The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [112]
He heard Christine moving about the kitchen, then suddenly there was music from a radio. Classical music! Telemann? Absolutely, he decided. A jumbo pizza and six mindless hours of uninterrupted T.V. said it was Telemann. For a time he listened, thinking about the woman and the fantastic story she had told him. Last night he had been furious. As angry and frustrated as he could ever remember. But now, in the sunlight and the music, he realized she was in many ways as innocent, as caught in the nightmare, as he was. True, she had given the morphine to Charlotte Thomas, but in no way could she have anticipated the events to follow. He had to believe that. For his own sanity he had to believe that.
He closed his eyes, savoring a few filial seconds of the promise of a new day. Then he picked up one crutch and hobbled out of the bedroom.
The kitchen, separated from the living/dining area by a butcher-block counter, was on the west side of the hexagon. Christine stood by the sink, working a wire beater through a bowl of pancake mix. The sight of her triggered a warm rush through David’s body. No afternoon sun could have brightened the room as she did that moment. Her hair, a loose, sandy braid, dangled halfway down her back. A light blue man’s shirt, knotted at the bottom, accentuated the curve of her breasts and exposed a band of honeyed skin at her waist. Below that, faded jeans clung to her hips and buttocks.
As he watched, David sensed the hammering in his chest and tried to will it to stop. “Mornin’,” he said casually, wondering if he looked more at ease than he felt.
She turned. “I couldn’t decide whether to wake you or to wait and risk ruining breakfast, so I took the coward’s way out and turned on the radio. Did you get enough sleep?”
David searched her expression. Was she asking for their truce to continue, to be allowed to bring things up in her own time and her own way? “I slept fine,” he said. “Thanks for putting me to bed.”
“I was afraid you’d be upset about my doing that.” Christine set the beater down and walked to him.
“Only that I wasn’t conscious when you did,” he said. Her laugh gave him his cue. He would keep things light until she was ready to talk. “Listen, can I help in there? I’m a wonderful cook … for any type of meal whose main ingredient is water.”
“I think things are under control. You could light a fire. It’s a little chilly on this side of the house. There’s wood already laid in the fireplace. This afternoon, if you want, you can be in charge of lunch.”
“Fair enough.” He headed for the hearth.
As Christine returned to the sink she heard him mumble, “Maybe some Cup-A-Soup and instant mashed potatoes … or perhaps beef jerky in white wine sauce …” Silently she thanked him. A rueful smile tightened across her face as she remembered Dotty Dalrymple’s assessment. “A degenerate,” she’d called him. And just what does that make us? Christine wondered. We who have taken it on ourselves to weigh the value of a human life. We who can believe so mightily in our commitment to end it whenever we think appropriate. What does that make us?
She glanced into the living room. David was sitting by a low fire, his swollen ankle propped on a hassock. “Show me how to make it, David,” she whispered. “Show me how you survived the hell I helped put you through. I know it’s a lot to ask, but please, please try.”
Joey Rosetti’s jeep was antique in body and spirit, if not in years. From the passenger seat David watched with admiration as Christine maneuvered the snorting beast around rocks and muddy puddles on the steep grade to the