True Places(49)

“Sorry. I meant to do this earlier. The day got away from me.”

He exhaled and went to the wine fridge. “Well, I had a tough day, too.”

Suzanne was stuffing the papers into her laptop case. Her hands stilled, and Whit thought she must have something important on her mind. Well, she’d tell him when she was ready. First things first. He bent over the door of the wine fridge and selected a bottle of Viognier. Something crisp. And with a screw cap. What a marvelous invention that was.

He reached into a cupboard for a glass. “You want some?”

“Sure. Good idea.”

Whit poured two glasses, handed his wife hers, and glanced over her shoulder at the oven. The digital display showed only the time.

Suzanne followed his gaze. “I didn’t have a moment. Plus, Brynn is at Kendall’s and Reid is at Alex’s. I thought I’d make a salad for us.”

“What about Iris?”

“She said she’ll have something later. She had some exercise today.” Her eyes skated to the side. “Won’t take ten minutes.”

He really didn’t want to be that husband, the Ozzie to her Harriet. He knew it was neither fair of him nor good for their marriage. He kept up his end of the bargain better than most men he knew, who complained about aspects of family life he took in stride: exorbitant expenditures, no downtime, frequent and interminable school and sporting events, most of which interested him not at all. Whit cheerfully accepted most of it, but disorder and uncertainty were like slivers under his skin; he could not relax. As much as Suzanne denied it, Iris was the agent of this mess.

Suzanne touched her wineglass to his. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

Whit took a long drink, nearly draining it. “Back in a flash.” He went upstairs and changed into sweats and a T-shirt, doing his best to ignore the overflowing laundry basket in the closet and the image of the utter disaster he knew lay beyond the closed door of his son’s room. On his way down the hall, he considered sticking his head into Iris’s room but could not think of what he would say to her. After two weeks he was not comfortable around her. Her manner was too odd and she was far too quiet, leaving him to ramble on to fill in the gaps.

Suzanne had set two places in the dining room. He refilled the glasses while Suzanne composed the salads—an artful arrangement of tomatoes, marinated artichokes, goat cheese, and cold salmon over arugula.

“Looks beautiful, darling.”

She smiled and his heart warmed.

As they ate, he related the broad strokes of his day—a series of hitches in the major deal he was putting together. She listened with her usual attention, but Whit couldn’t help but feel she was making an effort in doing so. Her face looked drawn.

“Is anything wrong, Suzanne?”

“What? No.” She stabbed a piece of salmon. “I’m fine.”

He studied her a moment longer. What more could he do than ask? He had been married long enough to know she would tell him what was on her mind eventually—if he needed to know. He had never expected full disclosure. There wasn’t time for that. They both had to curate their confidences. There was, however, something he was compelled to disclose.

“By the way, Detective DeCelle wants to stop by to talk to Iris tomorrow evening.”

Suzanne put down her fork. “Why?”

“I called him this morning, just to see if they had any news, and he thought it was time to follow up with her, now that’s she’s better.”

“You called him?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I think I just said.”

“If they had news, they would let us know.”

Whit took a bite of tomato. “Maybe. They’re busy. Doesn’t hurt to follow up. It’s best for Iris to be with family if they can find them. We’re together on that, right?”

Suzanne blinked at him.

He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. It was possible she was angry—she wasn’t transparent. “It’s just a conversation, Suzanne. She might remember something.”

“She might.”

“Don’t you think it’s odd that she doesn’t seem interested in locating her father?”

“He disappeared six years ago.”

“Still.” He studied Suzanne as she ate; she was taking very small bites, pushing her food around. “Aren’t you curious?”

“About what?”

“Her father. Her family.”

“Sure. But forcing the issue isn’t necessarily the way to get answers.” Her fork clattered onto her plate. She picked it up and looked at him. “She’s fragile, you know.” She was making it sound as if he were suggesting waterboarding.

“I know.” In truth, other than being skinny, Iris didn’t seem fragile to him. Weird. Dissociated. But not fragile. Whit didn’t wish to argue, however, so he attempted to be conciliatory. “The detective said he was planning to follow up anyway. It was on his calendar.”

Not exactly the truth, but near enough.



The next evening, after an early dinner, Brynn slipped into Iris’s room.

Reid’s door opened across the hall, and he followed her in. “What’re you doing in here?”

Like he was Iris’s security detail. “Don’t rat me out. I only want to listen to the cop grill Iris.”