“Do you have children?” her mother asked.
“Uh, no,” he said.
“Well,” her mother said with a small laugh. “You can’t possibly imagine what it’s like. Especially caring for a baby alone. It’s hard to keep track of anything but formula and diapers.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” he said. He smiled and turned his attention back to Nicola. “I thought Pete would be helping more. By the way, I thought you two had moved into Beth’s grandmother’s house.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘moved in,’” Nicola said. “We stay there sometimes.”
“But you’re here. Is there a reason you’re not living together right now?”
“I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” Nicola said.
“Tell him, Nicola,” her mother said.
Nicola shot her a furious look. Shut up, she thought. Don’t go there; don’t say anything.
“Nicola, what happened?” the detective asked.
“The name of the game is fear,” her mother said.
“Of what? Did he threaten you?” the detective asked. “Or hurt you?”
“For God’s sake!” Nicola said, jumping out of her seat. “I’m not going to say anything bad about Pete, all right? There’s nothing to say! He’s completely devastated—his wife was murdered, and I moved out as soon as I heard. It felt like the right thing to do, to let him be with Sam and grieve, okay? And I need that too.” She choked up, thinking of Beth. “I loved her.”
“Oh, darling,” her mother said, standing up to hug her. Nicola sobbed on her shoulder. She heard the detective rising from his chair. She glanced over and saw him place his card on the front table.
“Please call me anytime, Miss Corliss,” he had said, and he had let himself out.
Nicola couldn’t stop crying after he left. She had so many feelings boiling inside: sorrow, confusion, guilt, and the most terrible yearning to go back in time and make everything be okay. She lay down on the couch and closed her eyes for ten minutes, but she couldn’t relax. She turned on her side, facing the front window and thinking about looking out.
“I suppose you’re hoping he’s back,” her mother said, watching her.
“Mom, stop,” Nicola said. But she knew Pete had been there early that morning, willing her to see him and come outside, return to him. Despite what she had told Detective Reid about leaving Mathilda’s house to give Pete time to be with Sam, there were additional complicated reasons that she was afraid to admit, even to herself.
Jean went to the window, pulled the curtains wide open. From the way her shoulders stiffened, Nicola knew that Pete’s car was idling across the street. Jean stared him down.
“Mom, stop looking out.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Jean said, folding her arms and glaring across the street. “He must have watched the detective arrive and leave so he’d know when to station himself right back here in your face.”
Nicola knew her mother wanted Pete to see her angry expression, to feel her displeasure. It was more than that: Jean hated Pete. At first, she’d been so proud that Nicola was working at the prestigious Lathrop Gallery, but her pride hadn’t lasted. She blamed Pete for wooing Nicola, getting her pregnant, diverting her from her high-achieving path, stealing her chance for excellence. Pete hadn’t introduced her to his mother, and Nicola thought it was because Mrs. Lathrop would feel the same way about her—that she had ruined Pete’s life.
Nicola was still a Catholic girl at heart, and she knew that adultery was a sin. She wouldn’t trade having Tyler for anything, but she felt guilty for so much of what she’d done. She believed she would have to pay for it, somehow.
“Pete wants us to work it out,” Nicola said.
“Well, I hope you don’t want that.”
“That’s why he’s here . . . ,” Nicola said.
Her mother didn’t turn around. Nicola was glad, because she didn’t want to see the shame and disappointment in her mother’s eyes. Nicola had fallen in love with a married man and had had his baby. In her mother’s view, Nicola had ruined her life as well as Beth’s and her family’s.
Her mother would never understand how Pete had helped her feel like part of an alien world, how he had taken her under his wing and assured her she belonged, that she was as good as all the rich people who bought art. He had come from a working-class background just like Nicola’s, and it was as if he sensed every insecurity she had. He gave her what she needed—a level of acceptance and understanding—even before she knew she needed it. He was a magician who could read her mind. He had made her feel adored.
“He’s Tyler’s father,” Nicola said.
“Women have raised children alone before,” her mother said, tapping her own chest. “Case in point.”
“I know, and I’m so lucky I had you. But Dad left—he didn’t give you a choice. Pete’s right here. We just have to get through this. It will get better.”
“Through this?” her mother asked, finally turning from the window. “His wife’s murder? The fact he’s a suspect? And that you are?”
“I’m not!”
“You’re not stupid; I know that,” her mother said. “But in this case, you are being a fool. It was written all over that detective’s face. He thinks he killed her for you. To be with you. He might think you planned it together.”
“That’s crazy! I never would! And Pete wouldn’t either—and he didn’t! Mom, you don’t know the art market—the painting that was stolen is extraordinary. I can’t even imagine trying to set a price for it. That’s the motive—an art thief killed Beth for Moonlight. And it’s not the first time it’s been stolen—or caused a death.” She said it with conviction, precisely as if she really believed it.
“You’re being naive,” her mother said. “You’d rather believe in a cursed painting than see the truth. Your boyfriend killed his wife.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. This is a terrible time for Pete. To lose Beth this way. He’s beside himself,” Nicola said. Tyler stirred in his crib, waking up. She lifted him out and nuzzled his head.
“What I understand is that it’s terrible for Beth. And her daughter and the baby. And her sister.”
“Mom, I know. I’m heartbroken. Pete is too!”
Her mother was tall and strong, her hands callused and rough from her job. She had sharp cheekbones and a long straight nose she’d inherited from her French Canadian father and English mother. Her long dark hair had a single wide white streak on the left side that had been there as long as Nicola could remember. She was the crème brûlée of mothers: hard shell on the outside, total mush on the inside.
“You sound very sympathetic to Pete,” Jean said.
“Of course.”
“Then what are you doing here?” Jean asked in a flat tone.
“I . . . we . . .”
“I know you had a fight. I realize there’s stress,” her mother said. “But some women get through that without running home to their mothers. Honey, I know you’re scared. You are scared to death. I don’t know what he did to you—put the fear of God into you, I can tell. Did he hit you? Knock you down?”