Intrusion: A Novel Read online

  Maggie stood, still yawning, and walked with them to the door. As Scott strolled toward the elevator, Kat kissed her sister’s cheek and turned to follow him.

  “Sleep well, Maggie.”

  “I’ll probably have nightmares,” Maggie said. “Who would have thought we’d meet that damn woman again?”

  Shaking her head, Maggie closed the door.

  Kat opened the drapes a little so they could see the sky from the bed.

  “Is it too bright?” she asked Scott. “The moon will be shining right on us.”

  “Leave it. It’s nice. Come to bed.”

  She cuddled in beside him, and he pulled her against his shoulder, holding his arms loosely around her.

  “Missed you,” he said.

  “I missed you, too. It must have been horrible. An empty house,” she said. “I didn’t think about that.”

  “It was quiet.”

  He hugged her closer and Kat became aware of his erection, pressing against her thigh. The first time since Chris’s death that she had been aware of any sexual stirring in Scott at all. She stayed very still, tears building in her throat. He was kissing her shoulder, softly, persuasively, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, thinking—I can’t. I just can’t. But she did not want to hurt him. He was hurt enough. She lay very still, waited for a minute or two. His penis was rigid now, digging hard and painfully into her. His breathing had changed.

  “Scott. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  He took a deep breath, held her still and tight.

  “It’s all right. Of course it’s all right.”

  “I know you want to—”

  “Hey,” he said, leaning up on an elbow and looking at her. “It’s not me. The beast has a will of its own.”

  She tried to smile, pulled him down to hug him so that he could not see her face. Her body felt frozen into solid ice, impenetrable; icy fear surrounded her.

  “Scott, I love you. You know that.”

  “I know,” he said. “When you’re ready, tell me.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course I will.”

  He moved onto his back. His arm was still around her but she felt a distance between them, and after a time she heard his breathing become even as he fell asleep. Kat watched a narrow ray of moonlight as slowly through the hours it moved across the room. When it lit on Scott’s face she feared it might wake him, so very slowly, quietly, she crept to the window, closed the drapes, then returned to the bed. Scott stirred beside her.

  “Go to sleep, Kat,” he whispered. As dawn began to break, she did.

  SIX

  Kat woke to see Scott and Maggie at the small table in the corner of the room, sipping coffee and reading newspapers.

  “Oh, damn,” she said. “Maggie, I’m so sorry. Did I miss our breakfast?”

  “Missed the breakfast and the light lunch, too,” Maggie said. “Not to worry, darling. I’m barely out of bed myself.”

  Kat struggled to see the bedside clock.

  “You’re done with the meeting, Scott?” she asked.

  “Yep. It was short and sweet. Ted Lafitte thanked us. Sarah Harrison thanked us. Said it will be a pleasure working with us—she’s quite certain we’ll do an excellent job for her consortium et cetera, et cetera. And that was that. The associates all grabbed doughnuts and left. So did I.”

  “So they decided to take you on?” Kat asked.

  “I guess she’s decided. I think she has to present it to her board, but I kind of got the impression that if she said yes, it’s pretty much a done deal. Miyamoto seemed to think so anyway. He was mighty pleased. Grinning like a fool.”

  Maggie made a slight huffing sound.

  “Were they all bowing to her and kissing her ring and everything?”

  Scott stared at his sister-in-law with amused bewilderment.

  “Maggie, what on earth did this woman do to you to make you dislike her so much?”

  “How long have you got?”

  “Maggie. Please. Leave it alone,” Kat said, wanting to halt what she knew would be a long and detailed diatribe. “Sarah is Scott’s new client. It was a long time ago. Forgotten.”

  Maggie gave Kat a long look, appeared to register the pleading tone in her sister’s voice.

  “O-kay,” she said slowly. “One thing, Scott—the very first time I met her, she booted me out of my own room in my own house.”

  Scott grinned.

  “You’re not serious?”

  “Yep. You remember that, don’t you, Kat?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Sarah’s first visit to the Watt home occurred on a day toward the end of the semester at the convent school. Kat’s mother studied this girl, with her long braided hair and her upper-class voice, knowing a stranger, and set out a proper tea with the best tablecloth used only for special visitors.

