Keep No Secrets (30 page)

Nothing. If she didn't see the slow rise and fall of his chest, she'd think he'd died.

She decides it would be cruel to force him awake. Instead, she gently pulls off his shoes and then covers him with the spare blanket. Before she climbs into her own bed, she flips on the bathroom light and leaves the door slightly ajar so he'll be able to see if he wakes later.

In the middle of the night she wakes, startled by another presence in the room with her. And then she remembers. Jack.

Jack showed up at her door last night.

She closes her eyes and falls back asleep to the even rhythm of his breathing.

She emerges from her own dreams near nine the next morning. The bright light of a snowy day peeks through the slit in the drapes. His phone rings again, but he's still sleeping. She's not sure what to do.

Should she wake him? She crosses to his bed, gently sits on the edge. She whispers his name at his ear but he doesn't respond. She yearns to touch his face. She settles for his arm.

"Jack," she says, trying again. He stirs, then nothing. She dares more than a touch this time and rubs the smooth underside of his forearm. "Jack," she whispers louder.

He opens his eyes and looks at her, but she's not sure he sees her or knows where he is. He gives her a tiny smile, then, and slips his hand behind her head, through her hair, and pulls her closer. A short whimper escapes her throat—she told herself she wouldn't let this happen—but he surprises her when his lips touch her forehead instead of her mouth. He holds her briefly and then releases her. When she leans away, his eyes are closed again.

The rhythmic breathing resumes.

Like a bear in hibernation, he continues to sleep. His phone continues to ring.

Sometimes it's Claire, sometimes it's Mark. Once it's Earl. As the sun reaches its zenith, she decides when Mark calls next, she’ll risk answering. She hopes it's really him and not Claire using Mark's phone.

Only a few moments pass before it chimes again. In the bathroom, she answers but doesn't speak. At the silence, Mark says, "Jack?"

"Mark, it's me. Jenny."

He sighs, as if his worst fears were just confirmed.

"He's sleeping. He showed up around eight thirty last night. We were just talking. I stepped outside for a moment for some fresh air. When I came back in, he was sleeping. He's been sleeping ever since. It's going on sixteen, seventeen hours."

"You're joking."

"What do you want me to do? I've tried to wake him, but unless I set off a bomb, it's not happening."

"Claire's looking for him. He came to my house yesterday afternoon. I didn't realize he'd left until she called for him late last night and I found the guest room empty. He must have taken a cab because his car is still in my garage."

"What do you want me to do?"

The line is silent. Finally, he says, "Let him sleep. He needs that more than anything right now."

Later, she notices his tie twisted and is straining against his neck. Sitting at the edge of the bed again, she loosens the knot and slowly slips it off. Sensing movement, he rolls over. His hand brushes her back, and whether by habit or instinct, he tries to pull her closer. For an instant she hesitates, poised in a space between her selfish need to lie next to him and the knowledge that he thinks she's Claire.

She swallows a sob and carefully pulls away before he discovers his mistake.

When Jack opens his eyes, it takes a minute to get his bearings, to remember where he is and why he's here. He's lying on his side, facing Jenny's bed. He watches her. She's propped up against her headboard reading a book with a small book light. She wears long pajama bottoms and a white tank top. He

assumes this is what she sleeps in, or at least what she sleeps in with him in the room. Her long legs are bent and the book rests on her thighs. Something she reads makes her sigh, and she sets the book face down on her chest and turns to look at him. She smiles slightly when she sees he's awake.

"I'd say 'good morning' but noon has come and gone. I guess I can still say Merry Christmas."

Merry Christmas?
He throws the cover off and springs to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. "Fuck," he says when the date on his watch comes into focus.

He's in his stocking feet but otherwise still fully dressed.

"You've been asleep about nineteen hours. I tried to wake you."

How can that be? Nineteen hours?
How
can that be?

"Wonderful. I've made it worse for myself now."

He makes an urgent trip to the john.

