Cathryn

“Oh, please.” She dragged her gaze away from Tucker. “On top of being fat, I’m stupid, too. Stupid for not realizing Dylan was so bored and unhappy.”

“All right. That’s enough of that,” Tucker snapped. “You’re not stupid, Shortcake—except for calling yourself stupid.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you call a woman who doesn’t know her husband’s having an affair—for a whole year?”

“Maligned,” Tucker shot back angrily.

Cathryn bit her lip to keep it from trembling. Yes, she did feel maligned. Maligned and betrayed. When she thought about all the things she and Dylan had done and shared over the past year—the hundreds of meals and chores, the socializing with friends, the lovemaking—oh, especially that…

Tucker got up and set his empty beer bottle in the sink, his scowl still in place. “Is he coming back tonight?” he asked, staring out the darkened window. Not a glimmer of daylight remained.

Cathryn needed a moment before she could answer. “No.”

Tucker turned in hopeful surprise. “Did you toss him out?”

“No! Of course not. Dylan simply thought it would be better if he left. Otherwise, he said, the house would be too tense, the possibility of our arguing in front of the kids too great.”

Tucker’s narrowed eyes met hers. “Do you have any idea when he will be back?”

“To live?” She swallowed more brandy, welcoming its numbing bite. “No. I asked, but all he said was, he needs time to sort things out.”

“Things?”

“How he feels, I guess. If he wants to stay in the marriage.”

“Is he going to continue seeing the Anderson woman?”

“I don’t know that, either.” She’d been afraid to ask. Afraid, also, to inquire where he’d be sleeping tonight.

Tucker folded his arms and rested his hip against the counter. “What are you going to do about the kids?”

“Oh, God. My kids.” Cathryn braced her forehead on one hand and closed her eyes. “They’re going to fall apart when they hear about this.” Out of the blue she burst into tears. She didn’t want to cry. Crying was weak and dumb and humiliatingly messy. But thinking of her kids broke down every defense she had.

She felt something nudge her elbow—a box of tissues Tucker was pushing at her. She helped herself to several, and after a lengthy mop-up said, “Dylan’s coming by tomorrow afternoon to help me tell them. He promised he’d be here when they got off the school bus. I’m not quite sure what we’ll say or how we’ll say it…” She’d never in her life felt so lost, so vulnerable. “Do you have any suggestions, Tuck?”

“Me?” He stood up straight. “Hell, I’m so out of my element here.” He sighed heavily, shook his head and contemplated the problem. “I probably wouldn’t say anything about the affair. You’ll have to tell them eventually—assuming your separation continues; in such a tight community, they’re bound to hear something. Better from you than some kid at school. But not tomorrow. They’ll have enough to cope with as it is.”

Cathryn plucked another tissue from the box and pressed it to her eyes, fighting back a renewed surge of tears. She nodded. “Yes. Better to take small steps, move the kids through this in stages.”

“Also, whatever you do, make sure you and Dylan tell them you love them.”

“Of course.”

“And that you’ll always love them, no matter what.”

“Okay.”

“And you’ll always be there for them.”

“Okay.”

“And your problems are not their fault.”

She kept nodding, filing away his advice.

“Other than that,” he shrugged, “I don’t know what to say. Sorry.”

Cathryn gazed up at Tucker, standing at the table with his large, suntanned hands resting on the bowed back of a chair. She studied his hair, caught back in a low ponytail, his beard, his garnet earring, his belt buckle with its carving of an eagle in flight, gripping a rattlesnake in its talons. She saw a man who, in giving advice regarding her children, claimed to be out of his element.

He could’ve fooled her.

Just then Tucker’s stomach growled. Loudly. “Oh, Tuck, I just realized how late it is. Have you had dinner?”

TUCKER BACKED UP a step. Hell, he thought, she was going to offer him something to eat. And although he was hungry, he’d much rather eat alone at his uncle’s house where no one’s problems but his own existed to give him indigestion. But he couldn’t very well leave Cathryn in her current state.

“Not yet. Have you?”

“No. But I’m not hungry. Please let me get something for you, though. There’s leftover stroganoff in the fridge, and homemade chicken soup, and tons of stuff in the freezer. Hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza…”

“Pizza sounds good. Which freezer?”

“The chest.” She started to get up, swayed and gripped the table.

