Center of Gravity (7 page)

When I asked about any specific issues, Mitchell didn't get the slightest bit defensive. Depression, mood swings?

On the contrary, his father insisted. And his grades were fine.

“I'll watch out for Jack and stay in touch,” I promised.

“I appreciate that,” Mitchell said and checked his watch. “I've got to get back.”

“If there's anything else, just let me know.” We both stood up. I handed him one of my cards. Mitchell took it, and then hesitated.

“Well, it's probably harmless,” he replied. “But Jack's developed this fascination—with superheroes.” Mitchell confided this like we'd shared a secret. “I wanted to mention it.”

“Thanks for telling me,” I said and paused for a moment. “It's not unusual, you know,” I said.

Mitchell nodded.

“It's natural for kids to look for heroes; real or imaginary,” I added. “Everyone needs a little hope when life gets rough, don't you think?”

We both fell silent.

“It's like Jack wants to save the world,” Mitchell finally said, looking thoughtful.

I smiled. “Don't we all?”

We're still waiting for Mitchell.
Clink! Clunk!
Jack kicks at loose stones, head down. Puffs of dust cloud his ankles. I don't press Jack further about the game or his father. If he needs to talk, I'll be ready to listen.

Sam stretches and babbles. His voice echoes across the empty soccer field, just as Mitchell's Range Rover rolls into sight. Thank God.

Jack double-times it to the truck and jumps inside. I heave the door open with one hand and buckle Sam in tight. The crickets chirp a farewell song as we drive off into the silver-edged moonlight.

The truck rumbles toward home. Usually, Mitchell reaches for my hand, gives my fingers a squeeze. This time the distance between us is wide and cold. I trace the outline of the window with my finger, trying to decide what to say.

Finally, I break the silence. “Want some?” I offer my pack of gum to Jack. He grabs a stick, unwraps it; I do the same. When
things get stressful, it's our reminder. A simple trick Jack and I share. The 5 on the package says it all. Take five minutes. Breathe.
This too shall pass.

Jack picks up his iPod, sticks in his earphones. Sam dozes in the back.

Mitchell stares straight at the black road ahead.

“So, honey, where were you?” I finally ask. “You didn't pick up when I called. The kids are exhausted. Jack has school tomorrow.”

He doesn't reply.

“I tried a few times,” I continue. “We were getting worried.” I let my finger graze his arm. “You didn't forget about us, did you?”

Mitchell snaps back, forceful and sharp. “I'm off managing a major incident at the college, and you want to complain about me being late? That's perfect.” He grips the wheel.

Shaken, I pull down the sun visor and check the boys. Jack slams his eyes shut.
He's listening.

“Sorry. Let's not argue.” I bite my lip and lean back. “The kids are still awake.”

Mitchell nods and slides his arm across the seat. He squeezes my hand tight, his version of a peace offering.

He clears his throat. “Spoke to the contractor today.”

I swing my head to look over at my husband. “Really? I thought he was gone.”

Mitchell manages a small grin. “Never underestimate the power of determination. And payment in full, up front, for pushing our job to the front of their priorities. I just made them an offer they couldn't refuse.”

I suck in a breath of air to calm the fluttering in my chest. “Oh, that's great!” I say, a little too brightly. “When will he start?”

“Monday.” Mitchell doesn't offer any other details.

And I don't ask.

We're almost home. The canopy of trees opens wide to reveal a black velvet sky. In the distance, stars sparkle like diamond dust.

Our home seems to rise up from the ground as we round the corner, its white pillars glowing in the moonlight. The porch, wide and long, sprawls across the front of the manicured lawn. It's lovely, and too large for my tastes, but the zip code and country club location are necessary for his position at the college, Mitchell insisted.

We pull into the long driveway and the Range Rover settles to a stop.

Thirty minutes later, kids asleep, I steal into the kitchen on tiptoes, uncork some wine. When I peek around the corner, I see Mitchell buried in a section of newspaper. “Want something to drink?”

He shakes his head, straightens the page. Mitchell rarely indulges; always been the type of man to grab beer at a barbecue and carry it around an entire evening. He says he doesn't like to lose control.

