A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(28)

But then at eight, she'd had what her dad referred to as "the close call." After that, she was too afraid to go with him, afraid of dark barns and small pens and big animals that crowded and blocked out the light. When he'd wake her early Saturday mornings, she'd roll over and feign illness. In time, he stopped asking.

The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was this was the reason her dad left them. It wasn't her mother's fault. It wasn't even Jenny's. It was hers. She was the one who'd let him down.

The sun set. The streetlights came on. Gwen waited. The longer she sat, the longer her repentance speech became. She couldn't wait to tell him how sorry she was. Tell him she'd be brave. Tell him she wanted to be his assistant again.

It must have been past suppertime—her stomach was rumbling—when her mother eased herself on the stoop next to her. Gwen's dad wasn't going to make it. Something had come up. In the months that followed, something came up more and more often, until Gwen stopped feeling the ache of disappointment.

Three years after they broke up, Gwen's father and Jenny had a child on the way. Gwen's mother was drinking. And Gwen had learned the devastation divorce could bring.

She wanted to ask Art about Lorelei. She wanted to ask what they'd been talking about that had been so fascinating. But, truth be told, she was afraid to. Sometimes not knowing was best. If you didn't know, you could act like everything was fine and maybe it would turn out that way.

"Sure," she said, forcing a lightness into her tone. "Let's go camping."

"I'll reserve a campsite in Big Bear tomorrow."

The silence resumed. Not the comfortable kind Gwen was used to. The kind in which couples who'd been married for many years could sit companionably, each with their own thoughts. This was a strained, uneasy silence. She broke it. "Art. What's wrong?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. You've been preoccupied. Maricela said there was an accident at school. I was wondering—"

"Not at school. A student was hit by a car near his home."

"I read about a hit and run in San Juan, but I didn't know the boy was from St. Barnabas." Gwen felt a rush of parental horror. "Was he killed?"

Art shook his head. "No. Thank God. But he's in a medically induced coma. No one knows what he'll have to deal with when he comes out of it."

"His poor parents," Gwen said. "I can't imagine."

Art massaged his temples. "That's not the only thing bothering me."

Gwen waited.

"I'm sure you heard about the agent in Newport," he said.

"Yes." Gwen felt her face freeze into an expressionless mask.

"Well? I've been waiting for you to bring it up all night."

She shook her head. "I don't know what to say."

"How about, 'I'm going to take some time off work'?"

"I got the Laguna Beach listing back. I'm putting it on the market again as soon as I can get it ready." The words came out in a monotone rush.

Dismay and incredulity fought on his face for several seconds. "I can't believe it," he said, dismay winning.

"I've co-listed it with another agent from the office. A man. I won't be there alone. I'll have to share the money, but at least I'll be safe."

"I don't care about the money." The statement exploded from him.

Emily stuck her head through the doorway. "What's wrong Daddy?"

"Nothing, sweetheart." He modulated his tone. "Go finish your homework."

"It's done."

"Then get ready for bed."

"I don't have to go to bed until 9:00. It's only 8:30." Indignation filled her voice.

"Then go watch TV."

"But, Jason—"

"Go." Art spun around and shot the word at her. Emily's face crumpled, and she ducked from the room.

"Don't take it out on Emily, Art. I'm sorry you're not happy with me, but I'm an adult. I have a business to run."

He didn't answer. Frustration pricked up Gwen's arms. "Look, I'll handle it," she said. "I'm not going to do anything stupid."

They sat without speaking for several minutes, then Art rose from the couch. "I'm going to bed. I want to get to the gym early tomorrow."

Gwen sat up for another hour, staring into a fireplace that was as cold and dark as her thoughts.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


Caroline Bartlett did dumb blonde well, but it was an act. She had all the cunning of a girl who'd grown up with an undiscerning, single mother. I felt a bit of a kindred spirit.

Not that my mother had been undiscerning. She only bedded the wealthy and powerful. They usually left me alone, but my younger sister, Angela, wasn't as lucky. She had been groped and fondled by many "uncles". My mother knew what was happening, but I think she assumed her little girl was being prepared for life, certainly the kind of life my mother led.

That was, of course, the only life she knew. I don't think she was uncaring, just practical. I like to give Mother the benefit of the doubt. But Angela, being as innocent and unintelligent as a mewling lamb, suffered. It was a mercy she died young.