“I can get it. Frozen pizza is a bachelor’s specialty.” Tucker noticed she didn’t argue this time. She smiled feebly and sat.

Tucker opened the freezer and his mouth gaped. It was full of food, the kind of food he’d forgotten existed—roasts, pork chops, whole chickens, huge economy-size bags of vegetables, ice cream bars, homemade pies, gallons of milk. He didn’t even know milk could be frozen.

His aunt used to shop in bulk, too, stock up on the mainland a few times a year. He remembered the sense of security he’d felt looking into her storeroom, the sense of wealth, of provenance and self-sufficiency. Those feelings had been all new to him when he’d first arrived. Back in the Bronx, he’d often had nothing to eat at home and survived mostly by stealing.

He’d tried doing the same on Harmony, although he’d no longer had a need to. Stealing had just become a way of life. He’d gotten caught, of course. Here, proprietors recognized their customers and knew when stock had been tampered with.

He’d expected to be taken to the police station and then hauled off to juvie. But to his amazement, no one had prosecuted. Instead, they’d talked to him, helped him understand there was a different way to live. In exchange for his doing odd jobs, they’d given him spending money. Thus, he’d learned the value of working for a living; he’d learned decency and the true meaning of the phrase, “It takes a village…”

“Not the microwave!” Cathryn yowled. “That’ll make the pizza inedible!”

Tucker shrugged diffidently and moved to the stove. On the wall above the burners hung a plaque that read, Martha Stewart Doesn’t Live Here. But Cathryn McGrath Does!

With the pizza in the oven cooking properly, he turned and noticed Cathryn reaching for the bottle of brandy again. In three strides he arrived at the table and scooped the bottle away from her. “I think you should eat something. Drinking’s only going to give you new problems.” Hypocrite. If he’d been in Cathryn’s shoes, he’d already be passed out on the floor.

“Tuck, I can’t eat.” She did look kind of queasy.

“I know, it’s hard. You’re hurting pretty bad. But think of your kids, Shortcake. In the days ahead, they’re going to be hurting, too, and looking to you for comfort. To take care of them, you’ll have to be strong, and whether you want to face it or not, emotional strength and physical strength go hand-in-hand.” Tucker wasn’t at all sure he knew what he was talking about, but she seemed to buy it.

“Okay. Um…Soup, I guess.”

Tucker warmed a bowl of her homemade chicken soup—she conceded he could use the microwave for that—and set it on the table. “Eat slowly,” he admonished, donning a cow-shaped oven mitt before fetching his pizza.

Cathryn ate about half of her soup dutifully before sitting back and raising her hands in surrender. Tucker didn’t push the issue. He polished off his pizza with another of Dylan’s weak-as-piss beers, cleared the table and thought longingly again about going home. He needed to go home, needed to sit on the porch, clear his head in the cold night air and figure out how people became married, not separated.

But that would have to wait a little longer. While putting their plates in the dishwasher, he’d noticed Cathryn’s gaze drift toward the display of family photographs in the hutch, and there it remained.

“Cathryn?” he asked, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He wasn’t sure if the coordinated cloth towels were meant to be used.

She swallowed, turned and forced a teary smile. “Yes?”

“Are you still friendly with that redheaded girl? What was her name? Laura?”

The question surprised her and dried her tears. “Lauren?”

“Lauren. That’s it. Is she still around?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. She returned to Harmony just last year to buy her mother a house and ended up marrying her old boyfriend, Cameron Hathaway.”

Tucker, about to toss the wad of damp paper into the wastebasket, swung around in astonishment. “The kid who got her pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Why do you ask?”

Why? Because he needed help here. Because the situation was soon going to be more than he could handle. “Maybe we should call her, ask her to come over and stay with you.” Primarily he was thinking about getting Cathryn showered and put to bed. He’d watched her trying to stand a couple of times and knew she’d had too much brandy.

“Calling wouldn’t do any good,” Cathryn said, yawning widely. “Lauren and Cam went to Boston. They’re seeing Rent tonight. Not coming home till tomorrow.”

Tucker kept his curses silent. “How about your other friend, the one who used to do that show up at old man Finch’s crazy little radio station? She still around?”

It pleased him to see Cathryn smile. “Julia came back, too.” Her smile widened around another yawn. “Better watch out, Tuck. All she planned to do was attend a funeral, too, and she ended up marrying the editor of the island newspaper.”

