Sleeping With the Enemy

by Laurie Breton

  Her stomach soured. “Sorry I asked. What else has he done?”

  “He’s been known to give the little woman a black eye once or twice. If that’s what you’re asking.”

  She looked at him in amazement. “How the hell do you know all this stuff?”

  “Welcome to Jackson Falls. Stay away from Buddy Spaulding. He’s bad news.”

  chapter nine

  To her surprise, Jesse helped her to clean and paint the studio. Together they swept and vacuumed, scrubbed floors and windows, removed cobwebs and their inhabitants, and painted the walls a clean, fresh ivory. When they were done, he drove her to Portland to buy art supplies. She hadn’t been in an art supply store in years, and the vast selection was overwhelming. Because she was pregnant, she had decided to go with acrylics instead of oils. There was no telling what kind of toxic fumes oil paints and thinners might give off, and she wasn’t taking any chances with her unborn baby. Even with her choices narrowed down to acrylics, there were still a dozen different brands and varieties of paints, not to mention thousands of brushes and canvases of every size and shape imaginable.

  “Get whatever you need,” Jesse said. “Don’t worry about the cost.”

  Rose checked the price tag on a four-by-four canvas and nearly suffered a coronary. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about it. I can afford it.”

  “You shouldn’t be paying for all this. It’s my hobby, not yours.”

  “Rose,” he said with a touch of impatience that surprised her, “I am not hurting for money. You should buy whatever you think you’ll need for the next month or so. It’s a long trip to Portland, and you won’t find much in the way of art supplies anywhere near Jackson Falls.”

  When, in thirty-six years of living, had she ever been spoiled rotten by any man? The offer was too enticing to refuse, so she gave in and let him spoil her. She bought a dozen brushes of different sizes and shapes, two dozen canvases, and several hundred dollars’ worth of acrylic paints in jars and tubes. Jesse helped her pick out an easel that she felt comfortable with, and he reminded her not to forget the peripherals, such as sketching paper and pencils, a palette, and a painting knife. When they were done, Jesse was about eight hundred dollars poorer, and Rose felt slightly nauseated. He was a schoolteacher, for Christ’s sake, living on a schoolteacher’s salary. How could he afford to spend that kind of money on her?

  Over lunch at an Italian restaurant, he said, “Will you please stop stewing over it? Just think of it as a wedding gift.”

  Rose toyed with her spaghetti, gave up and set down her fork. “What about you?” she demanded. “I didn’t give you a wedding gift.”

  His glance dropped to her abdomen. “I’d say you’ve given me about the best wedding gift a man could ask for.”

  She knew he’d meant the words in the kindest way imaginable. So why did she feel as though she’d slammed face-first into a brick wall? For a brief time, she’d forgotten that the marriage was a farce, nothing more than a business arrangement. But his words brought home to her the brutal truth that their marriage was not about the two of them, but about the baby she carried. It was blatantly obvious that Jesse Lindstrom had no interest whatsoever in her as a woman. Since their wedding night, he had remained the perfect gentleman. He was always polite, always willing to go the extra mile to help her out. But he remained a stranger, for she had no clue what went on behind those dark eyes of his. And the intimacy she’d thought she felt growing between them was nothing more than her vivid imagination, fueled by the common courtesy that Jesse showed to every woman he met.

  Each night after supper, he disappeared into the den and closed the door behind him. She supposed he must be grading papers during those hours he spent in seclusion. Or perhaps designing lesson plans. Hell, for all she knew, he could be hiding in there to avoid her. Although Rose was dying to know what went on behind that closed door, hell would freeze rock solid before she would ask.

  Her mother had always warned her to be careful what she wished for. Now, at the advanced age of thirty-six, she finally understood what Mary MacKenzie had been talking about. She’d wanted a sterile, sexless, businesslike marriage, and that was what Jesse had given her. So why wasn’t she happier about it?

