The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [164]
“And you wouldn’t?”
“Of course I would,” she cried, surprised at the intensity of her response. “But Al, even if Phoebe moves out, she’ll never be completely independent. And I’m afraid you’re unhappy because of it. I’m afraid you’re going to leave us. Honey, you’ve been more and more distant these past years.”
Al didn’t speak for a long time. “Why are you so mad?” he asked at last. “What have I ever done to make you feel like I’m going to leave?”
“I’m not mad,” she said quickly, because she heard in his voice that she’d hurt him. “Al, wait here a second.” She walked across the room and took the letter from the drawer. “This is why I’m upset. I don’t know what to do.”
He took the letter and studied it for a long time, turning it over once as if its mystery might be answered by something written on the back, then reading it once more.
“How much is in this account?” he asked, looking up.
She shook her head. “I don’t know yet. I have to go in person to find out.”
Al nodded, studying the letter again. “It’s strange, the way he did this: a secret account.”
“I know. Maybe he was afraid I’d tell Norah. Maybe he wanted to make sure she had time to get used to his death. That’s all I can imagine.” She thought of Norah, moving through the world, never suspecting that her daughter was still alive. And Paul—what had become of him? Hard to imagine who he might be now, that dark-haired infant she’d seen only once.
“What do you think we should do?” she asked.
“Well, find out the details, first. We’ll go down to see this lawyer fellow together when I get back. I can take off a day or two. After that, I don’t know, Caroline. We sleep on it, I guess. We don’t have to do anything right away.”
“All right,” she said, all her consternation of the last week falling away. Al made it sound so easy. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said.
“Honestly, Caroline.” He took her hand in his. “I’m not going anywhere. Except to Toledo, at six o’clock tomorrow morning. So I think I’ll go up and hit the sack.”
He kissed her then, full on the lips, and pulled her close. Caroline pressed her cheek against his, taking in his scent and warmth, thinking of meeting him that day in the parking lot outside of Louisville, the day that defined her life.
Al got up, his hand still in hers. “Come upstairs?” he invited.
She nodded and stood, her hand in his.
In the morning she rose early and made breakfast, decorating the plates of eggs, bacon, and hash browns with sprigs of parsley.
“That sure smells good,” Al said, as he came in, kissing her cheek and tossing the paper on the table, along with yesterday’s mail. The letters were cool, faintly damp, in her hands. There were two bills, plus a bright postcard of the Aegean Sea with a note from Doro on the back.
Caroline ran her fingers over the picture and read the brief message. “Trace sprained his ankle in Paris.”
“That’s too bad.” Al snapped open the paper and shook his head at the election news.
“Hey, Caroline,” he said after a moment, putting the paper down. “I was thinking last night. Why don’t you come with me? Linda would take Phoebe for the weekend, I bet. We could get away, you and me. You’d get a chance to see how Phoebe might do with some time on her own. What do you say?”
“Right now? Just leave, you mean?”
“Yeah. Seize the day. Why not?”
“Oh,” she said, flustered, pleased, though she didn’t like the long hours on the road. “I don’t know. There’s so much to do this week. Maybe next time,” she added quickly, not wanting to turn him away.
“We could take some side trips, this time,” he coaxed. “Make it more interesting for you.”
“It’s a really good idea,” she said, thinking with surprise that it was.
He smiled, disappointed, and leaned to kiss her, his lips brief and cool on hers.
After Al drove off, Caroline hung Doro’s postcard on the refrigerator. It was a bleak November, the weather damp and gray and edging to snow, and she liked looking at that bright, alluring sea, the edge of warm sand. All that week, helping patients or making dinner or folding laundry, Caroline