I, Richard Part 9

For the next two days, Charlie fought off a relapse of the flu and used her bed time to sort out who among Eric's limited number of friends might be able and willing to tell her the truth about her husband's private life. She decided that Terry Stewart would be the man: Eric's attorney, his regular tennis partner, and his buddy from their days in kindergarten. If there was a hidden side to Eric Lawton, Terry Stewart had to know it.

Before she could phone him and make an arrangement to see him, however, she received her first hint of what Eric's second life might be. One of his colleagues came to call, a woman Charlie had never met, had never even heard of. She was named Sharon Pasternak ("No relation," she said with a smile when she introduced herself at the front door), and she apologized for stopping by without phoning. She wondered if she could have a look through Eric's work papers, she said. The two of them had been a.s.sembling a report for the board of directors, and Eric had taken most of the paperwork home to put it together in a logical fas.h.i.+on.

"I know it's awfully soon after... well, you know. And I'd wait if I could, honestly," Sharon Pasternak said as Charlie admitted her into the house. "But the board meets next month and since I'll be putting this together by myself now... I'm really really sorry to have to come around... But I need to get going on it." She looked earnest, regretful about having even to say Eric's name, not wis.h.i.+ng to cause his widow further grief. She made all the right noises. On the other hand, she also said she was a molecular biologist, which prompted Charlie to ask herself why one of Biosyn's scientists and its director of sales would be writing a report together. sorry to have to come around... But I need to get going on it." She looked earnest, regretful about having even to say Eric's name, not wis.h.i.+ng to cause his widow further grief. She made all the right noises. On the other hand, she also said she was a molecular biologist, which prompted Charlie to ask herself why one of Biosyn's scientists and its director of sales would be writing a report together.

Cautiously, all her senses on alert, Charlie showed Sharon Pasternak to Eric's study where, on his desk, his briefcase lay. Sharon flashed her a smile, said, "May I... Is it all right if I sit here?" and put one hand on Eric's swivel chair. "It might take a while." She gestured around the room. "He's got so many files."

"Sure," Charlie said as pleasantly as she could. "Take your time. I have to go through all of this eventually, but you can take whatever relates to..." She made the pause deliberate. "To your work."

Sharon flushed and dropped her gaze. She said, "Thanks so much," and she lifted her head when she went on with, "I'm so sorry about... everything, Mrs. Lawton. He was a good man. He was such such a good man." Her eyes bored meaningfully into Charlie's, fastening upon her for far too long. a good man." Her eyes bored meaningfully into Charlie's, fastening upon her for far too long.

So this was it, Charlie thought in reaction. This was how it played out when you came face-to-face with the object of your husband's secret pa.s.sion. Except Sharon Pasternak wasn't Eric's type. Plump, a head of no-nonsense dark hair, a smattering of makeup, ankles too thick. She wasn't his type. Yet, it had to be asked: What was was Eric Lawton's type? Who was his type? Did his wife even know? Eric Lawton's type? Who was his type? Did his wife even know?

Charlie went to her bedroom and closed the curtains. She lay in the darkness and listened to the sounds of Eric's colleague sifting through whatever she wanted to sift through in the study. Charlie herself had already been through much of the contents of the room during her frenzy of searching for evidence of her husband's infidelity. If Sharon indeed was the mystery woman, Charlie wanted to tell her, her secret was safe, or at least it had been safe till she'd showed up at Eric Lawton's front door. Dumb move, Ms. Pasternak.

"As in Boris?" Bethany asked Charlie later. "That's not exactly a name hanging on every tree. Did you see her ID? She could've given you an alias."

"Why? If she was Eric's lover, what difference does it make whether I know her name or not?"

"She might not be Eric's lover, Charles. She might be someone else altogether."

Charlie considered this point and all its implications. "I need to talk to Terry Stewart," she decided. "Terry must know who Eric was seeing."

"If he was seeing anyone at all. But why do he was seeing anyone at all. But why do you you need to know?" need to know?"

"Because I..."Charlie drew a deep breath. "I need absolution. The truth will give me absolution."

"For what?"

"For not knowing what to believe."

"There's no sin in that." "For me, there is."

Eric's oldest friend, so often declared "my best friend on earth... he didn't desert me... he never would," Terry Stewart, Charlie knew, had to be confronted without having had the time to prepare a cover for whatever it was he might be hiding about Eric. As he was an attorney-Eric's own lawyer, in fact-she knew how likely it was that he would be set upon taking his clients' secrets to the grave. So she didn't want her visit to him to be official. Which meant she would need to waylay him in a location some distance from his gla.s.s-towered office.

