C.J. Carmichael - Same Place, Same Time

“YOU WANT TO KNOW what I think? You won’t like it, I’ll guarantee you that. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with our marriage. She just needs to broaden her own interests a little. Ever since Jason left for university she’s been moping around the house and acting miserable. Who feels like talking to a person like that?”

Jerry’s voice came loudly over the earphones Trista was wearing. She adjusted the volume slightly downward.

“What do you have to say to your husband’s comments, Nan?”

There was so much that a tape recording left out. Trista could remember the hostility in Nan’s eyes, the way her lips had compressed into a tight, thin line. But then, in a matter of seconds, her anger seemed to have disappeared, and she replied in a typically unassertive manner.

“I know I haven’t been very good company lately, but I do have other interests. I work, after all. Maybe we need to go out more. Do things together, as a couple—”

“We do go out. We went to the Easter Seals thing just a few months ago. And before that there was the political fundraiser…”

“The one for Suni Choopra. But those aren’t the sort of things I was talking about.”

That was where Trista had met the Walkers. She’d been at the fundraiser as both a friend and supporter of Suni’s. Federal elections were being held in six weeks, and Suni looked like a shoo-in as the incumbent member of Parliament for Toronto West.

“No kidding! You stood by yourself, in a corner of the room, for most of the evening. It was damn embarrassing, let me tell you! You’d think a woman over forty would have learned a few social skills already!”

“They were your friends. And you didn’t introduce me to any of them.”

At this point, with their time almost over, Trista had felt obliged to break in.

“Are you talking about more intimate activities, Nan? Just you and Jerry? Maybe going out for dinner or to a movie?”

“Exactly.”

The sound of light snoring caught Trista’s attention. She stopped the tape and looked at Morgan. He was slouched down in his chair with his head tipped back, fast asleep. Papers were strewn over his lap and on the floor beside him. She couldn’t help but smile. Morgan had always survived on a series of power naps rather than a decent night’s sleep, and it seemed he hadn’t changed the habit.

After a moment she forced herself to look away. There was something so intimate about seeing another person asleep. They were so vulnerable… She wondered what Morgan had thought when he’d walked into her office to find her napping on the couch. Had he felt, like her, that he was getting a stolen glimpse of something he had no right to see?

Remembering her state of disarray, how high her skirt had risen, she felt her face go hot. But then reason prevailed. Morgan had probably spared her only the briefest glance before making his phone call. After all, he’d so resolutely kept his back to her while she’d tidied herself up.

Morgan had looked at her with desire once, but he would do so no more. And that was exactly the way she wanted it. A slight pain nagged at her forehead as she turned her attention back to the papers on her desk.

She listened until the end of the tape, then clicked the machine off. Sighing, she lifted the earphones over her head, and rubbed the tired muscles at the back of her neck reflexively.

“Find anything?”

Her hands froze at the sound of his voice breaking the almost eerie after-hours silence in the office. Now she remembered his uncanny ability to wake, fully alert, from the deepest sleep. Another thing about the man that hadn’t changed.

“I warned you not to expect too much.”

“Believe me, where you’re concerned, I’ve learned never to expect too much.”

Trista cringed at the bitterness of his words. There was a temptation to lash out, to defend herself, but that was short-lived. If she was honest, she knew his anger was justifiable, but more to the point, it didn’t matter anymore. She couldn’t let herself care, not now.

“There’s nothing in this file about any affair. You can believe me or not, but that’s the truth.” She looked down at her hands for a second before adding, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.” Morgan’s words came out hard and bitter. “Why don’t I believe you? I guess you’d say anything to get me out of your life again, wouldn’t you?” He stood and walked toward the desk. Unlike hers, his dark hair never looked mussed. It was too short. And his clothes hadn’t suffered for the brief nap. She saw the dangerous glint in his blue eyes as he drew closer. He was angry. And making no attempt to control it.

“How disappointed you must have been to see me standing outside your door last night. Upsetting the balance of your perfect little life,” he said in a mocking tone. “Working day and night, sequestered away in this ivory tower, going home alone every night, to that lovely, sterile apartment of yours. And don’t tell me about your busy social life, because I’ve been keeping my eye on you and I know you don’t have one.”

With the last of his words, he leaned over her desk, his face a mere six inches away. She could see the dark stubble on his chin, the sheen of perspiration on his upper lip. When her gaze reached the blue fire of his eyes, she looked away quickly, scorched by the contact.

“Are you happy, Trista? Is this—” he waved one arm to indicate her office “—what you wanted?” And when she didn’t answer right away, he pounded his fist on the desktop. “Answer me, dammit! Are you happy? Is it enough?”

She wheeled back in her chair, putting some distance between them. It was an effort to stay calm, to keep her cool. She stared at the wall, just beyond him, and struggled to keep her own emotions out of bounds where they belonged. “This is the life I’ve chosen, Morgan, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

He straightened himself and shook his head bitterly. “Of course not. You don’t want to talk about anything, do you? Nothing that matters, anyway.” He looked away for a few minutes, drew in a long breath.

“Well, I’ve got bad news for you, lady. You’re going to have to continue talking with me. Until I solve this case, or we both go crazy with the effort.”

WEDNESDAY WAS Trista’s evening to volunteer at Suni Choopra’s campaign office. The small one-room headquarters was located just east of the Humber River, in Bloor West Village, amid the small delicatessens, cafés and boutiques that gave the area its charm. Trista rode the subway one stop beyond her own, to Runnymede, then ran up the concrete steps to the sidewalk. Flowers and tubs of fresh vegetables stood outside the small grocery shop beside the campaign office, and Trista stopped to pick up a potted mum for the front desk.

Campaign posters covered the glass front of Suni’s office. Her beautiful East Indian face, with its classical proportions and unusually pale complexion—inherited, along with her height, from her Nordic mother—was arresting in itself. Then you saw her record and you were really impressed. That was why Trista was here. Suni was going to change things, and Trista wanted to help.

When she opened the door, a cacophony of noise greeted her. The headquarters was usually a madhouse in late afternoon, and now, at least a dozen other volunteers were scattered in the modest, five-hundred-square-foot space. Trista placed the mums on the reception desk and smiled her hellos. Suni was at the back of the room, talking intently with her campaign manager.

“Everything okay?” Trista asked one of the other volunteers.

“Couldn’t be better,” was the cheerful reply. “Early poll results were in this morning. Suni’s holding on to her ten-point lead.”