Thomas Perry - Shadow Woman

“No,” he said. “At least I don’t think we do. Jane might let me know I’m wrong at any time. It’s big because that’s the way they were in the old days. Everybody hung around the kitchen because it was warm.”

She said, “Late eighteenth century?”

“The structure might be that old. Of course, it’s been remodeled.”

“When?”

“Beats me. If contractors worked the way they do now, they probably started in 1850 and finished in 1950.”

He flipped a second light switch up as he went, but when he reached the doorway into the dining room, he paused to let her get a head start. She lingered.

He detected that she was looking toward the cabinets on the wall. He said, “Can I offer you a drink?”

She pretended to decide, then smiled. “Sure. It’s a cinch I’m not driving.”

“I don’t have a lot here, so we’ll have to rough it. Let’s see. Malt scotch. McCallan. Terrific stuff. Makes you want to strap on your claymore and march against the Duke of Cumberland. Vodka. It’s Stolichnaya, but I’ve run my Geiger counter over it to be sure it was made before the Chernobyl reactor went. Gin, of course. There’s also some vermouth if you’re good at making martinis. I’ve seen every James Bond movie, and mine still taste like poison. The usual mixers. Cognac. Wine and champagne in the refrigerator.”

“Did you say champagne?”

“I think I did.” He opened the refrigerator and found it. He set it on the counter and lingered over removing the foil and the wire. He would have to remember to buy another bottle. Jane would remember putting it in the refrigerator, and the missing champagne was not the best way to lead into telling her there had been a guest. He removed the cork, plucked two tulip glasses from the cupboard, and filled them.

The sound of the telephone was jarring. He snatched the receiver off the hook on the wall. “Hello?”

The operator said, “Will you accept a collect call from Jane?”

“Yes I will,” he said.

“Hi, Doc.” It was Jane.

“Hi. I was hoping you’d call.” He looked at Susan as he said it, and she tactfully strolled off toward the dining room, then suddenly turned around and mouthed the word, “Bathroom?”

He pointed through the living room at the far hallway, and she walked in that direction. He felt relieved. “Where are you?”

Her voice was apologetic. “You know I can’t say.”

“That isn’t what I wanted to know anyway,” he said. “I should have said ‘How.’ How are you?”

“Tired of missing you. Tired of … all this.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear. When are you coming home?”

He heard her sigh. “I just don’t know. I wish it were now. But I really don’t want to have to do this again. And I really don’t want to see this guy’s picture in a newspaper.”

“Or yours, either.”

“You know why I’m doing this,” she said. “Just put yourself in my place.”

He craned his neck to look out the kitchen doorway and through the dining room. Susan wasn’t visible. “Just put yourself in mine.”

Her voice sounded worried, pleading almost. “Please, Carey. This is an aberration. It’s the last time, a job that I thought was finished, and it wasn’t. As soon as I’ve got him tucked away, I’m done. We’ll start over again, from the beginning.”

He was silent for a long time. “All right,” he said. “One last fling.”

“See?” she said. “I knew I could get around you if I batted my eyelashes loud enough.”

He knew it had been meant to be funny, an ironic comment on men and women that they were both supposed to laugh at, but he snorted mirthlessly. He tried to think of words that would take his mind off the worry and the emptiness he felt. He stared at the kitchen floor. “Well, I’m exhausted,” he said. “Tonight was the benefit for the children’s wing.”

She gasped, and he began to wish he had not mentioned it. “It was?” Then she said, “At least I missed that. What a relief.” He knew he was supposed to laugh at that too, and he was sure he would have, if she were standing here in the kitchen, where he knew she was safe.

“Yep,” he said. “You lucked out again.”

“Did Marian Fleming ask about me?”

“Of course,” he said. “So did a lot of other people. I told them you were in Morocco taking a belly-dancing course.”

“Oh, no. I used that excuse last time. Now I’ll have to do penance with committee work for the next thirty years.”

“Maybe not,” he said cheerfully. “But if you don’t know how to belly dance, you’re going to have to fake a hip injury.”

Jane said, “I’ll work on it.” She said quietly, “I’d better go.”

He said, “Do you have to?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Just let me know if you need anything.” He knew he had said it that way out of self-pity. She had never needed anything from him, and he was positive that she would never have asked if she had.

“I love you,” she said.

“Me too.” He hung up the telephone and walked to the counter. He saw the champagne glass and it reminded him that he had a guest. He picked up the champagne and walked toward the living room, but she hadn’t reappeared. He set the champagne bottle on the mantel and stared into the fireplace.

In the den off the bathroom, Linda heard the click and dialed the operator. “Can I have the time and charges on that call, please?”

The operator said, “Two minutes and seventeen seconds, billed at three minutes. That’s four dollars and eighty-eight cents.”

“For three minutes? That can’t be right.”

“There’s a two ninety-five surcharge for an operator-assisted collect call, ma’am.”

“Okay, but it wasn’t international or something. What are the night rates from Billings?”

“That might be your mistake. The call wasn’t from Billings.”

“That might be your mistake. She thinks she’s in Billings, and I’d bet on her. How could she be wrong about that?”

“It was Salmon Prairie, Montana. It’s the same area code, but it’s a different calling zone, and the pay phone is owned by another carrier.”

“Oh, I see,” said Linda. “My mistake after all. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” The voice was imperturbable, but chilly.

Linda hung up and hurried down the hallway into the living room. She found Carey sitting on the couch looking at a magazine. He tossed it onto the coffee table. “Sorry. That was my wife.”

“You didn’t tell her, did you?”

“Tell her what?”

“About me. Sister Mary Boniface.”

It caught him by surprise. “Oops. You’re right. Forgot. Well, I’ll have to tell her tomorrow.” He had been wrenched from a sad contemplation of how close Jane had sounded, and how far away she was. Now he felt reluctant to let this stranger see that he was annoyed at himself for forgetting to tell Jane about her. He hated it when Jane called from a pay phone. It was impossible for a person to remember everything he had to say in a couple of minutes.

“You aren’t going to tell her,” said Susan. The smile was mysterious and amused now.

He was startled, and it irritated him. “Why do you say that?”

“Because this was the time to tell her, and now you won’t be able to, because it will look as though you were hiding me.” The smile had a trace of sympathy now, the full lips pursed. Then there was mischief in the eyes. “If you try to tell her tomorrow, she’ll think that you didn’t tell her now because you were hoping to get lucky tonight.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “She’s not that way at all.”

“That’s how women think,” she said. “You shouldn’t have decided to take one on full-time if you don’t know how they work.”