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THE CHASE
A NOVEL
By BRENDA JOYCEST. MARTIN'S PRESS
Copyright © 2002 Brenda Joyce Dreams Unlimited, Inc..
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0-312-28449-7
There was trouble in paradise and there had been for some time.
Claire turned onto Leavenworth, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. She had been married for ten years; she had known David for almost fifteen. When had they begun to drift apart? How had it happened, when once they had been so happy?
Did it even matter?
David had told her just that morning that she was going to far too much trouble for his fortieth birthday. He had made it clear he was in no mood for a big bash with a hundred guests. And he had refused to even look at her, focusing instead on the task of knotting his Hermès tie.
Claire knew she had been blocking out just how badly damaged her marriage was. She had thrown herself into her work at the Humane Society, where she was a director, and into all of her charities, especially the two for which she was chairwoman. She had always been an overachiever, and it was easy to put in sixty, seventy, even eighty hours a week on all of her projects. In fact, she was frequently solicited by new organizations begging her to join them. These days she had to turn everyone down, as she was stretched so thin. The best she could do was to offer up her valuable mailing lists.
David was a lawyer and had switched firms recently. He, too, worked like a dog. Perhaps this was one of their problems; somehow, they had become immersed intheir separate career paths, losing the connection they once had.
Last night they had attended the same fund-raiser, a black-tie dinner and dance. Claire doubted they had exchanged more than a dozen words all evening. He had his social circle, and she had hers. He had also drunk too much.
Maybe this was her fault. Last night she had actually been working—she was desperate to raise another million dollars for the Summer Rescue Kids program. Maybe she was a failure as a wife.
Claire had to let go of that thought. She must not be sad, not now, not when her guests would arrive in two hours. It was a stunning spring day. The skies could not be clearer, and the waters of the San Francisco Bay could not sparkle more. Her dog, Jilly, a chocolate standard poodle, sat in the backseat of the Land Rover with her elegant face thrust out of the car, enjoying the air and the sun. It would be okay, Claire told herself. Tonight their guests would dance outside on the terrace beneath a full moon and a thousand stars. David would be happy. And that would make her happy. She was a pro when it came to making events succeed, to taking care of other people; it was what she did.
Claire turned the Land Rover into her driveway, where the caterer's vans and trucks were parked, causing total congestion. She slid out and opened the door for Jilly, who raced madly for the front door of the house. The stray dogs she housed were also barking. Claire thought she heard childish shouts. She imagined a scene of pandemonium inside, and she smiled, relieved to divert her thoughts from her marriage.
Her house was a big, modern white stucco affair with high slate roofs. From the outside it appeared bulky, but then, four thousand square feet had been crammed into three quarters of an oddly shaped acre. Inside, however, one was greeted with double ceilings and surprising spaciousness—the architect had been a genius. It was their dream house—they had both worked hard for it, had both earned it. Claire slowly entered and paused inside the huge living area, which had smooth wood floors, white walls, and an eclectic combination of modern and antique furnishings. Everything was just perfect. Or was it?
The opposite wall was nothing but double windows. Beyond those windows were the stone terrace and the gardens. From where she stood, Claire could see the sparkling blue waters of the bay, numerous sails, and the red spires of the Golden Gate Bridge. The view was magnificent. She reminded herself not to be sad and smiled.
And it was just in time. "Mrs. Hayden! Mrs. Hayden!" Timmy Kowolski, a neighboring eight-year-old, was shrieking. The chubby boy ran into the room with Jilly chasing him merrily. He was followed by another boy and his sister, as well as three other dogs. The children all lived around the block. Claire adored them. None of them had any pets, and as Claire's house was always filled with strays, it was a second home for the trio. The kids were screaming, the dogs were barking madly, and it was chaos. She loved it.
Claire basked in the warmth of the children and the dogs as they surrounded her and she smiled, genuinely now, tousling Timmy's short, spiky hair. Maybe it was time to get pregnant. She was thirty-two. She had always wanted children of her own. Five or six would do—but David had always said it would be one or two.
Claire knew that getting pregnant would not solve anything.
"Can Jilly come stay with me during the party tonight?" Timmy asked eagerly.
"Only if your mom doesn't mind," Claire said.
"She won't mind!" Timmy cried, beaming.
"You'd better go ask her before taking Jilly over there," Claire said with a fond smile, rubbing her knuckles over his smooth brow.
"I'll call her now," Timmy said, then raced for the phone, Jilly following him.
"Hi, Ben. Hi, Lucy," Claire said to the other children. She was surrounded now by the three other dogs, who had descended enthusiastically upon her en masse, three tails wagging fiercely. Two were mongrels, one a dachshund.
