California Demon (21 page)

“A mistake, Eddie. It could have happened to anyone.”

“It shouldn’t have happened to me.” He drew his hand back, taking the teacup with him, and took a long swallow. “Dammit,” he said again, “it shouldn’t have happened to me.”

And then he hauled back and let go, sending the teacup flying until it shattered on the far wall of the kitchen. Tea splattered against the white paint, then dripped in lazy streams down the wall as Kabit yowled and raced like a shot for the living room.

“Well,” I said after a moment. “At least you didn’t do that
after
I’d cleaned up.”

The slightest hint of a grin touched his mouth. “The way you keep house, you really think anyone’s going to know the difference?”

“Watch it, old man,” I said, but I think he could tell I was glad to have the old Eddie back.

Footsteps clattered on the floor, and Allie skidded around the corner, Timmy tight in her arms. “What was that?” she asked, breathlessly.

“Big noise!” Timmy shrieked. “Big, big noise!”

“Eddie dropped his mug,” I said.

Allie looked at me, looked at Eddie, then looked at the wall. “Right,” she said. “Can I break something, too?”

“What the hell.” I slid my own mug—now empty— toward her. “Have at it.”

She did, sending it flying with a speed that probably would have gotten her picked for the girl’s softball team. The mug shattered, and she high-fived Eddie. She met my eyes, hers shining. “I think I feel better.”

“Good,” I said.

“Me, too, Momma! Me, too!”

Eddie chuckled, and I did some quick mental gymnastics, wondering if I let Timmy smash one mug, if all of our dishes were going to end up in shatters.

In the end, I decided I didn’t much care. “You, too, sport,” I said. I got up and found two ugly-as-sin mugs in the cabinet. “I’ll even join you.”

I handed him a mug, then counted to three, and we both let it rip. Mine smashed to bits on the tile just shy of the wall, the sharp
smash-crack!
of the shattering ceramic surprisingly cathartic.

Timmy’s mug traveled about six inches, then landed at his feet, the handle breaking off and a fissure snaking down from rim to base. Not nearly as satisfying as my million-piece smash, but even so, he was now jumping up and down yelling, “Again! Again!”

“I think once is enough,” I said. And then, before he could think about that and decide to wail, I added, “Why don’t you and Allie pick up the fuzzies in the living room.”

“Right,” Allie said, not even blinking that I’d just enlisted her to clean up upholstery innards. “We’ll do that, and then I’ll give him his bath.” She cocked her head. “Where’s he sleeping tonight?”

“We’re all sleeping in my room,” I said. “We’ll pile some blankets on the mattress. Won’t even notice the rips.”

“All of us?” Allie repeated, one eyebrow cocked.

“Not me,” Eddie said. He hooked a thumb my direction. “That one snores.”

“Thank you very much,” I said, as Allie laughed. “And you have my permission to sleep wherever you want.”

“My room’ll do me just fine, thank you.”

“Get Eddie some blankets to put over the rips in the mattress,” I said to Allie. “Then work on the living room.”

“I’ll get my own damn blankets,” he said. “
That
much I think I can handle.”

“Eddie . . .” I reached for his hand, but he was already up and waving me off.

“I’m fine. And I’m going to bed.”

I watched him go, my heart aching a little, but I had no idea how to make him feel better.

Allie pulled out a chair and sat at the table, Timmy balanced on her lap. “So your bed’s gonna be kinda crowded, huh?”

“Cozy,” I said.

“Stuart’s the one who snores,” she said.

“That’s true,” I agreed.

“And we haven’t seen much of him tonight.”

“No,” I agreed. “We haven’t.” I glanced again at the phone that still hadn’t rung, despite me having left two messages for Stuart already. I’d say I was irritated, but that would qualify as the world’s biggest understatement.

“So, um, is he sharing the bed, too?”

I met my daughter’s eyes. My very perceptive, growing-up-too-quickly daughter. “No,” I said. “He’s not.”

With perfect timing, the sharp creak of the garage door echoed through the kitchen.

“Speak of the devil,” Allie said.

“Not the devil,” I corrected. “But he will have hell to pay.”