  She wouldn’t repeat the mistake. She had vowed to remain detached, and detached she would remain, no matter how difficult it was, no matter how many cold showers she had to take. And if things got really tough, she only had to stick it out for a year.

  Those twelve months loomed ahead of her like a century. Detachment, she commanded herself as she gazed at Jesse over her plate of spaghetti. You’re a capable adult. You can do this.

  And she would. Even if it killed her.

  ***

  “Okay,” Jesse said. “Assuming that everybody did their homework, we’ve all read St. Thomas Aquinas’ proofs of the existence of God. Our mission is to analyze each of his proofs and decide whether or not he succeeded in what he set out to do.”

  The class let out a loud collective groan. “Come on, guys,” he said. “It’s not that hard. Somebody toss an idea in the ring and we’ll chew on it for a while.”

  Jolene Hunter raised her hand. A studious, average-looking girl with brown hair, wire-framed glasses, and a thoughtful and analytical manner, Jolene had moved to Jackson Falls from Philadelphia during the past summer. After only a few weeks of school, she had already proven to be his best pupil. “Jolene?” he said.

  “It seems to me,” she said, “that he’s using a circular argument.”

  “Okay. Give me an example.”

  “Well—” She shoved her glasses up her nose and peered at the book that lay open on her desk. “Here, where he says that God exists because only God could have been powerful enough to create the universe. His argument just doubles back on itself.”

  “Yeah,” Roger Thibodeau said without raising his hand. “That argument doesn’t make any sense at all. God exists because only God is capable of creation? You have to already believe in God for that to work.”

  “Exactly,” Jolene said. “It’s a circular argument. It goes nowhere except back to itself. It doesn’t define the nature of God or provide any proof of anything except that St. Thomas Aquinas already believed in God and wanted to convince everybody else that they should do the same thing.”

  “I don’t agree at all,” Melody Swain said. “I mean, you and I certainly aren’t capable of creating a universe. Who else but God could have done it?”

  “But that’s not the point,” Jolene said. “You’re presupposing the existence of a God, as well as His nature and His capabilities. It still doesn’t prove anything.”

  And the debate was off and running. Jesse leaned back in his chair and let them gnaw on it. Once he got a discussion going, he always tried to stay in the background, stepping in only occasionally when he felt the discussion needed refocusing. These kids were all honors students and fully capable of carrying on a strong discussion without his input.

  He was distracted today, plagued by thoughts of Sunday’s shopping trip. He’d really believed that Rose was mellowing toward him. She’d been like a little kid in the art supply store, picking out one of these and two of those just because she could. He’d felt like a cross between Santa Claus and Daddy Warbucks. And then, during the course of lunch, she’d retreated back behind that wall she’d erected. Once again, she had become the cool and distant Rose, the evil twin who was determined to squash the warm and mellow Rose like an insect under her foot.

  Was it something he’d done? Something he’d said? He had no clue what had driven her back into her shell. Rose had a chip the size of Texas on her shoulder, and until he was able to burrow his way under her skin to find out what had put it there, he would never be able to dislodge it.

  The classroom debate was growing loud and heated. All the students had joined in, except for one young girl, dressed all in black, who sat in the back row, sullen and silent. Ignored by the rest of th
e class, Devon stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. She was certainly as intelligent, as capable, as any student in the class. But she never participated, never raised her hand or joined in a discussion. Instead, she remained aloof, remote, deliberately distancing herself from the rest of the students.

  As a result, she was a social outcast. The kids gaped openly at her in the hallways, made crude comments, didn’t bother to hide their laughter. The teachers stared and whispered with only slightly more tact than the adolescents for whom they were supposed to be role models. And Devon wore the mantle of outcast superbly. Back straight, chin thrust high, she walked the halls of Jackson Falls High, a solitary figure, her posture defiantly daring anybody to say anything to her face. She sat alone in the cafeteria, stood alone at her locker between classes. She had a great deal of her mother in her, but Jesse was smart enough to recognize that he wouldn’t benefit from pointing it out to either of them. Devon might have gotten her looks from Eddie Kenneally, but her stubborn pride came directly from Rose MacKenzie.

