Not like Mike, who hated a dark house.
When he reached the great room, he stood in the shadows, watching Rosa and Bret set up for Yahtzee. Within minutes they had a game going. He wished he didn’t notice how quietly Bret played. There was none of the clapping or whistling or “All rights!” that used to be his son’s natural soundtrack.
They were quite a pair, the silent little boy with the blackening eye and his equally solemn grandmother.
She was such a small woman, Rosa, only a hand’s width taller than her grandson, and the way she moved—head down, shoulders hunched—made her appear even smaller. Tonight, as usual, she was dressed all in black. The somber fabric emphasized the snowy whiteness of her hair and skin. She was a woman of sharp contrasts. Black and white, cold and warm, spiritual and down-to-earth.
Rosa looked up and saw him. “Hola, Dr. Liam. ”
He’d told her a dozen times to please, please call him Liam, but she wouldn’t do it. Smiling, he moved toward them. “Who’s winning?”
“My grandson, of course. He takes advantage of my fading eyesight. ”
“Don’t listen to her, Bret. Your grandma sees everything. ”
“You would like to join us, sí?”
“I don’t think so. ” He ruffled Bret’s hair—a substitute for time and intimacy, he knew—but it was all he could manage.
“You sure, Dad?” Bret’s disappointment was obvious.
“I’m sure, buddy. Maybe later. ”
Bret sighed. “Yeah, right. ”
Liam headed toward the stairs.
“Dr. Liam, wait. ” Rosa stood up in a single, fluid motion and followed him into the dining room.
There, in the dark, quiet room, she stared up at him. Her eyes were as black as pools of ink, and as readable. “The children … they are much quiet today. I think something is—”
“It’s our tenth wedding anniversary. ” He blurted the whole sentence out at once, then he slowed down. “The kids … knew I’d bought Mike tickets to Paris. ”
“Oh. Lo siento. ” Something close to a smile breezed across her mouth and disappeared. “She is lucky to have you, Dr. Liam. I do not know if I have ever told you this. ”
It touched him deeply, that simple sentiment from this woman who spoke so rarely. “Thanks, Rosa, I—” He started to say something else—what, he didn’t know—but all at once his voice dried up.
“Dr. Liam. ” Her soft voice elongated the vowels in his name and turned it into music. “Come play a game of Yahtzee with us. It will help. ”
“No. I need …” A bad start. There were so many things he needed. “I have something to do upstairs. Jacey needs to borrow one of Mike’s dresses for the winter dance. ”
She leaned closer. He had an odd sense that she wanted to say something more, but she turned away and headed back to the game.
Liam went into the kitchen and poured himself a drink. The Crown Royal burned down his throat and set his stomach on fire. Holding the drink tightly, he moved up the wide staircase to the second floor. He could hear music seeping from beneath Jacey’s closed door. At least it was considered music by Jacey, some jarring, pounding batter of drums and electric guitars.
With a glance down the hallway, he turned into his bedroom and flicked on the light. The room, even in its current state of disarray—unmade bed, shoes and clothes and bath towels scattered across the floor—welcomed him as it always did. The creamy walls, stenciled with stars and moons, the gauzy drapery of the canopy, the creamy Berber carpet. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine Mike standing there at the French doors, looking out at the falling snow. She would be wearing the peach silk nightgown that fell in graceful folds down her lithe body.
He refused to close his eyes, but it was tempting, so tempting. Instead he stared straight ahead.
The door to Mike’s walk-in closet seemed to magnify before his eyes. He hadn’t ventured into it since the day of the accident, when he’d naively packed her a suitcase full of things she might need at the hospital.
He crossed the room and paused at the closet, then he reached for the knob and twisted. The oak door creaked and swung inward easily, as if it had been waiting for this moment for weeks.
A floor-length mirror along the end wall caught his image and threw it back, a tall, lanky man with unkempt hair and baggy clothes parenthesized by colorful fabrics. On either side of him, clothes were hung on specially ordered plastic hangers, the colors organized as precisely as an artist’s wheel. The ivory plastic of Nordstrom’s designer departments hung clustered in one area. Her evening clothes.
It took him a minute to get his feet to move. He began unzipping the bags, one at a time, looking for the dress Mike had worn to the Policemen’s Ball. At about the sixth bag, he reached inside, and instead of finding a gown of silk or velvet as he’d expected, he found a pillowcase, carefully hung on a pants hanger.
Frowning, he eased it from the bag. It was an elegant white silk affair, not the kind of pillowcase they used at all. On one end was a monogram: MLT.