Pretty Girls Dancing(60)
He carried the picture to the waste can, carefully brushing the broken bits of glass from it. David hadn’t thought about it for years. But seeing it again was a reminder of the vagaries of time. How it rushed and ebbed in a rhythm more random than any of them wanted to admit. Had he known how finite the years with his daughter would be, he liked to think he would have worked less. Played more. Listened better. He would have tucked away every moment with her to guard against the day when memories were all he had left, to be taken out and pored over like a miser fingering his gold.
He could feel his eyes misting as he strode back toward the closet, the symbolism not lost on him. It was a tangible representation of how he’d locked away every painful memory in a simple quest for emotional survival.
“Hey, David, glad I caught you.”
He froze, glad his back was to the door as he surreptitiously wiped his eyes. “Wow, looks like you’ve got a mess on your hands. Odd time for spring cleaning.” A hearty laugh. Grayson. “How ’bout that celebratory drink you missed out on the other night? My treat. Meet me at the Golden Bucket in ten?”
“Sounds good.” Anything to get rid of the man. He rose, replacing the picture on the shelf quickly. “I’ll see you there.”
“You need some help with any of this?”
“No.” The word was more emphatic than necessary. Quickly he moved to replace the briefcase, scrolls of paper, and odds and ends that had been dumped. “No, I can handle this.” The same way he’d been handling things for seven years. Tucking them away out of sight in hopes that the painful recollections could be dismissed as easily.
“I can’t stay long.” David slipped off his wool overcoat and draped it over the back of the bar stool next to Steve Grayson. “I want to get home in time to have supper with my family.” He’d regretted accepting the man’s invite the moment the words had left his mouth. A quick drink, no more, he promised himself, and then he’d be on his way. He caught the bartender’s eye, and the man ambled his way. Scanning the bottles arrayed behind the bar, David said, “Lagavulin Sixteen. Neat.”
“I’ve got dinner plans myself.” Grayson flashed his trademark bright smile. “Seeing someone new.” As the man went into detail about his flavor of the month, David’s mind drifted. A sense of despondency had seized him, and he knew exactly what had caused it. Putting the picture away again was less about avoidance and more about self-preservation. He accepted the drink from the bartender gratefully, lifting the glass to his lips and taking a swallow. The scorch of the liquor sliding down his throat was welcome.
“I saw Schriever coming out of your office today.” Grayson’s tone was studiedly casual. “Rumor is he’s finally ready to open a place in Columbus. I’m single and willing to relocate, if that’s what Kurt decides. In fact . . .” The other man drained his glass and raised it in a silent signal to the bartender for another. “I’d give my left nut to be the one assigned there full-time.”
That was too damn bad, David mused, as he tilted his glass to his lips again. Because he was determined to be the one in that position, should it materialize. “That seems unnecessarily self-destructive.” Just like it would be self-destructive to surround himself with reminders of the tragedy that had befallen their family. The thought did nothing to assuage the guilt that lingered. It wasn’t a betrayal to his daughter to tuck away her mementoes when doing so had helped him heal. That’s where he and Claire had always differed. Sometimes violently so. His wife insisted on keeping Kelsey’s room a shrine. That was a battle he’d lost. But when he’d found her hidden copies of the age progression sketches of Kelsey that had been done every couple of years, David had destroyed them over his wife’s tearful protests. She seemed to lack even the most basic instinct for her own emotional health, as if steeping herself in misery somehow drew her closer to the daughter they’d lost.
“I know exactly what you’re planning, you know.”
Somehow David had lost track of the conversation. “What’s that, Steve?” He downed the rest of the Scotch and set the glass on the bar, then picked up his coat.
“You’ll probably advise Kurt against the expansion.” There was a dull flush on Grayson’s face and no sign of his signature smile. “A couple of weekends a month in Columbus works right into your plans, doesn’t it?”
David slipped his arms into his coat. Buttoned it. “And what plans are those?”
“You tell me.” The man’s look was knowing. “More than once I’ve been in town with Kurt or Martin to meet with clients, and I ask at the desk about the second room on the firm’s account.”
Unless the hotel was fully booked, it kept two rooms set aside for the firm’s use. Kurt infrequently spent the night, preferring to commute. Which meant that the extra room was rarely needed, since the men doubled up. Trepidation clutching in his gut, David gave the other man a knowing look. “Stinson’s snoring get to you, or were you looking to get lucky those nights?”
“Doesn’t matter. Because sometimes that room wasn’t available. You’d reserved it.”
The blood in David’s veins solidified. “You’re delusional. How many drinks did you have before I got here?”
His words had no discernible effect on the other man. “Know what else I discovered? A couple of times I went to your room, knocked on the door. Called the room phone several times. And there was never any answer. You didn’t charge the company for the room on those days, though. I checked. So what were you doing in the city, Willard? And where the hell were you?”