Coming Home (43 page)

He stewed as he drove across town and checked out of the hotel
he’d never even slept in.  How the hell was he going to work this out?  He had
to be back in Los Angeles tomorrow.  He was so tired of obligations.  Maybe it
was time to chuck it all.  Grab the money and run.  Take Casey and move to
Anchorage.  They could live in an igloo and keep each other warm through the
long, cold winter nights.

When he returned, he found Casey alone in the kitchen, elbow-deep
in soapsuds.  Whenever she didn’t know what to do with herself, the woman
washed dishes.  “Where’s Rob?” he said grimly.

She turned in surprise at his tone of voice.  “He went back to his
mother’s,” she said.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.  I need to talk to you, and I only have a few
minutes.  I have to fly back to California.  I’d rather stay here with you, but
I have commitments I can’t back out of.”

She dried her hands on a kitchen towel and circled her arms around
his waist.  “It’s all right,” she said.  “I understand.”

He brushed a strand of hair away from her face.  “I’ll be back on
Friday,” he said.  “I thought we could drive up to Maine and go house hunting.”

“I’ll call Dad and tell him we’re coming.”

He studied her face.  Cleared his throat.  “Can I ask you a
question without blowing the roof off the place?”

“Of course.”  She looked puzzled.  “What is it?”

He took a deep breath.  “Are you and Rob having an affair?”

“Are we
what
?”  The look of astonishment on her face was
genuine.  “Where did you get an idea like that?”

“The way he wasn’t looking at you this morning.  What the two of
you said.  Mostly what you didn’t say.”  He hesitated, then added grimly, “What
he said to me before you got here.”

She opened her mouth.  Closed it.  “Rob and I are not having an
affair,” she said.  “You’re the only man I’ve ever slept with.”

It wasn’t quite the answer he’d been seeking.  Not
you’re the
only man I’ve ever loved,
but
you’re the only man I’ve ever slept with
. 
Not all affairs involved the body.  Some only involved the heart.  “What on
earth did he say to you?” she asked.

“He read me the riot act.  Told me how lucky I was to have you and
threatened to rip out my throat if I screwed up.”

She smiled ruefully.  “He does have a tendency to be
overprotective, doesn’t he?”

He scowled.  “Overprotective, my ass.  The man’s in love with
you.”

She stepped away from him and returned to her sinkful of dishes. 
“Bullfeathers,” she said.  “You’re having pipe dreams.  Rob is my dearest
friend.  He and I have already covered this ground.  We both know exactly where
we stand, and we’re both comfortable with our relationship, just the way it
is.  You’re being paranoid.”

Something hard and unpleasant settled into the pit of his
stomach.  “I don’t suppose you’d like to clarify what
already covered this
ground
means?”

She rinsed a plate and wedged it neatly into the plastic drainer
on the sideboard.  “That’s between Rob and me,” she said, “and it’s none of
your business.”

He gaped at her in disbelief.  “None of my business?” he
repeated.  “I’m your husband, for Christ’s sake!”

“Yes, you are my husband,” she said with maddening calm.  “And
he’s my friend.  He doesn’t ask for intimate details of my relationship with
you.  I’d appreciate you according us the same respect.”

Casey wandered through the empty rooms of the deserted farmhouse,
trying to get the feel of the place.  There was something about it, something
she couldn’t put her finger on, that she found immensely appealing.

“Lathes and plaster,” Helen Goldman, the real estate agent, was
saying.  “You don’t see much of that any more.”

Casey entered the kitchen.  It was a bright room on the north side
of the house, a room where she immediately felt at home.  She could picture a
jungle of green plants growing in the windows.

Mrs. Goldman’s voice followed her.  “The former owner closed off
these fireplaces for practical reasons, but they could be reopened easily.”

She could hear the low murmur of voices from the cellar, but Danny
and Jesse were too far away for her to hear what they were saying.  She opened
a cupboard door, and the hinge squeaked.

Helen Goldman followed her into the kitchen.  Briskly, she said,
“You have to realize that the place has been empty for some time.  Try to
picture it without the cobwebs and the rodent droppings.”  She paused.  “I can
give you the name of a good exterminator.”

