25

VIENNA

EACH TIME CLAIRE RAISED her eyes from the papers on her desk, the office swirled around her and the windows danced momentarily on the wall before snapping into place again. She couldn’t shake this grogginess. Sleep had been fitful the night before, for both her and Jon, and they had spoken little on the drive into work. Were they both simply exhausted, or did he feel as she did—that once she’d told him she wanted to continue her friendship with Randy, there was little else to be said? He’d stroked her shoulder in the car this morning and rested his hand on hers, and she’d felt the sadness in his quiet touch, a strange sense of resignation that brought tears to her eyes. Jon was in pain, and she couldn’t bear that she was the cause of it.

At ten o’clock, she had her third cup of coffee and met with two of the rehab therapists, Kelley Fielding and Ann Short, to talk about a problematic patient they shared. Kelley was much improved in dealing with her male patients. Her new sense of confidence was evident, and she practically carried the meeting by herself, which was just as well, since Claire’s concentration was nonexistent.

Claire spent much of the meeting pondering her choices. She tried to imagine her life without Randy in it. It would be like cutting off her air supply. Cut the theatrics, she told herself. You have a wonderful husband and an incredible life and no financial problems and

what the hell more do you want? Maybe Jon was right, and the memories would die a natural death if Randy were no longer around to stir them up in her. Maybe she could go back to the woman she used to be—the pre-Margot woman who could turn every problem into a challenge, every tense situation into a festival. Then again, maybe not. It was hard to imagine feeling good again. She never felt happy anymore, never content or at ease with herself. It was as if she were passing through a long hallway, and she had seen too much behind the doors to go back again unchanged. Randy held the key to the last door, but Jon sat in the center of the hall, his chair too big for her to circumvent without injury to herself or to him.

And what would her life be like without Jon in it? Unthinkable. Unbearable.

At noon, she carried their lunches into Jon’s office. He looked surprised to see her as he raised his eyes from his work.

“Can I come in?” she asked.

“Of course.” He moved his papers to the side of the desk and took the bag she held out to him. They were quiet as they poured bottles of apple juice into Styrofoam cups and opened their bowls of salad.

Jon squeezed a packet of dressing onto his salad and glanced at her. “Margaret’s accepted our invitation to be keynote speaker at the retreat,” he said.

“Fantastic.” She didn’t care who spoke. She didn’t care if anyone spoke at all. In years past, the SCI Retreat had consumed them both. This year, it seemed like an event in someone else’s tiresome dream.

“I’ve made a decision,” she said.

Jon raised his eyebrows. “About?”

“I won’t see Randy anymore.” She looked at him. “I’ll go to his restaurant this afternoon to tell him in person, but that will be it. I’ll try very hard to put this past month or so behind me, and I’ll think of some things we can do for fun. And plan a vacation, if you still want to do that. I love you, Jon. I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult lately.”

Jon set down his fork. He wheeled his chair over to the door and shut it, then reached toward her. “Come here,” he said.

She stood up and let him pull her onto his lap. Silently, he buried his head against her shoulder, and she felt his relief and his love. She held him close, struggling to share those emotions with him, but a numbness quickly settled over her.

Finally, he spoke. “How can I help you?” he asked.

“Be patient with me,” she said. “I’m hoping the crazy little flashbacks will go away when Randy goes away, like you said.”

“And if they don’t, Claire, you could see a therapist.”

“Maybe.” She supposed that would be the next logical step, but she couldn’t imagine trying to sift through those images with anyone other than Randy.

Jon rested his hand on her knee above the wool of her skirt. “You know,” he said slowly, “you’re supposed to be a professional counselor, but I don’t think you’ve ever really looked at yourself.”

His words made her prickly. She got off his lap and took her seat by his desk again. “I’ve been in therapy before,” she said.

“Yes, I know. But that was to learn how to deal with a disabled husband or cope with an adolescent daughter. You’ve never really looked at Claire.”

She replaced the lid on her uneaten salad as he spoke, and by the time he was finished, she’d stood up. “I don’t think I want to look at Claire right now.” The angry tone in her voice startled her. Jon shouldn’t want her to look at Claire, either. She might just discover that Claire was a little resentful, that she felt coerced into giving up something she wanted because Jon couldn’t handle it. “I’m going to put on my happy face again—I’ve always been great at that, right? And then we can both pretend that none of this ever happened.”

