quash it, and finish my work. And I would confront the accuser.
My empty town house destroyed that resolve. No one to greet me. No one to hold me and tell me I'd be fine. Ryan was quibbling with a distant Danielle, whoever she was. Ryan had told me it was none of my business. Katy was with her friend, gender unspecified, and Birdie and Pete were far across town. I threw down my bags, flung myself on the sofa, and dissolved into tears.
Ten minutes later I lay quietly, chest heaving, feeling like a kid coming off a tantrum. I'd accomplished nothing and felt drained. Dragging myself to the bathroom, I blew my nose, then checked my phone messages.
Zero to brighten my mood. A student. Salesmen. My sister, Harry, calling from Texas. A query from my friend Anne: Could we get together for lunch since she and Ted were leaving for London?
Great. They were probably dining at the Savoy as I erased her words. I decided to collect Birdie. At least he would purr in my lap.
Pete still lives in the house we shared for almost twenty years. Though it is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, the fence is mended with a wooden block, and a makeshift goal sags in the backyard, testimonial to Katy's soccer years. The house is painted, the gutters cleaned, the lawn mowed by professionals. A maid maintains the inside. But beyond normal upkeep, my estranged husband believes in laissez-faire and the quick patch. He feels no obligation to protect area real estate values. I used to worry about neighborhood protests. The separation relieved me of that.
A furry brown face watched through the fence as I swung onto the drive. When I climbed from the car, it crinkled and gave a low “rrup!”
“Is he here?” I asked, slamming the door.
The dog lowered its head, and a purple tongue dropped from its mouth.
I circled to the front and rang. No response.
I rang again. A key still hung from my chain, but I wouldn't use it. Though we'd been living apart for over two years, Pete and I were still stepping carefully in establishing the new order between us. The sharing of keys involved an intimacy I didn't want to imply.
But it was Thursday afternoon and Pete would be at the office. And I wanted my cat.
I was digging in my purse, when the door opened.
“Hello, attractive stranger. Need a place to sleep?” said Pete, surveying me from top to bottom.
I was wearing the khakis and Doc Martens I'd donned for the morgue at six that morning. Pete was perfect in a three-piece suit and Gucci loafers.
“I thought you'd be at work.”
I wiped knuckles across the mascara smears on my lower lids, and took a quick peek inside the house. If I spotted a woman I'd die of humiliation.
“Why
He glanced left, then right, lowered his voice, and gestured me close, as if imparting secure information. “Rendezvous with the plumber.”
I didn't want to contemplate what had gone so wrong that Mr. Fix It would call in an expert.
“I came for Birdie.”
“I think he's free.” Pete stepped back. I entered a foyer lighted by my great-aunt's chandelier.
“How about a drink?”
I drilled him a look that could slice feldspar. Pete had witnessed many of my Academy Award performances, and knew better.
“You know what I mean.”
“A Diet Coke would be nice.”
While Pete rattled glassware and ice cubes in the kitchen, I called up the stairs to Birdie. No cat. I tried the parlor, dining room, and den.
Once upon a time, Pete and I had lived together in these rooms, reading, talking, listening to music, making love. We'd nurtured Katy from infant to toddler to adolescent, redecorating her room and adjusting our lives with each passage. I'd watch the honeysuckle come and go through the window over the kitchen sink, welcoming every season. Those had been fairy-tale days, a time when the American dream seemed real and attainable.
Pete reappeared, transformed from attorney-chic to yuppiecasual. The jacket and vest were gone, the tie loosened, the shirtsleeves rolled to below the elbows. He looked good.
“Where's Bird?” I asked.
“He's been keeping to the upper decks since Boyd checked in.”
He handed me a mug with
“Boyd's the dog?”
A nod.
“Yours?”
“Interesting point. Have a seat and I'll share with you the saga of Boyd.”
Pete got pretzels from the kitchen and joined me on the couch.
“Boyd belongs to one Harvey Alexander Dineen, a gentleman recently in need of pro bono defense. Completely surprised by his arrest, and lacking family, Harvey requested that I look after his dog until the misunderstanding with the state was cleared up.”
