by Dawn, Penny
"Is she"—Brennan rubbed his hands together—"you know, all right?"
"And what would you feel if she weren't?"
"Kimmy?” At long last, he took the seat opposite her. “She's all right, isn't she?"
"Well, that's subjective. She's in the hospital, but she woke up last night, with no recollection of leaving the party she'd attended. She's eighteen, with a previous alcohol charge, and she blew a point-one-nine. The judge probably won't bat an eyelash at your B.A.C., seeing as this is your first offense."
"Second."
Her gaze met his. “Second?"
"It's off my record, I think. It was before I met you, in college. Ask Lauren. She'll know when."
More secrets, more connections between Lauren and her husband. “I'll look into it, but the fact of the matter is a point-one-six is still an inarguable D.U.I., Bren. Double the legal limit. You'll have to go to classes, and you'll have at least a hundred hours of community service. And if your first offense is public record, you could do jail time, considering Ms. Herman's condition."
"That's ridiculous.” He beat his fist into his palm. “She hit me. I'd have been home, taking care of you last night, if only she'd handled her liquor."
"Brennan, if you'd come straight home from O'Hare, you'd have been home before the D and C was complete. At the very least, you should have left the moment I told you about the miscarriage. Don't blame your misfortune on the drinking of an eighteen-year-old kid."
"You have to bargain me down to a hefty fine. I don't have time for community service, and as far as serving time—"
"I can't bargain anything for you. These laws became pretty cut and dry the second you agreed to blow, and it's high time you learned you can't buy your way out of mistakes like this. Be thankful I don't suggest Gambler's Anonymous on top of it all."
"Whose side are you on?"
"Yours."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Would you like to call someone else?” She began to pack her papers into the portfolio. “The attorney-client relationship should be based on trust, and if you don't think I can do the job—"
"Of course I think you can do the job.” He rose from the chair. “You'll get me time served. I'll have classes and community service."
"And you'll lose your license for a while."
"How long?"
"That's up to the judge, but six months is standard in this state."
"Six months? I think I'd rather do time."
"Compared to other states, that's a cake walk. A freebie. Across the state line you'd lose your privilege to drive permanently."
The echo of the old building's plumbing reverberated in the concrete walls amid his silence.
"Do you have anything else to say?” she asked.
"Of course I do."
"Now's the time."
"I'm sorry, Coco Bop."
"I hate that nickname."
He sank back onto the rusting chair. “I know I made a mistake, with Garciaparra, with driving, but you have to believe me. I didn't think I was drunk. I only had a few."
"You had more than a few. You always do. But why, knowing that I needed you, did you take even one more sip? I should be able to rely on you, but how can I count on a man who loves gambling—and everything it leads to—more than he loves his wife?"
"I love you, Kimmy. I wish—"
"I'm not finished.” She glared at him.
He clamped his mouth shut.
"I'm leaving you."
"I'll get help. You just said yourself that this time, I don't have a choice, so I'm getting help. Kimmy, think of Allie. And if the games and bets bother you to the point of your leaving, it's no question of what's more important to me. I'd never gamble away our marriage."
"You already have, and so have I."
"You're not leaving me. And that's that. We married for better, for worse, and—"
"Brennan, listen. This time, it isn't about you. It's about me."
"What about you? About the baby, you mean? The miscarriage?"
"Well, yes, that's part of it, but, Brennan—"
"We'll get through it,” he said, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I've got some vacation time saved, and I'll take a leave of absence, maybe, while my license is suspended. We'll try again for another baby as soon as we can, get back on the horse and back on the track for the life we set for ourselves, for our family."
"Brennan, I'm having an affair."
He looked up, directly into her eyes. “You're lying."
"It started harmlessly enough. He was just someone who bent an ear, someone who—"
"Why are you saying this? It isn't true ... it can't be."
"It's true."
"It's true?"
"Yes."
"You're fucking another man, and I'm put through the wringer for wagering a measly seventy-five bucks and having a few drinks last night?"
"I'm not fucking him.” She watched him pace the cell. “It's worse than that."
"Worse? What could be worse that fucking your ex-boyfriend?"
"It isn't Jason."
"Who is it?"
"And I'm not fucking him, I'm ... I'm holding his hand, and he's listening to me, and we—"
Brennan's fist met the cinder block wall at the back of the cell. “Who is he?"
"I never meant for it to happen, but—"
"Who is he?” He cradled his swelling hand and approached her.
She straightened, staring up at him with confidence, certain she was doing the right thing. “It doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does. Who is he?"
