My Deja Vu Lover (28 page)

  
I knew how he looked, his hard chest bare with a tangle of dark hair, his skin that olive-dusky, smelling a bit like coffee beans. He’d be wearing drawstring pajamas tied around his waist. And I knew that because he’d once told me pajamas that were long enough to reach his ankles were always too loose around the waist and so he needed the drawstring. I couldn’t remember why the discussion had ever occurred. Not that it mattered.

  
“Tommy, what I can’t figure out is this. If Laurence killed his wife, and Graham is Laurence, is Graham going to kill his wife? And will this go on forever, life after life, me falling in love with some guy who is married and then maybe I am the reason he kills his wife? Because what if that’s what Graham meant, that he’s trying to find a way to get rid of her? If he meant what he said about loving me.”
 
I stopped talking and listened.

  
And listened. And then heard it again, the sleep breathing. I could imagine his dark curls damp with sleep, his thick dark lashes pressed into the hollows below his eyes, his thin face plain without the grin.

  
I whispered into the phone, “Thanks for being there. At least I know you’re real. I can’t figure out the rest of it.”

  
Tom said, “Hmmm.”

CHAPTER 30

  
These were my choices, sit in the bay window and watch the rain and sink into depression or grab my coat and umbrella and go any place else. My friends were all at work and I couldn’t afford shopping, but at least I had bus fare. I could catch a bus to the U, walk around the campus, wander through the library.

  
And that’s what I planned to do. Except. Sitting on the half empty bus and watching the drab gray world go by, I didn’t think the U would cheer me up much. No Mac and Cyd at the coffee shop, no Tom in the library stacks, no Graham in the city or even in the state.

  
But I knew his street address and I had never seen his house and it would be empty and so why not at least walk by it to see where he lived. A house always reflects its owner. Maybe standing in front of it I would feel closer to him. More and more my whole life was turning into a chick flick, except those things usually have happy endings. I wasn’t seeing any happy ending for myself.

  
The neighborhood was comfortable houses, probably all at least fifty years old, set back behind carefully trimmed front yards, evergreen bushes, winter blooming heather, and gnarled old trees with their bare limbs dotted with tight buds that would soon blossom. Behind ornamental metal fences the raked gravel paths and swept walks led to the entrances.

  
His was much like the others, a wide walkway and steps and porch of brick leading up to a carved wood door with etched glass windows on either side. I stopped outside the gate and looked at all of it, the formal house, the professionally maintained garden, very elegant. Not Graham at all. He was more like the rustic cottage, all charm.

  
So this was the other side of him, perhaps, the face he kept public. As this was a neighborhood close to the U, I guessed the other homes also belonged to professors. I looked up, trying to guess which room was his bedroom, trying to picture him moving about, dressing, coming down the stairs in the morning, putting bread in the toaster, maybe opening the front door to pick up his newspaper. Did he do that?

  
There was a lamp on in a downstairs window and something flickering. I hadn’t seen it right away because of the daylight. Of course I knew what the blue flickering was, a television screen, not the sort of thing left on in an empty house. Had he changed his mind and canceled his trip?

  
Pushing open the low gate, I walked slowly toward the door, a bit nervous, because how would he react when he opened the door and saw me? What if someone else was there, a colleague or a neighbor? Did he have any family members living nearby? There was so much I didn’t know about him, but I did know, at least, that like Laurence, Graham wouldn’t shout at me. He might be thinking anything inside, but on the outside, he would be courteous.

  
I rang the bell. Heard it echo deep within the house. Waited. I wouldn’t ring twice. If he didn’t want to answer, I would leave.

  
And then I heard footsteps. The handle turned. The door opened.

  
“May I help you?” she said.

  
She was about Graham’s age, had small lines around her eyes, was carefully made up, wore her hair in what Cyd called the wife short cut, beauty shop neat with carefully applied highlights. She was a bit taller than me and slim, dressed in designer jeans and a cashmere sweater. She didn’t actually smile but she looked kind. She could have been anyone, a sister, a friend, but I knew she wasn’t.

  
My mouth moved faster than my brain. “Mrs. Berkold, I’m April Didrickson.”
 

  
She waited a moment for me to hold out my hand like a salesperson or an evangelist. When I didn’t, she said, “Graham isn’t here.”

  
“I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  
“Come in,” she said, and that woke me up. Surely not spider-to-fly. She looked like a nice person. A small smile softened her face. “Please come in, April, or I will have my across the street neighbor phoning to ask who I turned away.”

  
She led me through a wide entryway and there was a staircase and a table with flowers. Afterwards that’s all I could remember because I followed her in a daze. Cutting through the living room, she paused to switch off the TV, then went through a formal dining room and beyond that, a kitchen. I had a quick impression of large, lovely rooms that were well decorated, and then there was the kitchen. All new and shining and filled with huge stainless steel appliances and wide granite counters.

