Roald Dahl, both her men agreed, totally rocked.
Jack turned down the lights—they had a dimmer switch because Max didn’t like complete darkness—and then he entered into Emma’s room. He bent down to give Emma a kiss good night. Emma, a total Daddy’s Girl, reached up, grabbed his neck, and wouldn’t let him go. Jack melted at Emma’s nightly technique for both showing affection and stalling going to sleep.
“Anything new for the journal?” Jack asked.
Emma nodded. Her backpack was next to her bed. She dug through it and produced her school journal. She turned the pages and handed it to her father.
“We’re doing poetry,” Emma said. “I started one today.”
“Cool. Want to read it?”
Emma’s face was aglow. So was Jack’s. She cleared her throat and began:
“Basketball, basketball,
Why are you so round?
So perfectly bumpy,
So amazingly brown.
Tennis ball, tennis ball,
Why are you so fizzy,
When you’re hit with a racket,
Do you feel kind of dizzy?”
Grace watched the scene from the doorway. Jack’s hours had gotten bad lately. Most of the time Grace didn’t mind. Quiet moments were becoming scarce. She needed the solace. Loneliness, the precursor to boredom, is conducive to the creative process. That was what artistic meditation was all about—boring yourself to the point where inspiration must emerge if only to preserve your sanity. A writer friend once explained that the best cure for writer’s block was to read a phone book. Bore yourself enough and the Muse will be obligated to push through the most slog-filled of arteries.
When Emma was done, Jack fell back and said, “Whoa.”
Emma made the face she makes when she’s proud of herself but doesn’t want to show it. She tucks her lips over and back under her teeth.
“That was the most brilliant poem I’ve ever heard ever ever,” Jack said.
Emma gave a head-down shrug. “It’s only the first two verses.”
“That was the most brilliant first two verses I’ve ever heard ever ever.”
“I’m going to write a hockey one tomorrow.”
“Speaking of which . . .”
Emma sat up. “What?”
Jack smiled. “I got tickets for the Rangers at the Garden on Saturday.”
Emma, part of the “jock” group as opposed to the group who worshipped the latest boy band, gave a yippee and reached up for another hug. Jack rolled his eyes and accepted it. They discussed the team’s recent performance and set odds on their chances of beating the Minnesota Wild. A few minutes later, Jack disentangled himself. He told his daughter that he loved her. She told him that she loved him too. Jack started for the door.
“Gotta grab something to eat,” he whispered to Grace.
“There’s leftover chicken in the fridge.”
“Why don’t you slip into something more comfortable?”
“Hope springs eternal.”
Jack arched an eyebrow. “Still afraid you’re not enough woman for me?”
“Oh, that reminds me.”
“What?”
“Something about Cora’s date last night.”
“Hot?”
“I’ll be down in a second.”
He arched the other eyebrow and hustled downstairs with a whistle. Grace waited until she heard Emma’s breathing deepen before following. She turned off the light and watched for a moment. This was Jack’s bit. He paced the corridors at night, unable to sleep, guarding them in their beds. There were nights she’d wake up and find the spot next to her empty. Jack would be standing in one of their doorways, his eyes glassy. She’d approach and he’d say, “You love them so much . . .” He didn’t need to say more. He didn’t even have need to say that.
Jack didn’t hear her approach, and for some reason, a reason Grace wouldn’t want to articulate, she tried to stay quiet. Jack stood stiffly, his back to her, his head down. This was unusual. Jack was usually hyper, constant motion. Like Max, Jack could not stay still. He fidgeted. His leg shook whenever he sat. He was high energy.
But right now he was staring down at the kitchen counter—more specifically, at the strange photograph—still as a stone.
“Jack?”
He startled upright. “What the hell is this?”
His hair, she noticed, was a shade longer than it should be. “Why don’t you tell me?”
He didn’t say anything.
“That’s you, right? With the beard?”
“What? No.”
She looked at him. He blinked and looked away.
“I picked up this roll of film today,” she said. “At the Photomat.”
He said nothing. She stepped closer.
“That photograph was in the middle of the pack.”
“Wait.” He looked up sharply. “It was in with our roll of film?”
“Yes.”
“Which roll?”
“The one we took at the apple orchard.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
She shrugged. “Who are the other people in the photo?”
“How should I know?”
“The blonde standing next to you,” Grace said. “With the X through her. Who is she?”
Jack’s cell phone rang. He snapped it up like a gunfighter on a draw. He mumbled a hello, listened, put his hand over the mouthpiece, and said, “It’s Dan.” His research partner at Pentocol Pharmaceuticals. He lowered his head and headed into the den.
Grace headed upstairs. She started getting ready for bed. What had started as a gentle nagging was growing stronger, more persistent. She flashed back to their years living in France. He would never talk about his past. He had a wealthy family and a trust fund, she knew—and he wanted nothing to do with either. There was a sister, a lawyer out in Los Angeles or San Diego. His father was still alive but very old. Grace had wanted to know more, but Jack refused to elaborate, and sensing something foreboding, she had not pushed him.
They fell in love. She painted. He worked in a vineyard in Saint-Emilion in Bordeaux. They lived in Saint-Emilion until Grace had gotten pregnant with Emma. Something called her home then—a yearning, corny as it might sound, to raise her children in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Jack wanted to stay, but Grace had insisted. Now Grace wondered why.
Half an hour passed. Grace slipped under the covers and waited. Ten minutes later, she heard a car engine start up. Grace looked out the window.