Blood Bond (9 page)

She put her hand on the top of his head and shoved him down and he found himself level with her breasts, so he obliged the way he knew she liked it: he bit her softly through the shirt, tasting starch and cotton, breathing her scent.

Amaris spread her legs and pressed against him and he slid his hands down her back to her ass—bare, why didn't that surprise him—and pulled her against him. Amaris laughed deep in her throat and yanked on the shirt, popping off a couple of buttons.

“Even
your
balance isn't that good,” she murmured as he stumbled and nearly dropped her. She hooked one of his belt loops and led him across the living room: dusty grand piano, vases of wilting flowers, signed lithographs in a stack against a wall. Amaris was not a dedicated housekeeper.

They got as far as a high-backed upholstered chair that had belonged to Amaris's grandmother. She leaned against it, shimmying the rest of the way out of Joe's shirt. It landed on her foot and she kicked it out of the way. Amaris licked her way up the line of his jaw and stopped at his ear. “I'm glad you called,” she whispered, her breath coming hard.

Joe did his best, and Amaris seemed to feel he made more than a creditable effort. But when it was done he realized with a measure of guilt that he wasn't glad he'd called at all. Coming here to try to douse the burn inside him had been a mistake—he could feel it in his gut. He just didn't know why.

 

CHAPTER NINE

MARVA WORKED THROUGH LUNCH
finishing the Bank of America quilt, and then wrapped it in tissue and drove downtown. At the bank, she handed the package to a receptionist who assured her that while the executive Marva had asked to see was unavailable at the moment, he would get back to her promptly.

“It's no problem, he wasn't expecting me,” Marva said, cheeks flaming. Of course, she should have called ahead.

She'd been unable to sleep after she woke at four, and she'd spent the hours since then finishing the binding and going over the piece carefully looking for thread tails and minute flaws, and sewing a label on the back. “February Haunts,” she'd called this one, and while the odds were good that no one would ask her to explain, she was satisfied that the title was apt: the indigo and purple and black fabrics reminded her of the water off Stinson Beach on the only days she could stand to go, in winter when the beach was hostile and empty, and her only company was the elusive presence of the disappointed and bleak who'd walked the sand before her.

Oh, God, stop being so dramatic,
she chided herself as she turned to go.
Threads
magazine had called her work “turbulent.” She'd been flattered, but then Harmon had told her that he wasn't sure he could live with her “negativity.” Was it true?
Was
she too negative? She'd thought she made a good effort to keep her moods from affecting other people. She always, always asked Harmon about his day, laughed at his jokes, smiled encouragingly when he drew out some boring story.
That
wasn't negativity, was it?

Secretly, Marva had always longed to be considered deep. Depth came with melancholia; look at Vera Nazina and Kay Sage, artistic idols both of a more youthful Marva. And her failed marriage was her fault as much as Harmon's—an introvert like her should never have expected to fit well with a man like him, for whom surface impressions were often the only impressions, who was happiest when he was surrounded by people just like him.

She thought of Joe—he
had
asked her to call him by his first name, hadn't he? Yes, but only because he was
interrogating
her, she chided herself. At any rate, he didn't seem like a man who would enjoy the ambitious social schedule that Harmon had wanted to pursue. Joe seemed like a man you could really talk to, a man who noticed subtle details, who—

Outside the bank, Marva nearly ran into a woman carrying a pair of heavy shopping bags. She forced herself to take in the sun glancing off the cars and buildings, the sycamore leaves floating down to the street, the knots of office workers on their lunch hour, their conversations carrying on the crisp fall breeze.

She had to pay more attention. She had to be more
aware
. The last time Marva quit therapy she'd been working on awareness, the idea being that making yourself present in the moment obviated the need for dwelling on the past or the future, on remorse or longing. Or some such notion.

It was a quick walk to the restaurant where she'd promised to meet Gail. She spotted her sister inside, dressed in one of the faux fitness outfits that served to showcase her absurdly fit figure. Marva entered the restaurant and tapped Gail on the shoulder, and received a brief hug for her effort.

“Your detective came to see me,” Gail said.

“He's not my anything,” Marva said, feeling her face redden. “What did he want?”

“To know how my affair with Tom was going.”

“What?”

Gail gave her a look that was almost wistful. “They got his emails. He
kept
them. Who does that?”

