The Summer Bones (13 page)

He went over and pressed the button, saying quietly, “Yes?”

A disembodied voice told him his ex-wife stood downstairs in the lobby, waiting by the door, her hand expectantly on the handle. The telltale quiver in her voice was irritation, not horror, and he felt a small wave of relief run up his spine. Her rage was a familiar entity. Horror might mean something else altogether.

“Richard, I want to see you. Let me come up.”

He didn't respond by voice. He simply pressed the button to allow her access to the building. Standing by the door in his paisley robe, he steadied himself mentally and calculated the time it would take her to ride the elevator up the short way. With deliberate calm, he took his glasses off his nose and folded the temples, thrusting them into his pocket. His abandoned paper sprawled across his chair in disorder. Down the hallway, the door to the bedroom was closed.

It took her four minutes. He counted each second, imagining her footsteps in the hallway. When she rapped sharply on the door, he opened it immediately, stepping backward to let Jane inside.

His ex-wife was, as always, beautifully dressed. This morning, despite the early hour, had her in a tailored navy dress and matching high heels, her red hair swept back from her face and held in place at her nape by a white and navy scarf.

She is forty-nine,
Richard thought as he stood quietly and watched her eyes flicker over the austere contents of his living room.
Forty-nine years old and still every bit as striking as when we met three decades ago—skin still pale and smooth, breasts still full, waist still slender.

He'd been too young for marriage. Not even twenty, with only two years of college under his belt. But meeting Jane had been like a revelation. She was everything he wasn't—fire, color, energy, emotion. He'd sat next to her in an art history class for nearly two months before he had the courage to approach her. He could still see her surprised face assessing his sincerity, her quick rush of amusement over his obvious and awkward interest, her own frank sexual appraisal. She'd stood there in the hallway, her reddish hair a halo around her pale face, her jeans tight over slim, seductive hips, her arms locked around her books. In her eyes, he'd seen experience beyond his own, which only added to his fascination.

She'd accepted his invitation to a concert at the University Music Hall and the offer of a cup of coffee afterward in the Union. She even, to his amazement and satisfaction, had wanted to come to his apartment for a drink. He hadn't intended on sleeping with her that night—he'd never dreamed she would want to stay—but that encounter burned itself heavily into his memory. He'd been hooked, neatly and completely, by blind and selfish lust. Never mind that they didn't seem to have much in common out of bed—she was an avid art student from a well-to-do family and he a conservative economics major from a small farm town. That didn't matter, he told himself. What mattered was the connection, undeniably physical, but also undeniably addictive.

There had never really been a question of love. Looking back, he wondered why he had never asked himself that question “Do you love her?” They had lived together that semester in his ratty, one-room apartment with the cracked toilet seat and the musty rust-colored drapes, and in the spring, he had married her. By the next winter, she had been pregnant, end of story—unless you counted nearly thirty years of physical fascination and intellectual repugnance.

He'd grown to despise his wife's childish manipulations, her furious outbursts, her emotional demands. It hadn't taken long before they were fighting regularly. But his body craved her.

Maybe he should have told Victoria the truth yesterday. Maybe he should have simply said out loud that he had never filed for divorce because he and her mother had slept together, often, almost right up until the end. Despite the bickering and fighting and discontent, they had both given in to sexual attraction, an ironic physical compatibility that extended no further than the end of their bed.

But he couldn't tell his daughter that particular truth. It was shaming, and it took whatever childhood she'd had and made it a farce. Richard closed the door and motioned to a chair. “Would you like to sit down?”

Jane finished her perusal of the apartment. Her lip curled slightly. “This is exactly what I pictured, Richard. Browns, some olive green, and white—boring and functional.”

“Soothing and practical,” he countered calmly, careful to not let his voice show any reaction. “I prefer neutral tones. I find this room relaxing.”

Jane smiled sweetly, but her eyes were hard. “It would certainly put me to sleep, darling. You should have had Emily come decorate it for you. She did a fabulous job on my new condo. The foyer is done in lilac and pinks. I love it.”

