Lifelines: Kate's Story (25 page)

T
hey
walked at Socrates’ pace. Mac took the leash and although the dog walked
between them, he felt intensely aware of Kate’s closeness. If Socrates
meandered over to Mac’s right side, he wondered if he would reach for Kate’s
hand.

A
mistake, to grasp for warmth in reaction to the turmoil from his own ruined
relationship.

They
walked past the new house, up to the top of the hill where the moon bathed the
trees and Kate’s face in golden light and she said, “A moonlight walk with
another woman is no way to repair your marriage.”

“My
marriage is over.”

“I’m
sorry.”

He
felt defensive. “The counseling didn’t work. Actually, that’s where I realized
... I saw her, saw our relationship clearly for the first time.”

“It’s
good you’re certain.”

He’d
expected criticism, and he said, “I’m as much to blame as her.”

She
touched his hand. “It’s not about blame. It’s about life, and people, and
growth. Do you feel lonely now it’s over?”

“That’s
why I married her, for loneliness.”

Socrates
made a soft woof. Kate bent to pet the dog.

He
asked, “Can I come in when we go back? I’ll build a fire.”

“Mac
...” In moonlight, her eyes widened as she studied him.

“I
want to kiss you.” The need felt gentle, yet gut-deep. He couldn’t read her
eyes, but he saw her shiver.

“I
don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Probably
not.” He worried suddenly that he might damage their friendship.

“It’s
too soon for you. After your marriage.”

“What
about you, Kate? Is it too soon for you?”

“Yes.”

Nine
months since her husband died. He thought of the way they’d sat together
evenings after working on the house. He wished himself on the sofa they’d both
avoided, wished she could sit beside him, with her head nestled against his
shoulder as they stared into the flames. He had no business turning from one
woman to another in the space of an hour, but here in the moonlight, it seemed
he’d always wanted Kate.

“Kate
...?”

She
bent over to stroke Socrates. “It would be crazy,” she said with her face
buried in the dog’s fur.

“It
doesn’t feel crazy to me.”

“You’ve
just left a long term relationship. You’re in no position to judge.”

“Kate,
I like you. I want your friendship. When you’re willing ... if you’re willing,
I’d like to explore something more.”

She
released Socrates. When he reached for her hand, she shook her head and he
realized she was frightened.

K
ate
knew widowed women often did stupid things out of loneliness, out of grief. A
widow needed to take time before getting involved with anyone new. A year would
be good, two years better.

Mac
stood nine inches from her and held out his hand. She hadn’t known he could
turn seductive with a mere smile, or that the invitation would tempt her so
much. She stuffed her hands in her jeans pockets and realized from the dry feel
of clay against her jeans that she’d forgotten to wash her hands before she
came out.

She
wondered what it would be like to be naked with a stranger.

Mac
wasn’t a stranger.

Yes,
he was.

Sometimes
she woke in the night and feared she would never again slide into a man’s arms,
or feel naked muscles against her breasts. She’d loved curling around David’s
back, loved the deep fracture that tore her apart with orgasm. Most of all,
she’d loved the closeness of a man’s arms around her, his breath mingled with
hers.

Mac
said he wanted to kiss, but if the kiss worked, he would inevitably want sex.

Kate
felt starved, shriveled. She was also terrified. If they kissed, everything
could change. His friendship was a lifeline she couldn’t risk losing.

He’d
once told her his wife was much younger than him. He was accustomed to touching
a young body with firm, soft skin. Kate knew she was an attractive woman—or, at
least, she had known when David was alive, but—

“Mac,
it’s the worst time for both of us.”

“I
know. Will you hold my hand?”

“There’s
clay on my hands.”

He
laughed, and suddenly it seemed a ridiculous fuss over nothing. When she held
out her hand, he grasped it firmly. His calluses held her clay-dried fingers as
they walked back to her house. They didn’t speak except to Socrates, who
waddled at the end of the leash Mac held.

When
he stopped at the bottom of Kate’s stairs, she felt her body tighten with a
mixture of anticipation and apprehension.

“I’ll
wait until you’re inside,” he said.

“Good-night,
Mac.”

As
she opened her door, she almost turned and asked him to come back tomorrow. She
didn’t, because she wasn’t sure she wanted to be trapped into a whole day with
him. She’d told the truth. It was too soon, but just holding hands with Mac,
she’d felt lighter than she had in a long time.

K
ate’s feet
felt for the floor even as she blinked the night’s sleep away. She probed for
the familiar unwillingness to rejoin the world, but the only thing she felt was
... alive.

If
she’d dreamed, she couldn’t remember. She’d gone to bed late, almost two in the
morning. Last night she’d haunted the Internet, searching for her father. And
she’d found him. On January 8, six years ago, 61-year-old June Stewardson died
in Vancouver, British Columbia. According to the newspaper archive she’d found,
June was survived by her 64-year-old husband Han.

Kate’s
parents had divorced over thirty years ago, but with the childish belief that
parents would never change, she’d been unprepared to learn he’d taken a new
wife.

He
might have children, too ... children who knew their father.

Great.
Now she was a jealous, abandoned child. Smarten up, Kate.

Time
to move on, say goodbye to childhood pain. She would either make an adult
relationship with her father, or she would let him go. He would be seventy now,
and if he hadn’t left British Columbia, he must still be alive—because she’d
searched that province’s death records thoroughly over the last few weeks.

The
Internet refused to spit out any information about a Han Stewardson who
currently lived in Vancouver, but if he’d been there six years ago, surely he
would have left a trail an investigator could follow? Sunday today, but
tomorrow she would contact an investigator in Canada. Mac had given her a list
from Darren Sampson, the president of Northern Lights. Dependable firms, Mac
said, who had got results for Northern Lights when they used them.