There was a red blotch on Jon’s neck, and his hands were tight, white-knuckled, on the wheels of his chair. Claire slipped past him and pulled open the door. She walked through the maze of hallways, quickly, so that no one would think she had time to talk.

In her own office, she sat down and rested her head and arms on her desk. Well, that hadn’t gone quite the way she’d planned. Jon was right. The times she’d been in therapy, she’d made sure to let the therapist know that she was all right—it was the people around her who merited her concern. I am very happy. I have a wonderful, perfect marriage. My husband is sweet and generous and loving; my child is bright and beautiful. A little on the feisty side, but I’m glad she has that spirit. My childhood? I was surrounded by love and laughter. Two different therapists had bought it. That’s how convincing she had been, how deeply she’d believed the words herself at the time. She didn’t believe them any longer.

She had plenty of work to do, but she left the foundation without finishing her lunch and drove to the Fishmonger in Arlington.

The small parking lot was full, and she had to leave her car two blocks away. She unbuttoned her coat as she walked toward the restaurant, trying not to think too much about what she would say when she got there. She would let her words come out unrehearsed. Inside the crowded restaurant, she was greeted by the smell of fresh fish and lemon and mesquite. Knowing Randy and his taste for antiques and order, she was surprised by the rustic trappings of his restaurant. The wood ceiling was crossed with thick beams, and the tables were made of heavy rough-hewn wood. She couldn’t picture him selecting the colorful paintings of tropical fish that hung on the walls.

The hostess, an attractive, dark-haired woman in her thirties, greeted Claire with a smile. “One?” she asked.

“I’m not here to eat,” Claire said. “I’m looking for Randy Donovan.”

“He’s in his office. Who shall I say is looking for him?”

“Claire Harte-Mathias.”

“Oh, you’re Claire.” The hostess set down the menus and shook Claire’s hand with a grin. “We owe you.”

“What do you mean?”

With her hand on Claire’s arm, the hostess gently guided her away from the door, out of hearing range of other customers.

“Randy’s been depressed ever since his marriage broke up. He’d come into work and mope around and not talk to anyone,” she said. “He was so miserable that we all worried about him. Since he’s been seeing you, he’s been a different guy. He actually seems happier than he did when his marriage was okay. He’s a lot more fun to work with now.”

Claire forced a smile, taken aback by the phrase “since he’s been seeing you,” as though they were dating. “Could you tell him I’m here, please?”

“Sure will.” The hostess walked to the rear of the restaurant and disappeared through a doorway. In a moment, she stepped back into the room, waving for Claire to join her. “Right through there.” She pointed down the short hall.

Randy appeared at a door on the left, wearing a surprised smile. “Come in,” he said.

Claire walked into a small cubicle and was suddenly surrounded by the dark antiques and paintings Randy loved. An enormous mahogany desk dominated the little office. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, and three Windsor chairs filled the remaining space. A thin spiral of steam rose from the cup of beige coffee on his desk. His unlit pipe rested next to the cup, and the soft, sweet smell of his tobacco enveloped her. She felt quick tears form in her eyes. It had been a mistake to come here. She should have told him by phone.

Randy shut the door and sat down behind the broad, gleaming desk, gesturing toward one of the chairs opposite him. She sat down herself, and he gave her a grin. “What a nice surprise,” he said.

She drew in a breath. “I had to talk to you and didn’t want to do it over the phone.” She clutched her purse on her lap. “I can’t see you anymore, Randy.”

His smile faded, and he leaned toward her. “Why? Was it the kiss? I knew that was a mistake the minute I—”

She shook her head to stop him. “That’s not it,” she said. “It’s Jon. And it’s me. You were right to be upset that I lied to him. And I would have to keep lying to him to see you, because he feels threatened by you.” She grimaced, lowering her eyes. She didn’t want to make Jon look small or petty.