The gym turned out to be that location. She saw his car parked in front of it when she was on her way to the tennis courts to check for him, and she recognized its vanity plate: 10s nei. So she pulled into the lot, saw him sweating on the Stair-master through the plate-gla.s.s windows of the establishment, and decided to wait for him to emerge. There was a Starbucks next door, and she went there.

She was in a window seat sipping a chai latte when Terry swung open the door of the gym. He headed for his car, straightening his tie as he walked. He looked freshly showered: all damp hair and glowing skin. She knocked on the window. He swung around, saw her, stopped, and smiled. He came in her direction and, in short order, joined her.

"How are you, Charlie?" His face was grave and kind.

Charlie shrugged. "I'm okay. I've been better, but I'll survive."

"I'm sorry I haven't phoned. I'm a coward, I guess. If I talk about it, she'll cry, I told myself. And I can't avoid talking about it because if I do, it'd be like ignoring an alligator in your bathtub. But I don't want to make her cry. She's cried enough already. She might even be feeling better and there I'd be, making her live through everything again." He pulled out a chair and sat. "I'm sorry."

"He was having an affair, wasn't he?"

Terry jerked back against his seat, apparently startled by this frontal attack. "Eric?" "Eric?"

"I'd thought he was at first. Then I'd changed my mind. Well, he convinced me, really. But now... He was was having an affair, wasn't he?" having an affair, wasn't he?"

"No. G.o.d, no. What makes you think-"

"All the changes, Terry. The Harley and the tattoo for starters."

"This county's filled filled with guys in their forties who spend their weekends riding around on Harleys. They've got wives, kids, cats, dogs, car payments, and mortgages and they wake up one morning and say, This is all there is? And they want more. Midlife crisis. They want the edge back. Harleys give it to them. That's it." with guys in their forties who spend their weekends riding around on Harleys. They've got wives, kids, cats, dogs, car payments, and mortgages and they wake up one morning and say, This is all there is? And they want more. Midlife crisis. They want the edge back. Harleys give it to them. That's it."

"There were phone calls. Late nights he supposedly spent at work. And a woman came by the house to look through his things. She said she was Sharon Pasternak, a molecular biologist at Biosyn. She said they were working on a report-she and Eric, Terry, why would Eric have been working on a report with a biologist, for G.o.d's sake?-and he had some data she said she needed in order to put the report together by herself now he's gone. But when she left, she took nothing with her. What's that supposed to tell me?"

"I don't know."

"I think it's obvious enough. She was looking for traces."

"Of what?"

"You know. He was seeing someone. Maybe it was her."

"That's impossible."

"Why? Why is it impossible?"

"Because... G.o.d, Charlie. He was crazy about you. I mean crazy crazy about you. Had been since the day you two met." about you. Had been since the day you two met."

"Then she was looking for something else. What?"

"Charlie, jeez. Take it easy, okay? You look like s.h.i.+t, pardon my French. Have you been sleeping? Are you eating? Have you thought about getting away for a few days?"

"He lied to me about his family. He had pictures. He used them to pretend... You saw them, Terry. You've been at our house. You saw those pictures and you know his family. You grew up with him. So you must have known..." Charlie clutched the table as a cramp gripped her stomach. Her bowels felt loose. Her palms were wet. She was falling apart and she hated hated the fact, and the hate made her raise her voice and cry, "I want the information. I have the right to it. Tell me what you know." the fact, and the hate made her raise her voice and cry, "I want the information. I have the right to it. Tell me what you know."

Terry looked puzzled more than anything else. "What pictures?" he asked. "What're you talking about?"

Charlie told him. He listened, but he shook his head, saying, "Sure, I knew Eric's family. But that was just his mom, his dad, and his brother. Brent. And even if I studied those pictures- which I didn't... I mean, who studies family pictures in other people's houses? You just glance at them when you walk by, don't you?-I wouldn't have recognized anyone. Eric's mom died when we were around eight and even before that she was in bed for five years with a stroke. I saw her what? maybe once, so in a picture ... No way. I wouldn't even know her. And I haven't set eyes on Brent or Eric's dad for years. At least ten, maybe more. So if there was a picture of either of them or all of them or someone else, I wouldn't have known the difference."

Charlie listened through a roar in her ears. "Brent?" she said in a whisper. "He died. died. The accident. And then Eric's mother and his father-" The accident. And then Eric's mother and his father-"

"What accident?" Terry asked.

