chenille blanket, the down comforter in a twisted mound on the floor where she had tossed it during her restless night. What would it be like to wake up beside him every morning? What would it be like to wake up one day, have to wake up with the knowledge that he would never lie beside her again?
“Anybody who ever said it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all is an idiot,’’ her mother said to her once on a rare occasion when they’d discussed her father. “You can’t miss what you never had.’’
Lydia had met her father only once, on the day after her mother’s funeral. She sat alone in the living room staring out the bay window at the woods behind her house. The day was cool and sunny in cruel contrast to the way she felt. She heard the doorbell but paid no attention, assuming it was another neighbor come to offer their condolences. She dreaded having to smile politely, having to say she would be all right. Then she heard her grandfather’s voice as he opened the door, then a soft murmuring, then silence. To Lydia her grandfather sounded angry, but she thought she must be mistaken. Then she saw him at the door, his face tight and ashen.
Hovering behind her grandfather, she saw a stranger with her eyes. Tall and slouching, poorly dressed, he held flowers and looked ashamed. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
“You don’t have to see him, Lydia,’’her grandfather said.
But her curiosity was great. It was the first feeling she’d had other than grief and horror since her mother died. “No. It’s okay, Grandpa.’’
She stood up and her father walked toward her. He held the flowers out to her. She took them, her eyes fixed on him. In all the fantasies she had had about him in her life, none of them had even come close to predicting the ordinary man who stood before her. She had imagined him as a great lover, dark and handsome; a motorcycle daredevil, reckless and brave; an international spy, suave and sophisticated. What other kind of man could have stolen her strong, beautiful mother’s heart and left her broken and forever sad? Surely some great danger or some irresistible intrigue had lured him from her mother and their child. In spite of what her mother said.
“Don’t fantasize about your father, Lydia,’’ her mother told her numerous times. “He was just an irresponsible man, living for get-rich-quick schemes, always looking for something more than what he had.’’
She had never believed her mother until this moment, as he stood before her, eyes begging, hands quivering. It was like another death for her.
She let the flowers drop to the floor, turned her back on him, and walked back to her perch by the window. She might have forgiven him for leaving them, for breaking her mother’s heart, but she could never forgive him for being so unremarkable. She could never forgive that he had obviously left them for nothing.
There was a soft knock at the door. She closed her eyes and rolled over, feigning sleep. She heard Jeffrey push the door open and walk into the room. He sat on the bed beside her.
“Lydia?’’
“Hmm?’’
“You want to get up? Morrow will be here in an hour to go over to the church.’’
He touched her shoulder tenderly. His hair was lightly tousled. Unshaven, clad in a white T-shirt and faded blue jeans, he seemed irresistible. But she resisted him.
“Okay.’’
“I’ll make some coffee.’’
Even in this moment she knew she could call him back to her.
“Jeffrey.’’
“Yeah.’’
“Make it really strong.’’
“You got it.’’ He answered without looking at her as he eased the door shut.
But in the end, I’m just a coward. What am I afraid of?
It was a question she couldn’t answer. She only knew that when she thought of surrendering to Jeffrey, she was a child again standing in front of the open door of her mother’s house. That sinking fear, teetering on the edge, mere moments from total devastation. It consumed her, paralyzed her, forced her into loneliness.
It wasn’t only him. It had been this way for as long as she could remember, with every person who had ever tried to get close to her. He was the only one who had stayed around, gauging perfectly when she needed him to be close or far. It wasn’t fair to him. She knew that.
She flipped the covers back and got out of bed. The clock glowed 6:50 a.m. as she stretched, feeling her stiff muscles warm and relax. Arms in the air, back arched, then torso against each lean, tight thigh, her flexible body energized with each gentle movement, with each deep breath.
She switched on the light and examined her naked body in the full-length mirror. Unlike most women, Lydia loved her body. It was lithe and lean, but muscular and strong, with a womanly fullness around her hips and breasts. She leaned in closer to examine her face, her creamy skin. Tiny lines had started to make their debut on her too-often frowning brow, around her eyes. She didn’t much care, wise enough to know the passage of time was one thing she could not control. Her cold beauty was hard-lined and knowing, sometimes brutal. Her gray eyes did not betray the child’s fear that lurked some days within her heart, or the fragility of her soul.
“Good morning,’’ she said to the killer, staring at her own eyes in the mirror. “I’m coming after you today.’’
She thought about the package he’d left for her last night.
“Well, he’s fucking with us now,’’ Jeffrey had said, annoyed. “He was right at your doorstep.’’
He’d been angry last night. Angry that the killer had been right within his grasp and got away, and angry at Lydia for the same reason, she imagined. They had sat again at the kitchen table after the police had left, taking the package to be analyzed at the lab. They were avoiding totally what had almost happened between them in the woods, avoiding Jeffrey’s obvious pain and frustration and talking about the “gift’’ the killer had left.
“He obviously knows you, knows where you live, and knows what you do for a living. He gave it a lot of thought. Which means he gives you a lot of thought,’’ Jeffrey had said quietly.
She had nodded, the impact of the visit finally pressing on her. “It means that I am part of his design, that I figure somehow into his plan.’’
“How did he know you were involved?’’
“Maybe that was always his intention, to draw me in somehow. I just beat him to the punch.’’
“He’s watching you.’’
“Yes, I believe he is.’’
“You don’t seem overly concerned.’’
“What do you want me to do?’’
“I don’t know. Maybe we both just need to get some rest.’’
So they had parted with much unsaid and unresolved between them. She had almost turned back to him as she walked up the stairs. They had been so close. If they hadn’t been interrupted by the police, there was little question as to what would have happened.
She was some combination of disappointed and relieved as she walked into the adjoining bathroom and felt the cool hard tile beneath her feet. The room was a study in the varied uses of white marble – the floor, countertop, and sink were all formed of the beautiful stone. With mirrored walls and bright marquis bulbs, no inch of the room escaped reflection except the steamroom and shower, which were enclosed behind frosted-glass doors that reached from floor to ceiling. The countertop was a pretty clutter of the finest cosmetics and toiletries, expensively packaged soaps and lotions, bath salts, powders, fragrances. Lydia loved the smell, the feel of these things. They were a tiny indulgence she afforded herself, in honor of her mother. Marion, too, had cherished the luxury of a beautiful bathroom, filled with products that pleased the senses and soothed the skin. But Marion had never allowed herself the pleasure of the costly items she saw in magazines. Lydia would have lavished her mother with such things, had Marion lived to share her wealth. So instead she bought them for herself.
The cold water of the shower braced her skin, shocking the last sleepy cobwebs from her head. She lathered herself with lavender soap, at first enduring and then enjoying the frigid water raising goose bumps on her flesh. She washed her hair twice and then conditioned, letting the cold water beat on her back while she let the conditioner sit, making her hair soft. When she emerged, her body glistening, she dried herself with one of the plush black towels that hung on the wall. Then she wrapped herself in it and brushed her teeth.
Jeffrey placed a mug of coffee on her bedside table. He heard the shower and shivered, knowing that it was ice cold. Cold showers for the morning; hot showers at night. He could hear her saying the morning was the