  “Why don’t we go to your room?” Sarah had whispered afterward. Kat stared at her, astounded: in her working-class world, kids did not use their bedrooms for anything other than sleeping and homework. When Kat and Sarah opened the door to the shared bedroom, Maggie was sitting at the small desk, her books open in front of her.

  “Oh,” said Sarah. “I didn’t realize you—Do you mind if we have some privacy?” she asked.

  Maggie’s cheeks were crimson and she trembled slightly.

  “I’ve got all my homework out,” she said.

  “I’m not going to touch your homework, silly,” Sarah said. “Golly, look how red you are. Do you always blush like that?”

  Maggie stood at once and hurried from the room, leaving her books still open.

  “So that’s why you dislike her so much?” asked Scott, bemused.

  “Oh no. There’s a lot more.”

  “Leave it, Mags,” Kat said.

  But Maggie took a sip of her coffee, then spoke directly to Scott, ignoring her sister.

  “Sarah Cherrington broke the heart of someone I loved and just about ruined my wedding day. Reason enough for a little dislike, don’t you think? Reason enough.”

  “Maggie!” said Kat fiercely. She looked at her sister with annoyance. Maggie returned her look, then added stubbornly:

  “Plus, she stole my boyfriend.”

  “Not Paul?” Scott asked.

  “Of course not Paul. Jason. The boy before Paul.”

  Maggie was clearly not going to be deflected. Kat, sitting up on the edge of the bed, tried to lighten her voice.

  “Well, think of it this way—if she hadn’t lifted Jason, you might never have married Paul.”

  “Lifted Jason?” Scott asked.

  “Yep. That’s how she operates,” Maggie said. “Light-fingered. She’d take every male in sight if she could, especially if he seemed happy with someone else.”

  “Come on, Maggie, that’s not fair,” Kat said. “A lot of guys made a play for her. No surprise, considering her looks. She was stunning. It wasn’t all her fault.”

  “Oh, get out. She got away with a whole bunch of crap because she was beautiful, and I bet she gets away with a whole bunch of crap now because she’s rich. And Sven? You can’t say that wasn’t deliberate. And she even came on to Paul, you know, at a party once, out of sheer vindictiveness to get at me. Just after we got engaged. I thought he hadn’t noticed, because he just ignored her. You know how vague he is about such things. But years later, we were talking about predatory women and I mentioned her and said, ‘Of course you didn’t notice that she was coming on to you.’ And he laughed and said, ‘Maggie, naturally I noticed. How could I not? I was enormously flattered.’”

  All three smiled at this. Maggie took another sip of her coffee, then looked at Scott.

  “She’s a nasty person. Don’t trust her.”

  “Noted,” Scott said.

  Maggie said nothing more, and Scott, after glancing at his wife’s face, began folding up the newspaper and packing files into his briefcase.

  “Okay. Here’s the plan,” he said. “Why don’t we get going and have a real br
eakfast on the road? That way you’ll have time to rest and pack before your flight, Maggie.”

  “Fine with me,” said Maggie, looking at Kat in a conciliatory way. “I wish I had more time. Just a few more days.”

  “We can’t keep you here forever,” Kat said. “Paul must be missing you.”

  “I expect he is. And I’ve got business stuff to do. And Paul wants to take a long weekend in Paris to see Adam. Otherwise . . .”

  A sharp pain, an arrow through the heart, shot through Kat. It was such an innocent sentence, she didn’t know if Scott, sipping his coffee, even noticed it. Paris to see Adam. She and Scott would never say Paris to see Chris. Or even Berkeley to see Chris. It should have been possible. They raised him, educated him, loved him; above all, they had loved him. He was ready. He had been accepted. He had an academic scholarship, a dorm room, classes chosen. To Berkeley to see Chris.

  Kat held the coffee cup so tightly with both hands that it began to tremble. She placed it down carefully, telling herself: Breathe slowly, control it. She must learn not to break down every time the knife twists. Maggie said something else. Kat did not hear it clearly, but she felt herself calming. Scott and Maggie did not seem to have noticed.

