ROSALYN WAS DRESSED TO the nines when Barlow walked in the door. He could smell the perfume, the fine cosmetics, the hair spray. They were subtle, always so subtle, the way the expensive products tended to be, but he knew them like he knew the smell of his own skin, and smelling them had always made him feel he was home. Tonight, he felt like a stranger.
He heard the clicking of the keyboard. She was at the computer, where she had been every second of every day as this damned assembly barreled toward them. Now it was here and she was still more concerned with her precious plans than the myriad catastrophes that filled every corner of this house.
“Still working?” he asked as he poured a glass of scotch.
“Having a drink?” Rosalyn retorted.
Barlow didn’t answer. Instead, he asked a question.
“Where is Cait?”
Rosalyn tried to swallow but her throat was dry. “She’s upstairs.”
“She’s not coming?”
“No.”
Barlow smiled to himself with amusement. After all the work, the schmoozing and planning and manipulating to make this sex-speaker assembly grander than the damned Oscars, and Cait had won the battle after all.
“What happened? I thought you were going to make her come?” He couldn’t help but rub it in her face. Just one time. Just a little.
But Rosalyn was unfazed. “She doesn’t want to come. She asked very nicely, the first nice thing she’s said to me in months. After the accident and everything . . . just let it go.”
Christ, there was so much he wanted to say right now, ways he could needle her. She had lost the battle, why couldn’t she just admit it? Instead, she was acting as though she could care less, as though not dragging Cait there had all been part of her plan. After the day he’d had, he felt entitled to a little satisfaction, but denying him satisfaction was what his wife seemed to be best at. Fuck. He poured another drink.
“What time?” he asked, relenting.
“I’d like to leave the house in fifteen minutes.” She was still typing as she spoke.
“And we’re leaving Cait here, by herself?”
Rosalyn typed and typed, then lifted her hands when the printer clicked on. “Marta’s here.”
“Marta?” he looked at her, incredulous. “She did a fantastic job last time, didn’t she?”
Rosalyn turned to face him. “That’s hardly fair. No one could have stopped Cait that night.”
“We’ll never know, will we?”
It was a low blow, even for Barlow. Even in the face of his wife’s maddening, deafening indifference to the reality that surrounded them. She had planned the trip to West Palm Beach, but he had gone willingly and had been, if he was remembering correctly through the blissful buzz of the alcohol, shamelessly flirting with Sara Livingston the moment his daughter took out two deer and one Corvette, nearly killing herself.
Rosalyn ignored the barb. Instead, she turned her head and watched the letter as it emerged from the printer. Then she signed it and placed it out on the counter next to her desk.
“What’s that?” Barlow asked, picking up the sheet of stationery.
“A letter.”
“A letter? You’re writing a letter now?”
“Yes.”
Barlow scanned the contents. “You amaze me,” he said. It wasn’t a compliment.
“Fifteen minutes,” Rosalyn said as she waited for him to return the letter to the counter.
Barlow looked at his wife. The back of her head, that gorgeous blond hair. The drop-dead burgundy dress, black boots that hugged her calves. He wanted to hold her, kill her, fuck her, something. Just standing there watching her was driving him out of his skin.
He closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of her. Then he left her to her work.