitchen bar or in the dining room, so I thought you might like to use this space.” As he unpacked a laptop, she recognized her Beowulf books and biology texts already on the table.