On Sunday Nick spent two hours on the couch watching cartoons with his daughter. He drank coffee and munched on oven-baked crescent rolls and worked very hard against the urge to get the Sunday newspaper from the driveway, and even harder at keeping the conversation with Hargrave from ringing in his head.
He would keep his unspoken promise to Carly not to ignore her on his days at home. He'd done that to his family before. It had been the source of friction in his marriage ever since the girls were born. In the beginning his passion for the work, that he was good at what he did, that he was respected, was a source of pride for his wife.
After the girls were born, he hadn't changed. He'd gotten them through the pregnancy and the postpartum by working only eight-hour days and sneaking computer time on the weekends. But at three months, the twins went to Elsa for day care and once he dropped them off, he reentered the news world. Maybe it was subconscious, the pleasure he got from it, the demands and the people and the streets. It was the only thing he did well, and without saying it, he knew it defined him.
But his wife did change. Her priorities became different. He kept claiming that he understood the mothering instinct and all. He talked a good talk about sharing as a family and how he knew how important it was for him to be part of the equation, but failed to show it. That lack of action was the reason Julie and the girls were riding alone that night, touring the Christmas lights without him. He was out doing death when it came to visit his own family.
"Why does the redhead always have to play the ditzy one?" he asked Carly, who was lying back against his legs, using them as a chair back.
"They can't change every week," she said in that Duh? voice so popular in her age group. "The dumb one is the dumb one, Dad. It's preordained."
He laughed. "Preordained? Geesh, kid. Is that the fifth-grade word of the week or what?"
"No. I read it," Carly said, being coy.
"In what did you read it?" Nick tried to match her.
"I think it was in Messenger."
"Good book." Nick had introduced her and Lindsay to the tales of Lois Lowry. The next year they were assigned by her teacher.
"OK. So what does it mean, preordained?" he said, still teasing.
Carly was silent and he could only see the back of her head against his knees. He poked her in the ribs. She elbowed him.
"Huh? What does it mean?"
"It means that everything that happens is already supposed to happen," she said and Nick could hear the clip of anger in her voice. "If people are going to die, they die. And there's nothing you can do about it."
He let it sit for a minute, silently cursing himself for setting a semantics trap that had hurt her and that had bitten him back.
"Maybe that's what that specific word means, baby. But that's not the way it is," Nick said, with authority, because he believed it.
Carly did not sniffle, did not even clear her voice. She simply remained silent while Nick stroked her hair.
"See?" she finally said, pointing her finger at the television screen. "The blond one is the smart one."
When the program was done, Carly got up and put her dishes in the sink and reminded her father that today her friend Jessica was having a birthday party and that he would have to drop her off in an hour.
Nick must have looked quizzically at her and she read his face and put a hand on her hip, just like her mother used to do to him.
"It's on the board, Dad. We talked about it on Wednesday, and you said fine, so we've got to be there by eleven."
"Right, right, right. You got it, babe. I didn't forget," Nick said, knowing she knew he'd forgotten. He tried to smile his way out of it. "Jessica's it is. Her mother's name is Ro. Her brother is Tyler. Her dad is Bob."
Carly frowned a frown that was filled with sarcasm but included that small twinkling humor in her eye.
"That would be correct, Dad," she said and he again marveled at her ability to be so damned quick and grown-up. Fast on the draw, just like her mom.
At ten thirty Carly was dressed and waiting by the door with a small wrapped present in her hands. Nick felt himself hustling to find his car keys. When they arrived in Jessica's neighborhood, he remembered exactly where to turn. He was trying to impress Carly, to show her that he was paying attention to her life. Without hesitation he spotted the Lipinskis' dominating two-story at the end of a cul-de-sac and he figured it made him look like a genius. He got out with Carly and went to the door instead of just dropping her off. Ro Lipinski welcomed them and when they stepped into the house, Carly spotted Jessica and two other girls back on the wide pool patio and with a flip of her fingers and a "'Bye, Dad," skipped away. Ro, an attractive woman with short blond streaked hair and a swimmer's athletic figure, asked if Nick wanted a cup of coffee.
"Bob's out with the boys teaching them how to play golf," she said.
Nick smiled and declined, his eyes following his daughter through the glass doors and the smiles and little-girl greetings. Ro watched the side of Nick's face.
"How's she doing, Nick?"
Her question brought him back.
"Good. I, uh, think she's good," he said.
The woman's face was showing concern, like a mom. She had been close with Nick's wife. Their kids shared schools and birthday parties. Both sets of parents shared cookouts and the occasional dinner out on weekends.
"The school counselor says that this Christmas should be easier than last year, but no guarantees. You know? They don't like to give you guarantees," Nick said, turning his gaze back out to where the girls were huddled around some new blow-up pool toy.