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll remember to keep up my guard. In the meantime, do you know Julia’s phone number offhand?”

“Forget it. Jules now owns Preston Finch’s crazy little radio station and is presently, even as we speak, doing her show. She won’t be off the air until eleven.”

Tucker’s heart sank. He knew enough not to ask about the other classmate who’d been Cathryn’s friend. He’d heard about her death. “Looks like I’m IT again,” he muttered in an undertone.

Cathryn blinked at him groggily, uncertain if he’d spoken. She looked so tired, he was sure that if he walked out now she’d fall asleep right there, head on the table, soiled clothes still on her back. Not that the clothes really mattered. But she might tumble off the chair and hurt herself. At the very least she’d wake up with a stiff neck.

“Okay, Shortcake,” he said, clapping and rubbing his hands as if he were about to propose a great adventure. “How about we head to the bathroom and get cleaned up for bed.”

She blinked again, her eyes widening with sudden alertness.

“I mean you,” he said quickly. “You get ready for bed. I’ll just be close by if you need help.”

Her face flushed a deep pink. “Thank you, but you’ve done more than enough already. You should go home.” Bracing on the arms of the chair, she pushed herself to her feet, and the color in her cheeks drained to ash.

Tucker flew around the table and supported her, one arm around her back, one under her elbow.

After a moment, she said, “I’m okay.”

“Great. I’ll hang on to you, then.” That earned him a gratifying chuckle—and compliance.

He escorted her through the living room, up the stairs to the bedroom she’d shared until now with Dylan. An oil portrait of them, twelve years younger and resplendent in wedding gear, hung over one of the washed-oak dressers. Ever so slowly, she gathered up her nightgown, slippers and robe. Tucker remained at her elbow, urging her onward whenever her path crossed an item of Dylan’s.

At last, he shuffled her into the adjoining bathroom, sat her on a brass vanity stool and removed her shoes.

“Tucker,” she protested, obviously embarrassed.

“That’s all. You can do the rest.” He stepped to the tub and slid open the glass shower door, moved some towels closer and spread a mat on the floor.

“Tucker,” she said on an exasperated chuckle. “I’m just tired and a bit tipsy. I haven’t been lobotomized.” She rose and pushed him out of the bathroom with surprising vigor. “Go home!” she ordered, shutting the door.

“Okay, see ya,” he called back, dropping into a comfy-looking reading chair. The last thing he wanted was for her to slip and crack her head and be lying in there all night, alone and helpless.

His gaze roamed the room. It looked like something out of a J.C. Penney catalogue. Thick flowered comforter, matching curtains and table skirt and wall border. About thirty-two pillows on the bed…

Tucker’s gaze drifted to the wedding portrait again. Dylan was a handsome guy, he couldn’t deny that. But Tucker had gotten his number when they were still just kids. Although Dylan was a year younger than him, they’d shared a few mixed-grade classes, and Tucker had seen him cheating on tests. Later, he’d caught him cheating at cards. And there, standing beside the double-dealing bastard, was the straightest arrow Tuck had ever come across. Sincere, ingenuous Cathryn. Blind, gullible Cathryn.

Suddenly, the door to the bathroom opened revealing pink, naked Cathryn.

Cathryn screamed and ducked back into the steam. Wincing, Tucker eased to his feet with thoughts of tiptoeing out of the room. As if that would erase what had just happened.

“Tucker!” she wailed from behind the closed door. “You said you were leaving.”

“I lied.”

“No kidding.”

The door opened again. She was bundled in flannel from chin to toe. Her wet hair, combed straight and sleek, framed a face that blazed.

“I’m sorry,” Tucker sputtered, embarrassed too. “I didn’t think.”

“Oh…” She flapped an arm as if to finish her statement. “It’s all right. With the beating my pride took today…” The sentence trailed off to another arm flap.

“Would you like some hot milk?”

She grimaced. “No. Please. Just my bed, although I doubt I’ll sleep. My mind keeps racing.”

“Well, at least give it a try. Remember, you have to be strong for the kids.”

Tucker regretted taking that approach. Her expression filled with sadness. Still, she nodded and said, “You’re right.”

“I’m always right. Now, hit the sack, lady.”