  
She waved me to a tall stool at the island counter, took mugs from a rack, filled them from a coffee pot, asked if I took cream or sugar. I must have said neither because she placed a mug of black coffee in front of me and then sat down on the stool next to me with her own mug cradled in her two hands. The stools swiveled.

  
Facing me, she said in a pleasant voice, “Are you one of Graham’s students?”

  
I mumbled a no, then added, “I was doing some research on campus.”

  
She nodded. “I see. My name is Barbara, by the way. And what am I this time, dying of cancer, crippled by an accident, or an addict of some sort? Usually he confines that one to alcohol or prescription drugs, which is nice, because I am on the board of a nonprofit that sponsors education and aid for drug addicts and their families.”

  
I must have blinked at the right word because she said, “Alcoholic. And do I look like an alcoholic?”

  
I shook my head.

  
She sighed, maybe more to give me time to collect my wits than because she was weary. “You’re nothing new, April, although usually his affairs don’t knock on my door. But sometimes they phone. Or write letters. And I always feel sorry for them because they are always like you, nice young women, and I could strangle the bastard.”

  
“Why don’t you?” I managed to say.

  
She thought that was funny, did a sort of giggle, then said, “We were in college together. I thought Graham was perfect. And in a lot of ways he was. Still is, I suppose, I mean, he’s always courteous, always thoughtful, never forgets an anniversary. Maybe not much of a father, but still, never unkind.”

  
“You have children?” Was that possible? Could he have children and never mention them?

  
“A son. He’s fifteen. In school right now.” Her face lit when she said it.

  
I wanted to say I’m sorry about a thousand times because I felt so terrible. There wasn’t any way to apologize without making her feel worse. And then she continued in that cheerful voice, “I grew up in this house. My parents gave it to me as a wedding present. They were moving to Florida, anyway. I had the kitchen remodeled last year. Do you like it?”

  
“It’s wonderful,” I managed to say.

  
“Do you like to cook?”

  
“Umm, I’m not very good at it. My roommate does most the cooking.”

  
“I see.” She sat quietly looking at me, summing me up. At a job interview, if anyone looked at me that way, I’d know I was going to get a very polite turndown. She said,
  
“I don’t know what else to tell you, April. I’m sorry if I’ve destroyed some fantasy, but that is honest to God what the man is, a fantasy. He told me he was going to a convention in Las Vegas this weekend and I didn’t bother asking what kind of convention because it probably doesn’t exist. But he would have had an answer.

  
“Anyway, do what you want. If you want to end whatever you have with him, tell him you met me. Otherwise, play along with his story. I certainly won’t mention you.”

  
“But why do you put up with him?” I blurted.

  
She looked a little sad. She could have wept, played on my sympathy. She didn’t. “I have a home I love, a wonderful son, and a husband who does what I ask. Sometimes I need him to play host. Sometimes I need him to accompany me to an event. I’m on the boards of three non-profits and I chair committees for a half dozen more organizations. It’s the life I was raised to live. I really don’t want to be known as the charming Mrs. Berkold, divorcee. If Graham asked, I would certainly give him a divorce. But you know what? He is as fond of his lifestyle as I am of mine.”

  
There wasn’t much else to do but thank her for the coffee and then follow her lead to the front door. When I was halfway down the front walk, she said, “Good luck, April.
 
Take care of yourself.”

  
When I turned around, the front door had already closed.
                

CHAPTER 31

  
Ask me what I did with my day, I thought, while Tom told me about his. He was on my couch, stretched out full length, knee propped up on a pillow, tapping his fingers on my shoulder. I was sitting on the floor, as usual, leaning back against him. In the kitchen, Cyd and Macbeth argued about how much oregano to put in whatever they were cooking.

  
Tom said, “The amount of attention I get is spoiling me. Everyone stops by my cubicle to ask if I need anything.”

  
“Bottle of water? Full body massage?”

  
“No, they just say, ‘Can I get you anything?’
 
But I like you idea. Next time someone female asks, I will suggest a full body massage.”

  
“The bruises must be healing.”

  
“Want to play nursey and check?”

  
“Shut up, Tom,” I said pleasantly.

  
He laughed and ran his fingers slowly through my hair, unsnarling tangles. He was one of the few people who could do that with my messy curls and not pull. “Okay, lovey, what’s the problem?”

  
“Bad day,” I said. “Downer. Nothing important, just dumb stuff.”

  
“Tiff with the boyfriend?”

  
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said and right then, I meant it.

  
Now that I had met Barbara Berkold, how could I continue? Maybe not a problem, maybe she’d tell her loving husband I had shown up on her doorstep. If she did, he’d never call again and that was fine by me.

  
It was one thing to know I should face Graham, tell him to stay out of my life. Easy to plan the speech. But I knew me. He’d do that smile and come up with another damn lie and I’d melt.