  Maggie left for LAX an hour after their return home. As she watched the taxi pull away, Kat heard a voice calling her name and saw Brooke, in a loose wrap and black bikini, across the street at her mailbox.

  “Been away, sweetie?” Brooke called.

  “Palm Springs.”

  “Love that place,” Brooke said. “I guess you’re tired. I won’t keep you. I made some of that date loaf Scott likes. Hang on, I’ll get it.” She disappeared into her house.

  Brooke had been baking date loaves as small gifts for them since both Chris and Scott, at a barbecue at her house years before, told her the dessert bread was awesome. She confided to Kat that it was the only thing she could bake.

  “I’m hopeless at pastry,” she said. “Mine is so heavy it would sink a battleship.”

  A striking blonde divorcée, with a love of fashionable clothes and impossible heels, Brooke liked to sunbathe in her side yard wearing the tiniest of bikinis. Occasionally, she would remove the bikini top and lie on her stomach, spread-eagled on a beach towel. Chris had been fourteen years old when Brooke first moved in across the street, and he and his friends all stared longingly at this new neighbor as she lay, her skin oiled and gleaming gold, soaking up the sun. The posse of boys raced up and down the street, slowing at Brooke’s yard as the teenagers stretched up high on the pedals of their bikes to get a better view, bobbing their heads like meerkats.

  “She’s going to cause a bike pileup if she doesn’t put some clothes on,” Scott had said once, laughing as he watched the boys from the window.

  The day that the news of Chris’s accident swept through the neighborhood, Brooke appeared at the Hamiltons’ door with a chicken casserole, a date loaf, and two bottles of wine. Since then, she had been a gentle support for Kat. She visited occasionally, sitting with Kat and talking quietly of nothing very much, always bringing small gifts—a special bath oil for Kat, a single-malt whisky for Scott.

  Now, she emerged from her house carrying the date loaf on a baking tray and handed it to Kat.

  “It’s a bit burnt on the corners,” Brooke said. “I got distracted by America’s Most Wanted.” She paused to study Kat’s face. “So how are you, sweet pea? How was the desert?”

  “Fine. The scenery’s so pretty. The hotel was nice.”

  “But?” Brooke asked, not convinced.

  “I struggled a bit with Scott’s client thing. All those people. And the big client turned out to be an old school friend, so that was a bit weird.”

  “Really? Scott’s old school friend? Or yours?”

  “Mine. She’s a widow now. Married some high-powered international investor type. She’s very rich.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? To reconnect with an old friend?”

  “Not sure. Maybe not this old friend,” Kat said. “Anyway, love, thank you for this.”

  “You’re welcome. Tell Scott sorry about the corners.”

  “He won’t mind. He’ll wolf it down.”

  Brooke smiled a good-bye, then headed for her side yard, stripping off her wrap and exposing the bikini even as she crossed the street.

  Kat placed the loaf in the kitchen before walking slowly around the house as if reestablishing herself inside it. The air of the house felt oppressive; the very walls and roof seemed heavier. Was it possible for a house to absorb grief, hold it in the walls?

  “The house feels heavy,” she said to Scott. “Dark.”

  “We’ve just come from the desert,” he said. “The light is different.”

  “But don’t you feel it? The heaviness? It feels as if the ceiling is pressing down.”

  He was heading to his den, a file under his arm, but he paused to look at her.

  “I’ll adjust the air a bit,” he said. “It’s probably musty.”

  Kat wandered into Chris’s room, sat on his bed, looked at his hard rock posters, his books, his CDs, ran a hand along the papers on his desk. He had left an essay unfinished; the pen still lay on top of it. She opened his closet, touching the shirts and sweaters, holding each one to her face.

  She reached for his leather jacket and stroked the soft nap. He hadn’t worn it much; he had been saving it for some special occasion. Some date, perhaps, with a girl. It was hard to look back on the day they bought this jacket. He was so excited, eyes bright, kidding her along, knowing that she would eventually give in. It was too much money, Kat said. But Chris knew it wasn’t really too much money; they wouldn’t be there in the department store trying it on if it were.

