Stuart, the young woman who’d borrowed her boyfriend’s truck to pull her recently deceased father’s car to her apartment in San Diego, had been pronounced dead at the scene fifteen minutes before.
By the time she heard Scott’s black Chevy pickup in the drive shortly after eight on Wednesday morning, Tricia had had twenty-four hours to work herself into an inner frenzy and an outer state of complete calm. Much of her life had been spent learning things she’d never use. But little had she known, growing up the daughter of a wealthy San Franciscan couple, that the ability to keep up appearances had also equipped her with the skills to lead a double life.
“Hi, babe!” Even after almost two years of living with this man, sharing his bed and his life, she still felt that little leap in her belly every time he walked into a room.
She was in the kitchen and plunged her hands into the sink of dirty dishwater to keep from flinging them around Scott. He wouldn’t recognize the needy, clinging woman.
“Hi, yourself!”
He’d been gone four nights—part of the four on, four off rotation that made up most of his schedule, broken only once or twice a month with a one or two day on/off turn. She could have justified a hug. If she’d been able to trust herself not to fall apart the moment she felt his arms slide around her…
“Daaaddeee!” Taylor squirmed in his high chair, seemingly unaware of the toast crumbs smeared across his plump cheeks and up into his hair. His breakfast was a daily pre-bath ritual.
“Mornin’, squirt!” Scott rubbed the baby’s head and bent down to kiss his cheek, as though he was spotlessly clean. “Were you a good boy for your mama?”
“Good boy.” Taylor nodded. And then, “Down!”
He lifted his arms up to the man he called Daddy. Someday Taylor would have to know that Scott wasn’t actually his biological father, but maybe by then Scott would have adopted him and—
She abruptly yanked the plug in the bottom of the sink, watching as the grayish water and the residue of bubbles washed away. She couldn’t think about the future. It was one of her non-negotiable rules.
Unless things changed drastically, there would be no future for her. Only the day-to-day life she had now. Only the moment.
Hearing her son squeal, followed by silence from the man who usually made as much or more noise than the little boy when the two were playing together, Tricia glanced over her shoulder.
“Scott?” She dried her hands, moved slowly behind the man she’d duped—yes, duped—into taking her in. She’d played the part of a destitute homeless woman, and then grown to love Scott more than she’d ever believed possible. Face buried in Taylor’s neck, he was holding on to the boy.
Almost as she had the day before…
“Is something wrong?” she asked, her throat tightening with the terror that was never far from the surface. Had he had enough of them? Was this going to be goodbye?
Could she handle another loss right now?
He didn’t look up right away, and Tricia focused on breathing. Life had come down to this a few times in the past couple of years—reduced to its most basic level. Getting each breath to follow the one before. Clearing her mind of all thought, all worry, her heart of all fear, so that she could breathe.
“You want us to leave?” she made herself ask when she could. Probably only seconds had passed. They seemed like minutes. Her arrangement with Scott wasn’t permanent. She’d known that. Insisted on it.
The back pockets of her worn, department-store jeans were a good place for hands that were noticeably trembling.
“Can we put him in his playpen with Blue?” Scott asked.
Taylor’s addiction to Blue’s Clues could easily buy half an hour of uninterrupted time.
“I need to talk to you.”
It was bad, then.
He wouldn’t look her in the eye. Hadn’t answered her question about leaving. And his thick brown hair was messier than usual—as though he’d been running his hand through it all morning.
Scott had a habit of doing that when he was working through things that upset him.
She wanted to speak. To tell him that amusing Taylor with Blue while they talked was fine with her. That she was happy to hear whatever was on his mind.
She just didn’t have it in her. She’d hardly slept. Was having trouble staying focused. Jumping at every innocuous click, bump or whoosh of air. She’d even dropped Taylor’s spoon earlier when the refrigerator had clicked on behind her.
With a jerky nod, she followed him into the living room, where one entire corner was taken up with Taylor’s playpen, toys and sundry other toddler possessions. She would’ve moved the changing table out of the crowded room now that he was older and it was easier to have him climb onto the couch rather than lifting his almost twenty pounds up to the table for a diaper change, but they didn’t have anyplace to put it. Scott’s house, as was the case with most of the homes in the older San Diego South Park neighborhood, didn’t have a garage.
And the crib and dresser in Taylor’s small room left no space for anything else. Which made the fact that they had little else less noticeable.
“What’s up?” They were in Scott’s room—their room for now—with the door open so she could hear Taylor.
He paced at the end of the king-size bed, staring down at the hardwood floor. Sitting in the old wooden rocker that had become a haven to her, Tricia hugged a throw pillow to her belly and waited.
Scott stopped. Glanced over at her. He sat on the end of the bed she’d made only an hour before. With hands clasped between his knees, he looked over at her.
“I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
Her breath whooshed out, but her lungs didn’t immediately expand to allow any entry of air.
He opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head.
“What?” Her voice was low, partly because she was having trouble saying anything at all. Partly because of Taylor in the next room. But also because, as she saw him sitting there, she watched—felt—the struggle inside him.
She knew. Oh, not his secret, obviously. But she knew all about the dark pain associated with keeping secrets.
“I shouldn’t have lied, and I’m sorry.” The conversation was getting more and more ominous. Tricia wanted to scream at him for lying to her. She’d been lied to enough. Couldn’t take any more.
But how could she be upset with him for something she was doing herself? No one was guiltier of hiding things than Tricia Campbell—name chosen from the Campbell’s soup can she’d seen on his counter when, the morning after the first time they’d had sex, he’d asked her full name.
“Why…” she coughed. “Why don’t you tell me what this is about?” If she had to find another place to live, she’d need as much of the day as she could get. Taylor had to be in bed
