The Deep End by Joy Fielding Page B

much,” Paul explained. “It’s very cramped, very impersonal. Did Lulu give you my phone number?”
    “Yes.”
    “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”
    “I won’t.”
    “If it’s important, you can always reach me at the office.”
    “Thank you. That’s good to know.” There was an awkward pause. “Have you had time to think yet?” she asked finally.
    Paul looked across the room. “Not really. I’ve been so busy with the move, trying to get organized. It’s only been a week …”
    “I baked a nice lemon cake yesterday,” Joanne said, quickly changing the subject. “I think there’s still some left.”
    “I better not.” He patted his stomach. “I’m trying to watch it.”
    “You look well.”
    “Thank you.”
    “I must look awful.”
    “You look fine. A little tired maybe. Those phone calls haven’t helped your sleep, I’m sure.”
    “I was scared.”
    “I’m sure you were.”
    “You were gone …”
    “Try not to worry about it,” Paul said, sidestepping her remark. “Just hang up the next time the jerk calls.”
    “What if he did kill that woman?”
    “He didn’t.”
    Joanne stared at her husband. “I miss you,” she said simply.
    “Joanne, don’t …”
    “I don’t think I can manage without you.”
    “You can. You’re strong.”
    “I don’t want to.”
    “You have to.” There was silence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. Joanne, you know I’m always here if you need me.”
    “I need you.”
    “But you can’t come running to me every time you have a little problem. It isn’t good for you, and it isn’t good for me.”
    “This isn’t just a little problem.”
    “What is it?” he asked, holding up the piece of newspaper. “Let’s look at it realistically. Some guy calls and tells you to look in the paper and that you’re next. A week later you find half a piece of paper on your car window and overreact …”
    “I’m not overreacting.”
    “Maybe not. But I see this sort of thing all the time, people jumping to conclusions …”
    “I’m not jumping to conclusions.”
    “Has he called again?”
    “What?”
    “Has he called again?” Paul repeated though he knew she had heard him the first time.
    Joanne shook her head.
    “There, you see.”
    “No. What should I see?”
    “That there’s nothing to be afraid of. Joanne, if I were home, you wouldn’t give this matter a second thought.”
    “But you’re not home.”
    “No,” he said, the softness of his voice undercutting the harshness of his words, “and this isn’t going to bring me home either. Can’t you see what you’re doing?”
    “What am I doing?”
    “I don’t think you mean to,” he explained awkwardly, “at least not on a conscious level.”
    “What don’t I mean to?”
    “I think that subconsciously,” he emphasized, “it’s your way of binding me to you.”
    “No.”
    “Joanne, if our marriage has any hope of surviving, you have to give me this chance to be by myself to think things through. You can’t keep finding excuses to bring me back here.”
    Joanne said nothing. Was he right? Was she trying to bind him to her? Was she overreacting? The newspaper had been wet and torn; it was true the page number was missing …
    “I have to go now. I have clients waiting.”
    Joanne nodded, following Paul to the front door.
    “I didn’t mean to sound so cold.”
    “You didn’t.”
    “I think it’s best.”
    “Of course. You’re right.”
    The phone rang.
    “Do you want me to wait?” he asked.
    Joanne nodded and ran to the kitchen, picking up the phone before it could ring again. “Hello?”
    “Mrs. Hunter.”
    Joanne froze at the sound of the familiar voice, her eyes frantically summoning Paul from his position in the front hall. Paul walked quickly toward her and took the phone from her outstretched hand. Joanne held her breath as all around her normal household squeaks grew ominous.
    “Hello,” Paul said forcefully. “Who is