12

TOWEL-DRYING MY HAIR THE NEXT MORNING, I looked across the bathroom at Stephen in his robe, shaving at the sink. The waning whirr of the electric razor revealed it needed a charge, and it wasn’t alone. I’d slept fitfully, replaying Stephen’s responses and the tone of his voice, so distant and detached. And the sounds this house made at night.

Nothing eerie—no sounds of a woman crying, thank goodness. Just the usual creaks and pops, but they had contributed to my sleeplessness. That, along with missing our daughter more than I’d imagined possible.

Apparently, Stephen had lain awake too. Similar signs of fatigue in his features confirmed it.

I would call Richard today and ask if he could recommend a counselor in this area. Despite the fresh start Stephen had promised, it was painfully clear that he and I could not navigate this treacherous terrain by ourselves.

I worked mousse through my hair, furtively watching him in the mirror, feeling the tension from where I stood. “I’ll whip us up some Denver omelets this morning, keep our Saturday tradition alive.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I need to be out of here in ten minutes.”

I paused. “For what?”

“Breakfast with the client from yesterday. Bill wants all partners there.”

Feeling ditched yet again, I knew he wasn’t oblivious to my reaction. And yet, no acknowledgment. Not even a look. I felt baited, and part of me wanted to strike out at him. But considering the tenuous line we were walking, I attempted a neutral tone. “A celebratory breakfast, I’m guessing?”

“We’ll save the celebrating until after they’ve signed.”

“But you said you got the account, so I thought—”

“Gentleman’s handshake. We do the paperwork today. I helped negotiate the details over dinner last night, so everything should move forward without a hitch.”

“Bill was pleased he asked you along, then?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. He was pleased.”

He returned his razor to the drawer, but the drawer stuck. With more force than needed, he slammed it shut.

If we were still in Denver, I would have called Richard right then and made an appointment for us to see him. Yet I knew what Richard would say. He would encourage me, even challenge me, to ask Stephen point-blank what, if anything, had occurred last night. But Richard wasn’t here to make sure we fought fairly. And frankly, in this moment, I lacked the strength for such a confrontation. Especially with a husband so skilled in redirecting.

I was teetering inside, as if the slightest breath of wind would send me plunging. I wasn’t sure I wanted to pose that question to Stephen, because I wasn’t at all certain I wanted to know the answer.

My phone jingled. I looked around the bathroom before remembering I’d left it charging on my nightstand. I read the name on the screen and mentally thanked Rhonda yet again.

“Hi, Nanci, this is Claire Powell,” I answered, saving us both time. “Thanks for returning my call so quickly.”

“Good morning, and my pleasure, Mrs. Powell. Thank you for reaching out to the National Register of Historic Places about your home. You left a very thorough message, which I appreciate. Plus, a little birdie named Rhonda is a personal favorite, so her requests always move to the front of the line.”

“Well, that’s very kind.”

“Congratulations to you and your husband. The Thursmann Mansion is a lovely old home, and I’m eager to meet with you and hear your plans.”

“My ideas are definitely in the preliminary stage, but I wanted to run them by you before my imagination wandered too far down the road. Which tends to happen fairly quickly.”

She laughed. “I appreciate that. A lot of people take the stance of asking forgiveness rather than for permission. To be clear, though, we understand that the house is the homeowners’ property and that the ultimate decision for any renovation is theirs. Our goal is simply to protect the historical accuracy of the property. Working together always makes for a better outcome.”

As we worked out the details, Stephen peered around the corner of the bathroom. I don’t know why, but his interest encouraged me.

“So, what was that about?” he asked after I’d hung up, distrust in his tone.

“I’m meeting with a woman from the National Register about making some changes to the bathrooms. They haven’t been updated like the rest of the house, and the fixtures weren’t the best quality to begin with. I was going to tell you last night . . . but you didn’t seem in the mood for conversation.”

He looked away. “Yeah, well . . . yesterday was a long day.”

Numerous counseling sessions had taught me not to be overeager to fill the silence. “Deception doesn’t like silence, Claire,” Richard always said. “Makes it harder to hide.” But silence also grew heavier the longer it stretched. Like now. When Stephen finally looked back at me, I sensed fear in his eyes—or was it regret? It all but drove my heart to its knees.

“Whatever you decide will be fine with me.” He brushed a kiss to my forehead, barely touching me. “I’ll be home around seven.”

Numb inside, I traced the sound of his footsteps down the staircase. What had happened last night? Maybe Susan Johnson had called him from Denver. Or he’d called her? Or they’d texted? I had to know, and if he wasn’t going to tell me . . .

I looked for his iPad on his nightstand, then in the drawers. It wasn’t in the bathroom. I scoured the bedroom, the wardrobe. Apparently, he’d taken it with him, which sickened me, because he never took it to the office. “Oh, God, please,” I whispered.

Feeling the beginnings of a caffeine headache, I headed down to the kitchen and searched several boxes before finding the Nespresso capsules. I made a double.

Leaning against the counter, I wrapped my hands around the mug and breathed in the rich aroma before savoring the first sip. I closed my eyes and willed the frantic thoughts to calm. Maybe what I’d seen in Stephen’s eyes hadn’t been anger or fear, but residual guilt.

I took a deep breath, weighing the likelihood of that possibility, and opened my eyes. Stephen’s iPad lay on the kitchen counter across the room.