Читать книгу Sacred Trust - Meg O'Brien - Страница 12

I leave Ben outside in the parking lot, climbing into the Explorer and again promising to find Marti’s killer. It is a comforting promise, though I fear that’s all it is. I wonder how long it will be before they start questioning me again.

We haven’t talked further about the name “Abby” at the crime scene, or the letter A carved into Murphy’s back. If that seems odd, I attribute it to Ben’s haste to get back to the station and the case.

At home, I tend to Murphy first, cutting open a capsule of vitamin E and rubbing it gently into the wound on his back to hasten the healing. Still feeling numb, I double-check doors and windows, making sure they’re all locked. Taking a cup of hot chocolate upstairs, I undress for bed, putting on a pair of warm pajamas. Murphy plants himself outside my door, as usual, at the top of the steps. After a few minutes I call him in with me, patting the bed and urging him to lie beside me. Careful not to touch the sore spot beneath his fur, I position my arm around him, seeking to comfort us both while we fall asleep. He licks my hand and looks at me with eyes that seem full of questions for which I have no answers. Sighing, he lies back down.

First thing in the morning I call the vet and he tells me to bring Murphy in at one. I settle him down on a blanket by the fire, fix myself some breakfast, do the dishes, throw some clothes in the wash and sweep the side patio. Then I call Frannie to let her know Murphy’s been found, and tell her what was done to him. She is horrified, and we commiserate about that a few minutes. Finally I call Ben to find out if they’ve made any progress on the case and if there’s any word about Marti’s funeral. The one thing I forgot to ask Ted was how soon he’d be releasing her body. Ben isn’t in, and the woman at the desk assures me she’ll have him call me as soon as she hears from him.

After that I don’t know what to do with myself. All this activity has had only one purpose—to keep me from brooding about Marti. It can’t help things to sit and mourn. Yet, what’s the alternative? To head out on a white charger? I would give anything to be able to avenge my friend’s death. If I knew who killed her, I would probably, at this moment, do him in with my own bare hands. I just don’t know where to begin.

If only she had talked to me about her life more recently, if only I had made more of an effort to be with her, to find out what was going on with her. If only, if only, if only. Could I have done more?

I turn to writing to get my mind off things. It doesn’t seem to help. At the computer in my study, I try to come up with next week’s column, but my mind won’t work. I feel as if I’m sleepwalking, and finally give up struggling for the witticisms my readers have begun to expect, all the funny and sometimes caustic observations about life in Carmel that residents and tourists alike seem to enjoy. Instead, I toy with the keyboard, typing out Marti’s name and then the letter A, over and over, like some kid scrawling her boyfriend’s last name after hers in a geography workbook: Annie Smith. Annie Smith Jones. Mrs. David Jones. Everywoman’s dream…to get that ring, marry that man.

In this case, the occasion is not a wedding but a funeral. Though what the difference is, I swear I don’t know. For me, they both seem related to death or dying.

Well, then, write a piece about weddings.

I write that down and follow it by wondering if old memories still cling to the fabric of our wedding gowns. If I were to go up in the attic and put mine on, would I feel the happiness I felt on my wedding day?

I remember an old movie with someone who donned an antique wedding gown, which took her back to another time when she was someone young and in love.

I stare at the screen and wonder why Marti never married. Was it because of the baby? Did she feel it wouldn’t be fair to have a happy married life, having given up the child that could (or should) have been a part of it? The “should” would be Marti’s; she would think that way, not I.

And so I’m back to “Shining Bright” again. Finally I close this exercise in futility and open my journal file, which I keep under the word Dervish in a hidden document that only someone wise in the ways of computers could find. The path is so obscure as to be Chinese in nature, the point being to keep it from Jeffrey’s prying eyes.

Which can’t be as hard as I make it out to be. Jeffrey doesn’t understand much about computers; he has secretaries for that. Assistants, really, but he won’t call them assistants or even allow them to classify themselves as such on a résumé. To do so would dilute, he has said quite openly, his own position of power.

