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“He said it just…happened.”
“It just happened?”
“Yes.” Cathryn reached for the brandy bottle and poured another dose into her glass. “That’s what he said, at first anyway. But I guess I kept after him, and eventually he got so angry he began to admit things he’d never intended to.” She had to pause until the anguish gripping her released some of its hold. “Apparently Dylan’s been unhappy with me for some time.”
“With you?” Wide-eyed, Tucker looked ready to go ten rounds with her statement.
She nodded. “He said I ignore his needs. I spend all my time tending to the house and the kids.”
Tucker laughed sarcastically. “Aw, poor baby.”
Cathryn raised a hand. “No, he’s right. I have become too absorbed with homemaking and the kids’ activities. I have become complacent about us, Dylan and me.” Complacent was Dylan’s word, though. She’d always thought in terms of contentment, and it hurt more than she could express that he didn’t feel similarly contented.
Cathryn blinked her burning eyes, battling tears, as she recalled the myriad complaints Dylan had registered with her that afternoon, each one an arrow straight to the heart.
“The son of a bitch,” Tucker rasped. “He’s caught having an affair and he turns on you? You should be outraged.”
Cathryn swallowed, trying to loosen the knot in her throat. “I would be, except that much of what he said is true, and I’m not surprised he turned to another woman.”
“Would you explain that to me, please?”
“Well, you know…” She cast about for something she could say that wouldn’t lead to a discussion of sex. “The way I’ve let myself go, for instance.”
“Did he accuse you of that, too?”
“Well, look at me, Tucker. I’m not exactly the girl Dylan married twelve years ago.”
“That’s right. You’ve improved.”
“Ha! I’m a big, worthless hunk of fat.”
Tucker sat forward, scowling with the fierceness of a lion. “Okay. So you’ve put on some weight, but you’re hardly fat. To be honest, I kinda like you this way. Holding you, a guy knows he has a woman in his arms.”
“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…
