A Little Learning by Margot Early Page A

him.
    As Caleb ran back to the room where the others waited, Seamus gestured toward
Rory’s burdens. “May I help you carry things out to your car?”
    She seemed to consider briefly. “Yes.”
    He relieved her of the heavier tote bag and held open the door, to let her lead the way. She started the car and let it idle while she loaded it.
    “Your troupe is amazing,” Seamus said. “You were great—I had no idea, even after seeing you practice.”
    “Thank you.”
    She closed the back door. “Well, that’s everything. Thanks. I need to get home and get some sleep.”
    “I heard Desert’s moving away.”
    “Yes. Her father needs her help.”
    “It surprises me that she’s going. She doesn’t seem...”
    “People often aren’t what they seem.” Rory cut him off.
    “Rory, do we have a problem? You seem—a bit cool lately.”
    He noted that she didn’t answer at once, that she seemed to be thinking over how to respond.
    But actually, Rory was trying to keep from responding. Trying to keep from saying exactly what she thought. Partly this was prompted by the suspicion that she wanted to talk with him because she was attracted to him; because she couldn’t keep from thinking about him. She felt vulnerable, afraid of her own impulses. If she began telling Seamus what she thought...
    If only she could keep her own counsel, for once.
    Her grandmother had opted to ride home with her friend Malcolm, the town judge, and Rory longed to get home and take a hot shower. She wished she could drop into bed without worrying about the still-missing python. Tonight, she was going to take her chances, in any case. “Actually,” she said, “I’m downright cold. Desert said it’s five below right now. And I don’t think it’s going to get warmer tonight.” She climbed into the driver’s seat of her car.
    “Why don’t you run me home with you and we’ll talk on the way?”
    “Get in,” she said, wondering how she was going to stay out of trouble in this conversation.
    Seamus walked around the vehicle and slid into the passenger seat.
    As they fastened their seat belts, Rory said, “Your children want your attention. That’s all. If I sound cool, that’s probably what it’s about. You have a great family. I really like your kids.”
    “They like you.”
    Rory looked at him, perplexed. Did he simply not care about his children? She hadn’t believed that earlier. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to believe it. She said, “Look, it’s a little personal for me. My own father has never exactly been an integral part of my life. And I never had a chance to know my mother—she died when I was little. I know her only from the picture my grandmother paints of her. I feel for your kids, because I know what it is to want the attention of the only parent you have.”
    Seamus understood.
    And maybe she thought he was more interested in chasing her than in taking care of his kids, than in giving them the love they needed.
    But how could he explain the facts?
    He couldn’t. He didn’t want to talk about Janine to anyone.
    He didn’t want to speak of her death. There was no way to describe the experience of finding his wife like that; the terror of what might have happened if one of the children had found her instead, had seen what he’d seen, had picked up the handgun. Just out of curiosity. Beau, for instance, at nine, fascinated by all things, wanting to know how everything worked. Or Caleb, who had been four.
    And Rory, sensible woman that she was, would probably suggest he get some therapy. But he’d had therapy.
    Therapy was not going to make him less angry at Janine.
    Therapy was not going to make any of it better.
    What made it better—or had seemed to make it bearable until he’d come to Sultan—was avoidance. Avoiding his children, and especially any instance in which he might tell them his real opinion of their mother, his recollections of her death, any of it, all of it.
    “I love my children,” he finally