When the file comes up I see that my last journal entry was six months ago, just after I caught Jeffrey with the bimbo. Since then, I haven’t had the heart to put my life down in black and white. My feelings have been too embarrassing, even humiliating.

When I was a child, I used to pray, “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Later on, in my twenties, I fell hopelessly in love with someone for three years, and took to this writing of journals. Absolutely everything went into them, every foolish, futile longing. When it was over I had a corrugated Seagram’s carton three feet by three, bulging with spiral-bound notebooks from the drugstore that were filled with largely unreadable ramblings, scrawled in blue ink from a ballpoint pen. For years, I toted this damn box with me every time I moved, like a turtle unwilling to shed its shell. I’d go zooming down a freeway with this stupid thing in my trunk, scared to death I’d be killed by some idiot suffering road rage and my survivors would end up reading all that dross. I couldn’t let go of the dross, however, neither the journals nor the man. Thus my nightly prayer became, “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my journals to take.”

Now I know that there are more ways of dying than one can conceive. Further, there are days when there is no Lord, or at least he’s checked out for the day.

Jeffrey came along after that three-year journal-writing madness, on one of those Lordless days. My heart still had a hole in it, and my car still had that box in its trunk. I just didn’t think about it so much anymore, thoughtlessly shoving it aside to make room for groceries every Friday night. Then I met Jeffrey. And a whole new literary era began.

Because heaven was closed that day, I fell head over asinine heels in love with Jeffrey Northrup, right off the bat. And because I still believed in journals, I spread the craziness of our lives across the clean pages of a bright new book, as if making up the bed of my heart with fresh new sheets. In the beginning, I wrote down all the “I know he really loves me” stuff and the “I’ll die if he doesn’t remember my birthday” madness.

The irony is, Jeffrey is dead now, not I. Oh, he walks and talks. But for me the funeral took place six months ago.

I met my husband sixteen years ago at the Pebble Beach Golf Club. I was down from San Francisco having lunch with a couple of other women, all three of us in our early twenties. They were friends of mine and secretaries, as Jeffrey would say, though they did all but run Monterey for their employers. I was working as a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle, and had a pretty good career going. I’d come down for lunch on a day off and to soak up some sun.

Jeffrey was at the club that day playing golf. At two hundred dollars a game, that set him far above us. But he came in all sweaty and smiling, especially when he saw us. Not that he knew us. Jeffery, I later learned, always smiled at good-looking women.

I counted myself among them, at that time, the good-looking women. I had dark hair that fell to my shoulders in shiny waves, and huge brown eyes. There was something exotic about me, I’d been told by some. Not that you could prove it by me. I still had those mental tapes from childhood, the ones that said I couldn’t do anything right, my hair looked like a rat’s nest, and I’d never amount to much.

How I got those tapes, where they came from, is a mystery to me still. Certainly not from my parents, who supported me in every way. Sometimes I think those beliefs, running over and over in my head, came with me from another life, that I carried them in when I was born.

Which presumes a belief in reincarnation—something I’d rather not think about. The very idea of having to do all this over again and again and again makes me cry, at least on those days when it doesn’t make me laugh.

Jeffrey made me laugh. At first, he said truly funny things, a born comic who never made it onstage but went, instead, into politics and business. Then, later, he made me laugh in another way. Oh, I know I shouldn’t have. But he’d come into the bedroom stark naked with that—that appendage sticking out ten inches if it was one, like some old-time romance writer’s “flaming sword,” and he’d look at me with those sultry eyes and rasp, “You really want it, don’t you?”

And I couldn’t help it. His hair would be wet from the shower, black curls clinging to his forehead, and my eyes would travel from that to the green eyes I had once loved, the aristocratic nose, the chest a thicket of graying black hair, and I’d laugh.

Largely, I’d laugh because by then I knew I wasn’t the only woman Jeffrey used that line on. We’d been married ten years, and good old Jeffrey had cut a swath a mile wide through the women of Carmel with that flaming sword. The very idea that I’d still want either him or his impressive appendage was ludicrous. So I’d try to muffle the chuckles, but, well…

Several times I thought Jeffrey might hit me when I laughed. He never did. Instead, he got his revenge by taking away my child.

