Part 24 (1/2)

Curiosity piqued, she came closer, trying to understand the point of his exhibit. It wasn't immediately apparent, and he didn't immediately offer up an explanation.

She glanced at his profile. He had a strong, masculine nose, and his lips were set in a serious line. There was a shadow of whiskers along his jaw that her fingers suddenly itched to stroke. His short hair was ruffled on top, and she knew he'd been forking his fingers through it, a gesture he made when he was in deep concentration or worried.

They stood without speaking, and she listened to him breathe, one of the dearest rhythms of her life. Tears p.r.i.c.ked the corners of her eyes as a heavy understanding settled over her. Familiar didn't equal dull, she thought. New and different was not that big a draw.

At least not for her.

”What's all this?” she finally asked, gesturing at the folders.

”I wanted you to look over our financials,” he said.

Her heart seized for a moment, then restarted at a dizzying pace. Look over their financials! That sounded like predivorce business. Though...maybe not. One of her friends had been given the divorce talk by her husband-but only after the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had siphoned off most of their accounts.

David wouldn't do it like that, she a.s.sured herself. If she and David divorced, he would be excruciatingly fair.

If she and David divorced... There would be dates. A different man.

She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. ”I'm looking them over,” she said, her voice weary. ”What about the financials should I be seeing?”

He took a seat on the sofa and tapped a finger on the front of each manila folder. ”Statements for all our bank accounts. Your 401(k), my 401(k). College funds for the kids. Current mortgage statement. I had the house appraised yesterday and this is the report. We own the cars outright, but I have estimates for their value in this file. See? I've labeled it Big-Ticket Items.”

She stared at him. ”What, no credit report?”

He slid out a folder from under another. ”Right here.”

A few years back, new neighbors had moved in, and she and David had invited them to their New Year's Eve party. The husband of the couple insisted on a midnight tradition: ”Throw all the change in your pockets onto the street!” It was supposed to bring good fortune for the coming year, according to the man.

David had gone along with a smile.

Before breakfast the next morning, he'd re-collected every coin.

At least some things about him hadn't changed-he was still careful about each penny. Looking into the face of the man she'd loved and married, while remembering that New Year's, made her sure of something else that was unchanged as well.

Tess herself was still the same. I still love my husband, my life as his partner. My work as the mother of our children. That was what she wanted. The knowledge of it settled in her chest, a puzzle piece being reseated where it belonged. She could move away from the house she and David shared together, but that didn't mean she could leave behind her love for him. The thoughts about dates and different men were pa.s.sing fancies. A match flare compared to the steady light and heat that were her feelings for her husband.

She sighed and gestured to the table. ”What's all this mean, David?”

”It's our net worth. What we've acc.u.mulated in the last almost fourteen years.”

She shook her head. ”I don't understand.”

”You thought I didn't want you. Of course I do. I'm showing you what we've done together. What we've built.” He huffed out an impatient breath. ”I'm trying to convince you to come home. To stay.”

”Do you want me or my 401(k)?”

He looked at her as if she was speaking in Russ's babbling baby language. ”Both. They go together. Your plan is in your name.”

He refused to understand. Instead of talking to her about what was going on with him and why he'd altered, he was trotting out paperwork. Exhausted, she dropped into the armchair adjacent to the sofa. ”I don't know, David....”

He rose, his expression panicked. ”What? Tess, don't you get it? Don't you see?”

”See what?”

He threw a hand in the direction of the files. ”This is what I have to offer,” he said. ”This is what is on the table.”

But instead of the columns of numbers and the neatly compiled accounting of what David thought summed up their worth-his worth-Tess only saw that photograph. Their four beautiful, beloved children. The family that he had somehow reduced to file folders and appraisal forms. Rising, she picked up the frame and held it with both hands so he could see.

”This is what's on the table.” With tears p.r.i.c.king at the corners of her eyes, she stalked toward her bedroom. ”This is what you have to find a way to value.”

He didn't follow, and she didn't expect him to. In her bedroom, she closed the door and leaned against it, holding her children's picture against her heart. Was it any good knowing who you were and where you wanted to be in your life, she thought, if the person with whom you wanted to share that life wouldn't share himself?

JANE WATCHED Griffin hand the sleeping baby to his sister. Then Tess glanced toward Duncan and Oliver, crashed on the couch at No. 9, their heads together and their bodies lax, like a pair of rag dolls put down for the day.

Following her gaze, Griffin sighed. ”Fine, I'll carry one next door.”

Jane raised her hand. ”I'll get the other.”

”I can do it,” Rebecca offered. ”We left you with the s'mores mess.”

Griffin gave Jane a look. ”Yeah. You stay here and clean up. Get ready.”

The look, the ominous note in his voice, tripped a s.h.i.+ver down her spine. Get ready for what? But Jane thought she knew, so she reined in her imagination and gathered up the marshmallow bag, the graham cracker box, the straightened wire clothes hangers and took them into the kitchen. Back by the dying fire in the living room, she found the last square of chocolate and popped it into her mouth.

She was licking a sweet trace from her thumb when Griffin stalked back inside. The door slammed behind him. His gaze snapped to her face, and she froze, her lips still sucking her flesh.

”What do you think you're doing?”

With a slow movement, she released her finger and let her hand fall to her side. Her palm pressed against the cream-colored lace of the swingy shorts she wore with a tennis sweater she'd found one day thrown over a chair. She supposed it was Griffin's-well, she knew it was, because the cotton cable-knit held his smell, that dry sage and lemon scent that was starting to pervade her dreams. If he had a problem with her co-opting his clothing, he'd kept it to himself.

”You don't like s'mores?” she asked. ”I think you had at least three.”

”I don't like turning into my sister's go-to babysitter,” he said. ”Those kids should stay on their side of the fence.”

”It was one evening so your sister could visit with her girlfriend,” Jane said, waving away his complaint. ”They're your niece and nephews.”

”I've got enough to worry about,” he muttered. ”Now, I'm talking to Rebecca's history cla.s.s with that crabby coot next door.”

Jane managed not to smile. ”That was very kind of you to agree.”

”Have you ever tried saying no to a thirteen-year-old drama queen?”

Now she grinned and clasped her hands together, holding them over her heart. ”Please, Uncle Griff,” she said in a theatrical tone. ”If you don't say yes I won't pa.s.s the cla.s.s. I won't get into a good college. I'll be forced into selling makeup at the MAC counter until I'm sixty-two when they'll turn me out to the Estee Lauder pasture.” It had gone something like that.

”Plus,” he said darkly, ”I'm never going to look at a Cheeto the same way again.”

”You're just jealous of Duncan and Oliver's new talent.” She dared to move closer and poked him in the ribs covered by the ragged T-s.h.i.+rt he wore with jeans. ”Admit they're adorable.”

He narrowed his eyes until they were mere slices of summer sky. ”I know what you're doing, Jane.”