Casey heard the heavy tread of footsteps on the cellar stairs,
then Danny came into the kitchen, wiping his hands on his jeans.  “The furnace
is fairly new,” he said, “and the foundation seems to be sound.”

“You won’t find anything like it at this price,” Mrs. Goldman
said.  “With a little work and a fresh coat of paint, it can be turned into a
showplace.”

Casey looked dubiously at Danny, read his eyes.  “My wife and I
will talk it over,” he told Helen Goldman.  “We’ll call you tomorrow.”  But
Casey knew he’d already made up his mind.

On the ride back to her father’s house, he was already talking
about what he could do with the place.  “Sweetheart,” she said gently, “I hate
to be a wet blanket, but do you realize how much work is involved?  The place
is a disaster.”

“I’m not afraid of work.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.  It can take a long time to restore an
old house.  You may get very tired of it before it’s finished.”

“I need something to do with my hands.  And Jesse’s offered to
help.”

She raised an eyebrow.  “Then you’re planning to do the work
yourself?”

“Of course.  What did you think?”

“I think, my love, that it’s a very ambitious undertaking for a
guy who doesn’t know an allen wrench from a monkey wrench.”

“Hey, Jess, do you think she’s casting aspersions on my city
upbringing?”

Jesse signaled for a left turn.  “It sure does sound like it,” he
said.

“That’s hitting below the belt, lady.  I spent two years in the
Army—”

“Where you learned everything you always wanted to know about
plumbing, but were afraid to ask.”

“What I learned,” he said, “is that I’ve already been to hell. 
And after hell, anything else is a piece of cake.”

Six weeks later, they closed on the property and began the
gargantuan task of making the house livable.  Once the exterminator had done
his thing, they started cleaning.  The floors, the woodwork, the kitchen
counters, the bathroom fixtures, all had to be disinfected, and Casey scrubbed
until her knuckles bled.  The pipes were old and rusty, and until they could be
replaced, she and Danny carried their drinking water from her father’s place. 
They had insulation blown in, replaced both toilets, discovered in the upstairs
bath a handsome antique claw-foot tub that some enterprising soul had boxed in
with plywood.  

Life that summer fell into a routine, slow and easy and
comfortable.  Mornings, as the sun peered over the horizon, she ran her six
miles to the tune of birdsong.  By the time she got back, Danny was up and
Jesse had arrived and the two men were already at work, hammering and sawing,
tearing at the plumbing, rerouting ancient wiring and installing new fixtures. 
With the help of her nephew Mikey and a couple of his prepubescent friends,
Casey sanded and refinished hardwood floors, replastered walls, painted
woodwork and ceilings, hung wallpaper.  To Danny’s everlasting horror, when
they got to the roof, she climbed the ladder and straddled the ridgepole and
nailed shingles with unerring accuracy.  And then she and Mikey spent two
backbreaking weeks scraping the clapboards in preparation for painting.

She grew strong and wiry and tanned, amazed by her self-efficacy,
proud of the new skills she’d learned.  And one rainy afternoon, when Danny had
gone with Jess to Farmington to pick up some gadget that Mason’s Hardware
didn’t carry, she drove into town, to Shelley’s Cut ‘n Curl, and had Shelley
Mainwaring cut off the hair she’d worn hanging to her waist since seventh
grade.  Shelley shortened it to just above the collar, layered in the back,
rounding to a modified ducktail, with wispy bangs in front.  The cut gave her a
waiflike look, emphasizing her cheekbones and magnifying the size of her eyes. 
Casey stared in stunned amazement at the total stranger who stared back at her
from Shelley’s mirror.  She would probably have to pick Danny up off the floor
and revive him, but the deed was done, and she felt twenty pounds lighter.

Danny’s mouth fell open when he saw her, and he turned slightly
green.  Even Jesse looked stunned, but both men knew better than to say
anything negative.  She knew that for some inexplicable reason, men had a
tendency to build erotic fantasies around long hair.  But it was her body, her
decision, and she was comfortable with it.  Danny would have to live with it.