"Hi, Mrs. Hayden," the kids cried in unison. Lucy's blue eyes were wide and earnest. She was a tall, skinny girl with freckles. Her brother was skinny, too, but short, with horn-rimmed glasses. "Did that rottweiller make it?" Lucy asked very seriously.
Claire was petting the ecstatic dogs. Now she straightened and smiled at her neighbor's oldest child, who was twelve going on twenty. Claire patted Lucy's shoulder reassuringly. "The rottweiller will be fine. But still no word on his owner. Don't worry, Luce. We'll get him back to his home." The real truth was, she had hoped by now that someone would have come forward to claim the older dog who had been hit by a car last night. The Humane Society had rescued the stray and, of course, taken him to a clinic. She would not let Lucy worry, though.
Sometimes I think you care more about the cats and dogs you save than me.
Claire stiffened, recalling her argument with David that morning. That had been a low blow and completely unfair—one he had been resorting to more and more often recently.
If you really cared about me, you would not be throwing this goddamned birthday party. I am overloaded, Claire. And who gives a shit about turning forty?
They had argued fiercely and hurtfully. Or rather, David had argued, because Claire couldn't bring herself to hurl ugly words or insults at anyone, much less her own husband. She wished she hadn't remembered the nasty exchange now.
She had remained calm. Of course I don't care more about cats and dogs than you, David. That was an unfair thing to say.
Oh, so now I'm unfair?
That's not what I said. I just thought that turning forty is special—
Yeah, right. Let's announce to the world just how old I am.
Why are you doing this? Do you want to hurt me?
I'm not doing anything, Claire! For crissakes, I am just trying to make a goddamned living! Did it ever occur to you that I want to stay home for my birthday?
"A dog like that, someone has to be looking for him," Lucy was saying, breaking into Claire's thoughts. There was an ache behind the memory, but Claire couldn't entertain it, not now.
Claire forced a smile. "I think so, too," she said lightly. She put her hands in the pockets of her black leather blazer, which she wore over a white cotton T-shirt and slim black pants. Her dark blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she wore no makeup other than lip gloss and mascara. The only jewelry she wore was her watch, a gold Rolex with a diamond bezel that David had given her for their last anniversary, the tenth.
"Mrs. Hayden? Are you all right?" Lucy asked.
Claire started. "Of course."
"You just seem ... sad."
Claire blinked. It was not a good sign if a child could see past her smile and her words. "I'm just tired. It's been a really long day." And that was mostly the truth, Claire reminded herself. She was tired. It had been a long day.
"It will be okay, Mrs. Hayden. Tonight you can dance to a deejay. How cool!" Lucy's eyes were worshipful.
Claire had to smile, well aware that Lucy thought her glamorous and idolized her. But then she thought about David and the night to come, and her smile vanished. Unfortunately, she felt certain that it was going to be a very long night.
If only they could recapture the past.
In her heart Claire knew that it was impossible.
Claire had just stepped out of the wall-to-wall beige marble shower when she heard the bedroom door open and close. "David?"
"Yeah, it's me" he said from the master bedroom.
Claire tensed even more. There had been nothing warm in his tone, just exhaustion and maybe a hint of irritation.
Refusing to get alarmed, Claire wrapped herself in a big towel and stepped into the room. It boasted high ceilings and views of the bay and bridge. The entire bedroom was done in shades of white, the fabrics each a different texture; even the sofa in the sitting area was a white-on-white wool blend. The mantel over the fireplace was white marble streaked with gold, and one of Claire's favorite paintings in the world hung over the bed—a Gustave Courbet titled Le Réveil, featuring the nude Venus reclining while Psychée stood over her, parakeet in hand.
A week ago the painting had arrived at their doorstep, stunning her. Instantly Claire had called her father, once a professor of art and now a world-renowned art dealer, to find out why on earth he had sent them the masterpiece. Jean-Léon had told her that it was a present and he wanted her to enjoy the painting.
His explanation made little sense. The Courbet was worth tens of millions and Jean-Léon was passionate to an extreme about art, especially his own collection, which he had begun in earnest with Claire's mother early in their marriage. Claire's mother, Cynthia Asch, had inherited a sizable fortune, enabling her husband to start a gallery and collection. The Asch family had made their fortune in real estate in the booming years of the sixties.
The gesture of the gift had to mean something, Claire had thought, but her father was a hard man to understand. She still did not understand why he had sent the painting, although David had suggested it had to do with his age, and he was merely getting his estate in order.
Claire watched David now, her heart skipping—for there was a garment bag on the bed. David was placing suits, shirts, and other clothing in it. Claire stared. "Where are you going?" she asked quietly.
