As he set it up before the fireplace, ready to straighten the frame, Laura continued to analyze.
“It seems so long ago,” she said, “and yet …” She released a breath she must have been holding and a short laugh slipped out. “Can you believe we’ve been married a whole three months?”
He grinned back. “Seems longer.”
He straightened the frame. She took in the angle, then nodded. “Perfect.”
On his way down the ladder, he remembered the sketch lying on the car’s backseat. “Have you thought where you might hang the other one?”
“Mr. Frenchie’s? We’ll need to get it framed first. Something modern, slim-lined, fresh!”
She was headed toward the phone extension. As she collected the receiver, Bishop’s pulse rate jackknifed and he strode over. When he took the receiver from her, her chin pulled in.
Hoping unease didn’t show in his eyes, he found an excuse.
“We’ve only just come home.” He set the receiver back in its cradle. “Don’t you want to unpack, have a coffee, before we let the outside world in?”
“I was expecting Kathy to leave a message about the library. I told you about the literacy program we want to set up. We usually get together Wednesdays if there’s anything to discuss.”
She waited for him to back down, to say, of course, call your friend. But if he did that, Kathy would likely ask what on earth Laura was rabbiting on about. Laura would expand and not clued in, Kathy would laugh, perhaps a little uneasily, and say that her friend was living in the past. That what Laura was talking about happened two years ago.
Should he protect her from such a harsh jolt or hand the phone over and let friend Kathy help unravel this tangle of yarn? He’d been prepared to field any blow when last night he’d questioned her about losing a baby, so what was different now? Other than the fact that he wouldn’t have control over how this conversation wound out. No control at all.
He glanced over the luggage by the door then their wedding portrait, rehung on that wall. Were they home again or should he have kept the engine running?
Resigned, he stepped back.
“I won’t be on the phone all day,” she said, guessing at his problem. She could talk under water once she got started. “I just promised Kathy I’d call her early in the week to check.”
“Take as long as you like.”
He moved down the hall, feeling as if he were walking the corridor of a listing ship … as if he were traveling back, deeper and deeper through time. If he walked far enough, fast enough, maybe Kathy wouldn’t ask questions and the present, and its regurgitated disappointments, wouldn’t catch up … at least not today.
He ended up out on the eastern balcony. For what seemed like a lifetime, he absorbed the warm afternoon sun and soothing noise of the bush … the click of beetles, the far-off cry of a curlew. To his left, a couple of wallabies were perched on a monstrous black rock. They chewed rhythmically and occasionally scratched a soft gray ear. Their manner was lazy, instinctive, as it had been for many thousands of years. Bishop breathed in, and the strong scent of pine and eucalypt filled his lungs. As fervently as he’d wanted to leave here a year ago, he’d missed this place.
Hell, he’d missed this life.
But with Laura talking to that friend inside, he felt the cool edge of an axe resting at the back of his neck. Would it fall now? Tomorrow? Next week? How in God’s name would this end?
Laura’s footfalls sounded on the Brush Box timber floor behind him and the hairs on Bishop’s nape stood up. But he was ready for the attack. Like Willis had said, it couldn’t get any worse than the first time.
He angled around. Laura was striding out onto the porch but he couldn’t read her expression.
“Kathy was home,” she told him.
He folded down into a chair. “Uh-huh.”
“But her daughter and grandbabies were over. She said there was no meeting this week.”
The sick ache high in his stomach eased slightly and he sat straighter. “She did?”
That was it?
“She said she’d call back, but I said not to worry. We’d just got back from the city and had unpacking to do.”
We?
He threaded his hands and, elbows on armrests, steepled two fingers under his chin.
“What did Kathy say to that?”
“The baby started to cry so she had to go.”
Even more relieved, he exhaled slowly. One massive pothole avoided. Although, sure bet, there’d be more—and soon.
He’d tried being subtle as a brick with his prodding last night. The questions he’d asked about possible pregnancies hadn’t ignited any sparks. Rather than approaching this dilemma at ramming speed, perhaps he ought to take this opportunity to scratch around and sprinkle a few seeds—ask some casual questions—that would grow in her mind day-to-day.
He lowered his hands. “How old is Kathy’s grandbaby?”
Laura spotted the wallabies. A brisk mountain breeze combing her hair, she moved toward the railing for a better look. “Oh, three or four months, I suppose.”
“Kathy has more than one grandchild?”
“Just the one.”
And yet she’d said grandbabies, plural, earlier. An unconscious lapse to the present?
“What’s the baby’s name?”
Her gaze skated away from the bush and she lifted a wry brow. “I think it might be Twenty Questions.” Then her grip on the railing slackened off and she gave a quick laugh. “Since when did you get so interested in the local librarian’s grandchildren?”
“I’m interested in you.”
Thinking how the afternoon light glistened like threads of golden copper through her hair, he found his feet and joined her.
Her smile turned sultry as she traced a fingertip down his arm. “How interested?”
“Interested enough.”
“Enough to take another day off?”
He focused on her lips.
“Too easy.”
The brightest smile he’d ever seen graced her face. But a heartbeat later the joy slipped away and some other emotion flared in her eyes. A cagey, almost frightened look, and he wondered what he’d said. But she didn’t say a word, although he could tell from the questions in her eyes that she wanted to.
His hands found her shoulders. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Tell me what you’re thinking.
“I—I’m not sure. I guess I’m not used to you taking time off. Not that I don’t want you to. It’s just …”
He dug a little more. “What?”
Her gaze darted around his face. The color had drained from her cheeks and some of the trust in her eyes had fallen away.
“Bishop … I have to ask.” She stopped. Swallowed. Wet her lips. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
She’d just had the strangest feeling. More than a feeling. That niggling again, which, rather than waning, had grown, and a lot. Still, she couldn’t put a precise finger on where, or what or who was behind it. She only knew it had been there in the way his assistant Willis had looked at her when he and Bishop had returned from their talk in the hotel lobby. There again when she’d examined their wedding picture after they’d arrived