Cathryn. Shannon Waverly
He used to loathe this time of year when he was a kid. There was a stillness to February, a nothing-happening hush as nature hung idle between winter and spring, that used to drive him crazy. Funny, how time could alter a person’s perspective.
Tucker found Cathryn’s address with minimal trouble. She lived in an area of new midpriced homes, each set on at least two acres, with SUVs in the driveways and swing sets in the yards. The McGraths lived in an extended Cape Cod house with white shutters, natural cedar shingles, and well-tended shrubs out front. Kid-made paper hearts, framed by ruffled curtains, decked the windows. Cupids lined the walk, and a red-and-pink Valentine flag hung by the front door. There were window boxes stuffed with pine and holly, flower beds waiting for spring, and tucked here and there, stone squirrels and bunnies and ducks. It was picture-perfect. And perfectly Cathryn.
Tucker was standing at the door before he realized he should’ve called before coming over. Although it was nearly dinnertime, the house was eerily still. He heard no children’s voices within, no TV gabble, no clatter of pots or plates. He didn’t even see any lights.
He stepped back, peering toward the attached garage. The double door was raised, revealing only one vehicle. Maybe the family had gone visiting. Or maybe to a restaurant…although Tuesday was an odd night to go out to eat, and Cathryn had been feeling sick.
For a brief moment, Tucker worried about Cathryn. Something wasn’t right with her. She’d claimed to be fighting off flu symptoms all morning, but he’d seen her eating and nothing had been wrong with her appetite. He’d also noticed the abrupt change in her expression while the Anderson woman talked with her.
With a shake of his head, he tossed aside his suspicions. He was an inveterate cynic, seeing trouble where none existed, and that was all there was to it. Tucker set down the urn on the doormat where it couldn’t be missed, then returned to the car for the rest of Cathryn’s things.
With everything piled on the stoop, Tucker was ready to leave and head over to his next stop. But on a whim, he picked his way across the sodden mulch in front of the house, squeezed himself between two pungent evergreens and peered through one of the living room windows.
The room was dark, steeped in shadow, but he found an occupant anyway. She was curled into a fetal position on the sofa, as still as a shadow herself. Cathryn.
CHAPTER THREE
ALARM RIPPED THROUGH Tucker like a bullet, sending his heart racing. Don’t jump to conclusions, he told himself. Maybe she really is sick. You’ve played dead yourself a few times when you were under the weather and people knocked at your door.
Despite what common sense was telling him, Tucker scrambled back to the stoop and tried the door. It was unlocked. “Cathryn?” he called, stepping inside and peering into the living room. She didn’t move. With his heart caught in his throat and his imagination in overdrive, he crossed the room, dread in every step, and forced himself to touch her. “Cathryn?” he repeated, shaking her gently by the shoulder. It was warm, he realized with tremendous relief.
Slowly, very slowly, she turned her head and looked up at him. Her eyes were glazed and unfocused, like those of a person in shock. For a moment she simply stared without recognition. Then, “Oh, Tucker,” she said in a soft, faraway voice. “I didn’t hear…I must’ve fallen asleep.” She made an effort to sit up, then sagged again.
Tucker wanted to accept that she’d been sleeping, but his cynical twin refused to let him. “What’s the matter? Not feeling well?”
She swallowed. “No. Not very.” Tucker did detect the faint odor of vomit drifting from her clothes. Not a pretty smell, especially when combined with the apple-cinnamon scent that pervaded the room.
The first strokes of embarrassment began to lash at him. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about walking in the way I did, uninvited. I hope I didn’t scare you.”
“No.” She lay so still, as if moving might shatter her.
“I brought back your things, your coffee urn and stuff.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Mmm. I was planning to leave it all on the front step, but then, just for the hell of it, I tried the door.”
As if he’d strung together too many thoughts for her to process, she frowned and slowly massaged her skull, her fingers buried in her tangled hair.
With feigned nonchalance, Tucker cast his glance about the dusky living room. “Where’s Dylan?”
“Out,” she whispered hoarsely. “He’s…out.”
“And the kids?”
“With my parents.”
“Can I…do anything for you? Get you anything?”
“No. Thank you. I’m sorry I can’t be more…” She lifted the hand that had been massaging her head and held it limply poised, palm up, as if it contained the rest of her thought.
“I’ll just bring in those things then.” He backed up a step, turned toward the door when he heard her sniff. Damn! He retraced his steps. “Cath, where did Dylan go? Maybe I should call him or something.”
“No, it’s okay.” Her face cramped into a mask of anguish underlaid with embarrassment. “Really. He’ll…he’ll be back soon.” Her jaw began to tremble. She tried to steady it, but her lips took up the trembling instead.
“Hey, what’s the matter?” Tucker squatted on his heels to be at eye-level with her.
“Nothing. Please…Nothing.” But two plump tears slipped from her eyes and soaked into the couch pillow.
Every instinct Tucker possessed screamed at him to take flight. He’d walked into a domestic cataclysm. But he listened to the voice of responsibility instead, a voice that had been growing stronger ever since he’d learned he was going to be someone’s dad.
“Cathryn?” he implored, brushing back her hair. It was softer than he’d expected. Her chest hitched and she made a tight hiccuping sound as she tried to suppress a sob. “Cath, at the risk of butting in, are you and Dylan having problems?”
The pain that scored her features answered him better than any words. Cursing under his breath, he gently pulled her to a sitting position and wedged himself into the space beside her.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, wondering when he’d lost his mind.
“No.” She began to tilt in the opposite direction, heading for another pillow. Tucker put his arm around her to keep her upright.
“There’s nothing to say, really.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks as her mortification deepened. “I’m sorry, Tucker. Please, just go. This has nothing to do with you.”
So true. But, masochist that he was, he continued, “Does it have anything to do with that woman who showed up after the funeral?”
Cathryn had been trembling already, but now the potency of her tremors grew until they rattled Tucker, as well. He tightened his grip on her, felt the pressure building, until finally she seemed unable to contain it any longer and cried out, “Dylan’s having an affair.” With that she crumpled forward, covering her face with her hands, and wept with such misery that Tucker found his own throat thickening.
He rubbed her back, a feeble attempt to let her know he was still there. After a while he asked, “Are you sure?”
She nodded, still buried in her hands. “He-e to-o-ld me so-o himself.” At least, those were the words Tucker thought he heard. They were too fractured for him to be really certain.
She steadied her voice long enough to say, “What’s worse is, they’ve been seeing each other for…for over a year.” And then she began to cry again, harder than before.
Tucker