So Cold the River(111)

No coincidence. The woman had come to see him, a woman from Illinois.

When my wife hired you…

“Oh, Lucas,” Josiah breathed. “You dumb bastard, you’re in trouble now.”





46


HE LAY IN THE DARK in bed with his wife of fourteen years and he could not sleep. They had not spoken in more than an hour now. He was no longer sure if she was awake. Her chest rose and fell slowly as if in sleep but there was a rigidity to her body that suggested she was not.

Six weeks since he’d last seen her. And then it had been tense and angry, as was always the case since they’d separated. Since he’d moved out of the home they shared, moved out because she dared to question the indulgence of self-pity that he was still riding after two years.

You are a child, Eric thought, a petulant boy, not a man. And still she is here now. Still she came for you.

He wasn’t surprised either. Despite everything that had happened, he’d believed she would be there when he needed her. She’d gotten into the car and driven six hours through the night, and that very act defined the question he’d never been able to answer, one that had been in his head for years—why was she still with him?

He understood the possibilities she’d originally seen; theirs had been a truly passionate romance from the start, and the future they had planned to share was full of promise. Had been, at least, until his failure.

And that was it—failure—no other word applied, though Claire had sure as hell tried plenty of them out. There’d been talk of obstacles, setbacks, hindrances, delays, tests, interruptions, and holdups, but never talk of the one cold truth. Eric had failed. Had gone out to California expecting to be directing films within a few years, expecting to be a figure of fame and acclaim soon after that. It hadn’t happened. The goal had been clear, the results equally so, and the verdict couldn’t be argued: failure.

It was in her calm acceptance of that, in her unyielding patience, that Eric’s frustration grew. Don’t you get it? he’d wanted to scream at her, it’s over. I didn’t make it. What are you still doing here? Why haven’t you left?

He’d never have blamed her. Hell, he was expecting it. After the broken dreams in California, followed by the two-year tantrum in Chicago, how had she not left him? It was the right thing to do, so he’d waited for her to go, waited and waited and still she was there, so finally he’d left himself. It had to happen. The circle had to be completed, the whole package of Eric’s once-bright future, professional and personal, had to be sealed and stamped with one bold black word: FAILED.

He was merely trying to complete the fall, but she kept interrupting it, kept trying to lift him up again. Why?

Because she loves you. And you love her, love her more than you’ve ever loved anything in this world except for yourself, you stupid, selfish bastard, and if you can learn to deal with that, maybe it would be a start.

She was asleep now. Hadn’t stirred or changed her breathing in a long time, and he thought that it would be safe to touch her, very lightly. He wanted to touch her. He turned onto his shoulder and reached out with his left hand and lowered it, gently as he could, onto her stomach. He felt the fabric of her shirt under his palm and felt the heat of her and the slight rise and fall of each breath. He was sure that she was asleep until she lifted her own hand and wrapped her fingers over his. For some reason when she did it, he held his breath.

Neither of them spoke. For a long time, they just lay there in the dark with their hands joined across her flat stomach.

“I should tell you that you are a bastard,” she whispered. “Do you know that?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s exactly what I shouldn’t say, too. Because it’s all you really believe.”

“I love you,” he said.

It was quiet. After a long time, she took his hand and lifted it to her face, held his palm over her eyes. She did not speak. Soon he felt moisture on his hand. Tears. She did not make a sound.

“I love you,” he said again, sliding toward her. “I’m sorry, and I love—”

“Shut up,” she said, and she let go of his hand and grabbed the back of his head instead, pulled it down roughly and kissed him hard on the mouth. She tightened her fingers in his hair as she held the kiss, his scalp alight with wonderful pain.

They shed their clothes in an awkward, frantic tangle, trying to help each other but then having to finish alone, graceless and hurried and needy. When she was naked, he rolled on top of her, still kicking his underwear from his feet, and he tried to force himself to slow down, ran a palm along her side and up her thigh in a deliberate, measured stroke as he lowered his mouth to her breast.