Marva wanted to grab her sister's shoulders and shake, hard. Instead she asked, “How bad?”

“Nothing much really. Just, you know, it was obvious that we did it. Let's order, okay? I'm starved.”

They got their sandwiches and drinks and found a table. One of Gail's frozen-smile friends stopped by the table just as Marva was about to dig in, and she lowered her sandwich to the plate and pretended to listen politely, her own forced smile feeling like it was burning into her features. Finally the woman moved on and they were alone again.

“So,” Marva began. The possibilities were complicated, beyond her comprehension. “They know about you and Tom. What does this mean for, you know, everything?”

“I guess it means they won't believe anything I say. But I printed out Bryce's client list for them, so they could try to figure out what environmental groups might have it in for his projects. Figure that'll keep your boyfriend busy for a while, and then something else will happen to take their mind off it and we'll be done. Oh—Tom's service is tomorrow. At Abiding Savior, ten o'clock. Do you have something to wear?”

“I—” Marva thought about her closet, the neat rows of linen skirts and pants, embroidered sweaters and ikat jackets dyed the rich colors of oceans and forests. She didn't care for black. “I have a few things that would work, I guess.”

Gail shook her head with the same exasperation as when Marshall threw food off his high chair. “Just wear something plain, okay?”

Marva considered refusing to go to the service. Let Gail get through it herself—she had Bryce to lean on. “I'm not sure,” she said. “I could use the time to prepare for next week's classes. I still have to finish the class sample.”

Gail chewed slowly. She took an unhurried sip of her sparkling water before responding. “I think you should be there. You were there when he died.”

Putting it back on her. Marva knew what Gail was doing, and it wasn't fair—and still she could feel her resolve weakening. It was always like that; why couldn't she find the fortitude to stand up to Gail?

“Only because you asked me to dinner.”

“Oh—well, sorry to inconvenience you.” Just like when they were little—Gail's petulant frown was somehow as pretty as her sweet little grin.

“It's not that. But I didn't really know him. And I have plenty of my own things to get done. I can't really afford to take a day off.”

Gail laughed shortly. “What's going to happen? Your needles going to rust if you leave them for a day? Your website going to crash from all the unanswered email?”

That stung; Marva's website was only a couple of months old, and she hadn't publicized it yet. She had asked a few friends—and Gail, why had she asked Gail?—to look it over first.

“I have commitments,” she said, her voice going shrill the way it did when she was upset.
Calm down,
she cautioned herself, but she could sense her heartbeat escalating and her face getting hot. “I have eleven people in my class, and they're counting on seeing what their quilts are supposed to look like.”

Gail shrugged. “Show them a different one,” she suggested. “I mean, the techniques are all the same, aren't they? Does it matter what you demonstrate on?”

Marva stared at her sister; yes, it mattered a lot, and she'd explained that fact to Gail several times in the past. The class topic was foundation piecing. She needed a sample that utilized the specific foundations she'd printed for the class. Period.

“Do you
ever
listen to a word I say?” she demanded, not bothering to lower her voice. There were a few other patrons in the restaurant, but Marva didn't care. “You are so incredibly self-centered! I'm supporting myself here, or hadn't you noticed?”

Gail gave her a smug smile and shook her head. “Don't you mean Dad's supporting you? I mean I know the quilt thing helps, but seriously, has there been a single month since you and Harmon split that you haven't touched Dad's money?”

The words hit Marva like an icy blast. “I can't believe you said that,” she said, her appetite suddenly gone, the food in her stomach like a rock. “How long did
you
support yourself? Two months? Three? Until you managed to find a guy who inherited an entire business? So don't call me a parasite!”

“I never said parasite,” Gail said calmly, breaking a roll in half and reaching for the butter dish. “That's your word. I don't even care how you pay your bills. It just seems kind of silly to pretend that your hobby is, like, a career or whatever.”

As Marva felt the pinpricks of tears along the rims of her eyes, she reminded herself that nothing Gail said meant anything unless Marva allowed it to. That was another one of the therapy lessons that never quite stuck.

The thing was, Gail was good at figuring out the exact nature of Marva's own worst fears and doubts. And then she turned it all back around on her. But why? What pleasure could she possibly derive from Marva's humiliation?

“Why do you do this?” she hissed. “Why do you have to tear down every little thing I do?”

