The Perfect Husband Page 13

  “Coward,” she said, and shouldered her way past him. He stood stock-still for a moment longer, flexing and unflexing his fingers.

  “Lovers’ quarrel?” Marion asked innocently, and took a long sip of an icy cold beer. One of his beers. One of his favorite beers.

  “Shit.” He ripped his T-shirt off over his head in a single yank. Two quick jerks, and he kicked his jeans across the patio. Clad only in boxers, he made a beeline for the pool. He clambered up to the low diving platform and assumed a runner’s stance.

  “Cannonball?”

  “Watch and learn, little sister.” He bolted down the slim board, energy harnessed, focused, then unleashed with the force of lightning. Bam, bam, bam, leap . . . and soar through the air like an eagle. Free, suspended, graceful. Fuck them all.

  He dove clean and arrow-straight into his deep blue pool, firing all the way to the bottom.

  And the crowd goes wild.

  J.T. didn’t come up right away. He drifted along the beautiful blue tiles, suspended like a stingray as his lungs began to burn. He rolled over on his back, fighting to remain down, reveling in the feel of oxygen-starved tissue.

  Semper fidelis, baby. Once a marine always a marine.

  God, sometimes he missed those days, treading freezing cold water next to his buddy as part of the hydrograph survey team. They’d do a neat over-the-horizon insert, navigate to the beach, and hide the craft. Then, while two guys directed, they’d extend the chem-light rope out three hundred meters into the ocean, a pair of marines treading water every twenty-five meters in order to analyze the gradient and consistency of the ocean floor, information that would be used for a major beach campaign. It could take eight hours to get all the info. Eight hours of dark silence, treading water and feeling your legs go numb. Basic biological functions happened in the course of eight hours. New guys got embarrassed or ashamed. Old guys simply accepted the warmth of urine suddenly passing through cold water as a kind of camaraderie, a kind of sharing that made your teammates closer to you than your wife or mother or sister. You couldn’t explain that to women. They just didn’t get it.

  Being a marine made you part of something, linked you to something noble. He’d gone out there with guys, good guys who did good work and never offered excuses. He’d recognized the look in their eyes because it was the look he had in his own. He’d known the set of their jaws, the sheer determination of their will. They’d sat up there on planes, prepared to make midnight jumps down to drop zones they couldn’t see, and no one had bitched and no one had moaned. They’d shared their fear quietly, in the steam fogging up their goggles. Then when the command came, they’d risen as one, stood in line, and each hit the butt of the guy in front of him in the universal signal of “Jump, and God go with you.”

  He’d liked it. He’d thought he’d finally found something he could do, a place he belonged. But even marines had to take orders, and the first time he’d had to deal with a hypocritical, shit-for-brains, wife-beating senior officer, he’d lost it. He’d tried to hold his temper. He had. But then he was thinking of Merry Berry and all those nights he’d listened to his father’s jump boots clip down the hall to her room. And he was thinking of all the times he tried to tell someone of what really went on in their house at night and all the times he was beaten by the colonel for “spreading ugly, foul rumors.”

  You got a problem with me, boy? You fight like a man, you take me on, hit me if you think you can. But don’t go spreading lies, boy. That’s the way a wuss fights, a weak, pussy-whipped mama’s boy.

  One night his CO had pulled back his hand to smack his wife, and J.T. had stepped over the edge. He’d beaten the man to within an inch of his life and would’ve beaten him more. Would’ve like to pulverize his head, smash the man into the ground until nothing remained. Four guys had to pull him off. And the wife called him a brute and ran back to her mushy-faced husband, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her black eye against his shoulder.

  That had been the end of the Marine Corps for J. T. Dillon.

  At last he saw what he’d been waiting to see—Marion peering down over the edge of the pool.

  He pushed himself off the bottom and rocketed toward the top. He emerged in a flurry of water, shaking his head like a Labrador and spraying his sister liberally.