I pour myself a glass anyway, take a sip to calm my quivering nerves, then position myself in the chair across from my husband and stroke the knee of his pressed khakis. “Would you tell me what happened, please?”

Mitchell takes his time answering. He directs his gaze at me, then the window. “I'm hurt you'd insinuate I'd ever, ever, forget to pick up you or the boys. That's not me. Never.” He clenches his fist. “My father may not have been around much. My mother . . . she couldn't—”

“Mitchell, don't,” I say softly. I'm not certain if the army or his father get more blame for his unhappy childhood. His mother ended her loneliness by taking her own life.

“Well, I wouldn't do that.” He shakes his head and shuts his eyes.

“All right. So what happened?”

Mitchell sits up, puts both elbows on his knees, takes my hand in his. Heaves a sigh. “Elijah Marston pulled out of the campaign.”

Shock tingles through me. This is a huge blow. “What?” Elijah
Marston is a Springport grad with more money than Bill Gates. Mitchell had been certain about Elijah. His ace in the hole. The savior of Springport, he'd joked.

Mitchell nods, then taps his chin with two fingers. “He called me tonight. Said I had to drive over so that we could talk.”

Elijah lives an hour or more away on a sprawling horse farm. No wonder Mitchell had been gone so long; though it didn't explain not calling me.

My mouth can barely form the words. “And now what?”

“That's it. He wanted to tell me right away.” Mitchell frowns.

“I'm so sorry, honey.” Tears sting my eyes. “That's terrible news. What will happen with the sports complex? There's no way to make your deadline now.”

Mitchell pushes off the sofa. He draws himself up to his full height, stares down at me. “It's not over, Ava. I'm not giving up that easily. You, of all people, should know that.”

“I didn't say—”

And just like that, he turns into a stranger. “Forget it.” He stalks into the kitchen. “I think I'll have some of that wine after all.”

“Okay,” I murmur.
Good idea.
I pick up my glass and tilt it; watch the wine swirl, and tell myself Mitchell's mood has nothing to do with me. It's stress, just a bump in the road.

A cabinet opens and shuts. A drawer.

“By the way,” Mitchell calls to me, offhand. “Can you pick up the dry cleaning tomorrow? I need that blue shirt. The one with the point collar.”

I make a mental note. “Sure thing. Before I get Jack.”

The faucet runs. A glass clinks on the counter. I hear Mitchell curse under his breath.

“Need something?” I get up and walk into the darkened kitchen. I flick on the lights, bathing the room in a soft glow. It's my favorite room in the house, with its high ceilings, crown molding, and
gleaming stainless steel appliances. The boys love to hang out here while I cook, Jack sitting at the counter doing homework, Sam in his high chair eating Cheerios.

When I see the look on Mitchell's face, though, the charm and nostalgia of the space disappears. He glowers at me. “Did you have to drink it all?” He gestures to the bottle, fingering the cork.

There's a beat or two of deafening silence.
What?
I examine the container.
Empty.

“Or did you have some help?” Mitchell narrows his eyes. “That guy at the soccer park. I'm sure he'd love to share a glass or two.”

“Mitchell, what are you talking about? That's not even reasonable.”

“Right.”

“You don't trust me?” I'm tense, and bewildered. Gone is the calm, collected guy who can charm even the grumpiest tollbooth operator. The man who buys flowers for no reason from city street vendors. Who loves me.

“You're home all day—you can do what you want.”

I resist the urge to throw the comment back in his face.
You're the one who wants me home. The one who wrote the resignation letter, signed it, and mailed it without asking me.

“Mitchell,” I level my voice. “Listen. You're upset about the sports complex. You're worried about finding another donor. Keeping the project on track.”

He stiffens. “Is that so? I'm glad your telepathy's working.” Mitchell takes the wine bottle, rinses it. “It'll sure come in handy.”

I lean closer, try to reach his hand.

With a menacing look, he shoves me away. My hip jams into the edge of the counter. I'm so shocked I nearly lose my balance.

He tosses the bottle. It crashes into the recycling. “Maybe I'll just ask your mother for a big donation. She and George certainly have the money.” He muses darkly. “And Ruth might support me. More than her own daughter.”