He's starting to smell ripe, but he's not about to ask to use her shower, too.

When he comes out, he goes to the window and peeks outside. He squints from the brightness. It's Christmas, a white one, just like Beverly predicted.

He's holed up in the motel room of the last woman on Earth he should be with today. He should have stayed home, or at least at his brother's house. No matter how badly things have deteriorated with Claire, this will only make it worse. He thought he would come out for a few hours, talk to Jenny, maybe question her more about the letters—anything to take his mind off things—and then catch a cab back to Mark's for the night and drive home in the morning before anyone woke. Instead, he slept right through most of Christmas, and in Jenny's motel room, of all places. He thinks of Jamie, who won't understand why his dad

missed the biggest holiday of the year.

"Claire's probably got an APB out on me." He's not sure why he said it. Claire wouldn't need an APB; she probably knows exactly where he is, at least in theory. He's never given her the exact location of the motel, or its name. Oddly, she's never asked. "I'm sorry I showed up here last night. I couldn't sleep at Mark's.

I didn't mean to crash here, though."

But I did anyway
.
I slept like a baby
. He suddenly understands how much of a refuge his visits with her have become, how much of a refuge
she
has become. He swallows, but his throat feels permanently closed.

"I talked to him." She must read the confusion on his face. "Claire, and then Mark, kept calling your phone. I finally answered one of Mark's calls" —she shrugs— "so at least they'd know you were alive. He said to let you sleep."

Jack wonders if Mark finally admitted to Claire that he knew about Jenny's return.

Jenny surprises him by laughing a little.

"What is it?"

"Maybe you need to go back to Newman. You slept there easily enough, too." Her tone is teasing.

"What do you—?"

"You don't remember? The first time we met?"

Almost fourteen years ago now.
The
second worst night of my life
, she called it the night they slept together. When he asked her to explain, she refused. Instead she deflected his attention by telling him about the first worst night of her life: the night of her family's murders.

"I remember. What about it?"

"I was new to Newman, remember? I'd just come back to St. Louis after my year practicing in Manhattan. You were just starting your second year. When I passed your office door one rainy evening, I peeked in and saw you sleeping. Your feet were propped on the desk and your arms were crossed over your chest. You might have even been snoring a little."

"I don't snore."

"You're right. I made that part up."

She laughs again. "But you were sleeping, no doubt about it. I woke you up. Do you remember how?"

He stares at her, unable to answer. Not wanting to think about it. He remembers everything. Sometimes he wishes he could forget. Other times, against his better judgment, he's glad he doesn't.

He finds his voice and says quietly,

"You said 'Hypnotic, isn't it?' You were referring to the rain, the way it sounded against the window."

"Yeah." She shrugs. "I never told you so, but I did it as a favor."

"Really?" He sprouts a smile. "And what favor might that have been?"

"I knew no partner wanted to walk by an associate's office to find him sleeping, even if the clock did read half past seven."

"You could have simply pulled my door shut."

The grin fades from her face. "I guess."

He watches as she traces a seam in the bedspread with her finger. She seems to be considering whether to say more.

"But?"

She lifts her head and looks at him in doubt.

"It's part of the deal, remember?" he reminds her.

She starts to protest but instead nods in resignation. Why does he persist in this game with her? Honesty, in this case, isn't necessarily the best policy.

"If I'd closed your door," she says, her voice halting, "I wouldn't have met you.

And I wanted to meet you."

He doesn't respond. He stares at her numbly. He tells himself nothing would have been different, even if she had closed his door. They would have eventually crossed paths. News of her arrival to Newman had already traveled the firm grapevine. By the time she stood in his doorway, he'd already heard about her beauty and her spirited personality. All that remained was to meet her.

Yet he can’t help but wonder if there's some alternative reality, some other plane of existence where, had they met at a different time, on a different day, their relationship would have taken a different road. She would have been just another pretty woman to admire and then forget.

They'd have never become such close friends and, for one night, lovers.
Keep
telling yourself that, Jack.

