and is she up to date on all her immunizations? And if she did, how did the kidnapper hide the truth from the doctor, from the principal and teachers, from neighbors and friends and fam—”
“I’m sure the psychiatrist will fill us in on all that.” During their phone call, he’d told her what the agent said. An abbreviated version of the facts, but enough information to give her the gist of things. Maybe, under the stress of it all, she’d forgotten. “She was found wandering alone in a mall, remember, after that...that woman died of an aneurism?”
Rena nodded. “Yes. I remember. But...” She waved a hand in front of her face. “Oh, I know she’ll be taller—of course she’ll be taller. She’s nine years old. And naturally, she’ll weigh more, too. But—and I know this might sound silly—but does she still have all that beautiful, long blond hair? Did they cut it or dye it? And...how many times has the Tooth Fairy visited?” She shook her head, frowning slightly. “After all she’s been through, she sure doesn’t need a bunch of doctor appointments while she’s trying to settle in here at home.” Rena paused, as if to catch her breath. “And what about us? What does she remember of us?”
This one, Grant could answer. At least in part. “She was told that we were killed in a drunk-driving accident,” he said. “And that we’d named this...that nut job as Rosie’s guardian. Unless something is seriously wrong—and I doubt it, since Agent Gonzalez didn’t pass that info along to Detective Campbell—we’ll take her to see a specialist. After she’s had some time to adjust, I mean.”
Rena wouldn’t have to wonder about any of this if she’d been paying attention during the field trip.
Fair or not, it was how he felt. How he’d felt since she’d called the office that day, crying so hard he could barely understand a word she said. But they had to at least try to get along, for Rosie’s sake. Grant knew he’d better keep his lips zipped.
“You probably won’t believe this,” she said, “given some of the, ah, discussions we had before I left, but...”
Discussions. He nearly chuckled. They’d had bitter quarrels. Full-blown shouting matches. Well, he’d shouted. A lot. Told Rena she was responsible for what happened to Rosie.
“...but I always held on to a thread of hope that someday, someday, she’d be found. I know it goes against everything I said back then, because I was trying so hard to accept things, to adjust and adapt, for both of our sakes, but I can’t tell you what a relief it is, knowing she’s coming home.”
She’d held on to a thread of hope? It was all Grant could do to keep from groaning. Rena had been way too eager to pack up all their girl’s things and stow them in the attic, beside his dusty childhood toys, her grandpa’s steamer trunk and her grandmother’s hope chest—the one that still housed Rena’s wedding dress—his dad’s tattered college textbooks, and Christmas decorations. Out of sight, out of mind, apparently. How could she feel that way about their sweet Rosie?
Plus, how many times had she accused him of living in the past, of refusing to accept that Rosie was gone? And all this time, she’d clung to hope, too? A hope, she’d told him often, that was impossible.
And then there was the way she’d pestered him to have another kid...and how he’d accused her of being cold, indifferent, heartless to think the birth of another child could blot out the agony they’d suffered. Rosie couldn’t be replaced that easily. Why hadn’t he been able to make her see that?
Grant put down his fork. He’d been famished when he sat down. Now, his appetite was gone. He started to push back from the table.
“Oh, don’t leave yet,” Rena said, a note of pleading in her voice. “I made dessert.”
“I’m really not hungry, Rena.”
He hadn’t intended for the comment to sound harsh. But what did she expect? They hadn’t shared a meal—or anything else—in years! Surely Rena didn’t they’d simply pick up where they’d left off.
“Not even for chocolate pie?”
His favorite dessert. She’d only had an hour to throw dinner together, so she must have bought it when she’d stopped at the Giant for groceries. What the heck. Maybe something sweet would turn his sour mood around...
“Okay, but just a small slice.”
“Whipped cream on top? I made plenty when I was beating up the filling.”
So she’d made the pie, just for him? He marveled that she’d had time.
“Sure. Why not.”
Rena got up and cleared their plates, and quickly replaced them with dessert.
“There’s coffee—decaf—if you’d like some,” she said.
“Well, since it’s already made, no sense wasting it.”
She poured them each a cup. Placed the sugar bowl and creamer near his elbow.
So. His favorite meal. His favorite dessert. And she’d remembered exactly how he liked his coffee. He could accuse her of trying to soften him up. But for what? They were supposed to put on a united front, right? How could they accomplish that without courtesy and the occasional nicety?
He felt a pang of guilt. Had she really believed Rosie had been murdered? If so, she’d suffered those thoughts alone. Even if she hadn’t left, Rena couldn’t have talked to him about it. He could barely stand to look at her let alone talk about the kidnapping. She’d made the right move, leaving when she did, because if she’d stayed, their relationship would only have deteriorated further. He’d drawn some comfort from missing her now and then, even though it made him feel a little crazy. Because no rational man could love and miss his wife...and deeply resent her, all at the same time.
“Pie’s good,” he said, mostly to fill the brittle silence.
“I’m glad you like it. I wasn’t sure I remembered how to make it.”
“You like it, too. You never made it for your...guests?”
Man, talk about being obvious. If he wanted to know if she was seeing someone, why not just ask?
Because he didn’t want to picture her in the arms of another man. She was still his wife, after all.
“I didn’t have much company. My cottage is tiny. Barely enough space for a table for two. And my life there is mostly work and the occasional visit from Lilly, my landlady, who lives in the big house next door. She’s a retired school bus driver. Trust me, I don’t invite a lot of interaction with her, lovely as she is. Being around her, listening to her talk about her tiny passengers only reminds me of...” She looked away.
He’d avoided people—and places and things—that reminded him of Rosie, too. Even kept her bedroom door shut most of the time, so he wouldn't have to look at her toys and games, or the bed where he'd cuddled with her while reading bedtime stories. How much easier would everything have been if they’d found a way to hold each other up when the memories got tough to bear?
Water under the bridge, he thought. Deep, dark, murky water...
“Want some help with these dishes?” he offered.
“No, but thanks. I’ll