  “Now, that’s a dive!” he exalted, and shook his head again.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Marion took a step back and stared at him in disgust. Then she looked down at her water-spotted silk tank top. “Look what you’ve done, J.T.! Christ, it’s like you’re six years old or something.”

  “Loosen up, Marion. Wanna swim, or are agents too tough for that?”

  He got what he wanted in under thirty seconds. Marion was as predictable as a wind-up doll. She might as well walk around with a sign reading

  EGO—PUSH HERE FOR BEST RESULTS.

  “I can fucking swim.” She jabbed the air with her bony index finger. “Suicides.”

  “Suicides? I don’t know, Marion. Pretty serious for a woman.” He continued treading water and smiling at his little sister.

  “Oh, you’re going to pay for that, J.T. First one who cries uncle loses.”

  She grabbed the bottom of her tank top and to his amusement, stripped it off. He had her mad and he had her wired. He would feel bad about it, but she was an adult; she should know better than to take up the gauntlet without thinking it through. Suicides involved swimming the length of the pool, jumping out to do five push-ups, diving back in, and repeating the process. They required serious upper body strength, giving the man the clear advantage. Not that Marion would ever admit to something like that.

  Not perfect, ambitious Marion.

  Her linen shorts puddled onto the deck. He discovered that even his sister’s underwear was businesslike—practical pink Lycra bra and panties that were less revealing than a bathing suit. Had Roger gotten tired of efficient underclothing? Even J.T. wasn’t self-destructive enough to ask his sister that question.

  He swam to the end of the pool, hefted himself out, and stood.

  “Ready?”

  Marion had that gleam in her eye and that tilt of her chin that said she was more than ready. She was going to wipe the deck with his ass. His sister had been keeping in shape too. No fat on that body and no glimmer of weakness in that gaze.

  He was looking forward to the competition.

  “Go.”

  They sprang in unison, firing into the pool like serious seals.

  J.T. made it to the other end first, but he had length on his side. It also took him slightly longer to pull his entire six-foot frame from the water. Two steps forward and he dropped squarely onto his flattened palms. He was aware of Marion right beside him. One, two, three, four, five.

  Up and into the water we go.

  He was adrenaline and he was energy and he was delighted.

  The first ten laps were easy. Then lungs started to burn more, motions took on a rubbery, slow-motion-like feel. He heard Marion’s labored breaths as she fell down for more push-ups. Then again, maybe he was just listening to his own.

  They both stumbled a bit upon rising, jostled into each other, then like punch-drunk fools exchanged glares and dove back into the pool for more.

  After fifteen laps they definitely weren’t seals anymore. Not even walruses. More like corked bottles bobbing in the water and reaching desperately for shore. His chest seemed to have been invaded by an army of stinging red ants and his biceps were as obedient as overcooked spaghetti. Marion’s push-ups made her look like a tepee swaying in the breeze.

  But she didn’t cry uncle. Not Marion.

  And he didn’t cry uncle. Not J.T.

  He decided they had more in common than they appreciated. They were both stupid beyond words, weak, ugly children determined to prove that they weren’t.

  Fuck you, Colonel, sir.

  He hefted himself out for number twenty. His hand slipped and he went splashing back in. Marion was still in the
water beside him. She seemed to be beating at the deck more than using it to pull herself up.

  “You’re never going to say it, are you?” he gasped.

  “Bite me.”

  “Such language, Marion.”

  “Bite me.”

  She gave a last lunge and managed to beach herself on the patio, flailing on her stomach like a dying fish. He had no choice but to follow.

  “We’ll say it together.”

  “Youcryuncleifyouwanttocryuncle!” she expelled in one breathless rush.

  “Yeah? Then let’s see your next push-up, Pocahontas.”

  Her eyes closed, she groaned but didn’t move and didn’t cry uncle. He decided two could play that game. He beached himself beside her and concentrated on enjoying the warm, solid feel of his patio.

  Idly, in the hazy world of the oxygen-deprived, he thought that he felt the best he’d felt in days. Like liquid gold.