“I would never—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up for once, Gail, you
know
you're doing it. It's like it makes you happy to see me fail.”

As her voice continued to rise, Marva saw Gail's expression turn contemptuous, and still she couldn't stop.

“You can't let me have one tiny ounce of happiness,” she continued, thinking of Joe, of the fact that he'd seemed to pay attention to her; maybe it was her imagination, and of course it was ridiculous, he was just doing his job, interviewing witnesses or whatever they called it, but hadn't he lingered with her? And come to see her, at home? It wasn't all in her head, was it, the way he had placed his hand on the small of her back as she exited the interview room, the way he'd smiled when he thanked her for her assistance?

“Have all the happiness you want,” Gail said. “Frankly, if you'd just end this whole pity party you'd be doing all of us a favor.”

It was too much, too hateful, and in her mind Marva saw herself pushing back from the table, picking up her purse and stalking out of the restaurant without a backward glance. Leaving Gail alone to consider her thoughtlessness, to regret alienating her staunchest ally.

But she didn't move. It was like Gail had control over her, some magnetism Marva had no way to escape.

“I've tried so hard,” she said. “I've done everything for you—”

“I never asked you to,” Gail interrupted, the faint echo of a smile still playing at her lips.

“Because you didn't have to!” Marva heard herself shouting and didn't care. “You've never had to face anything in your life because I'm always there to protect you!”

“So stop,” Gail said. “I don't care. You're off the hook.”

“You wouldn't make it alone,” Marva said.

“Try me. Ever think about the fact that maybe you do all this interfering in my life because you don't have anything going on in your own?”

Marva's mouth went dry. Rage filled her chest, expanded through her body; she could feel her hands longing to form fists and strike out—not to hit her sister exactly, but to hit
something,
because it was all so incredibly unfair, so ridiculous, so hurtful—

“Go to hell,” she said, and then she did find her muscles, and pushed her chair back and stood, yanking her purse off the back of her chair. “Go straight to hell, Gail. And don't bother calling when you get there because I won't be around to save you anymore.”

As she stumbled out of the restaurant, she was aware of the other customers staring at her, and she knew she'd been too loud, she'd called attention to herself, and without even turning she knew that her sister was watching her go with that an expression that held equal parts disdain and pity.

JOE SPOTTED
Bryce right away. He was holding court at a large round table near the front of the bar, with a view of the street. His companions, dressed for business, all appeared to be on the far side of forty, well-heeled, with drinks in front of them.

Joe slipped past and sat at the bar to watch for a while. He ordered a club soda and sipped it slowly. The bar was dim, but even if it hadn't been, the group seemed preoccupied with their conversation, and didn't pay him any notice.

After a few minutes Joe determined that there were actually several conversations going on at the table. Mortgage rates, the bids for the new civic center, someone's teenage daughter and a party she attended. Bryce, he was pretty sure, was completely sober. One of the guys was half in the bag. The others, somewhere in between.

This, on a Tuesday afternoon.

Joe flashed on something Gail said—that her husband was always busy. It was her excuse for the affair. Affairs. What kind of man would prefer to hang around in a bar like this than go home to his wife?

A man who wasn't guaranteed a warm reception at home, perhaps. Joe took a lot of heat from his parents and his brother for not being married; he wondered if his family ever noticed how many men ended up like this.

When Bryce's friends started taking their leave, Joe slid onto an empty chair next to Bryce. “Imagine running into you here, Mr. Engler,” he said, extending his hand.

If Bryce was surprised to see him, he hid it well. “Detective Bashir, good to see you,” he said warmly. “Just chewing the fat with some of the local scoundrels.” He made competent if terse introductions, as his comrades picked up their coats and threw money on the table.

“You'd almost think they weren't happy to meet you,” Bryce said, as the last of them left. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“I'm on the job, unfortunately. Perhaps some other time.”

“I'll look forward to that.”

“So, I've been reviewing some of your company's recent projects.” Joe didn't add that it was Gail who'd given him the list, or Odell who'd hunted down the incident reports for those that had been the target of protest. “It turns out that Sycamore Estates wasn't the only project that this guy Conner Dybck may have sabotaged.”

He pulled a sheet from the folder, a photo of a construction site where a multistory building was going up. One whole side was blackened and charred by fire. A banner hung from the girders read
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.