“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” He thrust his jaw out. “Mom said she was going away. She told me!”
Craig remembered turning, his mouth dropping open. In his memory, he’d moved in slow motion, a mime reacting with shock.
That bastard, Caldwell, laid a hand on Brett’s thin shoulder. “Now, son, is this true?”
Brett bristled. “Yes!”
They made him sit down, where he told his story with a combative air, as if he expected to be disbelieved.
She’d come into his room to say good-night a couple of weeks before. She’d stroked his hair back from his face and said, “I’m going to have to go away soon, Brett. You’ll have to be a big boy and help your dad and sister.”
“You didn’t ask her what she meant about going away?” Caldwell had asked.
Brett shook his head. “I just thought…you know. That she had to be gone for a few days or something. But she looked…funny. Weird. You know? It kind of scared me, but I was sleepy and she was there in the morning, so I just forgot about it.”
They couldn’t shake him, although they did try. Craig had sat silent, noticing the way Brett avoided meeting his eyes.
That night, long after the cops had gone, he’d tried talking to Brett. “What you did today took courage. I know you’re scared for me.”
Brett had hung his head and shrugged.
“If the police are going to find your mom, it’s important they not be misled. Brett, if you made that up to protect me, you have to tell them the truth.”
Brett had shot to his feet. “It did happen! She said goodbye! And even you don’t believe me!” He had raced from the room.
In the following weeks, the boy stuck to his guns, although Craig noticed small shifts in the story. She whispered, “Goodbye,” although he hadn’t mentioned that the first time. Sometimes she said more, telling him not to say anything to Abby until she was gone. “Because she’ll cry, you know,” he reported her saying.
Was he remembering more? Embroidering the truth, to give it more texture?
Or making up a story whole-cloth?
Craig had never been sure. Still wasn’t sure. He wished he had a better idea what Brett was thinking. If he’d manufactured the incident, had he done so because he really believed his mother had gone away?
Or was he prepared to protect his dad no matter what he’d done?
Craig had lived for a year and a half now with the knowledge that his own son might fear his father had killed his mother.
He hated waiting for Brett to be put back on the spot again, forced to struggle to remember what he’d said then, forced to make what might be fiction believable again. All of this out of fear that he’d lose his dad, too.
Craig had never told a soul, not even his father, that he suspected Brett might be lying. He hoped Brett’s story didn’t make any difference one way or the other, that in the end the police would find Julie, or she’d call one day, or…
Or what? he asked himself with a flare of anger. He’d wake up and discover this had all been a dream?
The front door opened, book bags thudded to the hall table and Abby called, “Daddy?”
She still wondered—would probably always wonder—whether Daddy would be here when she got home.
He put a smile on his face and went to meet his kids.
Not until evening, when he’d tucked Abby in and Brett was finishing his homework, did Craig let himself think about the fact that the police had interviewed Robin.
Loading the dishwasher, he pictured her the other day when she’d invited him in for coffee.
She’d been barefoot. That was the first thing he noticed. Her nails were unpainted, her feet narrow and her toes long. Khaki capris had left bare her smooth, slim calves. He had already lost his breath before he lifted his gaze far enough to see that she wore only a shell-pink tank top and no bra. She looked comfortable and unbearably sexy.
With his foul mood, he hadn’t wanted to notice. He just wanted to pick up his son and go home. He should have known she wouldn’t let him.
No, check that. How could he have known? Women didn’t casually invite him in for a cup of coffee. Not even Summer’s mother, who was always pleasant, ever suggested he step inside her house.
He was a wife-killer. What woman in her right mind would risk being alone with him?
But Robin had surprised him. With her stern look and order to sit down when he’d tried to stalk out, she’d cracked a dam holding too much inside. He didn’t expect her to believe a word he said, but he’d found himself talking anyway.
Sitting there looking at her, with her feet curled under her, her forehead creased as she listened, her candid eyes fixed on his face, he had realized how badly he wanted her—this one person—to believe he would never have hurt his wife.
He’d known she didn’t, that the weight of popular opinion and innuendo in the newspapers and fondness for Julie had sunk any chance he had. But still, she’d listened. She treated him like a human being, not a pariah, a monster. She might keep listening. Smiling with what appeared to be genuine friendliness when she saw him.
But now he knew what she really thought. His pretty, petite wife wanted a divorce and he’d gone into a rage and killed her.
What else had she told the cops? It seemed that his son’s sixth-grade teacher knew one hell of a lot more about his wife’s state of mind in the months before she’d disappeared than he did. And she was apparently happy to confirm Officer Ann Caldwell’s favorite scenario.
He was a fool to have expected anything different. To have let his guard down, to have imagined that under other circumstances she might be interested…
Craig swore, the harsh sound of the single word somehow shocking in the quiet kitchen. He wanted to punch something, throw something, put his fist through a wall. He felt as violent as he’d ever felt in his life.
He felt betrayed, even though Robin McKinnon owed him nothing, had promised him nothing, was unlikely even to suspect that the sight of her shimmering hair and gentle face and narrow feet made regret tear at his guts.
