Chapter 7
"Mommy, are we going yet?"
"Let me just finish my coffee, honey."
"It's your third cup."
"Yeah, well if I can swing it, I'm gonna go for four," Karen muttered under her breath.
Iris cocked her head, brows drawn together. "What?"
Child had ears like a bat. "Nothing, baby. Finish your breakfast, okay?"
The little girl slid from her chair and held up a plate with a precariously balanced bowl and glass. "I'm finished."
Karen took a deep breath. "Then take your dishes into the kitchen and go make sure you have everything you want in the beach tote."
"Okay." With a smile that left Karen feeling like all was right with her world—at least this one part of it—Iris disappeared into the house, pausing to give her grandmother a kiss as they crossed paths at the large French doors leading out to the courtyard patio.
"She's excited."
Karen looked up at her mother as she lifted her mug. "You'd think we didn't live in a beach town ourselves."
Her mother settled herself in Iris' abandoned chair and poured herself coffee from the thermal carafe on the table. "Well, to be fair, you don't live within walking distance."
"True. You and Dad got lucky, buying this place back before real estate went completely insane."
Karen looked wistfully around the patio of the home in which she'd grown up. Truthfully, her current home was every bit as nice, maybe even nicer in some respects, but there was something about the sprawling California mission-style house, with its peach adobe and weathered pine floors and doors and the central brick courtyard that had always spoken of home to her. Of course, its proximity to the beach hadn't hurt either, allowing her and Barb to grow up as quintessential California girls, swimming and sailing and wandering the beach with abandon. Days of wind-tossed laughter and ice cream sweetness.
She'd spent hours describing this place to Carlton, trying to prove to him that not all childhood homes were lonely or anger-filled. She'd promised him they would have a home filled with love and light—like this—some day.
Of course, that assertion had blown up in rather spectacular fashion, hadn't it? In more ways than one.
For a long while after, her emotions about her home had been ambivalent at best, verging on outright hatred on the bad days. After she'd had Iris, however, her attitude had softened considerably. Seeing the house through the innocent, wondering eyes of her little girl allowed her to once more experience the unique sense of well-being this house had always engendered in her.
"It was a good investment." Her mother leisurely sipped her coffee, the blue-gray eyes both Barb and Iris had inherited narrowing as they studied Karen. "I think more than easy proximity to the beach, though, Iris is happy to have her mother all to herself for a while."
"Mom," Karen began in a warning voice that faded as her mother's eyebrow went up. Didn't matter how old she got, that eyebrow still had the power to silence her. She could only hope hers maintained the same sort of power over Iris.
"Relax, Karen. I know you spend as much time with her as you possibly can, but it's rare for her to have your undivided attention for such an uninterrupted stretch of time—" That eyebrow rose a fraction higher. "Or at least, have that attention completely to herself, even if the focus is a bit fractured."
Karen chose to remain silent, because, you know, not as if Mom was wrong. She lifted her mug for another life-giving sip, sighing long and deep as the caffeine hit her system. Yeah. A fourth mug definitely.
"Another bad night?"
"Yeah."
They'd all been bad since the moment she'd shut the door on Juliet Saturday night. She'd talked to her mother for hours, learning while she'd been understandably concerned and upset over her younger daughter's elopement, she'd been as equally in the dark about the part Karen's father had played in the breakup of the young marriage as Karen herself.
At that time.
Mom had confessed that she'd come to learn about it in recent years, but that it had seemed prudent to keep quiet. She'd thought Karen happy and settled—saw no reason to upset what she saw as the peace Karen had achieved between her past and her present.
Karen couldn't be too upset with her mother's decision. She could even understand her reasoning. Didn't stop her from lying awake the rest of the night, crying some more even though she would have sworn she didn't have an ounce of tears left in her. But these tears had been different, lacking the violent intensity and volume of her earlier bouts. They'd emerged in a steady trickle, sad and wistful, her heart breaking anew under the strain of what might have been. And in the rare moments she wasn't crying, she was aching—once again feeling Carlton in her arms. Not the tensile strength of the boy she'd once known so well, but the hot, urgent power of the man she'd so briefly held. Only a taste, but it had been potent and intense and had left her reeling and desperate for more.
That's when she knew she had to leave. Before she did something even more stupid than every stupid thing she'd already done.
