Thought I Knew You (3 page)

Mom looked surprised. “Oh, my gosh! Where’s Cody?”

I explained about the screen door.

She shook her head. “And he hasn’t come back yet? That’s so strange.”

“I know,” I said wryly. “Seriously, everyone who lives here is disappearing.”

She gave me a small smile, waving me away. “I’ll be here. Just go.”

I walked outside and headed toward the barn. The leaves had begun to fall, and the yard was littered with various seedpods, strewn about like nature’s confetti. I took a deep breath. The crisp air smelled of impending fall, the rotting organic perfume of a changing season.

Greg’s favorite season was fall. He loved apple picking and the pumpkin patch at Halloween. Having children seemed to give Greg permission to indulge in the juvenile fun of Halloween. He was finally able to shake off his hard, serious exterior so he could run up and down the rows of the pumpkin patch, showing Hannah how to find the perfect pumpkin. The stem had to be strong enough to hold its weight, and the sides had to be round and the bottom flat. The shell had to be thick enough to withstand carving, but not so thick that it was too hard to carve. Then we’d take our pumpkins home, and Hannah and Leah would paint theirs while Greg would spend an hour carving a perfect face into a third, using patterns and a small knife kit. I remember marveling at the change in him, his smile wide and open-mouthed, his eyes crinkling behind rimless glasses when he laughed. The gray in his sandy hair reflected the sun, and his face seemed to transform, becoming soft and malleable, where before it had been all hard angles and edges.

I missed him. I missed the idea of him being there, and I was terrified the void was permanent. I began to resent the detective’s implications.
Greg wouldn’t leave this; I know that.
He was practical and methodical, and he loved his children more than life.
Could he leave me?
My heart wondered.
Maybe
.

We’d been less than perfect lately. Before he left, we had a fight—a secret I had not shared with the detectives. Something had been missing lately. We had a broken connection, not beyond repair, but temporary, part of the marital ebb and flow. The subject was raw, as we had clawed at it over and over again. Whenever I tried to bring it up, Greg withdrew, and I became angry, a pattern we never seemed to be able to break.

The day he left, he’d responded differently. “Why do you push this, Claire?” He lashed out, his voice raised as much as he ever yelled, which was to say not very loudly or forcefully. “You don’t accept who I am. You don’t let me just
be
. I’m always not enough somehow.”

“Greg, that’s not true, and you know it. I want to go back; that’s all. I want us back the way we were a year ago. Something is going on. I have no idea what, but it eats at me. It keeps me up at night. When I lie in bed and look at your back, I want to shake you awake and ask, ‘Why are you a million miles away? Where are you?’”

“Do you cross the line, Claire?” he asked quietly, his back to me. “The demarcation line in our bed, do you move to the other side? Why do you just stare at my back? Why is it always my burden?” He picked up his suitcase, turned, and out of habit, kissed my forehead. Emotionless, rote. He left for the airport. I hadn’t seen him since.

In the dim light of the barn, the late afternoon sun shining through the slats in hazy beams, I cried. I cried because he was right. Greg was the fixer in our life, our go-to guy when everything went to pot. He’d addressed the termite problem last spring. When we had water in our basement over the summer because of three days of rain, he called a plumber to install a sump pump. Until then, I hadn’t known what a sump pump was. He paid the bills, and a few weeks ago, when we had some illegitimate charges show up on our Visa, Greg called Visa and had them cancel our cards and get the charges removed. Those little things in life that I didn’t know how to do, or wouldn’t think to do, terrified me. How were we going to work as a family until he came home? We were fractured, a puzzle missing a piece, without him. He needed to be home. He needed to come home and fix it.
Fix us.

“Cody? Come here, Cody! Come home, bud!” I searched the mostly empty barn, pausing to listen for the sound of his nails on the concrete floor. The barn was empty save for the neighbor’s cat, which ran when he saw me, a black ball of fur, skittering away on little white feet.

Cody wasn’t there. I wasn’t surprised. Whether rational or not, I started to believe with unflinching certainty that Cody would not come home until Greg did.