But, despite the wrenching anger, all he did was turn on the dishwasher, turn out the lights and head upstairs to say good-night to his son.
ROBIN DIDN’T SEE Craig again until Saturday. He was apparently dropping Brett off for practices but not staying. Saturday’s game was away. Robin parked in the unfamiliar lot, grabbed her small cooler and lawn chair and followed her son, hoping he knew where he was headed. This vast complex must have eight fields. Games were going on in most, warm-ups off to the sides, parents blocking the sidelines.
“Excuse me. Excuse me,” she kept having to say, making her way along one sideline or another.
Apparently Mal knew what he was doing, though, because she spotted familiar faces ahead. The day was…not misty, but damp feeling, with gray skies. September had been dry and hot, but today hinted at fall. Leaves were turning, she’d noticed on the drive today. She always forgot in September how miserable the games got by November, but today she remembered. Other autumns, she had huddled under her umbrella in gales, frozen in snowstorms, taken a blanket to cover the car seat because Mal would be muddy from head to toe by the end a game.
Even he’d worn a sweatshirt today, which he was dropping to the grass along with the net bag that held his soccer ball.
“Hey,” he said, looking past her.
Robin glanced over her shoulder to see Brett approaching, his father not far behind.
“Hey,” Brett said. “Hi, Ms. McKinnon.”
She smiled. “Hi, Brett. I hear you might start today.”
“Yeah, Josh wants to play forward.”
He dumped his stuff and the two boys joined the five or six others who’d already arrived.
Greeting other parents, Robin wasn’t really paying attention to the boys until she heard one of the players say, “Brett, you know the cops are talking to all our parents about your dad, don’t you?”
Her head whipped around
.
In profile to her, Brett froze.
In a startlingly adult voice, her son said, “His dad’s here, you know.”
“Oh, jeez…” All the boys looked toward the parents, expressions guilty.
“It’s crap, anyway,” Malcolm continued. “So shut up about it, okay?”
That silenced them. Or maybe it was the arrival of the coach, who ordered them to drop to the grass for calisthenics.
Robin couldn’t bear to look toward Craig. But after a moment she realized she couldn’t not look—the normal, friendly thing would be to greet him.
But he wasn’t nearby. He’d taken up a stand twenty-five yards away, a solitary figure despite the spectators packing up after the game that had just ended. Robin saw the way other parents eyed him surreptitiously, as if to check that he was staying where he belonged, a safe distance from them and their children.
Robin’s heart ached with sympathy. For Brett, she tried to believe, but she knew better. If Craig hadn’t had anything to do with Julie’s disappearance, what must it be like, living with whispers and stares and backs turned when you neared? She hated even imagining.
Brett played well again, with such intensity and even aggression that the ref warned him once, unusual for a goalie.
After the team’s victory, between glugs of orange juice, Mal asked, “Can Brett come home with us again?”
“Sure,” she said, even though she felt a ripple of worry. Craig would have to pick up his son again. What had she started?
Brett ran over to ask his dad, who looked at her for the first time, his brows raised.
She nodded and smiled.
His face expressionless, he spoke to his son, who ran back. “Dad says he’ll drop off my stuff later.”
“Cool.” The two boys started toward the parking lot. “Mom, can we stop for lunch on the way home? I’m starving.”
One of the other mothers heard. Laughing, she said, “Are they ever not starving?”
Robin laughed, too, if ruefully. Her grocery bills had been climbing and climbing. “Not so’s I’ve noticed.”
Madeline Pearce fell into step beside Robin. Her son, who played defense, was walking with some other boys.
Lowering her voice, she said, “I feel so sorry for Brett. This situation must be awful for him.”
Craig was gone, lost in the crowd of arriving and departing parents and players.
Robin nodded. “I know it’s hard. He’s in my class this year, you know.”
“I’m glad you suggested he rejoin the team. I wish his father wouldn’t come to games, though. It takes nerve, don’t you think?”
“But how would Brett feel if his dad didn’t come?” Robin pointed out.
“Well…that’s true. Still.”
“You know, he’s never been arrested.” Robin knew darn well she wasn’t going to boost her own popularity by defending Craig Lofgren, but innate fairness insisted she do it anyway. “What if he didn’t have anything to do with Julie’s disappearance? He’s been ostracized!”
Madeline hoisted a slipping tote bag. “But the police seem to be so sure.”
“Then why haven’t they arrested him?”
“I’ve read it’s really hard to convince a jury when no body has been found.”
“Or blood, or even signs of violence. Wouldn’t you think they would have found something, as hard as they’ve been looking at him, if he’d killed her?”
For a moment, the tall brunette looked thoughtful. Then, quashing Robin’s flare of hope, Madeline shook her head. “Tell me one thing. Where is Julie?”
Robin had no answer.
“Can you imagine any woman running away without her purse? I mean, I feel naked without mine!”
“I do, too,” Robin admitted. “But there could have been a stranger, or…”
Madeline gave her a pitying look. “You want him to be innocent, don’t you?”
Gazing at the two boys ahead, Robin asked, “For Brett’s sake, don’t you? And for his little sister’s sake?”