“I'm sure you do.” He put both hands into his pockets.

Having started the conversation with the first negative remark, Jane looked satisfied with herself, strolling forward and choosing an overstuffed taupe chair.
The most comfortable chair in the room,
he thought wryly as he watched her sit down and cross her long legs. “I want to talk to you about Ronald,” she announced.

“Has he heard from Emily?” Like most of the family, Richard believed his impulsive daughter had left voluntarily, though the discovery of her car had shaken him. He chose a chair across from his ex-wife and sat down, his eyes straying only once toward the hallway. No sound came from anywhere except the street outside.

“No, he hasn't.” Jane looked momentarily tired, but it was nothing more than a glimmer. She immediately squared her shoulders, the old familiar gleam coming back. “I personally don't think he will. They were having problems, Richard. Did she tell you?”

The last time he had seen Emily had been three weeks ago, right in this very living room. She had shown up, uninvited and unexpected, without Ronald. She was enough like her mother that he had been able to easily interpret the bright spots on her cheeks and the intractable set of her mouth.

“Yes,” he said, briefly, remembering that interview.

“What did she say?”

“She said she was thinking of leaving her husband.”

“Did she tell you why?” Jane made an abrupt movement with her hand. She wore blue eye shadow, which emphasized the darkness of her eyes.

“No, she didn't.” Richard tried to keep his expression controlled. He didn't expound on why his daughter hadn't elaborated on her problems, saying only, “But that isn't surprising, is it, Jane? Emily goes her own way and always has. She didn't ask my advice when she decided to marry Ronald, so I doubt she would ask me if she should leave him. Now, Victoria is apparently engaged, or nearly so. I doubt I'll be consulted by her either.”

A laugh, flavored with bitterness. “No one should ask your advice on marriage, Richard.”

Things hadn't changed—never would. He held his chin level and refused to be prodded into an unfortunate remark. He merely asked, “What would either of us know about a good marriage?”

“I know,” Jane's eyes went bright and fierce, “that I was cheated. I thought I was marrying someone who needed me—who wanted a mate, a friend, a lover.”

“Just a lover.” His voice was unruffled. It took a lot of effort to keep it that way, but then again, he had a lot of practice.

“Damn you.” Her face tightened.

“As you wish. Aren't we straying off the subject here? You came to talk about Emily and Ronald. Why was she thinking of leaving him? I assume you know.”

Jane seemed to collect herself, her throat muscles jumping as she apparently swallowed the reply that would escalate the current discussion into further altercation. She had come a long way. At one time, nothing could have kept her from saying her piece.

Her hands balled into fists in her lap. “He had accused her,” her voice was high, “of having an affair. She said he was getting obsessed with the idea. He was starting to follow her around. She would see him trailing her as she went on her appointments. Ronald is high-strung, we all know it, but I wonder now if she was beginning to be afraid of him.”

“Afraid how?”

“Aren't you listening? She didn't
say
she was afraid, I just think maybe that was what was going on.”

Emily hadn't mentioned it to him. But she had to have come that day three weeks ago for the purpose of crying on his shoulder. It was entirely in character for Emily to ignore him for months, and then drop in unexpectedly to confide a woe. It was too bad that she had been distracted from telling him why she had come by. He felt a twinge of regret mixed with unwanted guilt.

The sun had risen enough to begin to heat up the day. From the bedroom, he heard a small creak, and then a thump. With resignation, Richard said, “You think that maybe Ronald had something to do with her disappearance? Is that what you're implying?”

Jane hesitated. Her cheeks were porcelain pale, her mouth a curved arc of pink. It was obvious that two emotions were at war—her worry over her daughter, and her aversion to asking his advice.

Finally, she said, “I wondered if I should tell the police. I mean about him following her. That isn't normal.”

