John Saul - Perfect Nightmare

“Of course you can.” She pointed to the shoes he’d dropped on the floor at the end of the sofa. “Put them on.”

Before Patrick could object, Claire went to the library door and called for Neville to bring one of Patrick’s jackets.

A few minutes later Patrick reluctantly passed through Cragmont’s huge oaken door for the first time since his wife and children had been interred back in December and he’d returned to the house after seeing their coffins disappear forever into the family crypt.

“Where would you like to go?” Claire asked.

“I’m not hungry,” Patrick whispered.

“Then we’ll go to Julia's,” Claire decided, ignoring his tone. “If you’re not hungry, you might as well not eat good food as bad.” She put the car in gear, rolled down Patrick’s window so he could feel the wind in his hair, and drove down the long drive, passing through the gate and turning toward town.

Neville Cavanaugh surveyed the veal cutlets in the butcher’s case, decided they looked decent, and turned his attention to the bacon.

Too fatty.

And the roasts seemed a little grizzled.

So it would be veal tonight, and waffles for breakfast in the morning.

He fingered his paper number, glanced up and saw on the digital counter that he was now fourth in line. He waited impatiently by the rack of bottled sauces and marinades, and when a voice spoke to him from behind, he didn’t even have to turn around to know it was Martha McGinn, who had cooked for the Ashcrofts at Beech House even longer than he’d worked for the Shieldses at Cragmont. And he disliked Martha almost as much as he despised the cuteness of the name of the estate at which she worked.

“So good to see you,” Martha gushed, taking his hand in her plump fingers and holding it despite his best efforts to extract it from her grip. “How is poor Mr. Shields?”

“As well as can be expected,” Neville said, masking his dislike of the woman and finally freeing his hand from hers. Then, knowing that whatever he said — or didn’t say — would spread along the north shore even faster than the food poisoning after Martha McGinn’s unfortunate experience with the salmon mousse two summers ago, he added, “Actually, I believe he’s doing better.”

“Such a tragedy,” Martha McGinn said, shaking her head with enough emphasis that some powder shook loose from the broad expanse of her bloated face.

Neville hated to think that this woman considered him her peer. “Yes,” he said, starting to turn away.

Martha McGinn’s fingers closed on his arm, immobilizing him. “He’s fortunate to have you to see him through this, Neville.”

“I believe I’m the more fortunate,” Neville replied. “Having loved Mrs. Shields and the children in my own way, it’s a privilege to be able to look after Mr. Patrick now.”

“Yes, of course,” Martha said uncertainly.

“Number forty-seven!” the butcher called out.

Neville held up his number. “You’ll excuse me?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned away and moved to the counter, and moments later stepped into the bright spring sunshine, white paper bag in hand. He checked his mental list and headed toward the drugstore in the middle of the next block. But halfway down a door opened and Patrick Shields and his sister emerged from Julia’s Dining Room, a restaurant that Neville found even more repulsively cute than the name of the Ashcrofts’ beach house.

“Neville!” Claire said. Then her eyes fell on the white bag from the butcher shop. “Oh, dear, I hope you haven’t bought something wonderful for dinner.”

Neville’s brows lifted uncertainly. “As a matter of fact, I have,” he said. “The veal cutlets look excellent today.”

“Well, I’m afraid they’ll have to hold,” Claire said, not so much as a hint of apology in her voice. “My brother has agreed to dine with me tonight.”

“Better even than the veal,” Neville said, betraying no hint of annoyance. “And it’s good to see you enjoying the day,” he added, turning to Patrick. For the first time in months, he saw a hint of a smile play around his employer’s lips.

“When Claire makes up her mind to something, there’s no stopping her,” Patrick said.

“Indeed. Well, I’m off to the drugstore, then the cleaners.”

“Thank you, Neville,” Patrick said. “I don’t know what—”

“My pleasure, sir,” Neville said before Patrick could finish.

“And enjoy your evening off,” Claire said.

As she was passing him, Neville stopped her with a gentle touch on her arm. “You’re a godsend,” he whispered. She flashed him a quick smile and followed Patrick down the walk, and Neville felt his mood lighten considerably. He’d finish his errands and then have the rest of the day and the entire evening to himself, and his employer wouldn’t be home until after dinner, which, knowing Claire, would be very late indeed.

So he could spend the afternoon and evening doing anything he wanted.

Anything at all.

The Range Rover pulled to a stop before Cragmont’s massive front doors.

“Are you sure, Patrick?” Claire asked. “All you have to do is say the word and I’ll just keep going. You can spend the night at my place, get up, have breakfast with me, and I’ll bring you home.”

Patrick smiled at his sister but shook his head. “I’ll be fine,” he assured her, knowing the words were a lie even as he spoke them, but knowing too that Claire would see through the lie. Both of them, after all, had been raised in a culture of social platitudes, where little truth — emotional truth, anyway — was ever spoken. “I might even try sleeping in my own bed tonight.”

“Well, that’s a good sign,” Claire said, leaning across to kiss his cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Neville was waiting in the foyer with a scotch and soda, but for the first time since the fire, Patrick left the drink on the tray. “Shall I draw a bath?” Neville asked, his brow lifting.

Patrick smiled wryly. “Actually, leaving the house seems to have worn me out. I think I’ll just go to bed.” He climbed the staircase to the second floor, and as he started along the corridor to the master suite, steeled himself against everything he was about to see. But when he finally passed through the door into the small sitting room and saw the portrait of Renee that had hung over the fireplace since the day they were married, his resolution nearly failed him. Then he determinedly tore his eyes from the portrait, went through to the bedroom itself, stripped off his clothes, and slid between clean, fresh sheets. The soft bed, after months of sleeping on the library sofa, felt delicious.

But the feeling was short-lived, as all the memories of his wife and children rose out of the darkness, and he felt once again the overwhelming urge to reach out to them, to take them in his arms, to protect them.

But he hadn’t protected them. Instead, he’d failed them, and as long as he lived, that failure — and their faces — would haunt him.

He sat up and switched on a light to clear the darkness and the memories from the room, and as the images of his family faded, the words Claire had spoken over dinner echoed in his mind.

There are groups you could join, Patrick — groups of people who’ve gone through what you’re going through.

But who else had lost everyone they loved on Christmas Eve?

As the pain of his loss threatened to overwhelm him once more, he picked up the remote control and turned on the television.

And was instantly confronted with the face of the girl whose image had dominated this morning’s front page of the newspaper.

Kara Marshall’s daughter.

Lindsay — that was her name.