Cathryn climbed onto the bed on all fours, batting away pillows until only two remained. Real pillows. Then she flopped face forward into one of them. “Good night,” she said, her words severely muffled.

Tucker tugged the comforter down, pulling it under her, until it cleared her slippered feet, then covered her with it and sat on the edge of the bed.

She turned her head and said, “Go home.”

He smiled and placed his hand on her head. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” he said, lightly stroking her wet hair. “I’ll leave in the morning.”

Cathryn swallowed, pressed a bunched hand to her mouth, and tears glistened along the lashes of her closed eyes. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He could get up now, he realized. He could go downstairs and have another beer and watch TV. But he sat awhile longer, stroking her hair and wishing he could say everything was going to be all right. But he couldn’t. All he could say was, “I’ll be here,” because his instincts were telling him that nothing was going to be right in Cathryn’s world for a very long time.

CHAPTER FOUR

CATHRYN WOKE to the familiar sound of a cupboard door slamming. She sat up in alarm and glanced at the bedside clock. Oh, God, she’d overslept. Only fifteen minutes until the school bus came. Had the kids gotten up on their own? Made their own breakfast? Was Dylan up with them?

Her gaze shot to his pillow, his perfectly plumped pillow, and suddenly, painfully, reality came flooding back. No, her husband was not downstairs. He was gone. He’d left her for another woman. Cathryn toppled sideways onto his cool forsaken pillow, choking back a cry.

But there it was again, the thump of a cupboard door, and as suddenly as she’d remembered Dylan’s betrayal, she remembered Tucker Lang. Tucker was here. He’d been here all night.

In a flash of agitation, Cathryn threw back the comforter and swung her feet to the floor. Ow! Her ribs ached from vomiting, and her head throbbed. Slowing her movements, she scanned the room for her bathrobe. Oh. Right. She was wearing it. Her slippers, too. She’d put them on last night after her shower.

No, not after her shower, she remembered, wincing. After she’d waltzed out of the bathroom wearing nothing but her certainty that Tucker had gone. Cathryn buried her face in her hands and moaned, suffering every bit of the embarrassment that had eluded her last night.

But then, another recollection hit her: today she and Dylan had to tell the children he’d moved out. And suddenly her embarrassment seemed trite and disappeared under an onslaught of dread and anxiety. How would the kids cope with the news? How would she cope with telling them? And why should they have to cope with any of this, anyway? That was the question. She still didn’t understand why this was happening to them. Separations happened to other people, not to her and Dylan.

Forcing herself past her desire to crawl back under the covers and hide forever, she got to her feet and headed into the bathroom—and then wished she hadn’t. Under the bright vanity lights, her eyes looked like puffballs, her cheeks held all the color of oatmeal, and her hair, wet when she’d gone to sleep, had dried crazily, flat here, bent there, a veritable 3-D Rorschach inkblot test.

Feeling defeated before she even began, she picked up her hairbrush, pulled it through the mess a few times and fastened it with an elastic. That done, she stared at the faucet awhile but lacked the energy to wash her face. She walked back to the bedroom, tugged on jeans and a sweatshirt and went downstairs.

“Good morning,” she said, stepping into the kitchen. Despite her smile and determinedly straight posture, she felt fragile, like a glass mercury ball filled with sorrow just waiting to be spilled.

Tucker spun around from his perusal of the refrigerator’s contents. “Oh, hey! I hope I didn’t wake you?” His dark gaze swept over her warily, as if trying to assess yesterday’s damage and today’s mood.

“No, actually I overslept.” This was just too weird, having big, bad Tucker Lang in her kitchen first thing in the morning. He’d apparently showered. His hair was damp and, like hers, caught back at his nape. Sadly, she noticed, the style looked better on him.

“Coffee! Oh, bless you.” Cathryn hurried toward the coffeemaker.

“Do you feel up to eating something?” he asked, carrying a carton of eggs to the counter.

Grimacing and shivering, she shook her head. That earned her a growl of reprimand. “Maybe I’ll have a piece of toast,” she said. Somewhat mollified, Tucker continued preparing his own breakfast.

Their conversation was subdued as they ate, and focused mainly on chores Tucker needed to tackle that day. She hadn’t realized there was so much to do. Had he mentioned any of it last night? Locked inside her own misery, she’d paid so little attention to him.