I stood up. “Why don’t you forget about the fuzzies and take Timmy upstairs now? Get into bed. Watch a Timmy-approved movie if you want. I’ll be up in a little bit.”

“Okay,” she said, gathering up her brother. “Stuart’s in for it, isn’t he?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “It’s going to be ugly.”

When Stuart finally walked into the kitchen, I was standing there waiting for him, my arms crossed over my chest, and my fury rising like mercury. He looked at me, then held out a single red carnation.

“All the florists were closed,” he said. “They had a bucket at Seven-Eleven.”

“You brought me a flower,” I said, my voice sharp enough to slice bread.

“If I got you chocolate, you’d just complain about your waist.”

The man does know me.

“And isn’t it the thought that counts?”

I leaned against the counter and shook my head. “Not today.”

His brow furrowed as he looked from me to the rest of the room. The kitchen was still a mess, but not that much worse than my usual postdinner-disaster area. When he reached the table, though, he had a clear view of the smashed cups and most of the living room.
That
was a mess that couldn’t be hidden. Nor could it be blamed on my housekeeping skills, however inadequate they might be.

“Holy crap,” he said. “What happened?”

“If you’d check your cell phone once every few hours,” I said icily, “maybe you’d have a clue.”

“The batteries died,” he said. “And I can’t find the damn car charger. The last time I took Timmy to the—”

I held up a hand. “Oh, no. You are not blaming your lack of communication on your son. So don’t even go there.”

“Kate . . .”

“We were
robbed,
Stuart! And you’re telling me some bullshit story about your phone charger!”

All the color had drained from his face. “Where are the kids?”

I clenched my fists, wanting to hold on to my anger. And, yes, wanting to punish him. Petty, small, and mean, but, dammit, that’s the way I felt. And as soon as I realized it, the bubble burst. My breath hitched and—despite all my training, all my anger, and all that stupid self-control I’d drawn so deeply on over the last few months—I started to cry.

“Jesus, Kate,” Stuart said, grabbing my shoulders. “The kids?
Where are the kids?
”

“They’re fine,” I managed between snuffles. I buried my face in his chest and let him hold me tight, raw emotion flooding my body as the adrenaline drained out of me. “They’re upstairs. They’re fine.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I was trying to get a handle on that subdivision mess I’ve been dealing with at the office. I knew you were at the beach with Allie, so I wasn’t worried about getting home early, and it didn’t even occur to me to call from the office. And then when I was in the car, I realized I couldn’t call at all.” He stroked my hair. “If only I’d known.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s okay.” It wasn’t, though, not really. Both of our jobs were seeping over into our home life, into our marriage. And, honestly, I wasn’t sure our marriage could take it.

“Kate?” He tilted my chin up and brushed a kiss across my lips. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I said, automatically. Then, “No, wait. That’s not true. I feel like you’ve got a mistress or something. Only I’m the one who has to sneak in time with you.”

He stroked my hair. “It’s hard now,” he said. “I know that, and I love you for putting up with it.”

“I know,” I murmured. “And I love you, too.” I took a deep breath, and then another. Then I pulled myself up on my tiptoes and brushed a kiss across his cheek as the cat emerged from hiding to rub figure eights around my legs. “But tonight, my darling, you get to sleep on the couch.”

I traipsed upstairs to join the kids, wondering vaguely if I was being hypocritical. I mean, at least I knew what Stuart was up to on those long nights away from home. Stuart, however, had no idea what I was up to.

And the truth was, I never intended to tell him.

Eleven

l Am not unfamiliar with the concept of guilt. Last summer, for example, I erroneously thought that Stuart had thrown in with a particularly nasty demon bent on taking over San Diablo and, eventually, the world. An honest mistake that any wife could have made, but I still feel guilty about it. And Stuart had been reaping the benefits for months—not that he ever knew the reason for my sudden shift into über-wife mode.

The point of which is to say that I recognize guilt-motivated behavior when I see it. I’d seen it just yesterday, as a matter of fact, and now it was déjà vu all over again, this time with chocolate chip pancakes, orange juice, and coffee delivered on a tray to the master bedroom’s sitting area.

“Rise and shine, family,” Stuart said, opening the curtains.

“Wow,” I said, blinking against the sun. “Pancakes, huh?”

