marigolds. She didn’t push him to talk right away. More considerate, she thought, to let him relax for a bit.
In time, he set down his spoon. “What’s the word from Jill?”
“She’s great. She calls every day. Classes start tomorrow.”
“Good courses?”
Emily had run them past him when he had called on Thursday. He must have forgotten. Patiently, she repeated what she had told him then. Moving along without comment, he asked, “How’s her roommate?”
“Nice, apparently.”
“That’s good.” He picked up his spoon and resumed eating.
Emily studied his face. He didn’t look tired, exactly. But weary, somehow. “Are you okay, Doug?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“You seem far away.”
He jabbed at a berry. “I have a lot on my mind.”
“Want to share it?”
“Not particularly. I’ve been living with it all week. I want a break.”
That was fine and dandy for him, not so fine and dandy for her. He needed silence, but she needed talk. “Is it the Baltimore account?”
He shrugged.
“The problem wasn’t resolved by the time you left?”
He set down his spoon. “We’re making progress.” He reached for the Sunday paper.
“What about Philadelphia?”
He unfolded the paper with a snap. “What about it?”
“How did it go?”
“Fine.” He focused on the front page.
She waited. She watched his eyes move, but she wasn’t sure if he was actually reading. “Talk to me, Doug,” she said softly.
He turned down the paper only enough to meet her eyes. “This is the first day in a week that I’ve been able to relax over breakfast with the morning paper. It really is a luxury. Indulge me?”
Put that way, she felt guilty. He was the one on the road, the one working all week, the one feeling pressure to produce and earn. She supposed that if she were in his position, she would find reading the morning paper a luxury, too.
“Can we have lunch out by the pond?” she asked. That seemed a fair compromise.
“Lunch. I can’t think of lunch. We’re just having breakfast.”
“Only fruit. That’s not much. I have fried chicken and fresh corn and salad. And strawberry-rhubarb pie.”
“Strawberry-rhubarb?” At last, an inkling of interest. “Yours?”
She nodded, feeling pleased.
He searched the counter. “Where is it?”
“In the fridge.”
“Can I have a piece now?”
“What about your stomach?”
“It’s worth it, for a piece of that pie. It is the best.”
Relieved to catch a glimpse of the old Doug, she left the table and cut him a piece. Then she watched him eat every last bite. The instant he was done, she reached for his hand. “Come. I want to show you something.”
“What?”
“The garage apartment. You won’t recognize the place.”
“Let me get dressed first.”
“No need.” He was wearing a knee-length terrycloth robe. It was comfortable and familiar to Emily. The urbane business consultant was miles away. She didn’t wish him back.
She led him out the kitchen door, down the steps, and across the driveway to the far side of the garage. She pointed at the locks when she opened the door. “They’re new. And I’ve ordered a runner for these stairs.” They started up. “It’ll be safer for a child.”
“Jill did fine without.”
“Jill wouldn’t have sued us if she fell.”
“And this guy will? Maybe it’s a mistake renting to a cop.”
“No mistake. He’s a nice guy. I’m just thinking landlord thoughts.” She led him into the room and smiled. “Different, huh?”
She waited for an answering smile. What she got was something akin to dismay. “The walls look raw.”
“We’ll be painting next week.”
“Well, I suppose anything’s an improvement over that dingy wallpaper and Jill’s awful scribbles.”
Emily didn’t think the scribbles were awful. “I saved them for her. She’ll laugh hysterically over them someday. They’re like a chronicle of her adolescence. John was appalled.”
“When was John
In time, he set down his spoon. “What’s the word from Jill?”
“She’s great. She calls every day. Classes start tomorrow.”
“Good courses?”
Emily had run them past him when he had called on Thursday. He must have forgotten. Patiently, she repeated what she had told him then. Moving along without comment, he asked, “How’s her roommate?”
“Nice, apparently.”
“That’s good.” He picked up his spoon and resumed eating.
Emily studied his face. He didn’t look tired, exactly. But weary, somehow. “Are you okay, Doug?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“You seem far away.”
He jabbed at a berry. “I have a lot on my mind.”
“Want to share it?”
“Not particularly. I’ve been living with it all week. I want a break.”
That was fine and dandy for him, not so fine and dandy for her. He needed silence, but she needed talk. “Is it the Baltimore account?”
He shrugged.
“The problem wasn’t resolved by the time you left?”
He set down his spoon. “We’re making progress.” He reached for the Sunday paper.
“What about Philadelphia?”
He unfolded the paper with a snap. “What about it?”
“How did it go?”
“Fine.” He focused on the front page.
She waited. She watched his eyes move, but she wasn’t sure if he was actually reading. “Talk to me, Doug,” she said softly.
He turned down the paper only enough to meet her eyes. “This is the first day in a week that I’ve been able to relax over breakfast with the morning paper. It really is a luxury. Indulge me?”
Put that way, she felt guilty. He was the one on the road, the one working all week, the one feeling pressure to produce and earn. She supposed that if she were in his position, she would find reading the morning paper a luxury, too.
“Can we have lunch out by the pond?” she asked. That seemed a fair compromise.
“Lunch. I can’t think of lunch. We’re just having breakfast.”
“Only fruit. That’s not much. I have fried chicken and fresh corn and salad. And strawberry-rhubarb pie.”
“Strawberry-rhubarb?” At last, an inkling of interest. “Yours?”
She nodded, feeling pleased.
He searched the counter. “Where is it?”
“In the fridge.”
“Can I have a piece now?”
“What about your stomach?”
“It’s worth it, for a piece of that pie. It is the best.”
Relieved to catch a glimpse of the old Doug, she left the table and cut him a piece. Then she watched him eat every last bite. The instant he was done, she reached for his hand. “Come. I want to show you something.”
“What?”
“The garage apartment. You won’t recognize the place.”
“Let me get dressed first.”
“No need.” He was wearing a knee-length terrycloth robe. It was comfortable and familiar to Emily. The urbane business consultant was miles away. She didn’t wish him back.
She led him out the kitchen door, down the steps, and across the driveway to the far side of the garage. She pointed at the locks when she opened the door. “They’re new. And I’ve ordered a runner for these stairs.” They started up. “It’ll be safer for a child.”
“Jill did fine without.”
“Jill wouldn’t have sued us if she fell.”
“And this guy will? Maybe it’s a mistake renting to a cop.”
“No mistake. He’s a nice guy. I’m just thinking landlord thoughts.” She led him into the room and smiled. “Different, huh?”
She waited for an answering smile. What she got was something akin to dismay. “The walls look raw.”
“We’ll be painting next week.”
“Well, I suppose anything’s an improvement over that dingy wallpaper and Jill’s awful scribbles.”
Emily didn’t think the scribbles were awful. “I saved them for her. She’ll laugh hysterically over them someday. They’re like a chronicle of her adolescence. John was appalled.”
“When was John
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