Fortunes of the Dead by Lynn Hightower Page B

ready right about now. I climbed in, winced and added a little more cold water to the mix. I leaned into the back of the tub and sighed. My legs floated free and I slid and would have gone under if the water level had been higher. The tub was too long.
    I wondered what Joel would have said if I’d told him about taking Miranda out to look at Cheryl’s car. I wondered about Miranda, thinking that I had made McFee and myself vulnerable to the discretion of a twenty-year-old girl I had known for less than twenty-four hours. Of course, if she was less than discreet, we could deny everything.
    The water finally reached the halfway mark, and I added more hot to the mix. There is nothing that matches the embrace of a hot bath as it leaches the tension out of your body. But it was hard to relax when I had to hang on to the edges of the tub to keep my head above water. I turned sideways—cramped, but I could rest my head with no fear of drowning.
    I rested my forehead on my knees and tears leaked down the sides of my cheeks. I could spend my life in the bathtub, alone, because Joel would never speak to me again. I missed my cup of coffee. Every morning Joel made coffee and brought me a cup. I wondered if he would ever bring me a cup of coffee again. Maybe he would be taking a cup of coffee to some other woman, one of those women who say, I don’t know, I have to ask my husband first .
    On the other hand, if Joel wanted to spend his life with a woman like that, best to know early. He didn’t know about the warehouse, and he’d still gotten furious and refused to talk and made me feel like my paycheck was the equivalent of thirteen gold coins. Unreasonable and unfair. It didn’t show respect for my work or my judgment; it didn’t show respect for me. Was this Joel’s way of getting out of the deal? Had he changed his mind about buying a house with me? Maybe he’d gotten cold feet.
    Maybe I should turn the water off before I caused a flood.
    The door to the bathroom opened abruptly and I looked up, startled, to see Joel hesitating in the doorway. He knelt down by the side of the tub, and put his arms tightly around me, getting his suit, tie, and shirt wet.
    â€œAre you crying?” he said.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou lie.”
    Joel had gotten his tie off, as well as his shoes, and I was wrapped in a towel that he was peeling away while kissing the back of my neck when the doorbell rang.
    â€œIgnore it,” I said.
    The bell rang again.
    â€œI’ll get it,” he said. I tossed the wadded towel to the end of the bed and got back under the covers. Unlike Joel, I didn’t have to worry about being late for work.
    I heard his footsteps in the hall, heavy and precise. “Lena?” Joel stood in the doorway, hanging back. His face looked closed and he seemed miles away again. “Miranda Brady is here to see you.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œMir—”
    â€œI heard you, I just don’t believe you. It’s … what time is it, Joel?”
    â€œSeven-forty.”
    â€œWhat in the hell is she doing here at seven-forty?”
    â€œWhy don’t you ask her?”
    â€œI will, dammit.”
    I pulled on jeans and a sweater over my damp skin, and ran barefoot down the stairs. Miranda wasn’t in the doorway. No doubt Joel had invited her into the living room, though it seemed pointless, as there were no chairs. But Miranda wasn’t in the living room, she was in the kitchen staring out the back window in the little dining nook.
    â€œMiranda?”
    She paused for a long moment before turning around, as if too absorbed in my soggy backyard to register my voice.
    â€œHas something happened?”
    She smiled and extended her hand. “I stopped by to give you the key to Cheryl’s apartment. I talked to Daddy last night and he asked me if I’d remembered to give it to you.” She paused, registering my lack of makeup, no bra beneath my