Chapter 4

T
he first year I worked
at Advent, my manager sent me to a training class to understand compliance and the Code of Federal Regulations for drug manufacturing. I worked in the Quality Control Lab as an entry-level technician, and the training was part of orientation. At the time, basic orientation and compliance training were temporarily done offsite in Rochester so employees from New Jersey, Rochester, and Toronto could be trained at the same time.

I jumped at the chance to do the three-day training course and dragged Sarah, my college roommate, with me. We called it a mini-cation. She took four days off work, and we drove her ten-year-old Toyota the five and a half hours to Rochester. The first night there, we each drank a bottle of wine in our hotel room, silly and drunk on our freedom. I used my corporate American Express for everything—the room, our meals, gas, and the wine. We had a completely free vacation from our one-bedroom box of an apartment. We got the most expensive room I felt comfortable getting, which included a large Jacuzzi tub.

The next day, class started at nine, but being so nervous and green out of college, I arrived at the conference center at eight thirty. The instructor was already there, setting up the room in a large tabled “U.” I hurried to a seat in the back corner and pulled a book from my bag, trying for invisibility. I had a pounding headache from the wine and a venti-sized Starbucks coffee to help me through it.

The instructor coughed, and I pretended not to hear him, avoiding eye contact. Tucked into my book, I heard people filter into the conference room and take seats around me. I realized quickly that almost everyone knew each other, as the greetings were filled with a jovial familiarity that included private jokes and nicknames. In addition, I seemed to be the youngest person in the room by no less than five years.
Oh, good. This should be a fun-filled three days.
I took out my notepad and pen, just for something to do, and then reddened when I realized that no one else seemed to be taking notes. Too self-conscious to put the pad away, I left it unopened in front of me.

“Hello, everyone. I’m Greg.”

Half the room tittered. “Hi, Greg!”

The introduction was solely for me and possibly one other person. When Greg announced we were going to introduce ourselves, my mind went blank. For a moment, I forgot everything about myself, save for my name.
Why was I here? Where did I work?
I listened to everyone ahead of me and formulated my answer, repeating it like a mantra.
I’m Claire McGivens, and I work in Quality Control in Raritan, New Jersey.

When my turn came, I said, “Hi, I’m Claire McG—” I raised my hand to self-consciously tuck my hair behind my ear, and in the process, elbowed my obnoxiously tall cup—
for heaven’s sake, why is it so damn tall?—s
pilling coffee all over the table in front of me. The lukewarm liquid traveled toward the lip of the table as I sat, paralyzed. Two classmates raced over with paper towels.

I mumbled, “Thank you,” propelled into action by the coffee edging across the table, threatening to spill over onto my colleague’s suit pants.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I repeated as people shifted their chairs back to let me clean. I realized then that the class was largely male, and I caught a few exchanged smirks and eyebrow raises. My face burning, I walked stiffly to throw away the soaked towels.

Greg touched my shoulder, his smile warm and inviting. “Thank you, Claire, for the ice-breaker.” He held my gaze with an expression that was reassuring and unsettling at the same time.

The class laughed, not unkindly. I smiled, attempting to show I was a good sport, but would have gladly welcomed the proverbial swallowing of the earth.

I went back to my seat, kept my head down, and pretended to take notes. When I felt bolder, I snuck glances at Greg. He was tall and broad-shouldered with slightly thinning sandy-blond hair, black square glasses, and a trimmed goatee. He exuded confidence and had an easy manner in front of the group. He caught my eye once and surreptitiously winked. The move was so quick, I wasn’t even certain the gesture was aimed at me. Still, my heartbeat quickened, and I ducked my head.

Greg was funny, compelling, and given the rather tedious subject, able to command attention in an impressive way. As the lecture continued, I watched him with interest, and when our eyes would meet, I felt the heat in my face. I learned a great deal more than I’d intended, and the day progressed quicker than I expected.

After class, I walked across the street, humming under my breath, almost forgetting about the coffee incident. Almost.

Sarah had planned to shop in downtown Rochester while I was away, and I couldn’t wait to see her resulting cache. I let myself into the room, heard the soft
whoosh
of the shower, and flopped back onto the bed, mentally reconstructing the day. My mind skipped over the spilled coffee and instead settled on Greg’s smile, his laugh, the little turn of his head as he may or may not have winked.