  He was going to hate himself in the morning, but then, he could say that about innumerable things he’d done the night before. At least suicides weren’t likely to come after him with a shotgun or give him a hangover.

  Marion was moving. She planted her hands on the deck and prepared to lift her quivering body.

  “You just don’t quit, do you?” he asked with genuine awe.

  “No.” She gritted her teeth and with a determined grunt heaved her body up. Her arms shuddered like leaves. Slowly, so painstakingly he had to grit his teeth to watch, she lowered herself to the patio and touched her nose to the surface. Even good form.

  “One,” she gasped, triumphant.

  So he was forced onto his arms to do five more.

  Oh, well, he thought philosophically. Sooner or later one of them was bound to drop dead.

  AN HOUR LATER they were both collapsed on the patio chairs. Not moving. Not talking. Just lying—and lying suddenly felt like hard work.

  Through the sliding glass door J.T. could see Rosalita bent over Angela’s seated form, massaging suds through her short-cropped hair. Angela had changed into a pair of old khaki shorts and a white tank top. From his vantage point he could see her legs clearly, the way her thighs curved into rounded kneecaps, which gave way to slender calves, which tapered to delicate bare ankles.

  He’d always loved bare ankles. Exposed ankles and bare feet. Feet could be incredibly sexy, especially small, dainty feet sporting red-painted toenails.

  Rachel had painted her toenails. Sometimes, if he’d been a very good boy, she’d let him paint her toenails. He remembered late Saturday nights when she would lie back on their down-covered bed and place her small white foot on his dusky chest. She would relax, talking, laughing, giggling over inconsequential things while her long blond hair pooled around her like a halo. His job was to carefully apply the glossy red lacquer to her toenails and enjoy the sound of her happiness. He’d always liked Saturday nights.

  Then there were the Sunday mornings when Teddy would crawl into bed with them, and J.T. had finally understood why people loved the smell of talcum powder.

  Shit.

  He didn’t want to think about any of that.

  That was always the kicker for him. He didn’t have the stamina for the bad memories or the strength for the good.

  “You want to talk about Roger?” he asked Marion, apropos of nothing.

  “No.”

  “I thought you guys had a good marriage, you know—other than the fact that he was Daddy’s hand-picked henchman and had absolutely no redeeming qualities of his own.”

  “Didn’t I just say I didn’t want to talk about it?”

  “Yeah, but we both know I’m a son of a bitch.”

  She snorted at that and they both drifted into silence. “He left me,” she said finally, her voice flat. “He found some young cocktail waitress and decided she was the love of his life.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Yeah. Guess you can say you were right, J.T.”

  He nodded but didn’t actually say the words. He didn’t have the heart to do that to her, not to proud Marion, who he would have sworn had actually loved Lieutenant Colonel Roger MacAllister. “I’m sorry, Marion,” he said softly. “I . . . When Rachel died . . . It’s tough. I know it’s tough.”

  She was silent for a moment, then turned toward him. “I hate him, J.T. You can’t imagine how much I hate him for betraying me.”

  He wanted to reach over and take her hand. He was afraid if he did, she’d snap it off at the wrist. “You’re better off,” he said, but the words sounded weak. “He wasn’t strong enough for you, Marion. You need a real man, not some army bureaucrat. That’s the lowest life-form imaginable.”

  She returned to staring at the sky. “Maybe.”

  “Have you filed for divorce?”

  “I should. It would kill Daddy though. He’s already furious with Roger and me for not having produced grandkids.”

  J.T. read between the lines. Angry at her and Roger? He doubted it. He bet the good old colonel called Marion into his room on a regular basis and screamed that she was a bad wife, disobedient daughter, and an all-round failure as a woman for not giving birth. Yeah, Colonel was probably spitting mad at not having another life to ruin.

  “Daddy’s already dying, so I’d go ahead with the divorce. If it kills him a little faster, well, there are a whole host of people willing to pay you for that. Of course, I top the list, or I would if I had money. I’ve lost all that now.”