  He had wanted that jacket so badly, and she had hesitated for a while, really wanting to wait until after Christmas, to see if it would go on sale. Thank God, Kat thought now, thank God I said yes. He was so happy that day, coming home with the coat on a hanger. He had carried it thrown over his shoulder and walked with a jaunty step to the car. Then, he hung it carefully in the closet, waiting for that special occasion. How many times had he worn it? Twice? Three times? She could not imagine ever giving it away, or throwing it away, but what could she do with it, except stroke it, hold it to her face as if she could breathe him in, breathe him back to life.

  She turned from the closet to look at the framed photographs squashed on top of the dresser among open video games, empty DVD cases, books, and dried-out pens. There was Chris with his friends, Vanessa and Ben and another boy, his name gone from her memory. They were maybe ten years old, grinning at the camera. Kat spotted herself in the background, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She was laughing. Rewind, Kat thought. Rewind to that point, right there. Start over.

  Kat, suddenly weak, heart pounding, sat down abruptly on Chris’s bed, still holding the photograph. What she really wanted to do was get under the covers, lie where Chris used to lie, snuggle down where he used to sleep. But though she longed to do it, she was also frightened. Her heart might implode with the pain of it. Scott could come into the bedroom and find this just too strange, too crazy. He might fear that she had reached some final breaking point.

  A shadow crossed the doorway, and she looked up to find Scott watching her.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yep. Just looking at these old pics,” she said, standing, placing the photograph back on the dresser.

  He came to stand beside her, lifted another picture. It showed them camping years ago, in Yosemite. She must have taken the photo herself, for there was Scott, grinning, and Chris and two of his young friends.

  “That was a fun trip,” Scott said.

  “Oh yes,” Kat said, remembering the fire that wouldn’t start, the tent that wouldn’t stay up, the new hiking shoes she had foolishly bought only a week before and not worn in, so that she had blisters on her feet the size of silver dollars. But she remembered, too, late at night under the stars, the boys laughing i
n their own tent, Scott beside her as they whispered about the happenings of the day.

  “It was wonderful,” she said now. They stood for a while longer looking at the pictures on the dresser.

  “I was hoping you were making coffee,” Scott said. “And maybe a sandwich. And a slice of Brooke’s date loaf.”

  “Oh, you are so subtle! Well, keep hoping, buddy.” She turned then, to look at him. “I’ll make something in a minute. Okay?”

  He placed a gentle, closed fist against her cheek for a moment.

  “Thanks.”

  Later, as she carried a mug of coffee and a sandwich into Scott’s den, she saw that he was bent over his desk, studying plans and blueprints.

  “You almost done?” she asked.

  “I’m getting there.”

  Kat looked over his shoulder; the plans made no sense to her.

  “I’m going to have a bath, then read in bed.”

  Scott glanced at his watch.

  “Already? It’s barely eight.”

  “So?” she said.

  Scott did not respond. He had returned to the blueprints, had begun to make notes on a yellow legal pad, engrossed in his work.

  SEVEN

  While Scott showered and prepared for work on Monday morning, Kat carried her laptop through to the dining area, next to the kitchen in their contemporary open-plan home. She placed it on the table, along with a legal pad and pen, and then she made a pot of strong coffee. When Scott came downstairs, dressed for the office, he studied her, puzzled.

  “What’s this?”

  “Job search.”

  He came to kiss the top of her head.

  “That’s good, sweetheart. That’s really good.”

  Over the next week, Kat studied prospective jobs, listed agencies, made notes of phone numbers. The few phone calls she made were difficult. She tried to sidestep questions about why she was moving from a job she had done well for five years, that was well paid, to positions that were sometimes described as “entry level.”

  A recruiter was astonished when Kat, calling about a job for an admin assistant in a school, mentioned her previous salary. Kat decided to downplay the salary, downplay her responsibilities. She did not want a job that involved public relations, or customer service, or any kind of position that meant she had to smile at strangers.