  The bell rang, and the students scrambled to gather up textbooks and loose-leaf binders. “Just a minute,” he said loud enough to be heard over the commotion. “Before you go, I have something for you.” He handed Tessa Dawson the stack of lime green flyers he’d copied earlier. “Take one and pass it on.”

  “What is it?” Jolene asked, taking a flyer from Tessa and passing the stack to Roger Thibodeau.

  “After Christmas vacation, we’re starting Romeo and Juliet. There’s a traveling theater troupe that’s performing it in Portland the first week in February. If you can get there, you ought to go see it. They’ve gotten great reviews.”

  “I’ve already seen that, Mr. Lindstrom,” Tessa said. “I rented the Zeffirelli version a couple of years ago.”

  “It’ll be a great contrast to the movie,” he told them, “seeing Shakespeare performed live, the way it was originally meant to be seen.”

  “Not necessarily the way it was meant to be seen,” Tessa said. “In Shakespeare’s day, didn’t they use men to play the women’s roles?”

  “True,” he said, “but for the past several hundred years, Juliet has been played by a woman. Maybe I should have said the way it’s traditionally been performed over the years.”

  Jolene hoisted her backpack onto her shoulder. “Are you going, Mr. Lindstrom?”

  “Probably. I’m a big fan of Shakespeare.”

  I’ve never seen it performed live. It might be interesting. There certainly isn’t anything else going on around this burg.”

  As the two girls left the classroom, he glanced at Devon. While this exchange had been going on, she had been quietly gathering up her belongings, carefully tucking books and pens and notebooks into her backpack. She looked up, met his glance. Blinked once, then, with a face as stony as Mount Rushmore, she slung her backpack over her shoulder and squeezed past the cluster of students standing in the doorway.

  With a sigh, Jesse turned back to his desk and pulled out the quiz for his next class.

  ***

  On Saturday morning, he approached Devon on home turf. Rose had gone to the office to catch up on the mountain of untouched paperwork left behind by her predecessor. Mikey was at football practice and Luke would probably sleep until noon, so he and Devon were alone at the breakfast table. While he read the paper and drank his coffee, she sat hunched over a glass of orange juice and a single slice of toast. From behind his newspaper, Jesse said with deliberate indifference, “I have to go to Portland this morning. Want to go with me?”

  A full ten seconds passed before she responded. “What’s in Portland?” she said, imitating his casual tone.

  Jesse took a sip of coffee and folded the newspaper. Refolded it so the creases would line up. “My lawyer.”

  He watched as she deliberated. “Are you divorcing my mother?”

  Jesse fought back the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “She’s not that kind of lawyer.”

  “You have a woman lawyer?” At last, he’d caught her interest. “That’s what I’d like to—” She caught herself and clamped her mouth shut abruptly, glaring at him as if he’d deliberately tripped her up.

  He pretended not to notice. “I’m leaving in ten minutes.” He carried his coffee cup to the sink and rinsed it. “Be ready if you’re coming.”

  When he came out of the house ten minutes later, she was waiting on the front steps, wearing dark glasses and carrying a black canvas backpack. As he drove out of the yard and headed toward town, he said, “You can turn on the radio if you like.”

  Devon gave him a sullen shrug and looked out the window, but a moment later, she leaned forward and pressed the button, and music filled the cab of the truck. He drove for a while in silence as Devon stared out the side window and pretended he didn’t exist. “I was impressed with your paper,” he said at last. “The one on the death penalty.”

  She turned to look at him, but she didn’t speak. “Your arguments were strong,” he said. “Well thought out. Eloquent. You’d probably make a good lawyer. You’d do well at keeping your clients out of the electric chair.”

  “Who says I want to be a lawyer?”

  Aha! he thought. She speaks. “Nobody,” he said offhandedly. “I just thought you might want to consider it.”

  She remained silent.

