Susan Wiggs - Just Breathe

“It’s the arson investigators’ job to figure it out, not yours. You’ve got your own job to do.”

He nodded and peeled off his protective jacket, which now felt like a sauna.“ In theory. We know this community. We know who’s doing what, who’s feuding with his neighbors, who has money troubles, whose kids are out of control. We’ll be the ones to figure out who’s setting these fires.”

“Sooner rather than later, I hope.” She scuffed her boot in the black cinders around the foundation of the barn. “Same culprit with both fires?”

“Probably. I think he used different accelerants for number one and number two.”

“Just what we need. A smart arsonist.”

“He’s not supposed to be smart,” Will reminded her. “According to profile, he’s got below-average intelligence.”

“Maybe he’s addicted to crime shows. You don’t have to be smart to copy something they demonstrate step-by-step on TV.”

“Crime shows provide such a valuable public service,” he said, feeling weariness settle into his bones. “They make our job so much easier.” He rolled back one sleeve, checking his forearm for a burn. The skin was bright red, appearing slightly sunburned. The dragon tattoo, imprinted on a much younger, much stupider Will Bonner, was unscathed. He checked his watch, then put on his dark glasses. “I’m going to be late getting home. Again. You want to have dinner with us?” He often invited her, and not just because he liked and respected her. So did Aurora, and lately, his stepdaughter seemed to prefer discussing shoe shopping with Gloria to hanging out with Will.

Gloria sent him a weary smile. “Thanks, but I have plans.” She patted him on the sleeve. “See you around, partner.”

The Mini still had that new-car smell even though Sarah was its second owner. Following her meeting with Birdie Shafter, she got behind the wheel, feeling wrung out. She didn’t know what to do next and didn’t really have a road map.

She told herself there was no shame in being back in Glenmuir. Soon the whole town would know she had returned home in defeat—a woman betrayed—and that her perfect life in Chicago had been a sham. But so what? People started over all the time.

Her phone was ringing. She checked the screen, tamped down a jolt of panic and took the call. “How did you get this number?”

“We should talk,” Jack said, ignoring her question. “My folks think so, too. Everybody does.”

“I don’t. My lawyer doesn’t.” Actually, Birdie hadn’t said so specifically, but she had advised Sarah not to give him any more information than necessary at this point.

“You have a lawyer?” Jack demanded.

“And you don’t?” She suspected he had called Clive Krenski the moment—the very second—he had thrown on his clothes that day, still sticky with Mimi Lightfoot. His hesitation confirmed it.

“I already gave her Clive’s number,” Sarah said. From the brick-paved town parking lot, she had a view of the harbor and of Glenmuir’s picturesque square. It looked as quaint and pristine as the set of a nostalgic movie, with striped awnings over the shop fronts, bowls of water set out for any dog that might pass, lush flower baskets suspended from the light poles and businesses that respected the town’s resistance to change. There were no franchise stores or glaring signs, just an air of simpler times past.

“Don’t do this.” Jack sounded drained and stressed-out.

Her old habit of worrying about every breath he took threatened to kick in. She stiffened her spine against the seat back. “Her name is Bernadette Shafter—”

“Oh, perfect—”

“—and I’mnot going to discuss certain things with you.”

“Then how about you listen?”

She stared out at Tomales Bay. A flotilla of brown pelicans bobbed on the water under a late afternoon sky of layered blue and cotton candy clouds. Jack hadn’t liked Glenmuir. He considered it a backwater, a place where old hippies might go to die…or become oyster farmers. Though years had passed, she still remembered that jab at her father. It had bothered her then and it bothered her now. The difference was, now she was doing something about that and all the other little hurtful things he’d said and she’d swallowed while making excuses for his lack of consideration.

“I’m listening,” she said.

“You can’t just piss away five years of marriage—”

“No, you did that.” She watched some seagulls rise in a flock, creating a shadow on the water. “How long have you been with her?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t want to talk about her. I want you to come back.”

Sarah was stunned, not just by his words but by the fear in his voice. “You want me to come back. What for? Oh, here’s an idea. We can get tested together. Yes, Jack. As if being cheated on isn’t bad enough, I’m going to have to get tested for STDs. We both are.” She blinked back tears of humiliation.

“That’s not a factor. Mimi and I are exclusive.”

Are. Not were. “Really? And you know this…how?”

“I just know, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay, and you have no idea who she was with before you.”

“She was—” Jack fell silent for a moment. Then he said, “Sarah, can we not just throw this away? I’m sorry I said I wanted a divorce. That was stupid. I hadn’t thought anything through.”

Oh, my. Apparently Clive had explained the fiscal pitfalls of running off a perfectly good wife. “So are you saying you’ve changed your mind?”

“I’m saying I never meant it in the first place. I was scared, Sarah, and embarrassed and guilty. To hurt you that much…it’s the last thing I wanted. I was in panic mode, and I handled it badly.”

She actually felt torn, she noted with an unpleasant jolt. Although she was clearly the injured party, she was at war with herself. The part of her that was conditioned to love him, the part that had carried her through his cancer treatment and her fertilization attempts melted at the sound of his voice. At the same time, the part that had just endured the overwhelming humiliation of the attorney’s office was still choking on the devastating memory of seeing her husband screwing another woman.

“I have a headache, Jack. It doesn’t matter to me whether you handled it well or badly.”

“Forget what I said that morning. I didn’t mean it. We can get through our problems, Sarah,” he told her, “but not this way.”

The flock of birds disappeared, leaving the bay flat and empty, beautiful in the afternoon light.

“Well, guess what?” she asked. “I’m doing this my way for a change.”

He hesitated. “We need to talk about us,” he said. “About you and me.”

“You have no idea what I need.” Sarah wasn’t angry. She was so far past anger that she had entered a red zone of emotion she had never felt before, didn’t even know existed. It was a tight, ugly place with dark corners where rage festered and gave rise to images she never realized she could conjure. These were not pictures of her doing horrible things to Jack, but to herself. That was what frightened her most of all.

“Sarah, come home, and we’ll—”

“We’ll what?”

“Deal with this like people who care for each other instead of communicating through lawyers. We can’t just call it quits. We can fix this, go back to the way things were.”

Ah. Initially he’d spoken from an angry, impulsive, honest place. After the lawyer explained what this would cost him, he was filled with remorse.

She saw a chartreuse-colored pickup truck merge onto Sir Francis Drake Boulevard and troll slowly northward. The side door bore the seal of the city of Glenmuir, established 1858. There were red conical lights on the top, a big tank with some sort of pump in back. A sun-browned, tattooed arm, with the sleeve rolled back, was propped on the edge of the window. The driver turned a little and she caught a glimpse of a baseball cap and dark glasses.