His son was curled on his side, hair in disarray, mouth open. A thin trail of spit ran from his lips to the pillow. His comforter was a bundle at his feet. Cooper eased the blanket up to cover Todd’s Spider-Man pajamas. The boy stirred, made a soft sound, and then rolled to his other side. Cooper bent over to kiss his forehead. Nine years old already. Won’t be long before he’ll stop letting me kiss him. The thought was a bittersweet spike through his chest.
Kate’s side of the room was neater. Even in sleep she looked composed, lying on her back, her features calm. He sat on the edge of her bed and stroked her hair, feeling the warmth of her, the unbelievable softness of her four-year-old forehead. Skin as fresh and new as a May morning. She slept with the zombie depth of a child, and he watched the easy rhythm of her inhales and exhales. Something in him was refreshed at the sight, as if she slept for them both. He lifted Fuzzy Bear from the floor and tucked him against her side.
Walking back downstairs, he heard music playing softly, one of the obscure female folk groups Natalie liked. He followed it to the living room, found her on the couch, feet tucked girlishly beneath her, a magazine on her lap. She looked up as he walked in and gestured to a syrah on the coffee table. “The kids good?”
He nodded, poured, sat down at the other end of the couch. “Sometimes I can’t believe we made them.”
“Our best work.” She held up her glass, and he clinked it. The wine was full and rich. He sighed, rolled his head back, and closed his eyes.
“Long day?”
“I started in San Antonio.”
“Someone you were chasing?”
He nodded. “A woman. Programmer.”
“Did you have to kill her?” Natalie looked at him steadily. She’d always been blunt, to the point that people sometimes mistook her for cold. In truth, she was one of the warmest people he had ever met. It was just that she had the honesty of someone with nothing to prove. That was part of what had drawn him to her, all those years ago. He rarely met people whose thoughts and words and actions so closely synced.
“She killed herself.”
“And you feel bad.”
“No,” he said. “I feel fine. She was a terrorist. The computer virus she was working on could have killed hundreds—maybe thousands—of people. Crippled the military. Only thing that bugs me is…” He trailed off. “Sorry. Do you really want to know?”
She shrugged, the ripple of her trapezii graceful beneath her thin T-shirt. “I’ll listen if you need.”
He wanted to tell her, not because he was troubled by Vasquez’s death or because he needed Natalie’s benediction, but simply because it felt good to talk, to share his days with someone. But it wasn’t fair anymore. They’d always love each other, but it had been three years since the divorce. “No, I’m okay.” He sipped the wine. “This is good. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
The room was warm and comfortable, scented with cinnamon from a candle on the coffee table. Outside, the rain fell soft and steady. A gust of wind stirred the trees. He wouldn’t stay long—they were good about boundaries—but it felt nice to sit in this sanctuary with his children asleep above him.
Until Natalie took a tiny sip of wine and then leaned forward to set the glass on the table, swinging her legs to the floor. She took a breath and folded her hands in her lap.
Ahh, shit. “What is it?”
Nat glanced at him sideways. “You know, that used to drive me crazy. Just because you can tell I’ve got something on my mind doesn’t mean you shouldn’t shut up and wait for me to get to it.”
“As I recall, there was an upside to me being able to read your body language.”
“Yes, Nick. You were very good in bed. Better?”
He smiled. “What’s on your mind?”
“It’s Kate.”
He stiffened, immediate paternal protectiveness leaping, the part that would always fill in the worst possible ending to any statement that began, It’s Kate. “What is it?”
“She arranged her toys today.”
It was such an innocuous statement that he almost laughed, his head full of all the sentences he’d imagined: It’s Kate, she fell down and hit her head. It’s Kate, the neighbor has been touching her. It’s Kate, she has meningitis. “So? She likes things neat. Lots of girls do.”