The vet gives Murphy a couple of shots and, after voicing innumerable questions about the letter A, declares him on the mend—physically, at least. Murphy still has a sad, hound-dog-look about him. I take him home and find Frannie waiting for us, though it isn’t her usual day to work.

“I couldn’t believe it when you told me what happened,” she says, her hazel eyes worried under the mop of red hair. She gives Murphy a hug. “Are you okay, fella?”

He doesn’t seem ready to be touched, backing off from her and giving a slight growl, which stuns me. Never have I seen Murphy behave this way.

“The doctor said he might be touchy for a while,” I offer by way of apology.

Frannie nods and follows me into the kitchen. “I swear to you, Abby, I don’t know how he got out. I was sure he was inside when I left.”

“Well, he’s a sneaky little guy. When he gets it into his head to bust loose, he does have his ways.”

“That’s true,” she says thoughtfully. “Remember the day he ran out while I was bringing in groceries? I thought he was up in your room all the while. And one day he scooted right past you when you came in, and you had to run halfway down Scenic to catch him, him with his tail wagging all the way.”

We both laugh at the ordinariness of Murphy’s escapes, carefully skirting the truth—that this is not one of those ordinary times, and the letter carved into my dog’s back only proves it.

“It’s hard to keep track of him lately,” I say, waving a hand around the kitchen. “There are too many places in this house for him to disappear to, especially now that Jeffrey’s not here half the time.”

Frannie shakes her head. “You should sell this place. Cliff said he could get at least three times what you bought it for sixteen years ago.”

Cliff, her new boyfriend, is a local Realtor.

“And go where?” I say. “Out to the valley? Into a condo? I’d miss the ocean too much. Besides, I’ve always liked this place.”

Frannie casts a look around. “You’ve got a great view, I’ll say that. But if I were you, I’d be nervous alone here at night.”

“Nervous? Why?”

“You don’t know? You haven’t heard it?” She clamps her lips down as if wishing she hadn’t said anything.

“Heard what, Frannie?” I am only half smiling. “For heaven’s sake, you’re not buying into that old ghost story, are you?”

“Hell, no. I’m talking about something much more earthly than that. Last week, when I was up in the attic—”

She breaks off, turning away.

“What about the attic? Did you hear something?”

Her green eyes flick my way. “Why? Did you?”

“Frannie, stop it! Just tell me. What did you hear?”

“A noise,” she says. “Just a noise, that’s all. It took me a while to get up the courage to go up there. And when I did, there wasn’t anyone there.”

“That’s odd,” I say. “I heard a noise, too. It scared me half to death.”

Her eyes meet mine, widening. “What do you think it was?”

“Now that it’s daytime and the sun’s out? I’m inclined to believe it was a squirrel.”

“And last night?”

“Last night, I was certain it was that guy in the movies with the hockey mask, lurking in the shadows to grab me.”

She wraps her arms around herself, shivering. “I kind of thought that, too. Abby, you should get out of here. Cliff says—”

Cliff, I think, is angling real hard for a sale and a commission.

I change the subject. “Frannie, did you take the second bulb out of the light fixture? There’s only one in there.”

“No. I thought you did that. I could hardly see my way around, and I meant to go back up with another bulb, then I forgot. Sorry.”

“Never mind, I can do it. But if you didn’t take it out, who did?”

“Jeffrey?” Frannie asks, shrugging.

“He hates going up in the attic. Says it’s—”

“Stuffed with a lot of worthless junk that makes him sneeze,” she finishes for me, grinning. “That’s why I put some of his favorite things up there every time I clean.”

“You don’t!”

“I do,” she says complacently. “It wasn’t very nice, what he did to you with that floozy.”

Ben calls around six. “I need to see you. Can you meet me in town?”

“I could, but why don’t you come out here?”

“Town,” otherwise known as “the Village,” is only a few blocks away, but I’m already in my comfortable sweats and don’t feel like dressing again.