"He's a gentleman—"
"All evidence to the contrary."
"—by the name of Jack Daniels."
He squinted at her.
"Or Jack Binion,” she continued. “Lauren and Rick, for that matter. Your job. I'm never first on your list, and neither is your daughter."
"Do you honestly mean to imply that I've driven you to this?"
She raised her eyebrows but said nothing.
"Give me a break."
"You can have the house,” she said, “and everything in it. All I want is Allie and my mother's settee."
"You're not leaving me. We're in this together."
"But I'm the only one working on it, and I'm done."
"Are you done with him, too?"
"He's been there for me, he's helped—"
"But if you love me, and if you honestly never did anything, anything sexual—"
"I said I wasn't fucking him, but I'm not going to lie to you, Brennan. A lot happened."
"Was that baby even mine?"
"You know the answer to that question."
"But you had sex with this guy."
"I was pregnant when I met him."
"So you've stopped believing in us,” he whispered. “That's why you did it. You don't believe in us anymore."
"Do you believe in us, Bren?"
"I believed in everything about us. I believed in you. I believed in our family. I loved you, but you ruined it, with this guy, this—"
"I beg your pardon? I've ruined it?"
"How can I forgive this? And you're so far gone, sleeping with other men, how could you want me to?"
"I don't expect or want your forgiveness. How do you think I got to this place? I didn't wake up one day and decide to hurt you, Brennan. We've been eroding for years and years. Do you ever think about whether you really love me, Brennan? Maybe you're just used to saying it."
He raised a hand to her cheek. “If I didn't believe in us, don't you think I'd take this ticket out of here? You gave me an excuse to leave, but—"
"You don't have to leave me. I'm going."
"—but I love you. You can't leave me for him."
"I'm not. I'm leaving you for me."
CHAPTER 16
Six months later
"So what kind of guy is Paul?” Luke asked as he drove down a snow-covered street. Derby's golden mass spilled over both his and Caleb's laps.
His son shrugged, staring out the window. “Can't play ball worth squat."
"But he's nice to you?"
"He's all right."
Luke dropped the plow and turned into a driveway alongside a two-story saltbox colonial, white, with black shutters. Kimberley's new place, less than half the size of the castle on Hidden Creek Lane, was still bigger than the home in which he and Diane had planned to retire. “Does Rachael like him?"
Again, Caleb shrugged. “Why are we doing this house?"
"Favor for a friend.” Luke searched the windows of the large dwelling for his beautiful girl; he didn't see her. In fact, although they'd spoken a few times a week, he hadn't seen her since the day she'd miscarried. Her idea. Space. Time to think and do the right thing.
Well, he'd had enough of both.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, Buddy."
"Do you think Mom's going to marry Paul?"
"Yeah. She's having a baby. That usually means people love each other.” He glanced at his son, who frowned and stared out the window. “Is that okay with you?"
"But you always come back."
His stomach flip-flopped. “Not this time."
"Is Mom right? Are you like your dad?"
"Caleb."
"Because Mom says that your dad—"
"If I were like my dad, I wouldn't pick you up from school or take you plowing. We wouldn't see each other the way we do. My dad left when I was five years old, and I didn't see him until I was grown up.” At the top of the driveway, he shifted the car into park and looked his boy squarely in the eyes. “Your mom and I can't make it work, but that doesn't change you and me."
He heard a knock on his window and turned to see Kimberley, layered in a fluffy white turtleneck sweater and a beige jacket, with a steaming mug in her left hand. No mittens, no wedding band. A hint of a smile touched her lips. God, he'd thought she was beautiful last spring, but now...
Her hair, secured in a clip at the nape of her neck, cascaded down her back, her curls more relaxed than he remembered. The winter wind bit at her pink cheeks, and the tawny glaze on her lips tempted him beyond reason.
"Who is that?” Caleb asked. “Do you know her?"
"Used to.” He zipped down the window. “Hi."
"I thought it might be you,” she said, her smile brightening. “You're in and out before I go to work."
"I aim to please.” On Tuesdays and Thursdays, the days she taught at UIC, he awakened before first light to clear her drive. “I'll be out of your way in about two minutes."
"What's this?” She smiled and gave him a playful tap at the crown of his head.
"This?” He pulled the fraying hood of his thick sweatshirt over his brow, revealing the frowning face Caleb had drawn in red marker on the top of his hood. “We get cranky when it's real cold."
"Aren't you cute?” Her nose wrinkled when she smiled. “I've been meaning to call. To thank you."
