A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(52)

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Art arrived on campus just as classes were getting out for the day. He found Tyler and Emily in the parking lot waiting by his car, but Jason was nowhere to be seen.

"I got an E for Excellent on my report," Emily said, standing on her tiptoes and waving a paper in Art's face while he tried to scan the surrounding area for Jason.

"That's great, honey." Art took the paper from her hand and dropped it to his side out of his line of vision.

"Why's Jason late? He's always late," Emily said.

"He's not always late," Tyler said.

"Is too. Mom says so. She says—" Emily pursed her lips, sucked in her cheeks and said in her best adult imitation, "Jason will be late to his own funeral." She dropped the act, then asked, "How could he be late if he's dead?"

"It's just a saying, sweetheart." Art put a hand over his eyes and turned toward the trees that sheltered the small stream at the end of the property.

"I have ballet at four. He better be here soon, or we'll have to leave without him." Emily circled a lamppost to amuse herself.

"We can't leave without him," Tyler said. "Dad, want me to go inside and see if I can find him? He had math last. I know where his room is."

"No. Hold up, buddy," Art said. "I think I see him."

The sun was in his eyes, but Art could make out two silhouettes slipping out of the trees and crossing the grass. He was pretty sure the one with the long, skinny arms and awkward gait was his son. With a sinking feeling, he noted the other looked like the older Pratt boy.

After everyone was belted into the car, Art said, "What were you doing down by the water?"

"Nothing," Jason said, his tone sullen.

"You were late," Art said.

Jason shrugged and looked out the window.

Art was too tired to deal with teen drama right now. The conversation with Olivia had added another layer of problems to his life. He felt drained. Nobody spoke for the rest of the ride home, not even Emily.

"You guys keep it quiet, okay?" Art said as he opened the front door. "Mom's got a headache. She might be sleeping."

The kids scattered, the boys to the kitchen to forage for a snack and Emily to her room to change into her leotard. Art walked to his bedroom and opened the door a crack. The bed was empty, but light slid out from under the bathroom door.

He walked across the room, put a hand on the knob and spoke softly. "Gwen."

"What?" she said, her voice muffled by the wood.

"How're you feeling, honey?"

"My head hurts," she said.

"Can I come in?"

"Why?"

"So I don't have to talk to you through the door," Art said with a small laugh.

"K," she said.

The bathroom was warm, steamy, and smelled like lavender. Art closed the door behind him. Gwen was submerged in a mountain of bubbles. A glass of wine rested on the rim of the tub and a half-filled bottle was on the floor. Her eyes were closed.

"Are you sure wine is good for a headache?" he asked.

"It's good for this headache," she said, her words clip and distant.

"Something bad happen? Your day okay?"

"Fine," she said, then fell silent.

Gwen wasn't prone to headaches. If she did get one, it generally had its roots in stress. Over the years, he'd learned to let her percolate when she got like this. It made things worse if he pushed her to talk. She'd tell him what happened eventually.

Maybe she'd open up when they got to Big Bear. Jason was old enough to watch the younger ones at the campsite for an hour if they went for a hike. They always communicated best when they were out walking. It would be good to leave town, to get away from people, problems, and pavement even if it was just for a few days.

"I'm going to get the camping gear out of the attic after dinner. I guess we can shop for food when we get up there if you're not feeling well," he said. They'd planned to pack for the trip that night so they could leave early the next day.

"I'm not going," Gwen said and slid lower into the water.

Art thought before he spoke. He didn't want to minimize her problem, but it was only a headache. "I'm sure you'll feel better in the morning," he said, modulating his tone to sound sympathetic.

"It's not the headache."

A tickle of anxiety ran up his neck. He needed to get away. "We talked about this on Tuesday. You said this weekend was fine."

"We didn't talk about it," Gwen snapped. "You sent me a text. And it was fine, at the time."

The anxiety turned to irritation. She could be so self-absorbed. And cold. Gwen could really be cold. "Gwen, the kids are looking forward to this. They've—"

"Take them." Her voice was frosty.

She was the one who said they didn't spend enough time together. Here he was trying, and she could care less. What was going on with this family?

"Jason was hanging out by the water again today with David Pratt. I didn't smell pot, but I don't like it. It's a red flag. We need to reconnect as a family." He couldn't keep the frustration from his voice.

"We're signing an offer on the Laguna Beach house tomorrow. Sorry."