“You know I don’t like coming there,” he says.

“Jeffrey’s hobnobbing with the president. He won’t be home till the weekend.”

“Even so.”

Ben is hoping for a promotion to chief of police when the current chief retires. But for all its artists and writers, Carmel is basically a conservative town, and Ben worries about gossip. An adulterous affair in his personnel folder wouldn’t impress the town council or those on the board who might appoint him.

“I don’t know why you don’t divorce him and get it over with,” he says, not for the first time. “Throw the prick out.”

“I already did throw the prick out. It’s the rest of him I can’t get rid of.”

He laughs. “No, seriously—just do it.”

“You know I promised I’d stay till after the election in November. My freedom will be my Christmas present.”

“I still don’t get it. My gut feeling tells me Jeffrey is up to something, and it doesn’t have anything to do with his position as primary mover and shaker in the reigning party. Any idea what it might be?”

“In politics? Who knows? He says he’s worried that any scandal in his life could rub off on the president, and he doesn’t want to take any chances, given the moral climate of the country these days—the backlash that’s carried over from previous presidential capers.”

“Abby, just how close is he to President Chase?”

“They’re thick as thieves from what I can see. Jeffrey’s one of the few men in the country who’s on the phone with him several times a week. And he’s virtually running his campaign for reelection. From behind the scenes, of course.”

“What about Jeffrey himself? Does he have aspirations to run for office?”

“Not at all. He looks upon politicians as drones, or rather chess pieces he can move from here to there at his whim.”

“Abby, divorce isn’t all that scandalous these days. And he only works for the president. What makes you think Jeffrey isn’t making you stay with him till after the election just so he can live in the house?”

“Yeah, like he has such a good time here now.”

“Then it’s something else. Maybe he wants you back.”

“People in hell—”

“Want ice water,” he finishes for me. “I know. So meet me for dinner, okay? At the Red Lion?”

“You mean the Britannia, or whatever they’re calling it now?”

“Yeah.”

“You want to have dinner with me in public? Good Lord, man, are you on drugs?”

“Nobody there will care. It’s not like the Mission Ranch, for God’s sake.”

I sigh. “Okay, but—”

“But you’re already in your sweats and you don’t feel like dressing. One more reason for the Red Lion—the Britannia, whatever. I’ll meet you in the pub.”

“Why not the Bully III?”

“I’m already at the Red Lion.”

“But the Bully III has the best French dip in town.”

“You won’t eat much, anyway.”

I sigh. “You know me too damned well.”

“How’s the Murph?” Ben says once we’re settled at a table in the Red Lion, now the Britannia, by the fireplace and have ordered drinks. The Britannia pub is a place where locals hang out, sort of a Cheers bar, and just about everyone in here knows us. It amazes me that Ben’s willing to be seen with me here.

“Murphy?” I say, answering his question. “He’s not too bad. Snappy, though.”

He frowns. “Have you heard anything more about how that might have happened?”

“No. The kid who brought him home said there wasn’t anyone else around, so I haven’t gone out asking.”

“Still, I think I should talk to him. Maybe there’s something he saw, but didn’t realize its importance. Did you get a phone number?”

“No. I wish I had. He put his own leash on Murphy to bring him home and forgot to take it back. It looks expensive. Possibly even custom-made.”

“Why don’t I take a look at it? If it was made by a local artisan, I might be able to track the guy down.”

“Okay. I’ll get it to you.”

“We’ve found Marti’s brother, Ned, by the way.” Ben smiles a thank-you at the waitress, who sets down our drinks. “He’s coming out here to arrange the funeral.”

“That’s what I called you about earlier. You got my message?”

He nods, taking a deep draft of his Sierra Nevada pale ale. “I thought we could talk here instead of on the phone.”

I toy with my Chardonnay. “When is Marti…how soon can it be?”

“At the end of the week, Ted says. He thinks the toxicology reports will be pretty much routine, and he’s put a rush on them to get them out of the way as soon as possible. He’s doing it for you, he says. He likes you.”

