Tim nodded professional approval. “Stubbins isn’t taking any chances.”
Marianne said nothing. She felt exposed, ridiculous, chagrined at being even more in Stubbins’s debt, raw from other emotions she didn’t want to examine too closely. She didn’t look at Tim.
The reporters didn’t give chase, which meant either they knew they were outclassed or she wasn’t a big enough story. She hoped it was the latter. Tim, who had driven the entire previous night, fell asleep. She remembered that he had always had that ability, and then tried not to remember anything else.
The car deposited them at an apartment building in Toronto. The driver handed Marianne apartment keys to 3B. She said, “Does Jonah Stubbins just keep a whole series of apartments around the world for emergencies like this?” Because it was inconceivable that Stubbins himself lived here, in this respectable but slightly crumbling building from the last century, in this respectable but slightly crumbling neighborhood of a Canadian city. Neither the driver nor the bodyguard answered her. They unloaded the suitcases and drove off.
“Well,” Tim said as he carried in her cases, “home sweet home.”
Marianne set down her laptop case. The apartment, not as big as her abandoned bungalow in Barnesville, had two bedrooms. They opened off a living-dining-kitchen area with a large wall screen. The simple furnishings looked neither old nor brand new, as if the apartment had been put together a few years ago and used occasionally since then. A coffee stain blossomed on the arm of the beige sofa; sheets and blankets were folded neatly on the unmade beds; the few pictures on the wall were generic landscapes. The kitchen cupboards held six plates, six glasses, six cups, six sets of cutlery.
She felt a sudden, unbidden longing for another home—not for her bright little house near the college where she’d taught and researched up until seven years ago, but for the big, messy, noisy house where she had raised Elizabeth and Ryan and Noah. Children’s artwork on the fridge, toys underfoot, SpaghettiOs, cereal boxes with prizes inside.
“What’s wrong, Marianne?” Tim said.
“Nothing.”
“Like hell. Are you scared? You’re safe enough here, you know. That magazine will only be on the stands a week, and for that time I’ll do the shopping and you stay inside and do… whatever it is you do. It’ll be okay.”
“I know.”
“Is it Rice? You worried about him? Are you two still in touch?”
Tim’s gaze was intent; his tone sounded like more than a simple request for information. Marianne said, “We’re not in touch.”
“Uh-huh.”
Her cell rang, saving her from trying to interpret his two maddening syllables. Stubbins again. All their calls went through heavily encrypted satellite links. She answered as Tim turned away to open the fridge, which was empty.
Tim said, “You got a pencil and paper, Marianne? I better make a list. Oh, and money. I hope you got either money or a new credit card, ’cause I don’t.”
Stubbins said, “You arrived all right.” It wasn’t a question. “Now, about that new Internet content you’re writing about my ship…”
Tim brought back groceries, including two bottles of wine and takeout Thai for dinner. Marianne drank two glasses of pinot noir, trying to calm her jitters, since talking rationally to herself hadn’t worked all that well.
Tim poured her a third glass. “We got to talk.”
“About what?”
“You don’t look at me.”
She was startled that he had noticed.
“Not directly,” he said, “not ever. Why not? Do you want a different bodyguard?”
Yes.
No.
“Because if looking at me brings back too many memories about Albuquerque and about Sissy, I get that. You can ask Stubbins for somebody else.”
“It isn’t that.” She drank off half the wine.
“Then what is it, Marianne?”
She didn’t answer but did turn her head to look at him directly—See? I can do it? That was a mistake. She couldn’t see her own face, but…
Tim let out a long breath. Of course he would know, he probably already knew, he was nothing if not experienced with women.
He stood up, came around the table, pulled her to her feet and kissed her.
Marianne pulled away. “No, no… we can’t…”
“Why not?” He didn’t let her go. His touch electrified and soothed her, both at once. How long had it been since anyone had touched her? Since Harrison. Two and a half years.
He said, “You carrying a torch for Rice?”
“No.” She wasn’t, not anymore. Banked embers.
“I grieved on Sissy for nearly two years,” Tim said, “and then I hated myself because I stopped. Because I could stop. I thought it meant I was a shallow prick, or hadn’t really loved her. But it don’t mean that, Marianne. It’s just life going on, you know?”
That speech finished her. She hadn’t expected insight from him, or sensitivity—not even sensitivity expressed in clichés. Why not? After all, Sissy had loved him, and Sissy had been nobody’s fool. His scent, masculine and heady, confused her. Still, she made one more try.
“I’m so much older than you—”
Tim laughed. “Who the hell cares?” He kissed her again, and then she was lost completely, drowning in him—no, not drowning, that implied something passive, she was rushing toward him, toward that blue gaze and that long hard body, rushing into the bedroom and the joy that blotted out, for a time anyway, all memory and all regret.
CHAPTER 17
S plus 6 years
For three whole days Daddy didn’t get out of his tall red chair hardly at all, and there was no more milk left or cereal or cheese for sandwiches. Jason and Colin hadn’t had any baths because they weren’t supposed to get in the bathtub without an adult. The upstairs toilet was plugged up but the downstairs one still worked. However, Colin could smell the toilet from his bedroom and he didn’t like it. His bedroom window was too stuck to open. The boys stood in the front hall and discussed all this in whispers.
“I think Daddy’s sick,” Jason said.
“I think he’s mad at us,” Colin said. “He frowns all the time and he won’t talk.”
“If he’s sick,” Jason said, “he should go to a doctor. But if he’s mad, he should say why. It’s not fair.”
Colin nodded. It wasn’t fair. When you were mad at somebody you were supposed to tell them why, using your indoor voice, and then ask what everybody could do to make things better. That’s what Colin’s preschool teacher, Ms. Rydder, said. Colin wished he was back in preschool, but it was still summer. Anyway, he couldn’t go to school until he had a bath.
Jason said, “I told him he should go to the doctor.”
“You did?” Jason was brave. Colin was a little scared of Daddy now. “What did he say?”
“He said, ‘I wanna go home.’”
“But he is home.”
“I know. It doesn’t make sense.”
Colin stood on one foot, but that didn’t help. Outside, a tree said something in the rain, but that didn’t help either.
Jason said, sounding just like Daddy—the old Daddy—“Stop fidgeting, Colin. We have to think what to do!”
Colin tried to think, but nothing came. He said, “Daddy’s talking now.”
They tiptoed into the living room. Daddy sat in his chair, talking quiet but not so quiet that Colin didn’t hear him: “I wanna go home. I wanna go home.” It made Colin feel spooky.