“That seems like a random song to be the only one you know,” I say.
“When Caleb was little there was a movie we watched, I don’t remember the name, but that song was in it, and when I put him to bed that night, it was the first song that came to mind when he told me to sing to him like Mommy does. She was working, so I sang him that. Then he always asked for it,” he says, and I don’t know what to say. The fact that he’s talking about Caleb at all is a big deal, and I fear saying the wrong thing back after this vulnerability he’s shown.
“He was a musician, right?” I ask, hoping it’s okay to ask.
“He played in a band. I mean, they weren’t good.” We both laugh quietly. “He was studying journalism, of all things. Third year of college, and he loved it.”
“Oh, really? That’s what I did before. I was a reporter. In Tampa. ‘Bay News 9,’” I say. I know Paige probably mentioned Caleb’s major. I remember him changing it a few times, and it’s not the kind of thing you pay that much attention to at the time, so I guess I’d forgotten.
“I didn’t know that,” Grant says. “I could see it, though. You have a camera-friendly face.” He smiles and looks down at the piano keys. “He wanted to be an investigative journalist. At least, for six months that was the plan. It might have changed again in due course.” He puts down his glass and pokes absently at a couple piano keys.
“I can teach you how to play it, if you want,” I say, and he laughs.
“You make it look pretty easy, I’ll give you that, but I can pretty close to guarantee you that I would be terrible.”
“Not possible. Look.” I put his finger on middle C, and I guide him, singing the simple notes. “C, D, E, E,hours of the morning. C, D, E,wide world is fast asleep.”
He opens his mouth in mock surprise, pleased with himself, and repeats the notes on his own, making a few mistakes, but still looking at the notes like they’re magic when they come out as the tune he recognizes.
“You’re a musical prodigy, I bet, with a voice like that,” I say.
“You’re very generous,” he says. We both give a short, nervous sort of laugh. I look up at him, and I don’t know who kisses who. We move in to each other at the same time. It’s not the passionate, against-the-wall, clothes-ripping sort of thing I had let myself fantasize about a few times until my guilt shut it down. It’s impossibly soft and tender. Like two people who love each other rather than unfaithful spouses in the throes of a heated affair. He holds the back of my head, and my hands run down his back and then up through his hair, and then, as if we’re both struck by some simultaneous realization, it stops as mutually as it started. I think. Except that I didn’t want it to stop.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“No, no. I’m sorry,” I say, fixing my unfamiliar hair, which feels twisted and wild.
“We can’t,” he says, with a sad longing I know very well. There is silence for a minute.
“I know,” I reluctantly agree. Then I stand, and he plucks my coat from the old-timey, tree-shaped coatrack near the door and helps me on with it. When I open the door the wind whips fallen leaves inside the entrance, and I hold my skirt down and yelp. Then he leans in and kisses my cheek and whispers, “I’ll probably regret it for the rest of my life, though.” I look him in the eye and squeeze his hand. For the umpteenth time today, I’m about to cry, but again I do not.
I drive in the quiet dark until I get to our street. It’s very late, and the houses are all dark, even mine. I feel a little like a woman with nothing to lose, so when I see Alfalfa, stalking through the Kinneys’ lawn, I decide that could be my reason for being there if I get caught. It’s too cold for the cat to be out, so I stop to collect him.
I retrieve the camera from where I left it. I think it will blend right in with the front-yard tree I clip it to. Maybe it will see inside some of these front windows and show me who the real Lucas is. Maybe not, of course. It could be just filming the side of the house for all I know, but it’s worth a shot.
18
GEORGIA
On Friday morning, I set my plan in motion. I’ve placed the duffel bag at the bottom of the laundry basket, and each time I pick up Lucas’s discarded clothes from the night before, which he always leaves for me, I drop in things, little by little, like a toothbrush and socks into the duffle bag. My plan can only work if Cora is home, so I find myself peering out the window every few minutes making sure her car is still there.
I look at Avery’s diaper bag and stroller in the corner of the porch as if they are in danger of being stolen. They’re there. They’re fine.Breathe.Avery eats a big breakfast of yogurt and pancakes I cut into little seahorse shapes with a cookie cutter because she adores it. She gums on the tail of her blueberry pancake, and she’s so happy and perfect, and I need this to work. Dear God, I need this to work.
After I clear away her food, I give her a toy and hope it interests her long enough for me to go down and empty the laundry from the dryer into the basket with my duffel bag in it. I make myself walk slowly down the stairs, my heart beating in my throat when the sight of the cement room and the smell of the mop hits me. I try to breathe and keep my mind focused on the plan. I pull out the laundry, dump it on top of my bag and carry it upstairs.
It’s all ready. As soon as I see Cora outside, I have to make my move. I have to grab the bag, take the stroller down the five stairs from the porch to the street, and I have to quickly stuff her baby bag in the back, then put her into it and go.
Another painful hour and a half has gone by, and I am afraid she might stay in today. She never stays in. She’s in and out all day. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I tell myself it’s okay. It’s not a magic day, I have everything in place, I can wait until Monday if I have to. It’s still all safe in my head. He can’t read my mind.Breathe.
It’s 11:42, and I wait outside. I’m sitting on the porch chairs even though it’s freezing. I have on a down coat, and Avery is wrapped up in a blanket. I feel for the rip in the chair and find the ID and watch with my fingers and very carefully work the items out until I feel them in the palm of my hand. I hold them tightly and watch her house, and then finally, I see someone come out the door and her taillights blink with the click of her key fob. For a minute I don’t recognize Cora. Her hair is different and she looks...different, but it’s definitely her.
“Cora,” I call, and she looks to me, quite surprised, but smiles and waves from her driveway. I can’t imagine she thought I’d invite conversation as I never have before, so she leaves it at a wave, unlike her, and starts to get into the car. My heart is beating so hard, I can see it through my coat. My hands shake so it’s hard to grip the stroller handle. My breath is shallow and painful, and I think I might collapse with panic. I don’t have time to hesitate. I have to use every second. I have to go.
“Cora,” I say again. She stops and turns.
“Hi.” She smiles, but her eyes don’t match her face. She looks sad, distracted.
“I’m so sorry, I still don’t have a car and something sort of urgent has come up. Is there any way you could take us to town if you’re going that way?” I ask, so desperate I hear the quiver in my voice. I know she may say she’s in a hurry, she’s late, and to get an Uber. But her face changes. She smiles, and her eyes wake up.
