The Secret Between Us (30 page)

“I’ll call.” She looked at him a second longer before returning to John’s office. Taking a seat again, she ignored the curious looks coming from Greg and Grace. Her relationship with Tom was hers alone and would stay that way until she figured out what it was. Another lie? No, she realized. Simply no one’s business at this point in time but her own. “What happens now?” she asked John.

He scratched his head. “Good question. A suicide note changes things. Once Tom shows it to his sister-in-law, he’ll get it back to us so that we can validate the handwriting.”

“It was his,” Grace said in a shaky voice.

“Tom agrees. We’ll just make it official.”

“So…” Greg urged him on.

But John was silent. He was clearly grappling with this unexpected twist at a time when his own judgment had been called into doubt. Deborah could almost sympathize.

Finally, he shook his head. “I can’t press charges. What we have here is a situation where the victim caused his own injury by throwing himself in front of your car.”

Deborah had suggested that herself—
Who
is
the victim here?
she had asked the detectives—but hearing the words from John made her truly accept them.

“Then it’s over?” Grace asked, sounding afraid to hope.

“I’ll have to consult with the D.A. But I’d suspect yes.”

“What about the beer?” the girl asked.

Wincing, John ran a hand around the back of his neck. “The problem is if I do something public about that, I’ll have to go public with the rest.” He eyed Deborah. “That’s where I’m torn. Do we want the student body dealing with another suicide, this one a teacher, an authority figure?” He looked at Greg. “All things balanced, is full disclosure necessary? What would it accomplish?” He turned to Grace. “The note does exonerate you. The world does need to know that Cal McKenna came out of the woods and ran out into the path of your car. But the accident reconstruction report will say that, anyway. So what if we conclude that Mr. McKenna was disoriented in the rain? It’s certainly not a lie. A person wanting to kill himself is disoriented. Don’t you think?”

Grace considered that. “Yes,” she finally said.

“As for the beer, we have no way to prove it this long after the fact. What if I put it into a memorandum here in my file cabinet, to be taken out only if you break another law? If, say, three years go by and you’re clean, we destroy the memorandum. So you’d basically be on probation for three years, which is what a judge would likely do. Are you comfortable with that?”

Grace nodded. Quietly, she asked, “What about the shoplifting?” “In my file as well. You never did make it out the door with those shoes.”

The girl made an embarrassed sound, but she was sitting straighter. Deborah suspected that nine-tenths of the battle had been won simply by telling the whole truth to John. Feeling lighter herself, she asked, “What about my filing a false report?”

“Same thing. Locked in my cabinet. Probation there, too.”

“And the civil suit?” Greg asked. “Do we assume it’ll be dropped?”

John gave a tentative smile. “That’s up to the D.A. But a suicide note puts a whole other slant on things. Don’t you think?”

Chapter 24

Standing in John’s office, Deborah held Grace for the longest time. Words weren’t needed; there was relief and love aplenty in the embrace. When John left, Grace drew back and turned to her father. Deborah felt her hesitation. Urging her on mentally, she was pleased when the girl hugged him, too. Greg had come through for her. He had come through for them both.

Father and daughter went off for time by themselves, allowing Deborah to return to work, but her eye was on the clock. She had a phone call to make.

Impatient, she barely made it to one before trying Tom’s line. When he answered, she smiled. “Hey. How are you?”

“Been better,” he said gently, but he sounded tired. “I just got back from Selena’s. She’s having a hard time with this. Seeing the note means she can’t pretend anymore.”

“Pretend?”

“That Cal wasn’t unhappy. That something wasn’t wrong with their marriage. When I showed her the note, she didn’t question its authenticity. It’s like she half expected it. She kind of buckled and grew sad. The fight left her.” The fight seemed to have left him, too. His voice was quiet. “I went to get her a drink, and when I came back, she started to talk. But it wasn’t the wild talk I’d heard before. She sounded defeated, wanting to understand what had happened by telling me what she had seen.”