He did not even glance at her. "I have to be at a meeting in New York tomorrow. I have an eight A.M. out of here."
Tomorrow was Friday. Not only was he leaving for the weekend—which was unusual though not unheard of—but it would be impossible for him to really enjoy the party, since he would have to get up at the crack of dawn. "Sounds like an emergency," Claire said, hoping to sound calm. The last thing she wanted him to see was her anger, but inside, she was suddenly furious.
Didn't he care about all the effort she was making on his behalf? Didn't he care about them? And what was happening to her? Of all days for her to become unglued, today was the worst possible day. Claire did not have a temper. It served no one, much less herself.
"It's not. Been planned for a few weeks, actually. I guess I forgot to mention it."
He had forgotten to mention that he was spending the weekend of his birthday in New York City. Claire remained very still, trying hard not to be angry, and wondering, not for the first time, if he had a girlfriend. Was it only a few years ago that he would have asked her to come with him? How many times had they booked a five-star hotel like the Plaza or the Carlisle, made love all night, and taken in a show, all jammed between David's meetings?
But she would not have wanted to join him in New York even if he had invited her. She had too much to do that weekend herself. In fact, she did not even enjoy his company anymore. The realization was stunning.
David finished packing and folded the garment bag in half, zipping it closed. "I think I'm going to close my eyes for a half hour before I get dressed," he said, walking past her while stripping off his tie.
It crossed Claire's mind that he hadn't looked at her, not even once. She thought about their argument. It had been eating at her all day. Something he had said was bothering her, but she could not pinpoint what it was.
He was in the dressing room. Claire walked in after him, managing a bright smile. As she stood behind him while he slid off his blue and white button-down, she glimpsed herself in the mirror over the the vanity. She looked half her age—like a teenager, not like the glamorous and professional wife of a brilliant corporate lawyer.
The smiling woman in the mirror seemed so calm and composed. She did not look frightened.
But she was frightened.
Claire turned away. "David? Let's talk." She could hear how tense her own voice was. That would not do, and she coughed to clear her throat.
"Now?" Incredulous, David faced her in nothing but his briefs.
Claire glanced at him. He was a very attractive man, with hazel eyes and thick, dark hair, and he worked out and ate well, so his body was lean. Other women looked at him whenever they went out. David had briefly modeled for extra money while in college. He could still model. If he wanted to play around, he would have no trouble doing so. "I'm sorry we fought this morning, and I'm even sorrier I didn't ask you first whether you wanted a big birthday party," Claire tried with a small smile. A part of her was appalled that she was the one to be the peacemaker when she hadn't done anything wrong. He should be apologizing to her for his boorish behavior.
"I don't want to get into this right now. It's going to be a long night."
Claire stiffened even more, but when she spoke, she made herself sound unruffled. "Wait a minute. Will you accept my apology? I am genuinely sorry we fought. Aren't you sorry, too?"
He stared at her. "Of course I don't want to fight with you. Claire, I have had a fucking rotten day," he said, moving to the sink. He ran water and splashed his face.
Claire was faced with the sight of his black cotton briefs stretching over his hard buttocks. She felt no stab of physical desire. It occurred to her that they needed to make love. When was the last time that they had done so, anyway? "It seems like every day has been rotten these past few weeks," she heard herself say.
He straightened abruptly, regarding her in the mirror, which covered the entire wall. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She bit her lip. "Things have changed, haven't they? I don't think we've made love in months. Do you remember when we made love four or five times a week?"
He turned to face her. "That was eight or nine years ago!"
Had it been that long ago? "We don't talk anymore, David," she said softly, sadly.
"No, we don't." His words were flat.
They stared at each other, the realization unspoken but hanging between them. They didn't make love anymore, they didn't talk anymore, they didn't care anymore.
Claire felt another stab, this one of panic. Was this it, then?
She inhaled and walked away, fighting to recover her composure. It was so hard—her mind seemed to be spinning uselessly now. And Claire suddenly realized what it was that was bothering her about their argument that morning. He had made some crack about earning a living. Claire seized upon the odd statement the way a terrier might a bone.
David had a six-figure income. Claire's income was much lower, obviously—she made nothing working for her charities, and the Humane Society paid little. Still, they were in the highest tax bracket. They had savings and investments, much of which had come from a small trust fund she had come into at the age of twenty-five. Now Claire caught his gaze again. "Are we having money problems, David?" This was a much easier subject, she thought with relief.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from THE CHASE by BRENDA JOYCE. Copyright © 2002 by Brenda Joyce Dreams Unlimited, Inc.. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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