“Ted’s a sweetheart. So’s his wife, so don’t get any ideas. But back to Marti’s brother. He wants the funeral here? I’m surprised.”

“I take it he feels that’s the most expedient way to do it. Financially, that is. I also got the impression he and Marti didn’t get along.”

“That’s true. She didn’t talk about him much, and I can count on the fingers of one hand the times I saw them together.”

“You don’t know why they might have been estranged? If they were?”

“No. But he’s a lot older. Ten years, I think. Maybe he resented having a new baby around when he was the only child for so long.”

I sip my wine, and Ben looks at me with a teasing light in his eyes.

“Great hairdo,” he comments, remarking on my quickly pulled-back ponytail. “And I love the beaten-up running shoes. Pure Carmel.”

“Well, I need to be fleet-of-foot when I’m around you.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Perhaps because you asked me here to interrogate me,” I say.

“I could have done that at the station.”

“Oh, so you brought me here to woo me? Gee, I thought we did that at your house, not in public.”

When he hasn’t an answer to that, I sigh. “Okay, so just get on with it. What do you want to know?”

He sets the heavy glass of ale down on the table. The fire crackles beside us, and I’m starting to get too warm, which is what I get for not layering. At the bar the patrons, mostly locals, carry on easy conversations with one eye on the television on the back wall.

“I want to know about Marti’s baby,” Ben says. “That’s one thing you forgot to mention, Ab—the reason for that Cesareian scar.”

“I didn’t forget,” I say, shrugging. “I just promised her I’d never tell anyone.”

“But she’s—”

“Dead now. Yeah, gee, you know what? I know that.” I frown. “It’s just hard. Anyway, why do you need to know about that?”

“I’m not sure yet. I just have a feeling it’s got something to do with the reason she died.”

“You do, huh?”

Ben’s “feelings” are something I’ve learned not to ignore. He’s known for his intuitive skills, not that he’s like one of those fancy profilers on television. He just thinks things through better than most, while seeming not to move ahead much at all.

Besides, wine has always loosened my tongue. It doesn’t take much on an empty stomach.

“It was a long time ago,” I say after we’ve ordered food. “Back in the eighties. Marti had been working in Central America a lot, so I didn’t see her much. One day she showed up at my door, already in labor. It was shortly after I’d married Jeffrey.”

“She came here? To Carmel?”

“Right. I tried to get her to tell the father about the baby so he could help her, but she was adamant. Said it would be better for everyone concerned if he never knew. She wouldn’t even tell me who the father was.”

“Maybe he was married,” Ben says.

“Maybe.”

“What did she want from you?” he asks.

“Only to stand by her, I think. Her parents had been killed a few years before in a plane crash in Honduras, and except for Ned, that left her pretty much alone in the world. She never had much time for making close friends, with all the traveling and the kind of work she did.”

“So you were with her throughout her labor?”

“Yes.”

Ben is silent a moment. “What did Jeffrey think of all that?” he asks finally.

“He never knew. He was away when it happened, and Marti swore me to secrecy afterward.”

“Still…wives usually tell their husbands things they keep secret from others, don’t they?”

“Not in this case.”

He doesn’t push, and I don’t have to tell him how little I trusted my husband, even that early in our marriage.

“One thing I don’t get,” he says, shaking his head. “How could she have covered up her pregnancy? Wasn’t she well known by then?”

“Yes, but Marti was always very thin. She was able to hide the fact that she was pregnant, she told me, for the first six months. After that, she took a sabbatical from work and went off to some cabin in the woods.”

“A cabin in the woods? Sounds kind of rough.”

“Marti was used to difficult conditions. She was also very strong.”

“Where was this cabin?”

“I think she said in Maine. A friend loaned it to her.”

“Where was the baby born?”

“Right here in Monterey.”

“At Community Hospital?”

“Yes.”

The waitress sets our plates before us, and Ben toys with the hot turkey sandwich, mushing it around on his plate. “Another thing I don’t get, then, is how she managed to keep the birth of this child a secret for so many years. Especially if she had it in as public a place as CHOMP.”

