Oddly, the sound brings tears to my eyes. I brush them away and begin rationalizing to myself. It’s good that he left. I need to be alone. I need to think. The last thing I need around me tonight is some damned man.
I hear a mew followed by a thump-ump. I laugh and then, as I start to pick up the mess on my living room floor, I cry.
After tossing and turning most of the night, I give up on trying to sleep once the sun comes up. I feel edgy and hung-over, so I make a pot of coffee and sit on the couch, trying to figure out what to do next. I realize I’m going to have to confront David, and the thought of doing so fills me with both sadness and dread.
A little after eight, I head over to the main house, knowing Dom will be up and about by now. Half an hour later we are seated at the kitchen table, our plates heaped with fluffy waffles smothered with fat strawberries and mounds of whipped cream. Bright morning sunshine streams in through the window in stark contrast to the darkness inhabiting my soul.
“Thank you for insisting I come over here this morning, Dom. Being alone wasn’t as good for me as I thought it would be.”
“Did you get any sleep?”
I answer him with a weak smile.
“Didn’t think you would.”
“I just can’t believe it,” I say, shaking my head. “I mean, forget the risk to me. David is a surgeon, for God’s sake. He’s routinely messing with other people’s bodily fluids and delicate organs. Doesn’t he realize what could happen? What the hell was he thinking?”
“Sounds like he wasn’t thinking,” Dom says. There is a period of silence and then he adds, “Assuming he did what you think he did.”
I look up at him, my mouth hanging open in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re going to defend the bastard.”
“Not defend necessarily, just give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Doubt? What doubt? There is no doubt, Dom. Cinder clearly identified him as the man who met Mike Halverson at the Grizzly. So what’s to doubt?”
He shrugs. “I just think you might be jumping to conclusions. David never struck me as the type.”
“You mean the type to screw around? Because I can assure you he is that type. I saw that with my own eyes.”
“That’s not what I meant. Obviously he did the nasty with Karen. I meant I don’t think David is gay. My gaydar may not be infallible, but it’s pretty good. And David just doesn’t fit.”
“Oh, yeah,” I scoff. “There’s solid evidence.”
“Come on, Mattie. You’re usually more open-minded than this.”
“Excuse me if having my life blow up before my eyes doesn’t do much to enhance my objectivity.”
“Look, I know I’m acting on nothing more than a gut feeling. But I think you should try to talk to David, hear what he has to say before you jump to any conclusions.”
“Oh, I intend to talk with him all right.”
“Mattie.”
“Oh, all right,” I say, tossing my fork down in frustration. “I’ll try to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
There is no conviction in my voice and Dom is too smart not to notice. “You should take someone with you,” he says. “That will help you stay calm. I’ll be happy to go along.”
“I think I’d rather do it alone.”
“You’re too emotional. Too close to it all. All you’ll end up doing is pissing him off. Besides, if you truly have doubts as to what David is capable of, it just makes sense not to confront him alone.”
He is probably right, but I know that with him or anyone else there, David will never open up like he would to me alone. Besides, this is so very personal. Yet if I know Dom, he’ll insist on coming along and will badger me about it until I give in. I think fast, knowing what I have to do but not sure how to pull it off. Then I remember that it is Sunday and, being a creature of habit, Dom always does his grocery shopping before noon on Sundays. He swears it’s the best time to go if you want to avoid long lines because so many people spend the morning in church.
I don’t want to make my capitulation look too easy, so I spend a few moments playing with different facial expressions, going from stubborn to conflicted, and finally, resigned. “You’re right,” I say with a sigh. “How about if I call David and see if he’ll be home this afternoon. We can go over there then.”
“Great. That will give me time to get my grocery shopping done.”
Bingo!
We finish eating and after helping with the cleanup I head back to the cottage. Within the hour I hear the rumble of the garage door and watch as Dom backs out and heads down the driveway. As soon as he turns onto the road, I throw on a jacket and head off through the woods.
The one flaw in my little scheme is that I no longer know anything about David’s on-call schedule and I’m not sure he’ll be home, so I’m relieved when I see his car in the drive. As I cross the yard I notice that the wheelbarrow is gone, though there is a small pile of mulch beneath the window, serving as a testament to my stupidity. I climb the porch steps and, out of habit, reach for the doorknob. Then I remember that I don’t live here anymore. Feeling awkward and oddly conspicuous, I ring the doorbell instead.
David answers wearing shorts and a T-shirt. A fine sheen of sweat covers his body and a small towel is draped around his neck. I know from past experience that he’s just finished his morning workout on the treadmill. In the past, David’s obsession with fitness struck me as appropriate, considering that he is a surgeon and presumably, somewhat health-conscious. Now, it seems merely obsessive, one more fault in the ram-shackle construction of his personality.
“Hi,” he says, his face registering surprise at finding me here. “Is this a social call?”
“Not exactly. I need to get some clothes. The weather is getting cooler and I need warmer stuff.”
“No problem.” He steps aside and waves me in with a magnanimous gesture that pisses me off. After all, this is my house, too. At least it used to be.
While the clothes thing serves as a delaying tactic, it is also a legitimate need. Worried that we might end up at one another’s throats before my visit is done, though hopefully only in the metaphorical sense, I opt to gather the clothes first before saying anything. David tails me the entire time, indulging in inane chatter about the hospital, the OR, and a recent case he did. His incessant yammering annoys me and the way he follows me around everywhere I go, watching my every move, makes me wonder if he thinks I’ll try to take something I shouldn’t.
After sorting through the closet and dresser, I pack a suitcase full of sweaters, slacks, and flannel jammies and haul it downstairs, parking it by the front door. Then I go to the foyer closet and dig out gloves, a scarf, a sweater jacket, and my best winter coat, tossing them atop the suitcase. Nervous and anxious to be done with it all, I turn to David and, with no segue or warning, launch my first missile.
“I take it you know about Mike Halverson’s death,” I say.
He nods. “Tragic thing.”
I stare at him for several seconds, appalled. “That’s it?” I say. “That’s all you have to say? ‘Tragic thing?’”
His brow furrows and he looks confused. “What were you expecting me to say?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something a bit more emotional. I mean, you were sleeping with the guy, weren’t you?”
He staggers back a step and all the blood drains from his face. “What?” he says, the word coming out like a gunshot.