  “I did have one quibble with your arguments, though. If we abolish capital punishment, who’ll foot the bill to support all those guys who are in for life?”

  She looked at him as though he were an idiot. “The taxpayers,” she said. “Who else?”

  “Do you think that’s really fair?” He stopped for a red light.

  “Society helped to cause the problem. Shouldn’t it also help to pay the price? Besides,” she added, “we’re paying anyway. Most of those guys are on death row for years because the appeals process moves so slowly.”

  “What about personal responsibility? You don’t think people should be made to pay for their wrongdoing?”

  She stared at him through those opaque glasses. “You don’t think life in prison is payment enough?”

  “What if it became personal? What if this guy had brutally killed someone you loved? Your husband or your child? How would you feel then? Wouldn’t you want him punished? Wouldn’t you want revenge?”

  “Of course I would. But—” He was silent while she pondered the issue. He wanted her to come up with her own answer. “I guess I hope I’d have a strong enough belief in my values that I’d let society handle it, instead of taking it into my own hands.” She looked at him suspiciously. “Am I being graded on this?”

  This time, he didn’t hold back the smile. “Nope.”

  She nibbled at her lower lip. “How’d I do?”

  “You did just fine. It’s a moral question. There’s no right or wrong answer. Just like you pointed out, it all boils down to personal values.”

  She thought about it for a while before saying tentatively, almost timidly, “Do you really think I’d make a good lawyer?”

  “There’s not a doubt in my mind.”

  ***

  While he took care of his business with Eleanor Springer, Devon thumbed through a magazine in the reception area. He was finished in twenty minutes; it was a simple matter of reading through a few contracts and signing them. When he and Devon hit the street again, Jesse zipped his jacket against the autumn chill that was scuttling dried leaves and paper along the sidewalk. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he said, “Let’s get lunch. You can pick the restaurant.”

  So they got back in the truck and drove around until they found a restaurant called Jade Pagoda, where his stepdaughter introduced him to the joys of Oriental cuisine. He let Devon order for both of them, enjoying her glee when a single sniff of hot mustard set his nasal passages afire and brought tears to his eyes. It was the first time he’d ever heard her laugh.

  The food was a delight: Cantonese lo mein with tiny shrimp, lightly fried sweet and sour pork, and some
superb dish made of broccoli, chicken, and delicate snow peas. Afterward, they cracked open fortune cookies. “The small steps you take,” he read, “will ultimately bring you great fortune.” He looked at her. “What does yours say?”

  “Never underestimate your own abilities.” Devon rolled her eyes and toyed with one of the numerous gold studs in her earlobe.

  Jesse dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and checked his watch. “I’ve been thinking about buying a new car,” he said casually. “Want to help me pick it out?”

  Devon’s martyr act slipped just a little. “Now?” she said. “Today?”

  “Now. Today.”

  The martyr act vanished altogether. “Cool,” she said, the highest accolade a teenager could bestow upon a mere adult mortal. “When my friend Sasha’s dad turned forty, he went through a midlife crisis. He bought himself a bright red Corvette. Sasha’s mother almost threw him out of the house.”

  “When I turn forty,” Jesse said, “we’ll see about the Corvette. In the meantime, I’m looking for something a little bigger. A family vehicle, something we can all fit in. Got any suggestions?”

  Devon spent a minute or two considering his question. “How about a Jeep Cherokee? They’re pretty cool. And they’re supposed to be great in the snow.”

  They took their time prowling the sales lot, looking at colors and options, finally deciding on a glossy black Gran Cherokee with gold trim. While the paperwork was being processed, he and Devon drove his pickup truck to the nearest car wash, where they scrubbed the outside and vacuumed the inside, cleaned out the glove compartment and checked behind the seat. When they returned, the new Jeep was waiting out front, freshly washed and sporting a temporary plate. Jesse signed a few papers and exchanged keys with the salesman, and the new Jeep was his.

  Devon played with the pushbutton windows, ran a hand along the shiny new dash. “Mom is going to flip when she sees this.”