Glowering, Mitchell reaches above my head. He rummages a hand toward the back of the cabinet. He grabs a thick, dark, squat bottle, pours enough for just about anyone to exceed Alabama's legal limit of intoxication. Hendrick's Gin, straight.

“And while we're at it,” he hisses, “stay away from Mike Kennedy.”

I shrink back. “What?”

“Really?” He tosses back the shot and slams his glass on the counter. “Why don't you read my mind now, Ava?”

Without so much as a glance, he stalks from the room.

CHAPTER 12

AVA

SUNDAY, MARCH 28

Worry pulses through my veins, matching the patter of rain on the kitchen window. As the rest of the house sleeps, I stare out at the morning sky, painted in thick swaths of steel gray.

Thunder grumbles in the distance, echoing distaste, and a tree-branch crack of lighting follows moments later. I squint at the yard, illuminated in shades of silver-white.

Swallowing a shiver, I turn and face the espresso machine. At the touch of a button, the device whirs to life, grinding and brewing. As hot liquid fills my cup, the smell wafts through the house, intense and caramel-sweet.

“Ava.”

I whirl around. Mitchell's standing three feet from me.

“Oh, you frightened me!” One hand on my chest, I grip the counter, steadying myself.

My husband doesn't blink or smile. “Ava, where's the bread I asked you to buy?” Mitchell peers at the pantry shelves.

The whole-wheat loaf I left at the market. With the milk. I bite my lip and open the fridge. Take out red grapes, a few crisp, green apples, and cheese as my frantic breathing slows.

“Mitchell—”

“Sweetheart, you forgot?” He doesn't wait for a reply. “What about the dry cleaning?”

I hesitate. “There was nothing to pick up,” I tell him. “They checked twice.”

Mitchell holds a hand up to stop me. “There must be some mistake.”

I don't answer. Instead, I adjust the cutting board, take a knife, and start to slice the apples. The blade slides through the firm, crisp fruit. Slices fall to the side in an even pile.

“Any receipts for me?”

I shake my head no, and see Mitchell glance in the mail holder, where I'm expected to file proof of any purchases. Every week since Sam was born, he has taken the receipts and tallied the total. His rationale? To make sure I'm not spending too much on the boys. Or myself.

This morning the slot is empty. I haven't spent a dime.

Mitchell doesn't believe me. “You must have forgotten that too. Listen, it's clear you can't handle things on your own. Hire someone.”

My throat constricts. I inhale and blow out, then silently count to ten.

“Mitchell, even if I needed the help—which I don't—there's no way to afford something like that.”

“Really? I think your budget is quite generous.”

If Mitchell wasn't so seriously off the mark, I might laugh. I decide I'm better off negotiating than tossing back a negative comment. My monthly “household allowance”—Mitchell likes to call it that—is a few hundred dollars. Hardly enough to cover standard groceries, let alone gas or anything extra. My gaze travels into the hallway and out into the foyer. We'll have workers here tomorrow, banging and hammering.

I don't mind the noise. It's the outlandish amount of money being spent on house renovations meant to impress board of trustee members, not to make me happy. If I had a fourth of what he's paying
them, I wouldn't have to scrape and scrimp, buying off-brand diapers and picking up pennies in parking lots.

“I could go back to work,” I say and begin chopping again, knowing I'm treading into dangerous territory. I cut harder, faster. “What about part-time?”

“Out of the question.”

“Even a few hours a week?” The words fly out, despite my brain flashing a neon caution sign. I am pushing it. Deliberately. And I already know the answer.

“Ava. I'm not going to play games. Or listen to you beg me about this trivial—”

The knife slips and catches the tip of my finger. “Oh, ouch.” I hold up my hand to examine the cut, then press to stop the bleeding. “This is not trivial. This is
my
life.”

My husband sets his jaw, crosses his arms. “Funny, I thought it was
our
life.”

“Mitchell, just wait. I need to get a Band-Aid.” The bathroom is clear across the house. I have a first-aid kit in the car, steps away inside the garage. “Could you grab the door, please?”