and childlike delight rippled over her. Her hand landed over his on the mouse and she scrolled down for more information. Nothing she read or saw turned her off.
“They’re so adorable,” she said as Bishop slipped his hand from beneath hers and covered his mouth as he cleared his throat. “They look like they’re smiling, don’t you think? I can definitely see us with one of those.”
“Good family dog,” he read from the blurb. “Gentle temperament. Prone to overeating, shedding and joint problems.” Obviously uneasy, he shifted in his seat. “One of my foremen spent over two grand getting his cat’s broken leg fixed. Bad joints mean huge vet bills.” He clicked the previous page back. “Let’s look at Rottweilers.”
She grinned. It wasn’t about money. “I don’t want a guard dog. I want a companion. A personality that will become part of our family.” And would eagerly welcome new members in. “Just tell me … do you still like retrievers?”
“Of course.”
“Then if we both want a retriever and somewhere down the track he needs some medical attention, wouldn’t you rather have what we really want than settle on something which may or may not have other problems? There are risks everywhere, Bishop. Risks in everything.”
His jaw jutted, but the dark slashes of his eyebrow quirked. While he considered, Laura folded her hands in her lap. She’d made her point. She was talking about far more than which dog to buy.
“But we don’t have to make a decision today,” she ended in a placating tone. “There’s no hurry.”
“You’re right.” He clicked on the top right-hand X and the puppies disappeared. “No hurry at all.”
The phone rang. Not his cell phone this time. Which meant there was a good chance the call wasn’t about business. Maybe Kathy from the library. They’d been talking about starting a literacy program for over-fifties.
Trying to recall what their last discussion had outlined, Laura pushed back her chair but Bishop was already up.
The bbbbrrr-ring of the phone ripped through to his bones, as unsettling as a bank alarm. Moving quick, his hand landed on the extension.
During his drive to the shops earlier, he’d considered the phone and the problems surprise calls could cause. If one of Laura’s friends contacted her, it wouldn’t take long for inconsistencies to rise and questions to flare in both parties’ minds. Laura didn’t need to be backed into a corner, faced with a reality that seemed Hitchcock-esque given what she could and could not remember. Prodding was far different to someone knocking you for a complete loop during a phone call.
Driving back, he’d decided to intercept calls, not to keep Laura from her friends and others who cared, but to forewarn of the situation and ask that they tread lightly for now. Eventually, Laura would check emails. Oddities like Swan Lake playing rather than The Nutcracker would become more obvious. Dates wouldn’t mesh, like the dates he worried she might see on the web when trying to book those tickets. Soon there’d be questions. Ultimately, as she needed to know and was ready to hear, there’d be answers.
But for now …
His hand still on the receiver, he said, “I’m expecting a call.” Then to divert her, “Is that scones I smell warming?”
Leaping up, she cursed and sprinted out. “I forgot.”
Waiting until her padding down the hall quieted, he answered the call. He should’ve known who it would be.
“How are things going?”
He exhaled and a measure of his tension dissolved. Grace.
He ran a finger over a tiny crystal clock. “Not as bad as I thought.”
“She hasn’t remembered?”
“Not a thing that I can tell.”
“I should probably come up and see her.”
Or not.
“That’s up to you.”
“But you’d rather I stay away.”
Smirking, he pushed the clock back. “You can read me like a book.” He liked as much distance between himself and Grace as possible.
“But she’s happy?”
He imagined Laura in the kitchen she loved, drawing the scones from the oven then finding those special little spoons she saved for serving jam. She made the best jam.
He surrendered to a smile. “Very happy.”
There was a long pause. Bishop could imagine Grace smoothing her French roll. “I hope she’ll understand when this is all over.”
“Depends on who ends up sticking around. This Laura or the one who couldn’t wait to see the back of me.”
“Did I hear my name mentioned?”
Bishop’s heart squeezed to his throat and he spun around. Laura held a tray with scones, whipped butter, jam and those tiny silver spoons. From the open look on her face, she hadn’t heard too much.
He hoped his smile didn’t look manufactured. “Your sister.”
Her eyes rounded playfully and she stage whispered, “You’re having a conversation with Grace?”
“About your condition.”
“My fall?” He nodded. “If it gets you two talking at last, it was worth it.” Setting the tray down, she accepted the phone. “Hey, Grace. How’re you doing? Oh, I’m fine.” She gave Bishop a wink and angled toward the window view. “Better than fine.”
Unable to pass, he dabbed some homemade jam on a scone and bit into the doughy sweetness. Grace would keep Laura on the phone for a while. He didn’t need to listen in.
He wandered out from her office, his gaze skimming the same surrealist paintings that had frequented the hallway walls when he’d left. Further on, he took stock of the kitchen, its polished granite benches and gleaming utensils that Laura had taken such pride in when making those superb dinners she whipped up seemingly out of thin air.
He stopped beneath the ornate arch that led to the main living room. Same chintz couches, crafted timber furniture and grand fireplace, which they’d spent so many evenings cuddled up in front of, she reading a bestseller, he browsing over papers from work. In the beginning they’d felt so relaxed together and yet the steady thrum of excitement had always been there, too. A buzz that not only connected them, but drew them irreversibly, magnetically near.
Those were the best days of his life.
His gaze inched along the knickknacks on the marble mantelpiece … silver candlesticks, some ballerina figurines, a cup she must have accidentally left there. His eye line drifted higher. Then his heart stopped beating.
Their wedding photo was gone.
And why wouldn’t it be? This was her house. They’d lived separate lives for over a year. His bet was
