And why in hell had the intermediary taken it to Alvarez in the first place? Why not the bureau? Someone used to handling secrets! Though he shouldn’t fault her in hindsight. She was a damned pretty woman, and a sensible one. He’d watched her during dinner. She’d been quiet, thoughtful, she’d listened, when she’d said anything, it had been intelligent and to the point. No, he couldn’t fault her at all.
During the six-block walk he simmered down. He always tried to get himself into an easy frame of mind before he opened the front door on Merilu and whomever Merilu was being on the particular evening. Rarely it was Merilu the girl he’d married, full of laughter and bubbly charm, if one ignored that these days the laughter was more giggly than witty and the bubbles had originated in champagne. More often the woman who greeted him was Merilu the prosecutor, prepared to cross-examine him about everything he’d done since he left the house that morning. Or Merilu the alpha wolf, growling at him for not paying enough attention to the boys. Or Merilu the martyr to politics, who wanted to leave the corruption and clamor of Washington and go back to Montana.
All of which multiple-personality stuff had started when the twins had reached school age. When Jason and Jeremy were born, Merilu had decided to take a year off to be with the babies. The year had turned into six. Now the boys were in school all day, and Merilu was bouncing off the walls, regretting that she’d given up her career for motherhood.
He’d tried patience. “Merilu, you said yourself your career would only have lasted a year or two more.”
“It was an important year or two, Chad! I’d have made contacts. I’d have set myself up to move on . . .”
He’d tried reality. “On where, sweetheart?”
She’d never considered on where. Where did one move from being spokeswoman for a commuter airline? From being a sparkle on television, a smile in photographs, a warm cushiony voice-over for tourist-targeted infomercials about destinations along the air routes. It was a job that let her do the things she liked to do, like having her hair done, getting a manicure, having a makeup job, and being dressed in designer clothes so people could look at her. People had liked looking at her. Chad had liked looking at her. And being with her. Of course, back then Merilu had been habitually and refreshingly frank. Even if she hadn’t quit to be with the children, she herself had said she’d have to find something else to do because the job wouldn’t last forever. Then, she’d said so.
Now, however, Merilu’s mom had gotten into the act. She’d brought her poor-baby backhoe from Montana so she could dig Merilu a whine pit, a hole so dark and deep there wasn’t a hope of getting her out. Not unless, so she said, she moved back to Montana, which would magically create some kind of insta-ramp, out of the pits and up to cheery-dom. It all depended on Chad, of course. All he had to do was request a transfer.
Chad was dragging his feet. Hell, he was dragging his whole damned body! He could get a transfer, probably, maybe even without a cut in pay. Of course, doing that meant he’d give up his own career ambitions, which Merilu, with typical inconsistency, considered only fair since that’s what she’d done, never mind that she’d chosen to and he hadn’t, never mind that he’d been making enough to afford a full-time nanny, but Merilu hadn’t wanted that, never mind that she was twenty-six and he was thirty-nine. The thirteen-year difference hadn’t seemed like much when she was twenty, but lately it had opened up into a generation gap! At least she hadn’t used the D word, which he did not want to hear. That is, he thought he didn’t want to hear it, not now, though he could feel himself getting more and more used to the idea.
He put his key in the lock and stepped into a silent house, where he held his breath and let it out slowly. Not a sound. Nothing in the living room, not in the dining room, kitchen . . . note on the refrigerator.