Lifelines: Kate's Story (24 page)

“You’ll
never guess what I made for dinner—pork chops and mashed potatoes. Cholesterol
and starch, but I know it’s your favorite. Come on! I’ll pour you a beer and
you can go in and shower, then—”

“Rachel.”

She
pulled his head down to kiss him again, but his stiffness got in the way.

“Rachel,
this isn’t working.”

“You’re
tired, and you need your food. Why don’t you forget the shower and come
straight in to the kitchen. It’s all ready.”

He
pulled free and locked his hands on her upper arms. When he held her away from
him, his eyes reminded her of pictures of Glacier Bay.

“Rachel...”
His hands tightened on her arms and she struggled a bit to make him grip
tighter. She would show the bruises to John at their next session, or perhaps
Kate?

She
tried to sag against him but his hands held her rigidly away. “We’ll put on
some romantic music, we’ll—”

He
muttered, “I’ll pay your bills, your schooling. I’ll sign some kind of
agreement.”

“What
do you mean?”

“I
can’t do this.”

She
felt the tears and scrunched up inside to make them spill over. “Sweetheart, if
you leave me ...” She let a sob build. “I’ll die ... I’ll die! Is it because I lied
about being late yesterday? I was afraid you’d be angry and I love you! I can’t
live without you! Don’t leave me!”

“I
can’t be married to you anymore, Rachel. I don’t love you.”

When
she sobbed harder, the bastard dropped his hands and turned away, leaving her
in pain. She screamed and flew at him.

E
very
time Mac tried to say something, Rachel screamed louder. When he realized his
attempts to calm her made her even more upset, he headed for the truck, but she
chased after him. He couldn’t believe how hard it was to wrestle the truck’s
door closed against her struggles. She kept screaming at him, and he hit the
locks just in time to prevent her opening it again. If she got in the truck, he
didn’t know how he would get her out, short of dragging her.

She
was wild with rage or sorrow—perhaps some mix of the two—screaming
incomprehensibly at him. He felt a tight pressure on his throat, his own
mixture of emotions. He needed away from her, far away, before she tied him
forever with chords of hysteria.

He
also needed, somehow, to avoid hurting her.

She
clung to the door and begged him to stay. He felt evil, locking her outside the
truck, but he didn’t know what else to do. He should calm her before he left,
but every word he spoke made her worse. He knew only one way to silence her—by
telling her he would stay.

He
couldn’t.

He
shifted the truck into gear and slowly began to drive.

She
hung on and screamed through the window, “Richard! I love you! You can’t leave
me!” When she threw herself against the side of the truck, he shoved on the
brake, terrified she’d be hurt, caught under a wheel.

“Richard,
I know you don’t mean it. I’ve got your dinner ready. We’ll eat, and I’ll put
on music. We’ll dance and make love.”

He
sat rigid and stared straight ahead. The sun hadn’t set yet, the days were
getting longer with spring. Rachel gave a panting sob that was easier on the
ears, but harder on his heart. What had he done to create this mess? How could
he stop her tears without sacrificing himself?

He
couldn’t return to the house with her.

“Richard?”
Her voice sounded oddly tentative.

A
response bubbled in his throat, but he remained silent.

“Sweetheart?”

He
felt as if he’d ignored the cries of a frightened child. He’d never done
anything so ... so damaging to another person, but if he answered, if he let her
pleas draw him into conversation, into that house, he would lose himself.

He
stared through the windshield at the trees he’d left standing to give their
house a sense of privacy. He knew his thoughts must be irrational. He and
Rachel had been spouses and lovers, but now they were two people making a mess
of their good-byes.

If
he drove away without words, he would be exactly like his mother.

He
looked at his watch. Seven-thirty.

He
didn’t know what time he’d come home, but it couldn’t be more than twenty
minutes since he’d walked in the door. Rachel clung to the door, crying softly
now. He was a bastard, just like she said, because he’d looked at his watch to
distract himself from the sound of her sobs, and he wanted desperately for her
to step back so he could drive away.

Two
hours ago he’d been cutting trim for the master bedroom on Taylor Road, and
he’d wished Kate were there to see the pieces go on. He’d thought of all those
Saturdays, of the joy of simple companionship as they worked together without
much talk. Two adults.

He
was tired of living with a child. He’d married Rachel, he’d made his bed, but
he knew now that he was unwilling to make it into a life sentence.

“Rachel.”

The
sobs stopped. Was she listening?

“Honey,
it’s over. I won’t come back. If you want, we can see John again next week. We
can talk about how we’ll ... about division of property, and paying for your
education.”

Silence.

“Step
away from the truck, Rachel. I need to leave.”

“Bastard,”
she hissed through the door.

Hands
shaking, he shoved the truck into gear and drove very slowly to the highway. He
saw her in the rear view mirror, standing in the drive, staring—or
glaring—after him. He averted his eyes and clenched both hands on the wheel.
When he turned onto the highway and pushed down on the accelerator, he rolled
down the window beside him. The air whipped in and played with his hair and a
shudder tore through him.

He’d
screwed up big time. He should have saved the announcement for their next
therapy session, but how the hell could he survive five days under the same
roof with Rachel, sharing the same bed, when he’d come to dread the very sight
of the woman he’d married?

Okay,
so he’d messed up. Stop whining and deal with it. There’d be a cleanup, like
after an oil spill, but despite the bad taste in his mouth from the hideous
scene with Rachel, he felt enormous relief. The marriage was over.

