John Lescroart - Nothing But The Truth

Hardy had installed a new, enlarged fish tank – sixty gallons – into the wall between the kitchen and the family room behind it, so that it could be enjoyed from either side. He’d bolted an old marlin fishhook into the wall above the new stove and on it – in easy reach – hung his cast-iron pan, which glistened black with reseasoning and a fresh rub with olive oil.

They’d stored as much as they could in the back rooms during the construction and over the past three days had done most of the heavy moving. Now, the new furniture graced the living and dining rooms. Three new ones and the one surviving Venetian glass elephant caravaned again on the mantel. The new bed upstairs sported a wedding-ring quilt they’d discovered together in an antiques shop on a family trip to Mendocino one weekend.

Tapped out, even with the insurance money, they were broke as newlyweds after the honeymoon.

Hardy finished stacking a load of dishes into one of the cupboards and turned around, surprised to find himself suddenly alone. He pushed open the door to the dining room and walked through it, passing the sturdy and graceful Shaker table and chairs. A dozen coats of lemon oil still hadn’t completely eradicated the smell of carbon from the old sideboard, but the old piece was a comforting presence, some connection to what had been before.

The sun was low and its light streamed through the shutters in the bay windows, illuminating the living room. Frannie was sitting forward on the ottoman in front of what Hardy thought might become his reading chair, although it was still far from broken in, too new to tell.

‘You OK?’

She smiled politely, quickly. ‘Just taking a break.’

Standing in the opening between the two rooms, he studied her face for a minute, then pulled a chair from behind him and sat so that he was facing her.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ she said.

Feet planted, elbows on his knees, Hardy took it in – the shining hardwood floors, the Navajo rug, the blond leather couch, a handful of tasteful new accessories, some art. With the addition over them, they’d been able to raise the ceiling to over nine feet. Frannie was right – it was a little eclectic, vaguely Santa Fe, but it all fit together well.

‘We do good work.’

His phrasing struck her and the ambiguous smile returned, flitted, disappeared.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘We do, you know. Do good work together.’

‘That’s what I just said.’

‘Yes, but the difference is that I mean it.’

He looked levelly at her. ‘I do, too, Frannie.’

She hesitated, then stood up and walked to the shutters, where she stood for another minute before turning back to him. ‘Real life is going to start again here on Monday. Just the four of us.’

‘I know that.’

‘School, kids, all the household errands, your work. I don’t want to get where we were before.’ She gestured around their new home. ‘If I don’t have you, I don’t want any of this – I mean it. I’d give it all away tomorrow if you start to feel now that you have to work every single minute to pay for it, if it’s too great a burden.’

His hands had gotten clenched. ‘It wasn’t the work. ’ He blew out through his cheeks. ‘The work was escape.’

‘From what?’ The next he barely heard. ‘From me?’

He lifted his shoulders, then let them down heavily. ‘I don’t know. It was all of a piece. I think I forgot we were doing this together.’

This struck a chord and she broke a small laugh. ‘Well, at least we did that together. But, you know, I never did lie to you. I never have.’

‘I know that.’

‘Do you, really? Because it’s true.’

He considered it, then let out a long breath. ‘I never really believed it, Frannie. It was just difficult to understand.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry for that.’ She took a tentative step toward him. ‘So maybe we can start over? New house, new attitude.’

‘I’ve been trying.’

She came the rest of the way to him. ‘I know. I have, too. These past few months with Ed and Erin – they’ve been good. But it wasn’t the routine like the four of us at home. And I think the routine is what gets to you.’

Hardy eventually answered her. ‘You think right.’

‘So it’s going to start again.’

He tried to make light of it. ‘Not till Monday.’

But she wasn’t giving it up. ‘So what are we going to do?’

Another sigh. ‘How about if you need to confide in somebody, you come to me?’

‘I could try that. If you’d listen.’

‘That sounds fair.’ He met her eyes. ‘But how about, also, a little balance between kid things and adult things? I’m not asking for the moon here – say seventy thirty, maybe a date every couple of weeks?’

Frannie had to acknowledge his point. ‘I know. It got a little too much. That was me.’ She straightened him up and sat on his lap. ‘But I’m still going to have friends, and some of them are possibly going to be men.’

Now Hardy almost smiled. ‘I wouldn’t want to stop you. Friends are good. It’s possible I’ll have a few myself, females I mean. Though it’s not as likely as you and men.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Some women like that old, rugged look.’

‘I don’t think it would be a looks thing. And what do you mean, old?’

‘Well, not real old, more like mature, stately.’

‘Stately. I like that.’ He kissed her, well and good. When it stopped fifteen seconds later, he pecked her again. ‘Stately that,’ he said.

‘I believe I will,’ she said.

And standing, taking his hand, she led him back past the dining room, through their kitchen, up the stairs to their new bedroom.

The next day, Sunday, a strong, sea-scented breeze blew in off the ocean, but the sky was a deep blue and the temperature was shirtsleeves.

All four of the Hardys and most of their friends and relatives had gathered to celebrate the move – Glitsky, his father Nat and his son Orel; David Freeman; Ed and Erin Cochran; Moses McGuire, his wife Susan Weiss, and their son; Pico and Angela Morales and two of their kids; Max, Cassandra, and Ron Beaumont, and his girlfriend, Marie.

The Hardys’ backyard was a long and narrow strip of grass bordered by rose bushes. The area was between two medium-rise apartment buildings that, fortunately, caught the afternoon sun.

It was a pot luck, and everyone except Freeman had brought a pot of something – chili, spaghetti, cioppino, Irish stew. All of it, with salads and breads and the pony keg of beer, was on the picnic table. Now, after the house tour and the oohs and aahs, the drinks and first plates of food, Glitsky gave Hardy a look and the two of them went inside the house to admire the crown moulding. Or something.

In fact, they went all the way through the house and out on to the new porch, which was twice as wide as its earlier counterpart. Hardy sat on the new railing, but hadn’t gotten comfortable yet when the front door opened and David Freeman appeared, brandishing a cigar.

‘I thought I’d just step outside for a smoke.’

‘You already were outside, David,’ Hardy said. ‘In the back.’

But the old man clucked at that. ‘Children. Second-hand smoke. Hurts their young lungs. If you fellows want privacy, though…’

Hardy looked the question to Glitsky, who shrugged. It didn’t matter. ‘If you can keep a secret.’

‘It’s my life’s calling,’ Freeman responded, straight-faced.

‘What?’ Hardy was facing Glitsky.

‘I’ve known about this for a couple of weeks now,’ Glitsky said, ‘but I wanted to wait until today to tell you. Something about the symmetry of it all.’

‘Notice how he strings it out,’ Hardy said to Freeman.