He returned to his handstands, trying to set aside the terrible feeling that somehow he had made a mistake.
Chapter Thirteen
Bill Whitmire watched his wife, who sat cross-legged on their bed, using the palm of her hand to smooth out the surface of their down duvet. He could hear her voice from the last time they’d spent more than a single night there, reminding herself aloud that it was finally getting warm enough to pack that layer into storage and replace it with the cotton coverlet she loved so much.
Since then, their visits to the city hadn’t been long enough to justify even that minor change.
She was surrounded on the bed by brochures and pamphlets fanned out in front of her like tarot cards. Her therapist had dropped them off earlier tonight. He’d heard their conversation in the foyer. Grief counseling. Group therapy. Bill—never a fan of psychotherapy—might feel more comfortable in solo sessions, with a separate therapist.
The therapist had also warned that they might require couples counseling. The sooner the better, he had said. He’d told Katherine that the majority of parents who lost a child ended up divorced within three years.
Bill had been tempted to storm downstairs and throw the man out. Using the death of their child to instill fears in Katherine about their marriage? But for some reason, he couldn’t stop eavesdropping, watching them in the front hall from his spot on the second-floor landing. He wanted to hear his wife defend herself. To defend their marriage and the family they had created. To tell him they would be just fine—together.
Instead, she’d allowed the therapist to drone on. “That’s not to say that you and Bill won’t weather the storm,” he’d said. “Some couples become closer than ever. They find a permanent and impenetrable connection in the memories of the child who was lost.” He had interlaced his fingers together to demonstrate the bond that she might suddenly form with her husband.
When Katherine had finally spoken, it was to say words he never would have expected to hear. “You’ve sat through enough sessions with me to know that Bill doesn’t form permanent and impenetrable bonds with anyone, let alone me.”
Julia—his Baby J—had been dead less than a day, and he could already feel the mother of his children slipping away from him.
It had started earlier this evening, after the police detectives left and before the therapist had arrived. She had been lying on the bed, and he had tried crawling next to her. Usually she was the one who sought physical proximity during sleep. She was the one who would back up into his body, nudging him to wrap his arms around her. Usually he would roll away to avoid the extra heat.
But today, he’d reached out for her. He’d pressed his chest against her back, wrapping his arms tightly around her. It had been Katherine who had pulled away, pretending to roll over in a sleep she had not yet actually found.
Unlike his wife, though—in fact, unlike most people—he was not the type to wallow among a stack of mumbo-jumbo pamphlets or numb himself with happy pills, all in the hope that life would somehow magically improve.
He recognized his wife’s strengths and weaknesses, and dealing with a problem was not her strength. Making decisions was not her strength. These jobs always fell to him. Even with the studio on Long Island, he had to be the one finally to pull the trigger.
He told her he worked better out there. He told her he was getting sick of the city. But he also was very clear that he would stay in the townhouse if that was what she and the kids wanted. He knew how much she loved the house. He knew the kids still had their high school years ahead of them.
But she had refused to decide. She made endless lists of pros and cons. She talked about her love of the beach. The ease of life out in the Hamptons. Her friends who were spending more time there. She would wonder aloud whether the kids were mature enough to be unchaperoned during the week, but never ventured an answer.
And so he had made the decision. After talking to Julia and Billy—two of the strongest-willed, loudest-voiced children ever created—he had made the call to give up the lease on the recording space in the city and build the studio in Long Island. Two years later, he was still hearing Katherine’s passive-aggressive comments about how much she missed the city.
Now it would fall to Bill once again to fix this problem. She was pushing him away now, but he knew she would never leave. He also knew she would eventually begin to heal, not with those fucking pamphlets and her therapist’s psychobabble, but once they had answers.
He had thought at first they were on the same page. Those police officers had been so dismissive when they’d initially found Julia’s body. He’d never seen Kitty so angry and full of determination.
But when those two detectives had come back later tonight to take another look around, the fire he’d seen in her had dissipated, replaced by anemic hope: They really did seem motivated to find out what happened to Julia, didn’t they? They know what they’re doing, right?
More than fifty percent of couples split within three years, the therapist had warned.
Well, not them. Not after all these years.
Bill knew how to fix this. He walked downstairs to his office and made the phone call.
Chapter Fourteen
Even from the hallway outside her apartment, Ellie could hear the television blasting.
“Holy hell,” she said, pushing the door closed hard behind her with her hip, the extra effort needed due to the many layers of old paint around the frame. “Mrs. Hennessy always said that rock-and-roll music of yours would make you deaf. Do I need to schedule you an appointment for a hearing aid already?”
Jess was barely visible on the sofa, his face peering out from beneath the comforter that she’d last seen on her bed. She heard a moan of some kind, followed by the sight of the remote control at the blanket’s edge. The volume decreased.
“That crazy biddy also said my music would lead me to Satan’s altar.”
“And I’m sure if she were still alive, she’d say New York City was close enough. You’re still home?”
“I think I’m sick.”
“Great. Remind me to wipe down that remote with rubbing alcohol.”
“You’re back early.”
“Technically I get off work at four o’clock, remember?”
“Yeah, right. You mean the way technically this apartment is occupied by the granddaughter of Mrs. Delores Macintosh?”
Ellie’s rent-stabilized sublet wasn’t entirely aboveboard. The fact that Jess had been the one to hook her up with the deal probably explained his comfort with long-term tenancies on her sofa.
“Don’t knock my overtime. How do you think I can afford your IQ-destroying basic cable? I thought The Hills was your drug of choice,” she said, glancing at the television screen.
“You are so 2009. I had a brief addiction to Toddlers and Tiaras, but it was actually too depressing, even for me, the way they tart those girls up. No offense, sis.”
“Please don’t compare me to a five-year-old with waxed eyebrows.” Ellie had briefly made the rounds in Kansas beauty pageants—a phrase that Jess often called an oxymoron—but strictly for the scholarship money. Even with a couple of runner-up prizes, she could only swing part-time classes at Wichita State. She had less than three semesters of credit by the time she left.
“I’ve since moved on to those impeccable arbiters of domestic modesty and taste, the housewives. They’re real, you know. One hundred percent authentic, real housewives. Because fake housewives just won’t do. Any city will suffice, but I am currently imbibing those lovable divas of our very own two-one-two.”