  Her lips thinned disapprovingly, but for a change Marion didn’t pursue the subject of the colonel.

  “I think Angela is a fraud,” she said, abandoning traditional battlegrounds for new territory. “She lies through her teeth.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  “Why, J.T., I thought you hated liars. I thought your twisted moral code did not tolerate such behavior.”

  He shrugged. “I’m getting old, Marion. The world is wearing me down.” He turned to look at the woman in question, her shoulders covered by old towels, and her eyes closed while her hair marinated. He remembered her pounding his chest with those tiny hands that now gripped the chair arms.

  She was bright, she was proud, she was determined.

  She’d shot her husband. He’d tried to beat her with a baseball bat.

  “I want to know who she is,” he said. “Can you help me, Marion?”

  There was a long, long silence. “What do you mean?” his sister asked carefully.

  “I mean, of course she’s lying and of course Angela’s not her real name. Normally I wouldn’t pursue the matter. It’s bad for business. But now I want to know. I want to know who she is, who’s her husband, and what the hell has he done.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “I already started.”

  “What?”

  “I took her fingerprints,” Marion said calmly. “I faxed them in to be analyzed against the national database. It’s already been twenty-four hours. Anytime now I should be getting a call telling me exactly who she is.”

  His mouth opened and closed several times. He wanted to be angry but couldn’t pull off the emotion. When he’d agreed to let his sister stay, had he really thought she would do anything less? Proud, ambitious, driven Marion?

  And he wanted to know the answer.

  “You’ll tell me what you learn,” he commanded quietly, “and no one else. If she has done something, Marion, if she is in trouble, you won’t handle it—”

  “Like hell. I am a federal agent—”

  “No! You’re my sister. You’re here as my sister and that’s what I want you to be. Five more days, Marion, is that asking too much? Five days, please just be my sister. I don’t mind so much being your brother. I’ll try not to embarrass you.”

  She was silent. Stunned. He could feel it. For once, cool Marion wasn’t so composed. “All right,” she said, and seemed as shocked as he was by her answer. “I’ll tell you what I find, J
.T. And it’s up to you to deal with it. For five days.”

  “Thank you. I mean, honestly, thank you.”

  The sliding door opened. Angela appeared on the patio, looking self-conscious. Her hair had been rinsed and blown dry, though it still looked a little damp around the edges. She raked one hand through the short strands, then knotted her hands in front of her. “Well? What do you think?”

  She looked beautiful. The fading sun sparked the rich brown color, giving it fire. Her face looked pale and lovely, her eyes endlessly deep. He thought she looked nothing like the woman she’d been just hours before.

  And that scared him.

  He said, “It suits you.”

  “That’s what a disguise is supposed to do, right? Suit you.”

  “You do learn fast.”

  “I do,” she assured him. “So don’t worry about me and my little outbursts, J.T. I will get tough. And I’m going to learn how to shoot that gun!”

  Marion shook her head. “You’ll be sorry, J.T.,” she murmured under her breath. “You’ll be sorry.”

  DINNER ON THE patio was a silent affair. J.T. grilled swordfish. Angela and Marion consumed it without comment. As soon as the last bite was taken, Angela rose, cleared the table, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Marion lit a cigarette. J.T. stared at all the stars and wished his throat didn’t feel so dry. He could feel sweat bead his upper lip, his shoulders, his arms. He told himself it was the heat, but he was lying. He wanted a beer. He was staring at Marion’s and coveting it like a man lost in the desert.

  Find the zone, he told himself. Use the zone.

  But the phone rang and jarred him back out.

  Marion looked at him for one moment, then got up to answer it. He sat there alone with the crickets, his gaze still locked on her beer.

  Just one sip, maybe two.

  You gave your word.

  Ah, Christ, it’s just a beer. What’s so criminal about a man having a beer? Men shouldn’t listen to women anyway, it only gets them into trouble.