He probably thought he was doing her a favor by steering the conversation clear of her problems, but his thoughtfulness only ended up burdening her with one more: guilt for having cut so deeply into his valuable time.

With the last bite of his three-egg omelet consumed, Cathryn insisted he be on his way. But he merely poured himself another cup of coffee and said, “Not until we get Julia or somebody else over here to stay with you.”

“That isn’t necessary. I’m fine. Besides, it won’t be long before Dylan arrives.”

Tucker shot her an impatient look over the rim of his coffee mug. “That could be five, six hours from now. Company will make the time go faster.”

“No. Please. I…” She decided to be honest. “I really can’t face anyone yet. Not even close friends. Especially them.”

Tucker tipped his head so that a shaft of winter sunlight fell across his face. “Pride, Shortcake? Is that what I’m hearing?”

She thought a moment. “Maybe. Everyone thinks of me and Dylan as an ideal couple, an institution practically. Solid as Gibraltar. Always here, year in, year out. They’re going to be shocked and disillusioned and full of questions, and, quite frankly, I have enough to cope with today.”

“Oh. It never occurred to me that friends might be more of a problem than a help.”

“Today they would be, when everything is still so raw and in transition and hard to explain. Plus, this is a private matter between me and Dylan.” After a heartbeat she added, “And the kids. We still have to tell the kids. I wouldn’t feel right talking to outsiders before talking to them.”

Rubbing his jaw, Tucker appeared thoughtful, a wry arch to his left eyebrow. “That puts me in kind of an awkward position, don’t you think?”

Cathryn bit her lip. “I really am sorry you got caught up in this, Tucker.”

Sighing, he shrugged. “Not your fault. You told me to shove off a number of times.”

“Yes, I did.” She attempted a smile, but it faded quickly. “You will keep this under your hat, won’t you?”

“Goes without saying.”

“Thanks. The gossip will start circulating soon enough. No need to prime the pump.” Struck by a vision of her beleaguered life in the very near future, she slumped forward, moaning, and rested her forehead on her arms.

“Is that how you want your kids to find you?” Tucker chided sternly. “Is that how you intend to be strong for them?”

She popped up. “I’m okay.”

His look sharpened, made all the more fierce by the sunlight slashing across his dark eyes.

“Honestly,” she assured him. “Now, unless you’re still hungry, can I finally convince you to leave?”

“What’ll you do here all alone?”

“Oh, I have plenty to keep me occupied. Laundry. Vacuuming. A sewing project. Some calls to make for the PTO.” Noticing Tucker’s frown, she explained, “Parent-Teacher Organization.”

“Well…” Tucker glanced at his jacket hooked on the neighboring chair. Not a biker jacket, but black leather nonetheless. “I really do have to get moving.”

“Then move.” Cathryn got up, came around to his side of the table and lifted the jacket. “Let’s go, Lang. I’m throwing you out. Enough’s enough.”

Smiling his dimpled smile, he hauled himself to his feet and took the jacket from her.

“How much longer will you be on Harmony?” she asked, walking him to the front door.

“Four, maybe five days.” He pulled a pair of leather gloves from his pocket.

“Well, don’t leave without saying goodbye.”

“I won’t.” He opened the door and surveyed the hoary, frozen lawn through the glass storm door.

“I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done.”

He shrugged negligently. “Buy me a beer someday, when this all blows over.”

“I will. Maybe even two.” If this ever does blow over.

His gaze connected with hers. “Hang in.”

Lips pressed hard, she nodded. “I’ll try.”

“And good luck with the kids. Remember to tell them you love them and the separation isn’t their fault.”

She nodded again, unable to speak for the emotions clogging her throat, not least of which was gratitude toward this man who’d come to her door merely to return a coffee urn and ended up helping her through a night she would’ve been ashamed to share with a dog. She felt she owed him more than a thank-you, or a beer, but what? A hug? Too awkward. A promise to return the favor someday? Tucker never needed help. Before he left she really should find some way to express her appreciation.

Tucker opened the storm door, and a wall of thirty-degree air shocked her out of her musing. “Take care, Shortcake,” he said with a wink and stepped outside. She watched him stride down the path, leather jacket creaking, black ponytail gleaming in the morning sun, an incongruous figure if ever she saw one.

“You too,” she called back belatedly. And perhaps because she felt so indebted to him, she waited, shivering, until he drove away before closing the door.