He knew what it had cost her to come to him. She managed an art gallery that relied a good deal on Ronald Sims—his paintings, his name. She had known Ronald before Emily had ever even heard of him. She had introduced their daughter to him, and she was the last person to want to see him under any kind of suspicion.

“If he was behaving that way, I do think you might share that with the police,” he agreed. The door to the bedroom creaked open. He heard someone go into the bathroom and close the door. Jane didn't appear to notice.

“He wouldn't hurt her,” Jane said clearly, “but maybe she was getting frightened.”

“It isn't rational behavior. How can we know he wouldn't hurt her?”

“Emily doesn't inspire rational behavior.” Jane said it defensively. “She deliberately eggs him on.”

“True enough.”

“Besides—”

A toilet flushed. The sound of running water made Jane suddenly realize that they were not alone in the apartment. Her pink mouth opened.

He felt a telltale spasm of tension between his shoulder blades—a pang like a knife through the throat. He sat in his chair and wondered why on earth he should care if his ex-wife met Clare. It would just be another scene—one of many. He could endure it.

A girl came out of the bathroom and wandered down the hall. She was dressed in a white T-shirt that came to midthigh, and, he knew, had on nothing else. Her dark tousled hair framed a healthy face of high cheekbones and big eyes. She took in their tableau with a small spark of curiosity lighting her face, but passed by with little more than a mumbled good morning, in favor of coffee. Clare rarely had much to say before her third cup. As they had been unofficially living together for months, he knew her habits well.

For once, Jane appeared speechless. He said nothing, opting for silence. It had worked well in the past. Say nothing, and you cannot incriminate yourself.

Jane watched Clare as she pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen. Took in the long bare legs, the rumpled shirt that was obviously his, the mop of disheveled hair.

As the young woman disappeared into the other room, his ex-wife turned her head slowly and looked at him. “Well, well,” she said softly. Her mouth hardened into a thin, tight line. The area around her nostrils went white. “I see you haven't spent much time worrying about Emily, have you?”

“Don't be ridiculous, of course I'm worried.” His defense was almost listless.
Why defend yourself to someone who doesn't understand you—to someone who has never even tried?
“My personal life has nothing to do with my feelings for my daughter.”

“Where did you meet her, or do I even need to ask? She's a student, isn't she?”

“Yes.” His voice was barren.

Jane moved her hands, gripping her purse. “At least you had the decency to wait until we were divorced to start debauching young girls. How old is she, Richard? Twenty? Nineteen? How does the university like your new personal life?”

“Debauching.” He laughed mirthlessly. “That's a little Victorian, don't you think? Clare isn't that young either, she's twenty-four. Old enough to make her own decisions.”

“Twenty-four. How disgusting.”

He looked at her.

Jane got to her feet and walked to the door. She turned, her mouth drawing back from her teeth. “You bastard,” she said bitterly.

The door slammed loudly behind her.

Funny,
he thought. He'd expected Emily to react with similar outrage when she had dropped in so unexpectedly and found Clare in his apartment. She and her mother were so alike in many ways. But Emily had seemed amused. Emily had sat right down and switched on the charm, showing no disapproval, chatting brightly with Clare. She'd been so engrossed in his situation that she'd forgotten to tell her father why she'd come over in the first place. He'd left the two of them there in conversation while he'd gone off to teach an early class.

Maybe he should have asked his daughter more questions. He sighed and leaned over to pick up his coffee cup. The liquid inside had skinned over but he took a small, quick sip just the same. He heard the kitchen door swing open. Clare wandered into view, looking more awake, her dark eyes wide now with interest.

“All alone?” Her mouth quirked upward.

He grimaced, both at the bitter coffee on his tongue and at her question. “Thank goodness,” he said. “Sorry for the shouting. That was—”

Clare raised her hand in interruption. “I think I can guess.”

* * * *

“I'm taking her to town.”

The gruff voice made Victoria jump. She looked up from the paper—thank goodness there were no new headlines—and gave her grandfather a surprised look. The declaration had come out of nowhere with some force, and she smiled uncertainly. “Grandma?”