“Oh.” Randy pressed his lips together. Then suddenly, he leaned forward in his chair, speaking quickly. “Well, first, let me say that you’re right. I mean, you’re making the right decision here. I admire you for it. But I sure as hell don’t like it. And I…” He gave his coffee cup a little shove with the tips of his fingers, shaking his head. “I was getting in a little too deep, I think. Christ, I told you something I’ve never told anyone, something horrible, and…That’s not it, is it?” He interrupted himself. “Is that why you don’t want to see me? Because of what I did on the bridge?”

“Oh, no.” She felt a wave of guilt. He had taken a risk by telling her his secret, and now she was discarding him. “I was happy you could tell me what really happened.”

Randy ran the tips of his fingers up the side of the cup. “For the last few days or so, I knew that what I was feeling for you wasn’t what I should be feeling.” There was color in his cheeks above his beard, as if he’d just stepped in from the cold, and he seemed unable to look at her directly. “When LuAnne ran off with…her boyfriend, I made a deal with myself that I’d never get into that position,” he said. “I’d never do to some other guy what that bastard was doing to me. And as I started…caring about you, I tried not to think about Jon. Or maybe I did think about him—about what I could give you that he couldn’t.”

Yes, she thought, remembering Randy’s patient questioning about her memories. But Randy was probably referring to activities of a more physical nature. Like dancing. Or sex.

“You’re right,” she said. “And I’d be doing to Jon what LuAnne did to you.”

He shook his head again. “I hadn’t reached out to anyone in so long,” he said. “You made it so easy. And you’re right to pull back, because the truth is, it doesn’t feel like a simple friendship to me anymore. When I kissed you last night…Well, that was an accident. But if we’re together, it would happen again, or at least I would want it to. I don’t think I could be with you and not touch you, Claire. All I could think about after I left you last night was having you in my bed, making love to you.”

His words took her by surprise. She knotted her hands together above her purse, pressing her fingers against one another until they hurt. She could feel the keen edge of her own need, although it was not the sort of physical desire he was referring to. Her need went deeper than that. She wanted to hold him, to be held, safe and warm and shielded from the rest of the world while she talked about the things that haunted her.

“I think I was falling in love with you,” he said.

She studied his handsome face, the color still mottling his cheeks. “Well,” she said softly, “I think our relationship was very important to both of us, but for different reasons. I loved you practically from the moment I met you. I don’t mean a romantic sort of love. But you felt so comfortable and…somehow familiar to me. It was as though I’d discovered a brother I’d never known I had.”

“Oh.” Randy’s smile was rueful. “I guess it’s best we part ways then, Claire, ‘cause I sure wasn’t thinking of you as a sister.”

She looked down at her purse, played with the clasp.

“What about the flashbacks you’ve been having?” Randy asked. “The memories?”

“I’m going to try to put them behind me,” she said. “Go back to being the person I used to be.”

“Ah, right.” He suddenly broke into song. “Life is a carousel, old chum,” he sang, his deep voice filling the room with the altered lyrics.

“Oh, Randy.” Claire leaned on his desk, frustrated. “I felt like I was getting close to something important. It scared the shit out of me, but I think I was really gaining on it.”

“I think you were, too. And maybe someday you’ll be ready to meet it head-on and kick it in the teeth.”

There was a knock on his door. The hostess opened it enough to peek inside.

“Sorry to interrupt, Randy,” she said, “but you’re needed in the kitchen.”

Randy nodded, and Claire stood up reluctantly as the hostess closed the door again.

Randy stood too but remained behind his desk. “I’ll miss you,” he said.

“And I’ll miss you.” She reached for the doorknob.

“Jon is a lucky son of a bitch.”

She gave him a lifeless smile. “Thanks,” she said, then turned to leave the office.

Outside the restaurant, she walked toward her car, the cool air nipping at her face.

Mrs. Rustadt.

She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. The image was startlingly vivid. The woman was bending over a desk, helping a child with his work. Her fifth-grade teacher. Gray hair. Thick glasses. She’d wear the same dress for five days in a row. And she’d gotten angry—furious at Claire once for sharpening her pencils during quiet time.

Claire wanted to run back to the restaurant to tell Randy she’d remembered one of her teachers. He would be pleased, ask her questions, draw her out. But it wouldn’t be fair to him—not fair to either of them—and so she forced the memory to the back of her mind and continued walking toward her car.