Loree Lough - Bringing Rosie Home

Grant put down his fork. He’d been famished when he sat down. Now, his appetite was gone. He started to push back from the table.

“Oh, don’t leave yet,” Rena said, a note of pleading in her voice. “I made dessert.”

“I’m really not hungry, Rena.”

He hadn’t intended for the comment to sound harsh. But what did she expect? They hadn’t shared a meal—or anything else—in years! Surely Rena didn’t they’d simply pick up where they’d left off.

“Not even for chocolate pie?”

His favorite dessert. She’d only had an hour to throw dinner together, so she must have bought it when she’d stopped at the Giant for groceries. What the heck. Maybe something sweet would turn his sour mood around...

“Okay, but just a small slice.”

“Whipped cream on top? I made plenty when I was beating up the filling.”

So she’d made the pie, just for him? He marveled that she’d had time.

“Sure. Why not.”

Rena got up and cleared their plates, and quickly replaced them with dessert.

“There’s coffee—decaf—if you’d like some,” she said.

“Well, since it’s already made, no sense wasting it.”

She poured them each a cup. Placed the sugar bowl and creamer near his elbow.

So. His favorite meal. His favorite dessert. And she’d remembered exactly how he liked his coffee. He could accuse her of trying to soften him up. But for what? They were supposed to put on a united front, right? How could they accomplish that without courtesy and the occasional nicety?

He felt a pang of guilt. Had she really believed Rosie had been murdered? If so, she’d suffered those thoughts alone. Even if she hadn’t left, Rena couldn’t have talked to him about it. He could barely stand to look at her let alone talk about the kidnapping. She’d made the right move, leaving when she did, because if she’d stayed, their relationship would only have deteriorated further. He’d drawn some comfort from missing her now and then, even though it made him feel a little crazy. Because no rational man could love and miss his wife...and deeply resent her, all at the same time.

“Pie’s good,” he said, mostly to fill the brittle silence.

“I’m glad you like it. I wasn’t sure I remembered how to make it.”

“You like it, too. You never made it for your...guests?”

Man, talk about being obvious. If he wanted to know if she was seeing someone, why not just ask?

Because he didn’t want to picture her in the arms of another man. She was still his wife, after all.

“I didn’t have much company. My cottage is tiny. Barely enough space for a table for two. And my life there is mostly work and the occasional visit from Lilly, my landlady, who lives in the big house next door. She’s a retired school bus driver. Trust me, I don’t invite a lot of interaction with her, lovely as she is. Being around her, listening to her talk about her tiny passengers only reminds me of...” She looked away.

He’d avoided people—and places and things—that reminded him of Rosie, too. Even kept her bedroom door shut most of the time, so he wouldn't have to look at her toys and games, or the bed where he'd cuddled with her while reading bedtime stories. How much easier would everything have been if they’d found a way to hold each other up when the memories got tough to bear?

Water under the bridge, he thought. Deep, dark, murky water...

“Want some help with these dishes?” he offered.

“No, but thanks. I’ll have this cleaned up in no time. And then I’ll get busy in the bedroom, so if you need to get in there before we leave for the airport—”

“Don’t rush on my account. The Orioles are playing Detroit.” He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. “Holler if you need anything.”

He'd given it a lot of thought. Rosie would have more than enough to adjust to without seeing him and Rena in separate bedrooms. But how would he introduce the subject of her moving back into the master? And how in God’s name was he going to share his bed with her again when he could barely tolerate sitting across the table from her?

Better figure it out, and fast, he told himself. Because tomorrow night, or the next, that was exactly what he’d have to do.

Or did he?

* * *

SEVERAL TIMES AS Rena moved her belongings into the master bedroom, she and Grant passed each another in the hall. He'd stuttered and stammered while explaining that, although he'd made up the guest bed for her, he hoped she'd give serious consideration to moving into their old room with him. For Rosie's sake. Every muscle in her had tensed, every nerve end jangled, yet she'd heard herself say “We can give it a try, I suppose.” Now, the way he scooted along the wall to avoid brushing up against her left Rena wondering how he’d get any sleep, sharing the same bed.

She’d play it by ear; if he seemed fitful and agitated, Rena could always sleep on the family room sofa, and explain any questions from Rosie by claiming to have fallen asleep reading or watching TV.

It was the least she could do for him, after all she’d put him through.

Rena tidied the guest room, the kitchen and the master bedroom—though there wasn’t much to do—mostly to stay out of his way until they had to leave for the airport.

Finally, it was time to head to BWI. At the start of the drive, Rena tested topics of conversation that wouldn’t add to the tension between them. Unfortunately, the sound of her voice seemed enough to stress Grant further. She could tell by the way he gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. It was what he’d done years ago in traffic jams, or if he made a wrong turn. Fortunately, she’d packed magazines and her e-reader along with his stack of important papers. At least she could pretend to have something to focus on during the three-hour flight besides his angry, stony silence.

Martha had posed a difficult question during their last session: “What will you do if Grant never forgives you?” Her answer had inspired the therapist’s disapproving frown. “Why should I expect him to forgive me when I’ll never forgive myself?”

Perhaps in time, they’d at least come to a meeting of the minds, find a certain peace with the living arrangements. But she wouldn’t drive herself mad hoping things would eventually go back to where they’d been before, when he’d been a chatty, friendly, fun and funny partner. Far better and healthier to simply accept the status quo. Besides, you'll have plenty to do, helping Rosie readjust.

“What kind of car do you think we should rent?”

The suddenness of his voice startled her, and she masked it by toying with the hem of her jacket.

“I’m not sure, but we should ask if they rent children’s booster seats.”

He didn’t respond at first. “I hadn’t even given that a thought. But we’ll have to turn it in with the car. What’ll we do on the drive home from BWI?”

“It’s only twenty minutes. You’ll stay in the slow lane the whole way, and I’ll ride in the back with Rosie.” She chanced a peek at his stern profile. “Not that I think anything will happen—you’ve always been a good, safe driver. But on the off chance it does, I can protect her.”

He gave a tiny grunt. Rena braced herself for him to say, “The way you protected her years ago?”

“That’ll work, I guess,” he said instead, and Rena sighed in relief. “We can’t very well take her into a big box store and buy one.”

“Why not?”

“She’ll be overwhelmed, that’s why. Seeing that woman, lying dead on the mall floor. Being carted off by the cops, then interrogated by one shrink after another, then shuttled to a foster home. It’s too much.”

For Rosie, or for him? she wondered.