CHOMP, the Community Hospital of the Monterey Peninsula, is high-profile because it’s the initial hospital visiting celebrities go to for care.

“First of all,” I say, “she never went anywhere for prenatal care. Marti was into alternative methods of healing, and she knew her body really well. Also, when she went in to deliver the baby, she went through emergency. And paid cash.”

“Cash? That must have set her back a lot.”

“I helped her,” I say, shrugging.

“Ah. That explains it.”

He tastes the sandwich and makes a face. I knew he wouldn’t like it; Ben loves turkey like a Pilgrim, but hates gravy with too much pepper in it. Besides, they’d made it with toast. He prefers mushy white bread.

“Still,” he says, “with computers being what they are, or were even in the eighties, you’d think there would have been a record of the birth.”

“There was a record. For a Maria Gonzalez, from Salinas. You know how many Gonzalezes there are in Salinas? Marti told them she was here in Carmel working as my maid when she went into labor.”

“And she passed? As Hispanic?”

“She had brown hair, brown eyes, and she was dark from all the years of working as a photojournalist below the equator. Plus, she spoke the language. She passed.”

The truth is, most busy doctors and hospitals don’t really look at people as people, anyway. Especially when they’re named Gonzalez and have no insurance.

“I confirmed that she was my housekeeper,” I say, “and the closest thing she had to family.”

“And, of course, since she—or you—paid cash, no one asked too many questions.”

“Right. We figured this would be better than if she went to the county hospital. She’d have had a harder time disappearing into the system there, given the way the government keeps an eye on things. And she might not have had as good care.”

“Your wiles continually astound me.” Ben shakes his head, turning his attention to a hot, chunky slice of garlic bread.

“Send it back,” I say.

“Huh?”

“Send the turkey san back. Tell them the gravy’s too heavy on the pepper and you don’t like it on toast. They’ll give you something else.”

“Nah, I don’t want to bother them.”

“They’re good about those things here, they’ll fix you whatever you want.”

He pushes the plate away. “I’m not really hungry, anyway.”

“We should have gone to the Bully III.”

He gives me a look. But truth be told, I’m not hungry, either. When the waitress comes by again and asks how things are, we tell her they’re pretty good. She takes our plates away and brings us another round of drinks, which suits me just fine.

After dinner we walk south along Sixth Street till we come to the park with the sculpture of an elderly man and woman sitting on a bench side by side, like an old married couple. He wears wingtips, she an old-style hat. The sculpture was donated to the city by an art gallery, after much dissension as to whether or not it was good enough to be put there. Which goes under the heading Only in Carmel.

“You know what pisses me off about them?” I say.

Ben looks at me with obvious surprise. “These old people? What?”

“They look perpetually happy. Nobody’s perpetually happy.”

“Well, maybe they give us something to aim for,” he says, defending the bronze duo.

“Hmmph.”

“You know what you are?” he says. “A curmudgeon. A thirty-eight-year-old curmudgeon.”

“Gee, thanks. I love being compared to William F. Buckley and Andy Rooney.”

He puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me down to a bench across from the old couple. There he nuzzles my neck.

“Careful now,” I say. “What will people think?”

“It’s dark here. Besides, nobody’s looking. They’re all satiated from their own dinner and wine, and they’re heading back to their inns to make love by a nice cozy fire.”

“Sounds like a plan to me. Are you finished interrogating me yet?”

His lips slide up to mine. “I guess I could think of a few more fine points to explore.”

“Well, get on with it, then, young fella. I’m aging pretty fast.”

“Feeling better?” Ben asks as we begin walking again, along Ocean Avenue. Most of the shops are closed, but brightly lit restaurants line the block. At one count, probably not the latest, there were eighty-seven restaurants in the square mile of Carmel Village, and more than a hundred art galleries.

“Better?” I ask. “Could you clarify?”

“Than you were when you were sitting at home alone, thinking.”

“Oh, that. Sure. You’ve wined and dined me like all get out. Why wouldn’t I feel better? Like a fattened calf, in fact.”

