Too late now. She must go with what was happening, defy her own fears, drag them out into the open, expose them to the cold light of common sense. Her parents had made the dragons in her closets and the monsters under her bed disappear when she was a child, why shouldn't they do the same now?
“You remember-that lovely Scottish woman I told you about, I'm sure I did.”
“She's dead?”
“While you were away. Apparently she'd had a heart condition for some time.”
“When did she die?” This from her father, putting things together in his masculine, engineer's way, and looking at the bottom line.
Joanna glanced at him briefly, then tried to pretend she hadn't. She was caught. There was no way out now.
Her father repeated the question. “When did Maggie die?”
“Last week. Friday.”
There, it was said. It was out of her hands now.
The frown of concern deepened on her father's brow. “My God, Jo, that's three out of a group of…how many?”
“Eight.”
“Three…in one week?”
She suddenly realized it was still up to her. They weren't going to make it go away. She'd been right in the first place-she was the one who would have to protect them. The thought renewed her confidence, the way knowing that the worst has happened can give you strength because there's nothing else to be afraid of. What she had to do now was clear, simple even.
“Obviously we're not continuing it. I mean we could, but out of respect-and we're all too upset.” She spoke boldly, in charge, putting everything into a sensible perspective. “Of course, we weren't getting very far. We were about to call it quits anyway.”
The lie was growing easier and more fluent as she developed it. She hated the feeling of driving a wedge between herself and the two people in the world whose closeness and support she most wanted at this moment, but she knew she had no choice. There just wasn't any other way to handle this.
“You say you weren't getting very far…?” Her father asked, wanting more detail.
Joanna made a gesture-open, dismissive, suggesting that the whole thing had turned out to be no more than a frivolous enterprise.
“Nothing aside from a few bumps and table knockings-which are actually far more common than you'd imagine. I've got enough for an article-at least, enough to work up into something readable. But I'm afraid it won't amount to anything very spectacular.”
That was a lie that would be brutally exposed when her article was eventually published, whether it was under her own byline or somebody else's. But she would worry about that later. For now all she cared about was protecting the brief sanctuary of these few days from the madness that surrounded her.
They stood facing each other across the room, she on one side of the table, her parents opposite.
“All the same,” her mother said in a voice filled with unspoken disquiet, “three people dead…in just a few days…”
“Oh, come on, Mom…!” Joanna managed to force a kind of shocked, dismissive laugh that didn't sound too artificial. “You're not trying to make something sinister out of that, are you? I mean, a heart attack and a road accident. It's a coincidence, and tragic-but nothing more.”
Stop now, she told herself, leave it there, you've said enough, any more will simply fan suspicion.
“Why don't I go make the coffee?” she said. It was something she often did at the end of a family dinner, her inestimable contribution, as she jokingly put it, to the evening. “Then we can watch those videos. I really want to see them-and I swear you won't have to pay me!”
They sat in near silence as the bridges of the Seine, the Thames, and the Tower of London drifted before them, and the intricately woven streets of Rome opened into their sudden, unexpected vistas. Joanna gave a whoop of recognition every time one parent or the other appeared on screen, applauded every well-framed shot, recalled some anecdote or character whenever a place she had visited with her parents in the past came into view.
It was a good performance, but a performance nonetheless. And she knew that her parents, from their own subdued response to her enthusiasm, recognized it as such.
But there were no more questions, and no awkwardness. Just a moment, alone with her mother, as they kissed good night, when Elizabeth Cross looked into her daughter's eyes with the intense and loving tenderness that only a parent can feel for a grown-up child out in the world alone, independent and beyond protection.
“You are all right, darling, aren't you?”
“Of course I am, Mom. I'm fine, truly.”
“Because if anything happened to you, I don't think I could bear it.”
35
Joanna was surprised in the morning to realize how well she had slept. She opened her eyes just after eight, and pulled her blinds to reveal a perfect late-fall day. She and her mother drove into town and parked by the farmers’ market at the end of the main street. The bare branches of the trees around the parking lot were bleached almost white against a clear blue sky.
Inside the covered market Joanna sensed something festive about the crowd that morning, although it wasn't yet the holiday season. She followed her mother through the busy shoppers and the strolling couples and the family groups on their weekly outing.
Elizabeth Cross was brisk and businesslike, darting from vegetable to cheese to fruit stall, loading the cart that Joanna pushed. They only had a light lunch to think about because that evening they were dining with friends. There had been no mention of last night's conversation by either of her parents, for which Joanna was deeply grateful. It meant that she didn't have to put on a performance anymore; the subject had been aired and gotten out of the way. She was beginning to feel that maybe she really could put these last weeks behind her and get her life back on track. Was that all it took? A change of air and some home cooking? It was hard to believe, but maybe if she tried hard enough to believe it…
“Why don't we save time?” her mother said, interrupting her thoughts. “I can finish here while you go over to Clare Sexton's and pick up a couple of cushions I've been having made up. They're paid for, you just have to ask at the desk.”
Joanna relinquished the shopping cart to her mother and they agreed to meet in the parking lot in twenty minutes. Clare Sexton's was a fabric store that had been there for as long as Joanna could remember. She walked the three blocks to it, passing several people she knew well enough to exchange a friendly smile with or wave to through a window. It was a small town, in a way just a village. Nobody famous or fashionable lived there, but it was comfortable and well cared for. It wasn't a life that Joanna wanted, but she was glad that she came from it. These were decent people who wished no one any harm-on the contrary, who would help out if they could.
Clare Sexton's was in a row that had a couple of craft shops, a bookstore, and a new place decked out to look Victorian and selling imported soaps, perfumed candles, and aromatic potpourri. The fabric store had a single bow window with fake antique glass, behind which materials of every land and conceivable color were arranged in a display of flamboyant theatrical flare.
Inside, the place was as bustling as everywhere else seemed to be that morning. The girl at the desk was busy wrapping several lengths of material for a couple who seemed thrilled with what they'd found. Clare Sexton herself, a slim, capable-looking woman with short blond hair, waved at Joanna from a corner where she was occupied with another customer. Joanna mimed back that there was no hurry, and prepared to spend a few minutes looking around.
“What do you think?” said a man's voice over her shoulder, so close that it almost made her jump. She turned to see a dark-haired man in his mid-thirties, wearing green corduroys and a stylish wool jacket. He was holding a piece of painted cardboard in one hand and a length of material in the other. “Do these match, or am I color blind?”