"Not necessary."
"Why don't you come in for a few minutes and warm up? Coffee? Hot cocoa?"
He'd love to warm up with her, that's for sure. He glanced at Caleb, who stared him down, as if he'd known his father's history with this woman. “Maybe some other time, Kimber. But thanks."
With a fading smile, she nodded. “All right. Here, take mine."
He accepted the mug, stained with fawn-colored lipstick, where she'd sipped it once or twice. He placed his lips upon the remnants of hers and drank. Just the way he liked his coffee—with sugar, and a drop of cream. Kind of like her kisses.
"Anything for Caleb?” she asked.
He turned to his boy, who shook his head. “No thanks."
"I'd like to pay you for your time,” she said.
Of course she would. “Not necessary."
"No, really. You have no idea how much it helps. I'd have to leave Allie in bed, and—"
"You weren't made for shoveling."
"I'm capable, and your time is worth—"
"How about another cup of coffee sometime?” He remembered the first time he'd asked for a morning cup of joe—and the jolt he'd received that day had had nothing to do with caffeinated beverages.
She blushed—apparently, she remembered, too—and pulled the sleeves of her coat over her hands. “Anytime."
"You sure about that?"
After a hesitant nod, she hitched her chin up, bouncing a curl out of her eyes. “I think so.” She smiled at Caleb before turning away, leaving the scent of her hair behind.
"How did she know my name?” Caleb asked.
"What?” Luke looked away from the snow angel who had long ago captured his heart.
"She knew my name."
"She knows all about you. Grab the shovel and get her sidewalk, will you?"
Caleb yanked his hood up, exposing the matching, frowning face on his sweatshirt, and wiggled out from beneath Derby's weight. By the time the boy was finished, Luke had cleared the driveway, and they headed back toward a tiny apartment on the edge of Des Plaines.
"Do you think that lady's pretty?"
Luke curbed an enthusiastic affirmation and settled for a “Yeah."
Caleb, silent, stared out the window at cars whizzing past in colorful blurs amid the snow.
"Why?"
The boy's shoulders jabbed upward. “I don't know. She seemed sad."
"She did?"
"Yeah."
Well, maybe he'd have to do something about that.
"Is she your girlfriend?"
"No."
"Mom says you have a girlfriend."
"Mom's wrong."
* * * *
"Oh, hello, 8-8-2-3."
Kimberley smiled at the drycleaner and grasped Allison's hand. “How are you today?"
"Cold out, no?"
"Quite."
"Cold air put rosy glow on pretty face."
"Thank you."
"Oh, you beautiful, and have beautiful girl, too."
Allison hid behind one of Kimberley's legs.
"You hang tough, 8-8-2-3.” She turned to Mr. Drycleaner, barked out several choppy syllables in Korean, and turned back to Kimberley. “Boys. They not know a good thing if it make them sneeze, no?"
Kimberley took the bagged suits—remnants from her single year of litigation, good enough for the classroom—and waved goodbye. “Come on, Allie. Let's get you to ballet class."
"Will Auntie Lauren be there?"
Kimberley's heart ached. She missed her friend, who had promised they'd keep in touch, but never returned her calls. Perhaps she should have moved further north, put more of a buffer between them. “Maybe."
"Can we have play group with Deacon and the girls?"
"How about with Chrissy, Caity, and Clara?"
"Maybe Daddy can take me to Auntie Lauren's. Do I go see Daddy soon?"
The wind whipped through Kimberley's hair and chilled her straight through her woolen coat. She tightened her grip on Allison's hand. “In a few days."
"When?"
"You have to go to sleep at night twice more, then Daddy will come get you."
"I miss Daddy."
"I'm sure Daddy misses you, too."
"Does Daddy miss you?"
If he did, he'd never told her so. Always civil, always sober when he arrived to retrieve his daughter for their every-other-weekend visits, he'd regarded Kimberley with indifference. Like she was just someone he used to fuck twice a week. Like she was a baby vehicle he was still paying for with state-garnished wages, although he probably figured he'd traded up with his new, brainless girlfriend.
The frigid air stung her cheeks, and she fought the impulse to break down. Stay strong. For Allison.
"Mommy?"
She opened the car door and stowed the drycleaning in the rear of her SUV. “Yes, baby?"
"I love you."
"I love you, too.” She grabbed Allison's ballet bag from the backseat and led her daughter down the sidewalk to the Sugar Plum Studio, where she wrote a check for—ouch—two hund
red dollars. Costume deposit for the spring recital.