"The shotgun. Hunting birds. The desert. Eric tripped and Brent was..." She couldn't finish because Terry's face was telling her more than she wanted to know. She felt her own face crumple. "Oh G.o.d. Oh G.o.d." G.o.d."

Terry said, "Jeez. Jeez, Charlie." Awkwardly, he patted her hand. "Jeez. I don't know what to say."

"Tell me what you know. Tell me why he lied. Tell me who she is. Tell me who he was."

"I swear to G.o.d-"

She smacked her hand on the table. "He was your best friend!"

Terry glanced over his shoulder to the counter, where the Starbucks clerk was beginning to show more interest in them than in the lattes she was making. He turned back to Charlie. "There was a blowup in his family. This was years ago. That's all I know. He didn't talk about it and I didn't ask."

"So why didn't he tell me that? Why'd he pretend-"

"I don't know. Maybe it sounded... more glamorous or something."

"To have shot shot your own brother? I don't believe that. The only reason a man would tell a woman that tale would be to keep her from wondering why he never mentioned a family, why he never saw them or heard from them. And why would he do that in the first place, Terry? You know as well as I: if he had another life that they knew about. Right?" your own brother? I don't believe that. The only reason a man would tell a woman that tale would be to keep her from wondering why he never mentioned a family, why he never saw them or heard from them. And why would he do that in the first place, Terry? You know as well as I: if he had another life that they knew about. Right?"

"That's not the case."

"How do you know?"

"Look. Do you know how much planning it would take to have a double life like the kind you're imagining? Jeez. Do you know how much plain old cash it would take? He didn't have that kind of money, Charlie. All he had was pipe dreams like the rest of us."

"What sort of pipe dreams?"

"He talked through his hat. You know know how he was." how he was."

"Talked about what?"

"I need a cup of coffee." Terry got up and went to the counter, where he placed an order, dug out his wallet, and waited.

Biding his time, Charlie thought. Establis.h.i.+ng his story. For the first time since Eric's death, she wondered if there was anyone whom she could trust and at this thought, she sank back in her seat and felt ill to her soul.

"He talked about Barbados. Grenada. The Bahamas." Terry set a cappuccino on the table and tore the top off a packet of sugar. "He talked about putting his money there, having a new life, sleeping in a hammock on the beach, drinking pina co-ladas."

"Dear G.o.d, what was going on?" Charlie cried.

"Don't you see? Nothing. Nothing. He was forty-two. He was forty-two. That's That's what was going on. He was talking, that's all. That's what guys do. They talk about investments. About offsh.o.r.e banking. About fast cars and women with big b.o.o.bs and yachts and racing in the America's Cup. About hiking in the Himalayas and renting a palazzo in Venice. He was talking, Charlie. That's what guys do when they're forty-two." what was going on. He was talking, that's all. That's what guys do. They talk about investments. About offsh.o.r.e banking. About fast cars and women with big b.o.o.bs and yachts and racing in the America's Cup. About hiking in the Himalayas and renting a palazzo in Venice. He was talking, Charlie. That's what guys do when they're forty-two."

"Do you do that?"

Terry colored brightly. "It's a guy thing."

"Do you do it?"

"Not all guys are the same." And as he read the despair on her face, he hastened on with, "Charlie, it was nothing. It was going to blow over."

"He felt trapped and he'd done something about it."

"No way."

"Except something happened to prevent him from going through with what he intended to do and then he was really trapped and then-"

"No! That's not it."

"What is it, then? What was was it?" it?"

He grasped his cappuccino but he didn't drink it. "I don't know," he said.

"I don't believe you."

"I'm telling you the truth." He gazed at her long, hard, and earnestly as if his look carried the power to convince and rea.s.sure her. "You need to come to the office," he said. "We've got to go over his will. And there's probate to be handled... Charlie, I want to help you through this. I'm devastated, too. He was my closest friend. Can't we be there for each other?"

"Like Eric was there for both of us? What does that even mean, Terry?"

He was gone and that was difficult enough for Charlie to cope with. The manner of his going-the suddenness and the inexplicable horror of it-made the coping even more difficult. But now to have to face the fact that the man she'd loved and lost had not even been who she'd thought he was... It was too much to bear and far too much to a.s.similate. She drove home feeling as if she'd been struck by the plague, a virulent interloper that was forcing her body to suffer what her mind could not begin to face.