Tom was a good listener. Deborah knew that firsthand.

“She talked about how they met,” he went on. “The actual events were much the way she had first told me, only this time she talked about his moods. They frightened her, but she loved him, so she went ahead with the marriage. Then she saw it full-time—the silence, the brooding, the pacing at night in the dark. Remember how I said he compartmentalized?”

“Yes.”

“That was what she saw. He was great at school. Really another person. And there were times when he was great with her. But then there was the dark, silent side. He would never talk about it. She asked me what I knew, but what could I say? I don’t know what depressed him. He had demons none of us understood.”

“Had it been worse lately?” Deborah asked. She wanted to understand, too.

Tom didn’t answer immediately. Finally, sounding defeated himself, he said, “Apparently, yes, it was worse. She couldn’t reach him at all. It was like he had less of a reserve of goodwill, she said—like he used it all up at school and had nothing to draw on at home. When she told him to see a shrink, he didn’t talk with her for three days.”

“Do you think he was seeing someone and just not telling her?”

“I can’t find any record of it. If he was in therapy, he was paying in cash and leaving no trail. He wasn’t on medication for depression—and yes, you’re thinking he might have stopped taking it, which would explain why he reached the breaking point.”

“And why it didn’t show up in an autopsy.”

“But I’ve combed his medical file. There’s nothing.” He paused briefly. “I can’t fault Selena in this. She tried. She was—is—legitimately grief-stricken.”

Deborah accepted that. She still resented Selena’s having gone to the D.A., but, for all she knew, she might have done the same herself, had the tables been turned. “Well, you were good to listen,” she told Tom.

“Oh, nothing altruistic there. I needed to hear what she said.”

“Did it help?”

He was quiet. Then, “Some, I guess. I still blame myself for not being more on top of what Cal was going through. I might have gotten him to a psychiatrist. With proper medication, he might have lived. But this does explain things a little. Selena isn’t a bad person. She knew Cal had problems. She thought she could help.”

“Many women do,” Deborah said. She didn’t ask about the lawsuit. It was irrelevant just then. She wanted to know more about Tom. “You were angry at the police station.”

“I still am. I understand more about his reaching a tipping point, but he had no right using innocent people as his suicide tool. I think John got it as soon as I showed him the note. Was that your ex-husband with you in his office?”

“It was. He came down to help with Grace. She’s had a tough time with all this. We actually worked out some of the hard feelings relating to the divorce.”

“That’s good.”

“Very.” She wanted to tell him more—about the divorce, about Grace, about the accident—but the time wasn’t right. Until the civil suit was dropped—until she knew what she and Tom
were
—until Grace was comfortable with his knowing that she’d been the driver that night, Deborah couldn’t say anything. There were a lot of
if
s to get past. She simply had to let the future play itself out a bit.

Not that she couldn’t give it a nudge. “Tom—”

“Deborah—”

“What?”

“Dinner? Later this week?”

She smiled. “I’d like that.”

She had just
finished the last of the day’s paperwork when Greg showed up. She looked past him, expecting to see Grace as well.

“I dropped her at the bakery,” he explained. “Had a SoMa Shake with Dylan, and here I am. I’m heading back now. Thought I’d say goodbye.”

Deborah was pleased he had come. She did want their new relationship to be better. The calm she felt now was in part related to the scabbing over of the open sore their divorce had left. “How did it go with Grace?”

“Up and down. But increasingly up. She’s still asking why I left and what my life in Vermont gives me that this one didn’t. And she asks lots of questions about my relationship with Rebecca. I’m trying to explain that there are no comparisons between you and Rebecca. Rebecca could never do what you do here. She could never be the kind of mother you are.”

Still you left me,
Deborah thought, but in a knee-jerk way. She had a better understanding now of why he’d left. The bitterness passed.

Taking the papers and her bag, she joined him at the door and flipped off the light. Walking him to his car, she said, “Thanks, Greg. Your being here has really helped.”

