A Little Learning (8 page)

It was a strangely unfamiliar cry, and he turned to see Caleb running through the corridor toward him.

“Are you leaving?” Caleb said. “I want to ride with you.”

“Fiona has the car keys. I walked.”

“Then, can I walk with you?”

“Not now. I want to talk to Rory.”

Something slipped over his son’s face, a mask that said Caleb understood nothing, except that he was being brushed off by his father. That his father didn’t want his company.

Seamus felt the rejection bounce back and strike him, as if he somehow felt the same pain Caleb had just experienced. Yet he couldn’t speak, didn’t know what to say.

“Where’s Fiona?” Seamus managed to ask his son.

Caleb said, “In there. Are you coming back in?”

“I don’t know. I’ll see you at home.” He turned, then, and saw her. She’d emerged from the kitchen with two carryalls, in the pants she’d worn for her performance, her parka covering her top. Her hair was still adorned with feathers and shells, and she was wearing snow boots and her down jacket. “Rory.”

But she was already hugging Caleb.

“You have to meet Fiona!” Caleb said.

“I want to very much. Can I do that tomorrow, Caleb?”

“Okay,” Caleb said happily, in contrast to the way he’d reacted to Seamus not walking home with him.

As Caleb ran back to the room where the others waited, Seamus gestured toward
Rory’s burdens. “May I help you carry things out to your car?”

She seemed to consider briefly. “Yes.”

He relieved her of the heavier tote bag and held open the door, to let her lead the way. She started the car and let it idle while she loaded it.

“Your troupe is amazing,” Seamus said. “You were great—I had no idea, even after seeing you practice.”

“Thank you.”

She closed the back door. “Well, that’s everything. Thanks. I need to get home and get some sleep.”

“I heard Desert’s moving away.”

“Yes. Her father needs her help.”

“It surprises me that she’s going. She doesn’t seem...”

“People often aren’t what they seem.” Rory cut him off.

“Rory, do we have a problem? You seem—a bit cool lately.”

He noted that she didn’t answer at once, that she seemed to be thinking over how to respond.

But actually, Rory was trying to
keep
from responding. Trying to
keep
from saying exactly what she thought. Partly this was prompted by the suspicion that she wanted to talk with him because she was attracted to him; because she couldn’t keep from thinking about him. She felt vulnerable, afraid of her own impulses. If she began telling Seamus what she thought...

If only she could keep her own counsel, for once.

Her grandmother had opted to ride home with her friend Malcolm, the town judge, and Rory longed to get home and take a hot shower. She wished she could drop into bed without worrying about the still-missing python. Tonight, she was going to take her chances, in any case. “Actually,” she said, “I’m downright cold. Desert said it’s five below right now. And I don’t think it’s going to get warmer tonight.” She climbed into the driver’s seat of her car.

“Why don’t you run me home with you and we’ll talk on the way?”

“Get in,” she said, wondering how she was going to stay out of trouble in this conversation.

Seamus walked around the vehicle and slid into the passenger seat.

As they fastened their seat belts, Rory said, “Your children want your attention. That’s all. If I sound cool, that’s probably what it’s about. You have a great family. I really like your kids.”

“They like you.”

Rory looked at him, perplexed. Did he simply
not care
about his children? She hadn’t believed that earlier. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to believe it. She said, “Look, it’s a little personal for me. My own father has never exactly been an integral part of my life. And I never had a chance to know my mother—she died when I was little. I know her only from the picture my grandmother paints of her. I feel for your kids, because I know what it is to want the attention of the only parent you have.”

Seamus understood.

And maybe she thought he was more interested in chasing her than in taking care of his kids, than in giving them the love they needed.

But how could he explain the facts?

He couldn’t. He didn’t want to talk about Janine to anyone.

He didn’t want to speak of her death. There was no way to describe the experience of finding his wife like that; the terror of what might have happened if one of the children had found her instead, had seen what he’d seen, had picked up the handgun. Just out of curiosity. Beau, for instance, at nine, fascinated by all things, wanting to know how everything worked. Or Caleb, who had been four.

