A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(19)

"Amos Johnston, the man who commissioned the house, wanted this theater built for family performances as well as to watch movies—hence the stage," Ms. White informed. "His children were dancers and musicians."

"Do you dance?" I asked. My father's daughter—my half-sister, Fiona—danced in college. Something in the way this woman moved reminded me of her.

She spun toward me in a graceful pirouette. "Not really." Her voice faltered. "Well, that's about it. Only the garden left. We can exit at the end of the hall." She gestured the way we'd come.

"But I'd love to see you dance. Won't you mount the platform for me, Ms. White?"

"White? My name is Purcell, Christina Purcell."

"Yes, of course. It was only a joke."

"The exit is behind you." Her voice lost some of its refinement. A Mid-Western lilt lifted the final words of her statement.

I blocked her way. "The stage is behind you." I detected a whiff of fear hiding in the cloud of perfume floating around her.

"Now, this isn't funny, mister. I'm a married woman and not interested in any shenanigans."

Michigan or maybe Wisconsin? It's odd how people revert to the accents of their youths when they're afraid.

"But I love shenanigans." I took the knife from my jacket pocket and pointed it toward the platform. "Dance."





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


Art closed his office door behind him. The halls of St. Barnabas were quiet on Saturdays. He didn't like working on weekends, but he had a report due the next morning for the weekly board meeting. Weekends were the only time he was able to focus on big projects without constant interruption. He'd finished just in time. It was 6:02. He'd promised Gwen he'd be home by 6:30 so he could take Jason to church.

He jogged down the central staircase and out the front doors, locking them behind him. When he entered the parking lot, he slowed. Across the blacktop, he could see the round form of Donald Pratt standing under a street lamp with Amy Partridge, president of the Parent Teacher Association. There had been a basketball game in Santa Ana against a rival school late that afternoon. They both had sons on the team and must be waiting for the bus to return.

Art didn't need this. Not now. He never made it past Donald without being lassoed by a string of questions.

"Speak of the devil," Donald roared when Art stepped into the circle of light. Donald had one volume—loud.

"All good things, I hope." Art walked a little faster.

"We were just talking about the McKibben boy's accident. Terrible thing. We were hoping you didn't feel responsible in any way. His suspension was absolutely necessary. My Dwayne was terrorized. We can't allow bullies to rule the playground."

Donald's praise burned. Art did feel responsible. He’d given that particular punishment all by himself. He should have hauled both boys into the office and dealt with Dwayne as well as Brian. He could have sent them to detention for a week, together. Made them shake hands, try to get along. But, no. He was too anxious to please and appease the board. Condemnation fit him like a tailor-made suit. Art mumbled goodnight and raced home.

He made it into his driveway by 6:28. He stayed in the car for a second of peace. Warm, yellow light poured from the windows of his house. He didn't want to bring bad news into that glow. Not tonight.

He'd never told Gwen about Brian's accident. She'd gotten home late last night and he'd worked all day today. Besides he hadn't wanted to bring it up around Emily. It had taken him an hour to calm her after she heard about the accident at Enzo's.

Besides Gwen always accused him of bringing his work home with him. Her schedule was hectic and unpredictable, but when she was home, she was home. He was beginning to think she was right. He did have a hard time separating St. Barnabas from the rest of his life.

It was all-consuming. It gave him purpose and significance, but it required more from him than anything else he'd ever done. It wasn't just a job; it was a ministry, a family. He even spent more time with his own children at school than he did at home. Tonight, he decided, he'd try to find the separation. He'd try to leave campus concerns on campus.

After he dropped Jason at the church, he returned home for the second time. Strains of French Cafe music met him in the entryway. He dropped his keys and wallet on a side table, petted Rocket, and entered the living room. The lights were low; a fire crackled in the fireplace. A feast of chicken salad sandwiches, strawberries, cheese, and chocolate was spread on the coffee table. A knot formed in his stomach. He was afraid romance was a language he'd forgotten how to speak.

"Hey there," Gwen said in a low voice and patted the couch. She looked beautiful. Her hair was pulled into a loose bun. She wore the blue V-neck sweater that accentuated her eyes. She'd dressed to please him, which made him even more anxious.

Art dropped next to her and accepted the glass of wine she handed him.

"The kids are gone." She smiled.

"Emily?"

"She's at Maricela's." Gwen set her glass down and wrapped her arms around his neck. "For the night." She kissed him.

He ought to be excited. The kids were gone. The air was perfumed with something he'd bought Gwen for Christmas. She was obviously in the mood. But he couldn't shake the weight of guilt he felt over Brian's accident. It rode his back like a jockey bent on a win. He downed half his wine.