“For me, too. Coming back was like a sword hanging over my head. Now I know I can do it. And it is good for the kids, integrating our lives a little.”

She nodded. When they reached the Volvo, they hugged. It was an easy, comfortable gesture, a step forward in and of itself.

Deborah cooked dinner
on the grill that night. She and the children needed to eat, and this night, Lívia’s offering wouldn’t do. Working together—Dylan wielded a
mean
spatula—they produced grilled chicken and garlic bread, a big fresh salad, and for dessert—a celebration—s’mores. Deborah had grown up making s’mores over a fire, and while a gas grill wasn’t quite the same, it came close. The marshmallows melted well, in turn melting the chocolate squares just enough so that, pressed between graham crackers, the tastes blended. Hot marshmallow oozed out the edges and fell to the flagstones. But that was fine. By the time the s’mores were gone, a slow rain had begun to fall to wash the drippings away.

“You go inside,” Grace told her mother, quickly stacking plates. “I’ll bring everything in.”

A week ago, Deborah might have let her. Today, she was in no rush. “I’m okay,” she said, gathering the lemonade pitcher and empty glasses.

“You hate rain,” the girl reminded her.

Deborah stopped what she was doing and straightened. Setting the pitcher and glasses back on the table, she took Grace’s hand. “Come.”

Grace shot her an amused look. “Where?”

Deborah didn’t answer, just led her deeper into the backyard. Turning so that they faced the house, she wrapped her arms around Grace’s shoulders from behind.

“Mom,” Grace protested, putting her hands on Deborah’s arms.

“Shh,” Deborah said softly. “Listen.” Raindrops were landing on the forest’s leaves, creating a gentle, cushioned sound that city-dwellers wouldn’t hear. “Very soft,” she whispered.

“What are we doing, Mom?”

“Making new memories.”

“Of what?”

“You. Me. Life.” Slowly, she let her arms drop. Coming to Grace’s side, she slipped a hand into hers and, closing her eyes, turned her face to the sky. “What do you feel?”

“I feel like my mother’s flipped out,” Grace said, but her fingers clung.

“Seriously. Do you feel the rain on your face?”

There was a brief pause, then an indulgent, “Yes.”

“What else do you feel?”

“Wet.”

“Okay. Just breathe, slowly and deeply.” She waited a minute. “Slowly and deeply?”

“I am.”

“What do you feel now?”

There was a long pause, then a tentative, “Free.”

“Anything else?” Deborah asked.

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“If I tell you, you’ll think I’m the one flipping out.”

“No. I won’t. Tell me.”

It was another minute before Grace said a bemused, “Cleansed,” at which point Deborah hugged her tightly. They had gone through so much in the last two weeks, and there was more to go through yet. The D.A. had to decide on the civil suit; Grace had to find her place back in school; Dylan had to deal with his eyes; Deborah had to feel her way along with Tom. Calvin McKenna’s death would always be a part of their lives. But so much else had been resolved, and they survived.

She hugged Grace again. “Definitely cleansed. We start fresh.”

Grace returned the hug. “I’m not you,” she warned.

“So I’ve learned. But your heart is so in the right place.”

The words were in tune with the sound of the rain, but then other music drifted from Dylan’s window. It was the boy at his keyboard. After listening a minute, Deborah began to sway.

Grace joined her, humming. Soon, laughing, they sang along.
“I’d be sad and blue…if not for you.”

Acknowledgments

I am deeply indebted to Bob Delahunt for information on law; to Ellen Gilman for information on eyes; to doctors Sherry Haydock and Lynn Weigel for information on practicing medicine; and to my son, Andrew, for information on track. Many thanks to my assistant, Lucy Davis, for exquisite organization; to my agent, Amy Berkower, for brilliant management; and to my editor, Phyllis Grann, for bold direction.

To my whole family, always, my thanks and love.