By late Sunday afternoon, she had her plans in place—had arranged for Iris to miss school for at least a week and stopped by her office to pick up a few personal effects, berating herself for cowardice as she stopped at Carlton's desk and ran her hands across the worn wood surface, as if trying to take a piece of him with her. She'd briefly considered leaving him a note, trying to explain, but just as quickly dismissed the notion. What was there to explain, after all? Early Monday morning, she'd loaded her car and taken off with an excited Iris for what she thought was simply an impromptu visit with Grandma.
Part of herself had marveled at the extent of her personal masochism, that after everything that had happened, she'd be running right back to where it had all started. At the same time, it was home—and Mom was there—and right now, Karen needed her mom.
Much as she'd experienced a sense of relief at being away from Santa Barbara, however, it really hadn't helped with the internal turmoil. Decisions would have to be made and she was honestly no closer to making them than she'd been on her arrival four days earlier.
Never mind that at the heart of it all was Carlton and the fact that she was missing him. Desperately. And had absolutely no right to.
So yeah. Bad nights.
"Are you still set on looking for another job?"
Karen drained her mug and reached for the carafe. "With Iris' dad looking at possibly transferring to his firm's L.A. office, it seems like a good time to consider a switch. San Clemente's looking for a new chief and it's an ideal location, halfway between Los Angeles and here. Laguna might be, too. Who knows who all else. Lot of possibilities, probably."
"Karen."
She busied herself pouring coffee, stirring in cream and sugar, assiduously avoiding her mother's searching gaze.
"With Barb out on assignment so much, too, it'd be good for me to be closer. And it'd be good for Iris."
"Karen."
Her hand stilled, the silver spoon hot against her skin, but mild in comparison to the heat she could feel flooding her cheeks.
"Only once before have I ever seen you run away."
"Mom," she started weakly, still unable to look up. "I just… I can't."
The breeze rustled through the palms, almost, but not quite obliterating Mom's sigh. "How I wish I'd realized just how very much you loved Carlton. Understood just how real your emotions were. By the time I did—it was too late."
Karen clutched the mug with both hands, but didn't dare attempt to lift it. "Ancient history," she managed.
"Not based on what you've told me," she replied, her voice taking on the crisp tone that had been Karen's legacy from her. Once she'd learned to wield it, a voice used to great effect over the years. "And not based on what arrived in this morning's mail."
A simple cream-colored envelope nudged the side of Karen's hand, her name neatly inscribed on it in a bold, distinctive block script, with his name and address in the upper left.
"Oh," she breathed, her heart skipping around her chest like a grade-schooler hopped up on too much sugar.
How? Why?
"Oh, my…"
But pragmatism—and pessimism—quickly reasserted themselves. "You know, he could just be writing to tell me he's resigning," she said briskly as she pushed the envelope back toward the center of the table. "Getting as far the hell away from me as he possibly can."
"Oh, for God's sake, Karen—" Mom snapped. "From what you've told me about the man he's become, Detective Lassiter would send a letter printed on department stationery by registered mail if he was resigning." Her voice dropped as she gently slid the letter back beneath Karen's hand. "But I remember Carlton—and Carlton writes letters to the girl he loves."
Karen allowed her fingertips to trace her name, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she felt the indentations the pen strokes had left behind. The more tense he got, the harder he pressed down. She couldn't even count how often she'd noted slight tears and holes in reports that contained Shawn Spencer's name.
"I'm going to go ahead and take Iris to the beach. You can catch up in a bit."
Through a fog, Karen said goodbye to her mother and to Iris, promising that yes, she would catch up really soon, she just had something she had to take care of first, and hugging the little girl fiercely at the resigned expression that crossed her face. Crossing her heart and swearing to die that she honestly would not take long because there wasn't anything she wanted more than to build sandcastles on the beach with her baby girl.
Not a lie, either. She'd treasured these last few days of relative solitude and the rare opportunity to spend unbroken stretches of time with Iris. Her mother was right—it had been good for both of them. While the impromptu getaway may have been rooted in drama and cowardice, the unexpected rewards it had yielded would be held close and treasured.
The house silent around her, she rose from the table and, envelope in hand, climbed the stairs to her old room. Even though it had long since been converted to a more adult guest room, it still contained vestiges of Karen's past: the simple Mission-style furniture that had been her fifteenth birthday gift, the bookshelves containing many of her childhood and teenaged favorites, a collection of photographs that had once adorned a corkboard, but that her mother had at some point collected into a gallery-style frame.
