Thought I Knew You(32)

“I wasn’t nice back then, I guess,” I said finally. “I didn’t know, really.”

“There’s a difference between not knowing and not wanting to know.” His tone was soft, unaccusing, and I wished I could see his face. “This is pointless, you know? We’ve had years to talk about all this and never did. So why now?”

Even I couldn’t miss the answer, so blatant and obvious. Because I chose to. Unable to bear the truth in that, I stood and crossed the room. I stopped in front of his chair, and he held my gaze with a small smile, sad and wry at once.

He reached out and grabbed my hand. “It’s water under the bridge, Claire-bear.”

But my bridge was crumbling.





Chapter 15



Christmas Day, we had moments of melancholy, but the celebration was mostly joyous. Drew did that—well, along with the overabundance of material things. Bikes will make kids forget what ails them. I had taken the easy way out, but what other options did I have? I promised myself that the next year would be easier, and we wouldn’t need all the overindulgence.

Mom and Dad came for dinner, and I served my pre-prepared elaborate spread. Everyone stuffed themselves sick, and even Leah said her belly hurt after the meal. I felt warm, loose-limbed, and content.

I thought of Greg often, but only in small vignettes—Greg in the kitchen on past Christmases, announcing the carving of the “Roast Beast,” his surprising ability to give fantastic and thoughtful Christmas presents. He always had at least one gift that I never knew about, even for the girls.

After I put the kids to bed, I pulled out a small wrapped box and placed it on Drew’s lap.

He grinned. “A present!” He tore into his gift. I had gotten him a macro lens for his camera. He’d mentioned in passing that he wanted to get into macro photography. “Wow, these things are like five hundred bucks! Why would you do this? That’s great. Thank you, Claire-bear.”

I shrugged. “Call it my Christmas of buying everyone’s affection.”

He held up his finger, then went to his bag. He returned with a square velvet box.

“You didn’t have to,” I said.

He rolled his eyes, and I opened the lid. A white gold bracelet was nestled inside, formed like a three-strand braid, smooth on the inside. At each end was a solid ball.



“This is beautiful, Drew. Where did you get it?”

He waved his hand as if my question didn’t matter. He turned the bracelet so I could see the engraving. All the strength you need is inside of you. My eyes welled with tears. As usual, Drew had said and done the perfect thing.

He took the bracelet and, sliding it on my wrist, said, “A braided rope is over a hundred times stronger than each strand individually. And it’s ten times stronger than steel. No one strand bears all the weight.” He held my hand, and I understood his message.

I am never alone. I closed my eyes. “Thank you,” was all I could manage.





The day after Christmas, Drew packed his duffel and headed back to the city. Hannah and Leah went to my parents’ house for the afternoon, and I rambled around the house, cleaning up from the holiday. Rain pattered off the bay window in the living room, blurring the outside world, creating a protected cocoon inside the house.

Feeling bold from my Christmas success and strong from my bracelet, I went upstairs and cautiously opened the door to Greg’s study. I was assaulted by the smell—leather, Greg’s cologne, a corporate citrusy scent, and man.

I sat down at his desk with no idea where to start and looked around as though in the room for the first time. Bookshelves lined the walls behind the desk, which was in the middle of the floor, like an office at a law firm, not a home office. The computer, surprisingly dust-free, sat in one corner of the desk next to a half-inch stack of bills and paperwork, neat and cornered. I could see him in the chair, squaring the corners and tapping the bottom of the stack on the desk. Getting his affairs in order? The corners of each of the September-dated bills were stamped “PIF.” Paid in Full.





I opened the top drawer. A black address book lay on top. I thumbed through it: miscellaneous notes, business cards, phone numbers—all household-related and vaguely familiar. Nothing jumped out at me. What was I looking for? I laid the book on the stack of bills.

The brown notebook Detective Reynolds had taken a few weeks ago rested on top of a separate stack of papers. He’d returned it the week before Christmas, and still unable to face the study, I’d asked him to put it back. I gingerly picked up the notebook, as if it were contaminated, and fanned through the pages. It contained personal notes, a jotted journal of a man on the go: pieces of a thought, some functional, some endearing; a list of songs to add to his MP3 player; a “To-Do” list that included “exercise more, lower cholesterol, be a better husband”; a stanza from a song or a poem. I felt like a voyeur. Except when he left it all behind, did he have the right to privacy anymore?