Part 10 (1/2)

”They were buried in an avalanche in British Columbia. Bodies didn't turn up until spring.”

”My G.o.d,” said Trevor, sitting up straighter.

Wolfgang shrugged. ”I was three years old. I barely remember them.”

”So who raised you?” I asked as Linda reentered with the coffeepot and a tray of desserts.

”An uncle,” he said. ”I hear from him from time to time. Still lives in Was.h.i.+ngton, same house, same everything.”

Linda began pouring coffee, squinting her eyes and frowning at me. ”Enough of this depressing conversation,” she said. ”It's snowing outside.” She dipped her head toward the dining room window.

”Well, Aspen is open,” said Trevor. ”I checked. And Vail too, not as much snow though. Did I tell you Gwyn and I bought new skis?”

”What kind?” asked Wolfgang.

Linda motioned for me to follow her back to the kitchen, then glanced around the corner once we'd reached it. ”What were you doing out there? Don't ask Wolfgang a bunch of questions about his past.”

”Why not?”

”Because when you do it, it sounds like you're grilling him for information. And don't think he doesn't notice.”

”I was just asking.”

”Well, don't. We'll know what we need to know soon enough. Here, take this.” She handed me clean forks and napkins and pushed me toward the dining room.

”Now wait just a minute,” I said. ”Why didn't you tell me you were going to Hawaii? You could have told me upstairs.”

”There wasn't time. And I only found out this morning.”

”And you knew I wouldn't like it. And you're right, I don't.”

”Well, I like it.”

”What are you thinking, Linda? It's an incredibly bad idea. What if something happens? You'll be so far away.”

”What difference does that make? Something could happen here too. Oh, don't worry about it. I'll be fine. Come on, we can't stay in here. It will look suspicious. And, please, don't ask any more questions.”

Later on, Linda tried to convince the guys to watch a special remake of A Christmas Carol, but Wolfgang just laughed and turned on the football game. Linda and I made popcorn. I tried to enjoy the game, but couldn't concentrate on any of it, including the halftime show, my usual favorite. Trevor kept glancing over at me and it made me uncomfortable. I tried to smile and pretend to be enjoying myself, but I had the feeling I wasn't very convincing.

By the time we drove home, it was dark out, and snowing harder. We sat in silence watching the snowflakes whip across the road in the glare of the headlights. Suddenly, Trevor reached across for my hand. I almost pulled it back, but managed to stop myself.

”What's the matter, Gwyn?” He squeezed my fingers gently.

”Nothing. I'm just tired.”

”Of me?”

I swung my head to face him. ”No. No. Why would you say that?”

”Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you never look at me. Maybe because you're stiff as a board when I touch you. I catch you looking at me like you hate me. Things like that.”

”No. I told you. I'm just tired.”

”So, it's not me? Because if it is, I'd really like to know. I can't take this much longer.”

I looked away.

”Gwyn, if it really isn't me that's upsetting you, maybe you should see that woman again, that therapist. Maybe you really should.”

”I have started seeing her again.”

”Is this about your sister? Is that what it is, the holidays, and you're thinking about her?”

”I guess so.”

His shoulders slumped and I could almost see the tension drain from his body. ”You should have told me. You can't keep these things from me. We're a couple. We need to share what's bothering each other. We can't allow problems to grow, not if our marriage is going to work.”

I wasn't sure how to respond to that, and I still didn't trust him, so I didn't say anything.

”I want our marriage to work,” he said. ”I want you to tell me when things I do bother you, even things that have nothing to do with me. Can you do that?”

”Yes, I can do that.”

”Good. I feel better.”

As we continued toward home, I thought back to the night Kelly died. Trevor told the police he'd been working alone in his office that evening, that he'd returned home around nine. Actually, it had been a lot later, more like eleven. I'd fallen asleep, and when I woke up, Trevor was just hanging up his coat. I'd never asked him why he lied. But I knew he hadn't forgotten the time.

The following day I drove to the cemetery. I didn't ask Linda if she wanted to join me, probably she wouldn't anyway, because then she might have to talk about Kelly. And that, it seemed, was something Linda never wanted to do.

A wreath lay on each of the family graves, delivered yesterday and on each major holiday, an arrangement Linda and I had made in case one or both of us were out of town. But I'd brought my own flowers today, a mix of tinted orchids and carnations, and placed a spray on all three graves. The markers had been recently cleared, though a dusting of snow had already begun to obstruct the names. I bent down and wiped the snow away with a gloved hand, starting with my mother.

She'd died one winter morning while Linda and I were visiting friends in the neighborhood. Only Kelly was at home. It appeared Mom had lain down for a nap, something she rarely did, and never woke up. Kelly, nine years old at the time, found her and phoned us. ”I can't wake Mom up,” she'd cried. ”I shook her and shook her.”

They determined that our mother had died of an aneurysm, a blood vessel popped in her brain. No reason given ... these things just happen.

I knelt near her marker and read the inscription.

Ruth Ann Everett. Beloved wife and mother. Receive her into heaven, oh Lord ...

My mother's friends and relatives had called her Ruthie. In the pictures I'd seen of her as a child, she'd appeared quite happy, always smiling, though I didn't remember too much of that. To me, she'd seemed subdued and resigned. I could only guess that she'd been lonely, not for us kids, but for my father who was almost never around. When he was, he holed up in his little room, doing his books or talking on the phone ... in the house, but not really at home.

My father, Samuel t.i.tus Everett, lay in the grave beside my mother. And it occurred to me, that at least in death, my father was forced to stay near my mother, like it or not. But he had been a good man, a stable provider, and he'd stop what he was doing to listen to his children, though we couldn't hang out for long before he'd tell us to scoot. He'd ama.s.sed a fortune virtually behind our backs, though my mother must have known. We owned the sporting goods store in town, t.i.tus Sports Authority, and there was a catalogue that came out each month, and frequent mention of ”the plant,” though none of us girls had ever been there. We did help out often in the store on vacations and holidays to earn our spending money, but we had no idea of the wealth he'd acc.u.mulated until he died.

It was obvious he wanted it that way. Our home was modest. We lived modestly. I could only wonder why he'd chosen to live so simply, though in the will, he'd given a clue. ”And to my girls I bequeath all my earthly belongings, and urge them to remember that money makes no guarantee of happiness, but instead can usher in a world of woe. Choose wisely your path, and those you keep close to you now. Forgive me the burden I have placed on you.”

He'd sold off the store after the first heart attack, and soon after liquidated the rest, leaving everything in order, as was his way. He died of a second, ma.s.sive attack, no doubt due to a lifetime of stress, or perhaps, I liked to think, he'd missed our mother more than he'd ever cared to show.