"Well, she's pretty good here when they're all together, Nick. I know it's still got to be hard over at your house when it's quiet," Ro said, her voice consoling, like it had been at the funeral and every time Nick had seen her since.
"Yeah, well, it's probably good for her to be around the girls instead of just me on the weekends."
Nick looked past the woman's eyes. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He hadn't moved off the flagstone in the entryway.
"And how are you doing, Nicky?"
"I don't know," he said. "It's been two years. I shouldn't still be dwelling on it that much. But I am, and you know something? I don't give a damn if I am."
Ro was looking in his face, nodding. Nick could feel his skin redden, caught clumsy by his own anger. He shifted his weight again and put his hand in his pocket and wrapped his fingers around his car keys. He wanted to run, leave his daughter here, giggling and playing and being happy, and just run.
"I know, Nicky. I know," Ro said, reaching out to touch his arm. "Look, when you come back to pick her up, come a little late, OK? Bob will be back with the boys and maybe you guys can talk, you know? Maybe you and Carly can stay for dinner or something."
"Sure, maybe that'll be a good idea," Nick said, even though he and Bob Lipinski had never been so close as to have heart-to-hearts about anything personal, and he doubted that that was going to change now. He started to back out through the front door.
"Yeah, I'll be back to get her about five, alright?"
She could see the look of lingering pain on his face and called after him. "She'll be fine, Nick."
He waved. "Yeah, sure. I know," he said and kept moving. When Nick got back home, he sat at the empty kitchen table and began to make a mental list. He'd have to call Ms. Cotton early tomorrow to see about the collection of letters. If Hargrave got to her first, he could only make a request with the press officer to see what they'd come up with. Because the detective had loosened somewhat with information, Nick was holding out hope that the guy would share. It was still a give-and-take with him. He would also have to check out this OAS meet. If it was ten days off, Deirdre wouldn't get to it until this week. Daily newspaper editors rarely thought of anything more than a few days in advance and then jumped in with both feet when the show was just about to begin.
Nick caught himself mentally pissing and moaning again. It's just the nature of the biz, he told himself. That's the way it is. "Shut up," he said and the reverberation of his own voice stopped him. His wife would have looked over at him and shaken her head: "Talking to yourself again?" But she would have been smiling, knowing how he could get lost in his head and suddenly come out with statements and half thoughts so out of context that she couldn't help but laugh.
He'd also have to check on the list that Lori was putting together on sniper-related deaths in the state. Had she already sent that to him?
"Jesus, man. It's Sunday, Nick," he said, again out loud to himself. "Chill."
He went through the remnants of the Sunday paper, sorted out the sections that had nothing to do with news and got up and went to the couch in the living room. He'd been up late with Hargrave and hadn't slept when he did get in. Now it was quiet. The girls are gone. Take advantage of the day. He lay down with that thought in his head, then edited himself. Only two girls are gone, Nick, he thought. The third one needs you, man. Needs you to be strong. He held the newspaper up in front of his face. He'd stopped crying months ago even though the need was still with him. He focused on the sports pages. You can do this, Nick, he thought, repeating a mantra that had become very old for him. You can do this.
He tried to focus on a photo of Alonzo Mourning, started to read the paper's basketball beat writer opining about the star center's struggle and victory over kidney disease, but as he drifted off he saw his daughter sitting in the stands at a Miami Heat game, smiling and cheering. Lindsay, his dead daughter. His eyes came back open and he tried to clear them, and read about doctors still being amazed that Mourning had returned to the court, but he drifted off again and saw his wife's face as she closed the door on the girls' room. And he followed her vision into their room and there was candlelight flickering on the walls and the glow was warm and then her face appeared above him. She was whispering something that he could not hear. She was beautiful and her honey-blond hair was falling down in his face and she was straddling him and looking down and he could feel her against him, the warmth of her, and he could feel himself growing hard. She said something in his ear, a warning, but he did not want to hear it. He wanted the movement of her hips to continue and he could see the candlelight flickering in time to their rise and fall. And she tried to say something in his ear again, the brush and moisture of her breath both exciting and distracting him, and he turned his face away and let the sensation of sex take him over and then he tried to roll with her, but suddenly the warmth was gone and Nick woke with his eyes wide open. "Jesus," he said out loud. "What the hell was that?"
He was on the couch, the disorientation clearing fast. The newspaper had fallen to the floor. The light of late afternoon was slicing through the front blinds. He sat up and recalled the dream.
"Shit," he said, again out loud in the empty house. But it was not said in anger. He checked his watch: 3:40 PM. He had slept, or dreamed, or both, for almost three hours and it had been deep and not at all unpleasant. He sat up and realized he had to take a shower. Then he could go pick up Carly. Tomorrow he would sort out work. He was not embarrassed by his unconscious afternoon excursion and was in fact in higher spirits than he had been in a long time.