Clare looked into the burgundy surface of her wine. If she sat very, very still, she could see her reflection. Or rather, the reflection of her eye.
Hugh thumped his glass against the table. They were sitting in the kitchen. The only other spot to sit face-to- face downstairs was in her living room, where she and Russ had been talking. By mutual, unspoken agreement, Clare and Hugh avoided that room when she returned downstairs dressed in a sweater and jeans.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words,” Hugh said.
“There’s nothing to say.” In a way, she was telling the truth. For close to two years now, she had kept her mouth soldered shut, refusing to even think about the unthinkable. She had cracked and admitted it to herself; eventually, she had admitted it to Russ. It terrified her to think that the truth was so close to her surface that she was on the verge of admitting it to a nice man she saw every six or seven weeks. “There’s nothing to say,” she repeated.
“Is he going to divorce the little woman?”
That made her look up from the depths of her glass. “No.”
“Are you planning on chucking the whole priest thing and living a life of wickedness as a kept woman?”
She couldn’t help it; her lips twitched. “No.”
“Bit of a sticky wicket, eh?”
“You sound like someone in the 1939 version of
“The fellow who went blind and gave up the girl because it was the right thing to do, no doubt.”
She smiled into her wineglass.
He swallowed a gulp of wine. “Where do you think this thing is going? With you and me, I mean.”
She was surprised. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”
“Good Lord. You must be the only single woman over thirty I know who isn’t thinking about how to get herself married off.” He spread his arms and looked down at himself. “Am I not eligible? Not repulsive, don’t drool or pick my teeth in public, ready for housetraining.”
She took another sip, uncertain if he was joking or not. “Hugh, are you proposing? Or just looking for more affirmation that your shirt looks okay?”
“I’m just trying to figure out why you don’t at least eyeball me as potential husband material.”
She sighed. “Because for the past six or seven years, I’ve thought of myself as someone who is never going to get married. It’s not as if I’ve had men throwing themselves at me. Believe me. When I realized my calling, it sort of dovetailed with my spectacular lack of a love life. I figured I was meant to be a celibate.”
“Okay.” He ticked off one finger. “So, aspirations to be bride of God. Anything else?”
“Hugh.” She interlaced her fingers and propped her chin on the back of her hands. “Look at you. You’re urban, you’re trendy, your job involves travel and parties and reveling in the spoils of capitalism. I’m a priest who has settled in a little Adirondack backwater. Can you honestly see any way of me fitting into your life? Or you fitting into mine?”
He ticked off another finger. “Lifestyle differences. Anything else?”
“Spoken like a true venture capitalist.”
He took another sip of wine. “You have two candidates vying for your investment.”
“I don’t-”
“One is old enough to be your father, entombed in the same small town where he was born, and, oh, yes, is married.”
She drained her glass and poured herself another.
“The other,” he spread his arms again, showing off the floral shirt in all its splendor, “is handsome, youthful- comparatively speaking-amusing, well educated, has a healthy bank account and a career that gives him some flexibility in relocating as you climb the ladder to ecclesiastical success. Oh, and is single.” He leaned back in his chair. “And,” he stressed, “is Anglican.”
“Your virtues are exceeded only by your modesty.” She slid the bottle toward him. “You still haven’t told me if you’re proposing or not.”
“Not. Not yet,” he amended. “I’m not sure yet if you and I are suited for the long haul together.” His voice sharpened. “But I’d like a chance to find out without the local law enforcement cramping my style.” His chair scraped as he stood up. “I’d better get over to the hotel. I want to check in and freshen up before dinner. Do you want me to come back and pick you up?”
She shook her head automatically. “No, it doesn’t make sense for you to drive in and out of town twice.”
“I could wait for you to get dressed. We could lounge about the hotel together.”
“No. I still have to get to the dry cleaners and pick up my dress after you go. Then I’m going to make a quick hospital visit to a family I was with this afternoon before coming back here to get ready.”
“Right. I’ll see you later, then.”
“Wait!” She stood up. “What about-what about all this?” She waved her hand, indicating the table, the glasses, the remnants of conversation hanging in the air. “What are you going to do?”
He looked surprised. “I’m not going to do anything. We’re still friends, right?”
She nodded.
“And we can keep seeing one another occasionally?”
“Of course.”
“Then I don’t have to do anything. Except wait.” He stepped closer. “Because sooner or later, the choice you’ve made is going to blow up in your face. Bad investments always do. And when it does,” he smiled, “I’ll be here.”
She was still pondering his words when she heard his car pulling out of her drive. She hadn’t dated the whole time she had been at Virginia Episcopal Seminary. Now, in the space of one afternoon, she had two men in her house who wanted her. Who knew a clerical collar was such a turn-on? Of course, neither was exactly what you’d call a healthy, promising relationship. “Is this one of Your little jokes?” she asked. “Because if You’re trying to give me a message about what I should do with my life, I wish You’d be more clear.”
She should have called a lawyer. She should have told them no, they couldn’t look through her house, they couldn’t try to find some scrap of something tying her husband to Becky Castle. But it was too late now. If she said no, if she said stop, if she made Lyle MacAuley come down from upstairs, where she could hear him lumping around in her bedroom, looking at God knows what, they’d know. They’d know she’d folded. That she knew what her husband had done, and therefore that she probably knew where he was and when he was coming back. Her supposed innocence and the fact that Randy had gotten rid of any evidence were the only cards she held now. She had to play them.
Lisa sat on her couch, facing Kevin. They had spilt up, him and MacAuley, and Kevin was sticking to her like glue, supposedly so she wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable having some old cop pawing through her underwear drawer. She knew the real reason was to make sure she didn’t pick up the phone and warn her husband not to come home.
“Can I get you anything? A soda? Water?”
Kevin shook his head. “No, thanks.”
She stood, stretched. “I think I’ll make myself some coffee.”
Kevin stood as well. “I guess I will have a cup, if you’re going to make one.” He followed her into the kitchen.
She had just pulled the box of filters out when the phone rang. She froze.