“Earth to Claire.” Sarah stood in the bathroom doorway, towel drying her hair.

I grinned. “I’m here. I’m here. What’d you get today?”

After she showed me all her goods, we dressed for dinner. Sarah was infinitely trendy, while I always seemed to “look nice,” but together, we didn’t fail to attract attention.

We decided to stay at the hotel to eat. The restaurant downstairs had a gastro-pub feel to it, and the air was thick with the smell of corporate cologne. Men mingled in suits and loosened ties. Deep laughter echoed off the wooden walls.

“Well, now. These are no slim pickings.” Sarah grinned wickedly. We were halfway through our strong post-dinner martinis when a voice behind me said, “I hope you’re more careful with your cocktails than you are with your morning coffee.”

I turned to see Greg standing behind me, a Sam Adams in his hand. He had ditched the business casual in favor of jeans and a black polo shirt. His attire felt intimate, as though we weren’t colleagues but friends, and heat flushed my face.

With a smile, he pulled a chair up to our table, while simultaneously extending his hand to Sarah. “I’m Greg.”

With a wide smile, Sarah shook his hand. “I’m Sarah.” Naturally, she commandeered the conversation. “Why are you here at the hotel? Don’t you live in Rochester?”

I averted my eyes, intently studying the scarred oak table. My heart hammered in my chest. I felt uncharacteristically nervous and tongue-tied. Not that I was normally a flirt, but I could put together sentences. My mind was blank, and for the second time that day, I tried to remember my name.

“No,” he replied with an easy smile. “Right now, I live in Pennsylvania. But I’ve been posted here temporarily while they get the New Jersey site training program back on track. Apparently, they’re doing all East Coast training in Rochester, and all West Coast training in San Diego. Somehow, I feel cheated by my post, but I get a free efficiency apartment for six months, complete with kitchenette.”

“Wow,” Sarah cooed. “Big man on campus, then, eh?”

Greg reddened slightly and cast a look sideways at me. “Can I buy you ladies another drink?” He stood up, gesturing toward the bar.

We nodded, and when he walked away, Sarah said, “Claire, you should really go for it with him. He’s so
cute
, in such a nerdy
you
kind of way.”

“What? He could be married with three kids for all I know. I know nothing about him.” I threw back the remainder of my martini, feeling the vodka heat bloom from my center. I felt nervous and giddy at once, despite my protests. I recalled his wink during class.

“Well, I feel a headache coming on.” She put her hand up to her forehead for mock emphasis. “I really think I’m going to head back to our room and try to sleep off some of these martinis.” She gathered her purse.

“Sarah, this is crazy. Please don’t leave.”

She just smiled, wiggling her fingers as well as her eyebrows, and slipped out before I could stop her.

Greg returned with two martini glasses. He cocked his head to the side with a tentative smile. “I generally don’t scare women away that fast.”

“Sarah claimed she had a headache. She’s a misguided cupid. I apologize.” For the second time in ten minutes, I felt my face grow hot.
God, just shut up. How much did I have to drink?
I rushed to change the subject. “Well, tell me about yourself. How did you become a trainer for Advent? How long is your post in Rochester? Are you married?” I felt scattered, running off at the mouth. His hand rested next to mine on the table, barely touching, and I studied his arms, thick and strong, and briefly wondered how they would feel around my waist.

He didn’t answer immediately, and the silence seemed to last forever. Finally, he laughed. “No,” he said, with a small smile, giving me a nudge with his elbow. “I’m not married.”

Conversation flowed easily, and unlike a lot of the men I dated, he struck a nice balance between awkwardly quiet and excessively talkative. He laughed frequently and had a smile that reached his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. When he walked me back to my room at two in the morning, I was drunk and head over heels. When his mouth opened to mine, I knew I never wanted to kiss another man for the rest of my life. And when he invited me back to his deluxe suite, I never hesitated.

Later, I couldn’t remember the subject matter from the other two days of class. More than once, he stumbled over his words or lost his place in the lecture, not so coincidentally after we made eye contact. That told me I had the same effect on him that he had on me. We spent the remaining two nights after class together, and poor Sarah’s mini-cation was mostly spent alone in a hotel room. She never complained.