“I do feel sorry for them.” Madeline’s son caught up to her and amid calls of “See you Tuesday” and “Good game!” parents and kids separated.
In the car, Robin heard herself saying brightly, “Good game, boys.”
“Yeah, you were awesome,” Mal told his friend.
Brett fastened his seat belt. “You’re the one who scored two goals.”
“So, we’re good.” Mal poked the back of his mother’s seat. “Can we go out to lunch?”
She succumbed with only a twinge of worry about her budget. “Why not? Where shall we go?”
They stopped for pizza, the boys taking off their cleats in the car, Brett going in with just socks and shin guards.
She even produced a few bucks worth of quarters so the two could play video games, which seemed to induce odd sound effects from the back seat on the way home.
Laughing, she left them to their own devices and began, for no particularly good reason, to clean house. That’s what weekends were for, she told herself self-righteously. The fact that she attempted to tidy as well as mop and vacuum and dust had nothing to do with the fact that Brett’s father would be stopping by not just once but twice this weekend.
And she was certainly not disappointed, she told herself later, to find out that while she was scrubbing the toilet bowl, Craig had come and gone. She hadn’t even heard the doorbell. It wasn’t as if she’d have invited him in anyway; she was busy.
She made spaghetti for dinner—mountains and mountains of spaghetti. By the time the boys were done, a modest hill remained. There might be enough left for her to have for lunch tomorrow, she thought with a sigh, cleaning up later.
She was grading a social studies test the next afternoon when she did hear the doorbell. No thunder of feet responded, so she got up.
In jeans and a corduroy shirt open over a gray tee, Craig was so handsome Robin felt that familiar twist of longing. Not for him, she told herself. He just…triggered something in her. A memory, maybe, of romance and sexual desire and…
She gave up, knowing she was lying. He attracted her. He always had. And that admission scared her a bunch, because it opened the possibility that Madeline was right. She did want him to be innocent, but not only for Brett’s sake.
Maybe, in even giving him the benefit of the doubt, she was ignoring good old-fashioned common sense. Women left their husbands; they didn’t leave their purses.
“Um, hi.” She managed a smile. “Mal’s got music blasting. I guess the boys didn’t hear the doorbell. Come on in.”
He hesitated, then gave a brief nod and stepped over the threshold.
“Coffee?” she heard herself asking.
“Maybe I should just take Brett.”
If any other father had said that, she’d have gone down the hall to hammer on Malcolm’s bedroom door.
Because Craig had said it, in that utterly blank voice, she crossed her arms. “So as not to stain my reputation by being in this house too long?”
He blinked. After a pause, he inclined his head. “Something like that.”
“Not because you’re really in a hurry, or you hate my coffee, or…”
He almost smiled. “I’m not sure I actually drank any of your coffee last time.”
“You really can snatch your son and leave if you want.”
“I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee. If you’re offering.”
“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.” Leading the way to the kitchen, she thought, Dear, God, what am I doing?
Flirting with the impossible, she answered herself. Or maybe worse.
She poured coffee, chatting about the game.
She was pausing for breath when Craig interjected. “You have a remarkable son.”
Robin knew exactly what he was talking about. Her spoon suspended above the sugar bowl, she said, “You heard.”
“I heard.”
“Did you know…”
“That the cops were talking
to everyone? Yeah.”
She concentrated on putting the spoonful of sugar in the coffee cup and stirring. “They even talked to me.”
“I know that, too.”
Robin lifted her head in surprise. “How?”
His mouth twisted. “They told me.”
“But…why?”
Craig sighed. “I asked.”
She felt her forehead crinkle in bewilderment. “Who they’d talked to?”
“Something like that.” He nodded toward the table. “Can we sit down?”
“What? Oh.” Feeling dumb, she picked up the two cups of coffee. “Of course.”
Thanks to her industrious weekend, the clutter on the table was confined to two more-or-less tidy heaps. Craig sat in Mal’s usual place, nodding his thanks when she handed him his coffee.
Neither of them took a sip.
After a moment, he said, “When they told me several friends of Julie’s insist she intended to ask for a divorce, I said I had the right to know who those friends were.”
“And I was one of them.” The enemy. His betrayer.
As if reading her mind, Craig said, “I know you were friends. I wouldn’t want you to do anything but tell the truth. I just, uh, was surprised.”
“That they’d talked to me?”
“Yeah.” His long fingers traced the rim of the mug. “And that she was apparently telling the world she wanted a divorce. Everyone but me.”
“She really hadn’t even raised the subject?”
He shook his head. “I knew she was unhappy. I wasn’t sure it was so much with me as with her life. We’d reached a point that—” He stopped. “Oh, hell. I shouldn’t even say this.”
Robin lifted her hand, then curled it into a fist, shocked to realize she’d been about to touch him. “Say it.”
His eyes, crystal clear, met hers. “I hoped she’d ask. I was miserable, too.”
“Then why didn’t you ask for one?”
“Because of the kids. I didn’t want to be just a weekend dad.” The muscles in his jaw spasmed. “That’s supposed to be my motivation for… I wanted the kids.”
She nodded, avoiding his gaze. “I know.”
Mommy Said Goodbye Page 10