And Rory, sensible woman that she was, would probably suggest he get some therapy. But he’d
had
therapy.

Therapy was not going to make him less angry at Janine.

Therapy was not going to make
any
of it better.

What made it better—or had seemed to make it bearable until he’d come to Sultan—was avoidance. Avoiding his children, and especially any instance in which he might tell them his real opinion of their mother, his recollections of her death, any of it, all of it.

“I love my children,” he finally said. “I’m...angry about the way Janine died. I’d prefer not to share that anger with them.”

Oh.

Rory considered this. Couldn’t he spend time with his kids without Janine’s death coming into it?

Maybe not. Maybe that would be difficult to avoid, indeed. Because it wasn’t necessarily the kind of thing people were
supposed
to avoid.

“I lost it with Lauren last week,” he admitted. “I said too much.”

“That must be difficult to keep from doing,” Rory reflected. “I have that problem in everyday life—without big issues at stake.” And Lauren, Rory reflected, considered her mother to be a heroine. A role model.

It was possible that Seamus actually hated Janine. For buying a gun and then dying because of it.

“Wow,” she said, as much to herself as to him. “This seems like a big issue. Really big. But Seamus, your kids need you.” The answer came to her even as she spoke. “They need to be with you more than they need
not
to see you angry with their mother. Maybe they’ll be mad at you for not loving her or supporting her memory the way they think you should. But they’ll be more angry—or something worse than angry—if you avoid them, rather than lose your temper in front of them.

“It’s kind of like my situation, I think. My mom was being unfaithful to my dad when she died, and I think that’s part of why he’s never had much to do with me. It’s not...adult...to act that way.” One of her hands flew from the steering wheel to cover her mouth. Had she really said that about her father? Had she said that his reaction to her mother’s death—his treatment of her, his daughter—was immature? “I didn’t mean that. I don’t know what I mean. These aren’t easy things.”

But Seamus was thinking about what she said. “You think I should just risk it.”

“Well, you’ve
got
to talk to other adults, someone, about how you feel. Then, maybe you won’t need to talk to your kids about it. I mean, if I were a parent and my spouse bought a handgun, I would be frightened. I would be mad at him for making a unilateral decision. I think lots of people would probably feel the way you do. Have you ever talked to anyone about that?”

“You mean a counselor? Yes. For quite some time. But I’m still angry, and I’m still not willing to go through the motions with my children, pretending that I think their mom was a great person. She was insecure and stubborn and seemed to have a native inability to
listen.
It makes me sick that Lauren sees her as the patron saint of all things wise and strong.”

It was the first time Rory had heard venom in his voice. They’d reached his house, and now she slowed in front.

“Wouldn’t you like me to help you carry everything into your house?” he asked.

“I can manage.”

“Did you find the python?”

“Actually, no.”

“So it’s not really safe for you to be there alone.”

Rory shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. The chance of Lola reappearing and getting aggressive with me is slight.”

“But such things
do
happen,” he pointed out.

“I wish she would turn up,” Rory admitted. “Look, I have your number. I’ll call if there’s a problem. Samantha and Desert will be home in a few hours.”

Seamus reluctantly headed up the walk, just as his SUV pulled up to the curb behind Rory’s car. Fiona was back with the children.

Rory drove away, her mind on Seamus, on her initial prejudice against him, and on what really lay beneath his distance from his children. The problem was not what she’d imagined. She respected his wish not to criticize Janine in front of his children, but in his voice this evening she’d heard something close to hatred. His fear did not seem unreasonable to her. His feelings on the subject were neither mutable nor casual.

She let herself in the back door of the pink house and switched on the mudroom light, then carried her gear inside and looked around.

Lola was curled on top of the refrigerator.

“Lola!” Rory said happily. “You’re back.” Remembering her promise to Seamus, she dialed the number of the Empire Street house.

The voice of an elderly woman answered. “Hello?”

“This is Rory Gorenzi,” she said, watching Lola stir slightly, looking toward her. “Is Seamus there?”

