Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [58]
“At first I thought you were right, that it would be better if I didn’t know anything. But I’ve changed my mind. I think now that the more I know, the safer I’ll be.”
“I don’t agree,” he said, taking the steaming food over to the table.
“Why not?”
“The more you know, the chances are greater you might accidentally, verbally or nonverbally, let something out, and that could put you or others in danger.” He sat down and started eating. “I think we both agree that you do not possess the most poker face in the world.”
“I resent that. I can keep a secret just as well as you.”
“If you were hurt in any way because of my job, I’d never forgive myself. Aside from that, I also took an oath when I became a police officer. I am entrusted with public safety, and that requires me to make the decisions I think most prudent at the time. Sometimes I err on the side of caution, but that’s just how I am.” His eyes softened. “I know this has been hard for you, being thrown into being a cop’s wife without knowing what it would be like. But you can’t compare our relationship to what you had with Jack. He might have told you everything, but running a family ranch is vastly different than policing a city.”
I didn’t answer for a moment. He was right; I was used to a different type of relationship, one where there weren’t any secrets, professional or personal. And logically what he said about public safety and his responsibility made sense. So why did it still make me so mad?
“Look,” he said. “Haven’t I been a little better about being open about my feelings and talking to you about my job?”
“On some things,” I admitted reluctantly. “But I wasn’t involved with those cases.”
“My point exactly. Querida, give me a break.” He reached over and stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“I know.” I grabbed his hand, suddenly tired of all these conflicting emotions. Right here, right now, I loved him, and he loved me. Let the rest take care of itself.
Later in bed, my troubling thoughts kept me wide awake, staring at the strips of moonlight painting the ceiling. “Gabe, are you asleep?”
“Mmm,” he replied.
“We didn’t talk about what Will Henry told me. About Nora being the Tattler. Did you know that?”
“Um-hm,” he said.
“You did? How?”
“Informant.”
“An informant? Where? At the Freedom Press?”
“Yes.”
“Gabe, were you—” I stopped myself from asking if he was going to tell me. It was too late to get into another argument. An informant at the paper—was it somebody I knew? I fell into a fitful sleep, all the suspects twirling around in my dreams in a tiny colorful cyclone.
Singing woke me the next morning. Something about a pretty woman walking down a street.
“Gabe,” I moaned, folding my pillow over my ear. “You forgot to turn off the alarm.”
The voice became louder. The tangy scent of Aramis aftershave tingled in my nose. Pretty woman . . . he sang into the pillow.
I opened my eyes and stared into his. “What are you so cheerful about this morning?”
He straightened up and started tying his tie. “It’s a beautiful day and I’m happy to be waking up with the woman I love at my side.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously, there’s every reason I shouldn’t be in a good mood with what’s waiting for me at the office, but I am.” He leaned over and kissed my nose. “Take advantage of it.”
“Okay, who’s the informant at the Freedom Press?”
He checked his tie in our full-length mirror, then turned to me. “Sorry, next question.”
I stuck my tongue out at him.
He just grinned and said, “You’d better get moving. It’s seven-thirty.”
“I don’t have to be at the museum until ten.”
At that moment the scent of bacon frying and the clatter of pans filtered through our bedroom door. I groaned and fell back into the pillows. “Dove. I forgot about her. I can’t believe this is happening to me.”
“I’d give you some sympathy, but I’m fresh out.” He pulled his suit coat out of the closet. “See you in five minutes.”
I pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and made tracks for the kitchen. Dove was