from me.” Catherine raised a questioning eyebrow. “They’re from Jack. Jack McKenzie.” She didn’t add that they had been coming every week for nearly a month.
“McKenzie?” Walter said. “I didn’t even know he was back in town, did you?” The look he gave Catherine was accusing.
“I’ve rather been out of circulation.” She took the note from the roses and read it.
“What the hell does he want?”
She handed him the note. It was simple to the point of austerity: “My sincere sympathy. Jack McKenzie.”
Jack McKenzie. As if he needed to add his last name. As if she might have forgotten who he was. She suddenly remembered hearing his voice in that dying moment. That was why she had kept the memory of that incident so resolutely locked away inside her mind, why she had mentioned it to no one. To remember that eerie moment was to remember Jack, and she didn’t want to think of Jack; wouldn’t think of him. That, surely, was the feather that would tip her over the edge into the bottomless pit if anything would.
Walter took the card, read it for a long moment as though the message it contained was a lengthy one. “Have you seen him?” he asked finally.
She sighed. “I haven’t spoken to Jack since he left thirteen years ago.”
He was on the verge of saying something further, and thought better of it. Instead, he crumpled up the card and threw it violently into the wastebasket by the desk.
“Did I hear a baaing sound?” Sandra asked. “I do believe there’s a lamb stew calling for my attention.”
She left the room to give them tactful space for anything that needed saying. There was, she thought, quite a bit of that, none of which she needed to hear.
Whatever that might have been, however, remained unsaid in a silence that eddied around husband and wife. Catherine went to the bay window and stared out at the back garden. The flowers were wilted, the grass brown from lack of water, the leaves of the maple tree hung down dispiritedly. She supposed it was a measure of her healing that she could even notice such things, though she hadn’t yet reached the point of caring much.
“I’d better get to the restaurant,” Walter said to her back. “If you have any...if you need anything, call me on my cell.”
“I’ll be all right,” she said again. Relenting, if only slightly, she came to give him a perfunctory kiss.
When he had gone, when she heard the car door slam, heard the Buick pull out of the driveway and move off down the street; when she was sure he wasn’t coming back but was truly on his way to the restaurant he owned in Santa Monica, she went to the wastebasket and retrieved the card, smoothing it out. She too studied it for a long while, as if seeking some coded message invisible to the undiscerning eye.
They had been rivals, Walter and Jack, if unequal ones. It had always been Jack who had ruled in her heart, though she liked Walter well enough, and felt kindly toward him for his unrequited love.
“You’re sweet. I do like you, honestly,” was the best she could give him then, and that, of course, was not enough for a man in love. Even as she said it, she was aware of its inadequacy.
What can I do, she asked herself? She couldn’t help being in love with Jack anymore than Walter could help being in love with her. Not just love, either: her feeling for Jack had been a burning, an overwhelming passion that never left her for a moment.
Maybe, she sometimes thought even then, more passion than love. Waking or sleeping, he was always there. She had only to close her eyes and see him drawn in flames upon her lids: the dense dark curls of his hair, his blue gray eyes that seemed to see into her heart, his lips, too full, perhaps, for a man, but sensually thrilling to her. Especially when he kissed her, when he kissed her lips, when he kissed her there, the delirious prelude to that moment when he lowered his lean, hard body onto hers and she gave herself up to him so utterly.
I mustn’t think of this, she told herself severely. I mustn’t remember. From the kitchen she heard the rattle of cups and silverware as her mother set the table. She started to throw the card away again, but her hand refused to do her bidding. Instead, she dropped it into the pocket of her denim skirt.
She ran her fingers through the shapeless fringe of reddish blonde hair just beginning to grow back in over her scars. He wouldn’t find her so desirable if he saw her now, she thought grimly. And, probably, that was just as well.
She followed the aroma of lamb stew into the kitchen.
CHAPTER THREE
Summer became autumn. The house stifled her. Everywhere she looked she found memories of Becky. She tried to watch television, and instead of Oprah, she found herself watching Becky’s one time favorite show, Daffy Danny’s Alley. It was a passion that Becky had shared with a great many pre-teens and one that (thankfully so far as Catherine was concerned) she had quickly outgrown. Catherine had come into the den one day to discover Becky watching cartoons instead.
“No Daffy Danny?” she had asked.
Becky’s answer was brief and to the point: “He’s smarmy.”
An opinion Catherine shared. Danny was Danny O’Dell, host and hand-puppeteer, an altogether too fey young man—or, probably not really so young, but who worked hard at that illusion—who wore too-short trousers and a too-tight checked jacket and a tam with a red pom-pom and who mugged a little too outrageously for the benefit of the squealing girls in the studio audience.
In the past she had gritted her teeth while Becky sat enrapt, from “Kids, what time is it? It’s Daffy Danny time,” through every “daffy laffy,” to the last “daffy bye-bye,” delivered with a big kiss thrown at the television screen.
Now, of course, she would have kissed Danny O’Dell herself if it could have brought her daughter back to her.
She clicked off the television with an angry gesture.
* * * *
She went back to work finally at Dean and Summers, Publishers, half days to start, both glad to have her time occupied, and sorry to have to face the well-meant expressions of sympathy, the worried glances that she pretended not to see when she went past people. As if the jungle drums had alerted them, everyone seemed to know when she was coming, were waiting for her appearance in the drama of their lives.
Alden Summers had passed away years back, but the firm still carried his name on the masthead. She went first thing to Fermin Dean’s office. Fermin’s secretary waved her in with a friendly but guarded smile.
“Catherine,” Fermin greeted her with evident delight. He was tall and gaunt, silver haired, one of those people who seem to be in motion even when sitting still. He bounded up from his chair and came round his desk to clasp her hands. “It’s good to have you back. Though when you see the load on your desk, you’ll know just how much I’ve missed you.”
“I’ll be glad for the work. I can use the occupation,” she said.
“Don’t overdo it. And, I mean this, Catherine, make your own hours, please, come and go as you want.”
Even with his warning, she was not quite prepared for the workload waiting for her despite everyone’s obvious efforts to keep