“Funny, you don’t look like a fattened calf.”

“Yeah? Then why do I feel like some ax is about to fall?”

“I never can fool you, can I?” my lover says.

“Just remember that. So, what is it?”

“I didn’t quite tell you everything.”

“I never for a moment thought you did. Okay…so what is it?”

“Mauro and Hillars. They want to talk to you again.”

“Oh, God.” I groan, holding out my wrists as if for handcuffs. “What a way to end a day.”

He contains a smile, but I see it toying with his lips. “Not now. I just wanted you to know that they mentioned it. Said they’d be in touch with you.”

“Ben, what the hell is going on? Why the Secret Service?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t give me that.”

“Abby, I swear, they won’t tell any of us what they’re doing here. Between you and me, it’s driving me nuts. I thought maybe when they talked to you again, you might get some clue.”

“Ah, I see. And share it with you?”

We resume walking, and he takes my hand and tucks it into his pocket. “I thought you might. We do share a few good things, don’t we?”

“A few.” Halfway down the block I pause, adding, “We’re gonna share a whole lot more if you don’t stop doing what you’re doing to my fingers.”

“It’s my new interviewing technique,” Ben says.

“Well, guess what? It’s working.”

For the first time in the five months we’ve been together, Ben comes home with me. And, of course, it’s the one time Jeffrey decides to return early from a trip.

We are under a nice warm comforter in my bedroom—the one only I sleep in now, though Jeffrey still shares the closets. A fire is crackling, and the French doors to the bedroom deck are open a few inches so we can hear the waves beating on the shore. There is soft music playing.

Even so, I hear my husband’s footsteps on the stairs. No way to miss them, after all these years.

Ben and I are both naked, and our clothes are strewn all over the floor, so there’s no time to grab something, throw it on and pretend we’re having a council meeting. Though I hear there are Carmel council members who have done just that, over the years.

As Jeffrey walks in, I sit up, pulling the sheets to my neck and playing for time. “You’re home early,” I complain loudly, hoping to put the blame on him for catching us.

He takes in the scene with one glance.

“Well, if I’d known you were entertaining, I’d have called ahead,” he says mildly. Despite his attempt at indifference, I could swear his graying George Clooney hair is bristling—like a lion’s when he finds a strange male in his lair.

Ben, for his part, struggles to maintain his dignity—a losing battle, given that he’s lying naked next to another man’s wife. I can hear the wheels rolling: Do I get out of bed and run into the bathroom while they duke it out, or do I grab my clothes and make a fast departure out the door?

Ben hates confrontation of the personal kind. Give him a gun and a perp, and he’s a whole other guy.

“Stay where you are, Ben,” I say firmly. “It’s not as if this is something new for Jeffrey, after all.”

I feel him sliding down under the sheets inch by inch.

“Hello, Ben,” Jeffrey says. “How’s the bid for promotion going? I hear you’re up for chief.”

The threat to expose us is obvious. Whether Jeffrey will carry it out while I’ve got him and the bimbo as collateral is doubtful. Still, he must swagger a bit.

“It’s going fine,” Ben says in a conversational voice that makes me proud. He has apparently decided to pretend he’s standing in our living room, dressed in a tux. “How are things with you, Jeffrey?”

“Fine, fine.” Jeffrey heads for his walk-in closet. “Well, you two go on with what you were doing. I just came back for clean shirts.”

Ben and I look at each other. Jeffrey gets his shirts. He stops at the bureau for cuff links and takes his time finding them. Ben and I are motionless in the bed, sheets to our necks, barely breathing.

“I’ll be off now,” Jeffrey says a hundred years later, making his way to the door. He stops only momentarily on the landing as Murphy growls again. We hear his footsteps going down the stairs, then his car leaving.

Ben groans and throws the comforter over his face. His voice comes muffled from under the pillowy down. “If he tells anyone, I’m a goner.”

I crawl under the covers and reach for him. “Well, then, young fella, I say we make hay while the sun shines. Let’s see, what have we here…”