“Yes.”

A moment passed, and Seamus picked up the phone. “Rory?”

She told him about Lola. “I’ll watch to make sure we don’t lose her again, but it’s rather difficult to carry her without three people. It’s warm up there, and she looks as though she wants to stay where she is, actually.”

“But I don’t think you should be alone with her,” Seamus put in. “Do you?”

“It would be extremely unusual if anything happened,” Rory reassured him. No, the situation wasn’t ideal, but it could be remedied when her roommates came home. “I’ll call Desert on her cell phone right now.”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.” He hung up.

Desert didn’t answer her phone. Rory had just finished leaving her a message when a knock sounded at the back door. She opened it and Seamus came in—he was so tall and sober and seemed so competent. Something warm and unnerving rushed through Rory.

“Your father’s coming, too,” he said. “So we can move her.”

“She doesn’t actually weigh that much,” Rory said. “I was thinking of when there are three women. That’s how many we need to move her in case she gets, you know, restive.”

A moment later she heard a knock at her front door and hurried to answer it. Her father stood there. “Um. Hi,” she said. “This really wasn’t necessary.”

“I was seized with a desire to see the great Burmese python before it moves away,” he told her.

Yes. The grapevine. No secrets in Sultan.

Without comment, Rory led him through the living room with its antique furnishings, which Desert intended to sell with the house, and past the ornate staircase with its Victorian moldings. He admired the iron stove in the hall and the decorative radiator. “Lovely place,” he said as they stepped into the kitchen and he saw the patterned linoleum that Desert had so carefully uncovered. “I’m astonished she’s selling.”

“Actually, she’s begun to fantasize about antebellum mansions in the south. Though I don’t think she’ll have much time on her hands for a while.”

“Ah,” said her father, glancing up and spotting Lola, peacefully sleeping.

“Well,” said Rory. “Let me go downstairs and make sure her water dish is full and everything.”

“Fine.” He turned to Seamus, and together the men admired the kitchen light fixtures. “This is a showplace,” Kurt said. “She’s asking half a million, and the market will bear it. I had no idea it was like this inside.”

Her father. Her father had come to help her. What conclusions he was drawing about a woman who needed help because of an escaped Burmese python was another question. She’d spent most of her life assuming that her father disapproved of her. But now that she was actually working for him—well, he didn’t treat her as though he disapproved of her. He was simply aloof.

Was
he
angry with her mother for dying?

He must have been angry with her for betraying him with another man. Rory had always known that. But she’d assumed that he extended that anger, unfairly, to her. What if he, like Seamus, feared speaking ill of her mother in front of her? What if he was protecting her from his anger toward her mother, just as Seamus tried to protect his children?

* * *

“T
HAT
’
S
A
BIG
SNAKE
,” Kurt remarked to Seamus while Rory was downstairs.

“Too big,” Seamus agreed. “It belongs in a zoo, not in a house.”

Kurt made no answer.

Seamus said, “You must be proud of Rory.” He was fishing, fishing because of the conversation he’d had with Rory in her car. Her frank admission of how his children wanted his company and her sense of rejection by her father. He wanted to hear Kurt Gorenzi say that he
did
care about his daughter, that he thought she’d matured into a fine human being.

Kurt simply looked at him. Then, he said, “Why?”

Seamus could not believe his ears. “She can do so many things.”
Don’t bluster, Seamus.
“She has an amazing degree of knowledge of the backcountry. She’s
great
with children.”

“You’ve said that. She is a remarkable human being, but I can’t claim to have had much to do with it.”

That was better. Maybe that was regret in Kurt’s voice. No, it was simply acceptance of the status quo, of the reality he’d created.

But slowly, another possibility occurred to Seamus.
He knows you’d like to sleep with his daughter.
Of course Kurt wasn’t going to go overboard in his enthusiasm for the subject of his daughter’s merits. Seamus sincerely doubted that Rory was a virgin, but maybe Kurt found that having a friend who was little more than a decade younger than himself pursue Rory was too close for comfort.