Somatizing. Somehow she remembered the term from Psych all those years ago. She couldn't bring herself to embrace the full truth, but her body knew knew what that full truth was and it reacted accordingly. She wasn't suffering from the flu at all. She was somatizing. And now her body was trying to purge her of Eric's lies, because as she drove home, she was overcome by a nausea so fierce that she didn't think she would make it into her house without vomiting. what that full truth was and it reacted accordingly. She wasn't suffering from the flu at all. She was somatizing. And now her body was trying to purge her of Eric's lies, because as she drove home, she was overcome by a nausea so fierce that she didn't think she would make it into her house without vomiting.

She didn't. Once pulled into her driveway, she shoved open the door of the car and stumbled out. On the pristine front lawn, she fell to her knees and spasm after spasm wracked her stomach, forcing its meager contents upward and outward in a humiliating and malodorous plume. She gagged on the taste and the smell of it, and she vomited more, until all that was left was the wretched heaving itself which she couldn't bring under control. Finally, she fell onto her side, panting, sweat heavy on her neck and her eyelids. She stared at the house and she felt the vomit slide across the sloping lawn and graze her cheek. Remember, I'll always love you. Remember, I'll always love you.

She pulled herself up and staggered to the porch, thankful that like so many upscale suburban neighborhoods in Southern California, her own was deserted at this time of day. The two-income families who were her neighbors wouldn't return to their homes before night, so she hadn't been seen. There was blessing in that.

She didn't notice anything wrong until she got to her front door. There, she had her key extended when she saw the deep gouges around what remained of the lock.

Weakly, she pushed the door open but she had the presence of mind not to enter. From the porch, she could see all she needed to see.

"Jesus H," the policeman muttered. "f.u.c.king mess." He'd introduced himself to Charlie as Officer Marco Doyle, and he'd arrived within ten minutes of her phone call with his lights flas.h.i.+ng and his siren blaring as if that's what she paid her taxes for. His partner was a dog called Simba, a European import that looked like a cross between a German shepherd and the hound of the Baskervilles. "She's on duty," Doyle had commented as he stepped inside the house. "Don't pet her."

Charlie hadn't considered doing so.

Simba remained on the front porch on the alert as Doyle went inside. It was from the living room that he'd made the comment which Charlie, clutching at her cell phone like a life preserver, heard from just inside the entry.

Doyle said, "Simba, come," and the dog bounded into the house. He directed her to sniff out intruders and while she did so-with Doyle on her heels going from room to room-Charlie examined the destruction.

It was obvious that the intent had been search and not robbery because her possessions were thrown around in a way that suggested someone moving quickly, knowing what he was looking for, and tossing things over his shoulder to get them out of his way when he did not find what he wanted. Each room appeared identical in its pattern of chaos: Everything was moved away from the walls; the contents of drawers and closets were dumped into the center. Pictures had been removed and books had been opened and flung to one side.

"No one here," Doyle said. "Whoever it was, he moved fast. There're too many scents for her to pick up anything useful, though. You have a party lately?"

A party. "People were here. After a funeral. My husband..." Charlie lowered herself to a chair, her knees going and the rest of her following.

"Oh. Hey. I'm sorry," Doyle said. "h.e.l.l. Rotten luck. Anything missing, can you tell?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. It seems like... I don't know." Charlie felt so used up that all she could think about was crawling into her bed and sleeping for a year. Sleeping away the nightmare, she thought.

Doyle said that he'd be radioing for the crime scene people. They'd come and fingerprint and take what evidence they could find. Charlie would want to phone her insurance company in the meantime, though. And was there anyone who could help her clean up the mess when the crime scene people were finished?

Yes, Charlie told him cooperatively. She had a friend who would help.

"Need me to call her?"

No, no, Charlie said. She'd place the call. No point in doing so till the crime scene people looked for evidence, though.

Doyle said this was sensible and he told her he'd wait outside with the dog for the crime scene team to show up. Which they did in an hour, pulling up in a white sedan with Crime Scene Investigation Crime Scene Investigation printed in subtle gray on the doors. printed in subtle gray on the doors.

While they went through the motions of looking for evidence in the debris that was Charlie's house, Charlie herself sat in the backyard, staring numbly at the picturesque fountain that she and her husband had two years ago debated removing "once the babies come." It all seemed so much a part of another life now, a life that not only bore no resemblance to her present one but also had been a fabrication.

"Wow, this guy's too good to be true," true," her sister Emily had murmured the first time she'd met Eric. her sister Emily had murmured the first time she'd met Eric.

And that had apparently been the case.