She
walked barefoot into the bathroom to shower and brush her teeth, then she drank
her orange juice standing in the kitchen. For the first time since she set the
goal of finding her father, she felt he might be within her reach.

She
picked up the telephone and dialed her mother. Evelyn answered on the fourth
ring.

“Oh.
Hello, Kate.” No welcome there. So she hadn’t been forgiven.

“Mom,
I thought I’d drop over for lunch tomorrow.”

“I
suppose that’s nice,” Evelyn said tonelessly, and Kate wondered if she would
find the door locked against her tomorrow.

“I’ve
just found out Dad was living in Canada six years ago. Tomorrow I’ll hire a
private investigator to follow the trail.”

“He’s
probably dead.”

“Don’t
you care at all, Mom? You were married.”

“Stop
it!”

“We’ll
talk about it tomorrow.” Kate pulled the telephone cord tight to the kitchen
wall. “I’ll bring lunch.”

She
heard the line disconnect as her mother hung up. She’d wanted to share the news
with someone, but why had she chosen the person who would react most
negatively?

Around
her, the house felt too quiet, as if it had spent the last nine months in the
country of death. She didn’t need her mother’s approval to contact her father;
and she had no real obligation to tell her mother if she found him.

“I’m
sick of running in old grooves,” she muttered. “I need change.”

She
tightened the towel around her breasts and paced through the rooms with
Socrates at her heels. It didn’t matter what she changed; she needed a symbol
to move herself out of the rut. The kitchen cupboards—they were only two years
old, a Christmas present from David. As for the picture over the dishwasher—two
cats playing with a bowl of fruit—Jennifer had given it to her for her fortieth
birthday years ago.

When
Kate prowled the living room, Socrates stopped on the hearthrug but didn’t lay
down. Sofa, two easy chairs, television, stereo, and three coffee tables. Over
the years, she’d arranged and rearranged the furniture, and the present setup
with the fireplace as the focus simply felt best.

“The
living room isn’t the problem,” she muttered, and Socrates turned and walked
into the corridor.

Would
Mac expect her at the construction site today? Perhaps, but she wasn’t ready to
think about Mac. Sooner or later she would decide whether to let their
relationship change. She knew the answer would be no, but she needed to come to
it slowly. Maybe she wanted a few days to pretend grief and loneliness could be
resolved by an inappropriate relationship with a younger man, but in the end,
she would do the sensible thing about Mac.

Meanwhile,
Socrates waited at the closed door to David’s study. When Kate closed her hand
on the knob, the dog grunted. Approval, or criticism?

She
pushed open the door.

Socrates
ambled into the room. She followed and stood beside the dog in front of David’s
desk. A fine layer of dust dimmed the glistening mahogany ... her neglect. The
bookshelves held both classics and histories of the Pacific Northwest. Kate
would never read them, but they belonged in David’s study.

She
walked to the love seat. How often had David sat here with students’ papers,
budget projections, or
Madrona Legacy
pages spread over the low coffee
table?

Socrates
made a sound, as if he’d blown a burst of air into his cheeks.

“I
don’t want to hear it,” muttered Kate, but he repeated the sound, more like a
belch this time.

“You’re
thinking that I’m spending more and more of my time out in the garage with old
boxes and spiders, when there’s a perfectly good room here.”

She’d
cleared out the garage to make a space for herself, had avoided David’s office
except to finish his work on the book. She would always hold David in her
heart, but this study wasn’t a symbol of love. It represented her inability to
let go.

The
time had come to make a change.

If
she moved her clay to this elegant study ...

This
study was David’s territory, not hers, and even now she felt like an intruder.
It would be sacrilege to play with mud among David’s books.

Socrates
turned his wrinkled face toward her.

“All
right, you don’t need to say it. If I were a client, I’d tell myself to get rid
of the shrine.”

The
air felt stale in here. She threw open the windows, but no breeze entered. She
should dust the desk and the bookcases. David’s desktop picture of Kate and
Jennifer showed laughing faces through a coat of dust. She should get the lemon
spray and polish both desk and bookcases.

But
this house was theirs—Kate’s and David’s—not hers alone. David’s dream house,
with no neighbors in sight. David didn’t want to live in town, and she accepted
the half hour commute every day, because her beloved husband waited in their
rural home.

But
half an hour home to an empty house made nonsense. She should look for a new
place, sell the house. The house fit David and Kate, but it probably didn’t fit
the solitary Kate. Once Mac finished the new home down the road, she’d be alone
up here.

Maybe
she could help Mac on the next project, but she felt panic at the thought of
chasing him to another job. When he worked down the road, she could pretend to
wander over casually. Once he left, she’d have no choice but to acknowledge her
isolation.

So
do something, Kate. Face reality.

Socrates
made another of those sounds.

“I
don’t know where to start.”

Right
here, in David’s room.

David’s
collection of regional history books, purchased because he couldn’t find what
he wanted in the library. He bought them and wove their words into his own
book.

“What
am I supposed to do? Put them in the garage to mildew, and bring my clay in
here?”

Socrates
said nothing.

All
right. So she’d donate David’s books to the library, or to the museum.

Socrates
lurched to his feet and walked out of the room.

David’s
image lingered in her mind as she yanked on jeans and a t-shirt. She found
mover’s boxes in the garage, collapsed and piled on a wide shelf. It took
longer than she expected to pack the books—three-hundred and fifty-four of
them, although she wasn’t sure why she counted. When she strapped up the last
box with packing tape and hauled it out to her car, the sun blazed high
overhead. She’d crammed three boxes into the trunk, and the rest fit in the
back seat of her car.