At his silence, she claps her hands and abruptly stands. "You need to get home."

He nods. He slips on his shoes and grabs his suit coat from the chair and his overcoat from the rear of the room. She meets him at the door.

"Listen, I'm gonna head back to Brian's soon, okay?"

"Why?" It's a ridiculous question, in light of the appellate court decision. But she threatened to leave once already and she's still here.

"I think you've got enough problems without me making your life more

difficult. It'll only get worse for both of us if someone finds out I'm in town."

"Don't go," he blurts. Is this the panic the addict feels when his supply is about to dry up? He quickly adds, "I mean, not yet," and then remembers what Dog told him. "I told you I'd help you and I meant it. I'm making progress. We'll get together in a few days somehow, after this blows over, and I'll tell you about it. I have some questions for you, too."

She narrows her eyes but her interest is clearly piqued. "What kind of progress?"

He wonders again if her skepticism is merely a disguise for knowledge she possesses but he doesn't. The memory of what he said last night comes back to him.
I believe you
. Does he, or was it just exhaustion speaking?

"A lead, maybe."

"What kind of lead?"

"Is it Claire you're worried about? She won't mention to anyone that you're in town. I'm telling her everything, that's all she wants."

"Actually, you're not. She doesn't know you're here. You said it yourself. What kind of lead, Jack?" she persists.

"She probably suspects it, if Mark didn't already tell her. If not, I'll fill her in when I get home."

"I'm sure she'll appreciate that."

"Look, she won't interfere. She's said as much to me. It wouldn't benefit her, either."

"No, it wouldn't, would it?" she mutters, looking away.

"Jen, don't go yet. I feel like you just got back."

"There's no point using up all my savings just to sit in a motel room, you know?"

Is that why she was ready to accept Mark's offer? "So stay at Mark's then."

She shakes her head, and at first he thinks it's because of his flip flop on the issue. But then he remembers the night he begged her to take him home and into her bed, and he realizes that then, as now, her instinct for self-preservation kicked in long before his did. She hasn't forgotten that every day she stays in Missouri is another day she might be hauled in for questioning. Or worse.

"I'll be here a few more days," she says,

"and then we'll see, okay?"

She unchains and opens the door,

signaling the discussion is over. The cold air blows in.

Jenny pulls back the curtains just enough to watch him walk away. He crosses the freshly plowed asphalt, navigating around ice patches as he heads in the direction of the motel office. Where is he going? She watches until he disappears around the back of the building.

If I'd closed your door
,
I wouldn't have met
you
.
And I wanted to meet you
. Despite their

"deal," as he likes to call it, she left out a few small details about the night they met. She didn’t tell him how she didn't see his wedding band until after she spoke her first words to him, and how, if she had, she
would
have closed the door. Nor did she tell him how many times since that night she’s wished it had happened that way.

After a quick shower, she sits on her bed and stares at the vacant spot he left on the other one. He slept so soundly that it appears almost undisturbed. Until last night, she'd barely noticed the extra bed.

Now, the emptiness makes his absence all the more pronounced.

The discarded tie rests on the

nightstand; he didn't notice she'd taken it off. She picks it up, drapes it over the palm of her hand. It smells vaguely of him, like she remembers his skin smelling.

She calls Brian. When he answers, she warms from hearing his voice.

"Hey, Merry Christmas," she says.

"Same to you. I wondered why I hadn't heard from you. You sound sad."

"I'm fine," she lies. At his silence, she says, "I had a surprise visitor. He stopped by unexpectedly last night and didn't leave until a few minutes ago." Silence still, and she realizes he misunderstood.

"He slept, Brian. He slept. Get your mind out of the gutter."

He laughs. "Yeah, okay. Whatever. I won't even ask you to explain that one."

"Listen," she says, her voice turning serious. "I'm heading home soon, I think."

"To your house? Is that wise?"

"No, not Lafayette Square. I mean, to Chicago."