Maybe
he hadn’t tried as hard as he should have, but he couldn’t spend night after
night trying to sleep beside a woman, while wishing her anywhere but under his
roof. If there was anything left of his love for Rachel, he would have found it
in the last six weeks, in counseling sessions or in her company. Instead, he’d
recognized her as a stranger. After their last counseling session, he could see
only her selfishness and neediness.

He’d
made a commitment when he married her, and he would keep the part he could. He
would give her the education he’d promised, but the until-death part of the
promise—that was over. He’d finally forgiven her for the abortion, and in a
way, he understood why she’d done it. But their relationship was broken and it
wouldn’t mend. Perhaps the bond had never been strong enough to weather any
sort of crisis.

Kate
and David had weathered the loss of a child, but the bonds must have been
deeper in the first place. And Kate was one hell of a lot more mature than
Rachel—although he shouldn’t blame everything on Rachel. God knew, he was no
expert in marital relationships, and probably a good part of the responsibility
belonged at his door.

On
Taylor Road, he parked his truck in front of the new house. Funny how a house
could be trimmed and painted, with every shingle in place, yet look so
obviously unoccupied. Of course, the building was surrounded by the naked earth
he’d trucked in Friday, but lots of people moved in before the landscaping was
completed. The house was simply empty.

He
used his key to open the front door, but didn’t step inside. The carpets had
been laid in the bedrooms Friday, and today he’d installed the trim. Before he
left, he’d swept all the sawdust and nails out of the living room and kitchen,
ready for the hardwood floor subcontractor Monday.

The
subcontractor would track in his own mess, and Mac planned to put up a plastic
drop sheet to keep dust and dirt from migrating into the carpeted bedrooms. He
would have preferred to have the carpet laid after the hardwood, but the carpet
layer had a major project next week, so there’d been no choice. Meanwhile, Mac
wasn’t about to tromp inside with his boots on.

He
closed the door again. The old rocking chair Kate had given him a couple of
weeks ago sat on the veranda. She’d unearthed it in her garage and gifted it to
him, to sit in and survey his domain after he finished work each day.

He
sat and rocked as he contemplated his marriage. He didn’t usually dwell on
things past. His life had taught him that when he left a place, old
relationships dropped away, but this time he needed to know what he’d done
wrong because he sure the hell wouldn’t want to repeat it.

He
hadn’t thought much about relationships until Jake’s death. He supposed his
father had been his anchor, although they’d only seen each other once a year,
until Mac moved to Madrona Bay. But Mac had always known that, despite
wandering from the Far East to South America to the Arctic, he wasn’t alone in
the world.

It
shook him when Jake got sick, and he began to think about permanence and
family. He’d built the house in Madrona Bay for Jake—just as Jake made a home
for him all those years ago, after his mother walked out.

Then
Jake died, and Mac married Rachel.

As
simple as that.

The
day John asked Mac what had attracted him to Rachel, the true answer had
been—her neediness. He’d married Rachel because she was available, and needy.
He needed a family, and she needed him.

They’d
called it love.

The
sun drifted behind the trees, leaving a large moon. He’d call it a harvest moon
if it were autumn.

When
Mac stood, the chair rocked for a minute, alone. The sound didn’t stop until he
got halfway to the truck. He looked back and saw a good house, the earthy
beauty of its cedar siding surrounded by second-growth forest. He felt the
pride of creation, and the urge to be done with it, to move on. These last
weeks of construction would be consumed with details that must be perfect, but
on the sixteenth of April he would break ground on a new foundation in Madrona
Bay. So this house, and his marriage, would end together.

The
big moon gave a yellowish cast to Taylor Road as he walked past his truck. The
sound of his boots on gravel echoed around him as he moved down the road. At
the foot of Kate’s drive, a deep-throated owl called a warning to its prey.

Kate’s
car waited at the top of her drive, a few feet from her front veranda. The
house stood so far back from the road that she didn’t have curtains, except in
the room he assumed was a bedroom in the back.

Halfway
up her drive, Mac spotted Kate’s shadow through one of the windows.

He
had no business being here, tonight of all nights, but he took the two steps up
to her veranda, and knocked. Then he stuffed hands in pockets and waited. He
felt no sense of hurry now, no need to repeat his knock. She would come.

When
she opened the door, he saw she’d been working. She’d caught her hair back from
her face, and tied it at her nape. On her hands, the flaking clay had formed
into gloves.

“You’ve
been throwing pottery on the wheel.”

She
didn’t open the door farther, just stood with one hand on the frame and the
other on the knob. “I’ve given up on the wheel. I finally made a symmetrical
piece, but I realized I want the feel of my hands in the clay. I’ve been
modeling.”

“Would
you come for a walk?”

She
stared at him for long seconds. Whatever she saw must have satisfied her,
because she said, “Come in for a minute first. I need to cover the clay.”

Socrates
stood behind her and, as she stepped back, she stumbled against the dog. Mac
grabbed her arm to steady her. For a heartbeat, he felt her body against his.
He wasn’t prepared to lose his breath. He’d come because he wanted to be with
her. He hadn’t asked himself why.

“I’ve
got my work boots on. With the fresh dirt up at the house, I’d better—”

“I’ll
cover the clay in the garage, then get Socrates’ leash.”