“Practice makes perfect. Besides, the skillet was still on the counter.” He tugged on the blanket. Allie groaned and yanked it back over her head. “Come on, you guys. We have just enough time before mass to eat and get dressed.”

I propped myself up on an elbow, watching him. I go to mass at least weekly, and I take the kids every Sunday. But Stuart’s another matter. He goes, but reluctantly. And I think the number of times that Stuart’s actually initiated a church outing adds up to exactly zero.

Oh yeah. I was definitely witnessing guilt on overdrive.

I, however, am not picky, and so I rolled out of bed, rousted the kids and started getting ready.

My pleasure at Stuart’s sudden shift to both the spiritual and the familiar took a southerly turn as we were finishing breakfast.

“I thought we could swing by a couple of furniture stores on the way home,” I said. “The mattresses are trash. And now’s as good a time as any to get a new sofa.” We’d been holding off until Timmy passed the age of leaky diapers and spilled sippy cups. But our sofa had a decidedly sour smell that even the Pottery Barn slipcover I’d splurged on couldn’t hide.

Stuart, however, didn’t look nearly as enthusiastic.

“What?” I demanded, as I wiped maple syrup off Timmy’s hands (and his face, and his legs, and the tops of his ears).

“Nothing,” Stuart said. But he was now clearing the dishes and I smelled additional guilt.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“I just thought we could take two cars.”

“Two,” I repeated. “And we’d want to do that why?”

“Kate . . .”

I lifted my hands in surrender. “Fine. You have to work. I get it.”

He came up behind me and slid his arms around my waist. “The museum benefit’s tonight. I just need to make a few calls about that, and catch up on some other things, I’ll be home by seven. I promise.”

“So we can turn around and go to the benefit.” I fought the urge not to cringe. I still needed to buy a dress for that thing.

“Sweetheart—”

“I know, I know. That’s fine.”

He looked at me dubiously. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.” I wasn’t thrilled, but I had work of my own to do. “Just don’t be surprised if you come home to find I’ve bought a new couch.”

“Would probably serve me right.”

“Probably would,” I agreed.

Twenty minutes later, we were dressed and climbing into the cars. Allie and I went in the Odyssey and Stuart and Timmy in the Infiniti. I’d have both kids after mass, but for at least a portion of the morning, I could listen to the news rather than Radio Disney.

I’d hoped to catch up with Father Ben after mass, but to my surprise, he wasn’t there. The bishop presided over the service, which he often did on Sundays, but usually Father Ben participated in the mass. Today, though, Father Ben was no where to be seen.

Mass ended about noon, and after we all filed out and said a few words to the bishop, Stuart kissed me and the kids good-bye, then left with a promise to be home by seven. Today, of course, I didn’t care if he was late. I’d much rather stay home in my jeans and eat peanut butter sandwiches than mingle at a benefit, especially when I’d be as much on display as my husband.

This time, however, I was certain my husband would be on time.

Once Stuart was gone, I left Timmy on the playground with Allie while I went and found Delores. “Father Ben?” she asked, in answer to my question. “He went down to Los Angeles last night. Said he wanted to do some research in the archives.”

“Did he say what he was working on?”

“Not a word.”

“Right. Thanks.”

I stifled the urge to call Father Ben’s cell phone, and instead went to find my kids. He’d let me know when he had something concrete, and in the meantime, I had my hands full getting my house back in order.

Not too surprisingly, Allie didn’t object to my plan to spend a few hours at the mall. And once I offered to throw in a new outfit from the Gap, she even agreed to take charge of her brother and do some of our holiday shopping while I did some shopping of my own.

I hit Pottery Barn first, but couldn’t justify spending that much on a sofa, no matter how comfortable it might be. Especially since I knew I’d have to spend the next two years hiding it under slipcovers if I wanted it to stay even remotely clean. I tried to find a store priced for the middle-income-with-toddler set, but soon learned that all the major furniture stores were located outside the mall in their own freestanding buildings.

Nice for them, bad for me. Because now I was trapped in a mall with a teenager who’d just begun to shop. And even though I’d only agreed to buy one outfit, I knew my daughter well enough to know that choosing said outfit could take upward of four hours.