And he did.  She knew he wasn’t happy about it, but he respected
her decision.  They were different people than they’d been before, their
relationship in transition.  They were feeling their way now, step by torturous
step.  Slowly, painfully, she was learning that her own needs were as important
as his.  And slowly, painfully, he was learning that he couldn’t always think
of himself first.  They were refining themselves, smoothing rough edges, making
adjustments and improvements to the solid core already inside each of them. 
The result was a contentment that would have been perfect if not for the
inescapable, gnawing feeling inside her that something was missing from her
life.

It struck her at odd times, this sensation of unmet need, and she
puzzled over what could be lacking.  There was an empty spot inside her that
was clamoring to be filled, only she had no idea how to fill it.  She toyed
with the idea of going back to school.  Adopting a baby.  Taking up ceramics,
or carpentry.  Getting a job.  But none of these came near to quelling the
restlessness that had taken hold of her.

When she and Mikey finished scraping the house, she took him to
Boston for a week as payment for his hours of hard work.  They saw the sea lion
show at the Aquarium, climbed Bunker Hill, gazed out at the world from the top
of the Pru.  Spent an entire day at the Museum of Science.  Ate
dim sum
in Chinatown, attended a Red Sox game, saw a Bryan Adams concert at the
Garden. 

She pampered and spoiled him, sparing no expense, and with typical
twelve-year-old fervor, he wore her out.  She’d always adored her nephew, and
she loved every exhausting minute.  But the high point of her week was the
afternoon she spent in Mary MacKenzie’s back yard, drinking iced tea with Mary
and Rose and looking at faded family photos while Mikey roller-skated out front
with Rose’s boy, Luke, who was also twelve, and a holy terror. 

She returned to a house that was barely recognizable.  While she’d
been away, Danny and Jess had begun painting the old Gothic Revival the warm
cream color that she had picked out.  The shutters, freshly painted Wedgwood
blue, leaned against the side of the barn.  Danny meandered over to the car,
shirtless, paint-spattered and deeply tanned, and leaned in the open window to
kiss her.  “So, Mrs. Fiore,” he said, “what do you think?”

She toyed with a strand of his hair.  “I think, Mr. Fiore, that
you look good enough to eat.”

He hunkered down beside the car so they were at eye level.  His
eyes were still the bluest she’d ever seen.  Wryly, he said, “I was talking
about the house.”

“Oh.”  And she smiled.  “The house.”  She looked past him to where
Jesse was standing atop an aluminum extension ladder at one peaked gable. 
“It’s beautiful,” she said.  “I can’t believe how far it’s come.”

“If you saw the back side, you wouldn’t say that.  But it’s coming
along nicely.”

She adjusted her sunglasses.  “What happened to my rosebushes?”

“We had to cut them.  Don’t worry.  Jesse promised me that they’ll
be back next year.”

“They’d better, or you’ll both die a slow and painful death.”

There were further surprises inside.  They’d found time to install
the new countertop, and the shiny new stainless steel sink was up and running. 
And brim-full of dirty dishes.  Some things never changed.  Casey went upstairs
to unpack, then came back down and tackled the pile of dirty dishes that
awaited her.

The view from her kitchen window was spectacular.  It faced north,
down along the valley toward Dad’s, overlooking pine groves and pastures and in
the distance the broad, shimmering river.  She was halfway through the sinkful
of dishes when a bright red compact car labored up the steep driveway and
stopped beside her BMW.  The driver’s door opened, and Rob MacKenzie unfolded
his lanky body from behind the steering wheel.

And something cool and fluid went
zing
at the base of her
spine. 

A woman got out of the passenger door, tall and blond and
athletic, dressed in L.L. Bean chic:  loose khaki hiking shorts, a plaid shirt,
and work boots that had never seen work.  Rob grinned as Danny approached the
car, and the two of them began talking animatedly.  Casey could hear the rise
and fall of voices, but couldn’t make out what they were saying.  Danny held
out a hand to the woman, realized it was covered with paint, and shrugged
apologetically.  The woman shook his hand anyway, and then the three of them
stood looking at the house while Danny talked and gestured and pointed.