Just enough the same that it seemed natural to bring his letter here.
First, though, she went to the closet where she reached into a dark, hidden corner of the top shelf and drew out a wooden box adorned with Mexican folk carvings and heavy with the dust of having remained undisturbed for years. After wiping off the dust, she carried it to the other part of the room that had remained unchanged—the big bay window seat where she'd spend hours staring out over the distant ocean view and dreaming and later, reading every letter Carlton had ever sent her.
Sitting with one leg tucked up under herself, she regarded the box.
Seriously. Masochist of the highest order. Especially not knowing what this latest letter contained.
Carlton writes letters to the girl he loves.
Slowly, she lifted the lid and carefully removed a stack of letters, neatly tied with a ribbon that once upon a time had been a brilliant, intense blue. She gently pulled at the faded satin, loosening its hold on the cream-colored stationary, so similar to the envelope currently resting on the windowsill. She picked up the first letter, sliding it from the envelope and unfolding the single page, brittle and spotted with age, the indentations of the pen strokes even more prominent than they'd once been.
Dear Karen,
You know, I'm not even sure how to do this. Would you believe, this is making me more nervous even than the first time we made love? And I was plenty nervous then.
God, I can't believe I just wrote that. Told you I had no clue how to do this. Maybe I should just start over, except we promised to write exactly what we were feeling and well… yeah. That's what I'm feeling.
And you know, I know how to tell you how I feel—I can tell you anything. So I'm just going to pretend you're sitting right across from me and I'm talking to you. (I really hope you're not laughing at me right now.)
Anyhow—
I miss you. I miss you so damned much, Karen. Without you here it's like… there's no light or warmth. Everything's just kind of faded and bland I guess. I get up, I go to work, I go home, I fix dinner for Lauren and maybe play with her a little. She makes me laugh at least. Then I go to bed and lie in the dark and miss you.
(And yeah, I think about us and well… I'd better not write any more about that.)
And this is with you gone less than two days. How am I supposed to make it three weeks?
I know I'll make it—I know we'll make it. But know that I miss you more every day.
I love you,
Carlton
The first letter. There were sixteen in total, one for almost every day they'd been apart until she'd broken down and called and said she was coming home. Carlton was home now.
Heart in her throat, Karen read through the rest of the letters, allowing herself to remember.
…Went to Giordano's today at lunch for a slice. The guy started to automatically give me both our orders until he realized you weren't there. Said it seemed weird to see me without you. He can't possibly begin to understand how weird it feels. How wrong.
…Your letter made me laugh. Your sister can't possibly be that bad, can she? Admittedly, waking you up at five a.m. to go for a fitness run is a bit excessive, and making you go without coffee is downright cruel, so maybe she is. And do not listen to her—your ass is perfect exactly the way it is. And I think I'm in a better position to make that assessment.
…Had to leave the house today. Mom said something about how unusual it was to have me home so much. Honestly, at first I wasn't sure if she was complaining because I was around more and you know, breathing, or if she was simply being sarcastic—trying to make a point about how little I'd been around the past few months. Either way, all I could think, as I stood in the kitchen and listened to her bitch, was that this place, it wasn't anywhere I wanted to be. Being with you, even if all we're doing is sitting on the grass on the quad and holding hands, is more home to me than this place has ever been.
I miss you.
…It's three in the morning and I can't sleep—as usual. Truth is, I haven't slept worth a damn since you left. Although I don't want you to feel guilty about it—it's just me being as honest as possible, like I promised.
Anyway, I'm sitting up in bed, writing by the light of a candle. I could turn on the overhead or even the bedside lamp, but using a candle helps me forget where I'm at and that you're not here. It's a vanilla candle, which reminds me of your perfume and if I lie here and stare long enough at the shadows the candles are casting, I can almost envision that you're here with me—can almost imagine that you're lying beside me, breathing slow and steady as you sleep.
That's what I want, more than anything. What I need.
It scares me, Karen. I've tried not to need anyone—it's always been easier that way—but somehow, you've made me need you. How did you do that?
Karen sighed as she carefully folded the final letter, slipped it into its envelope, and returned it with the others to the box. Leaning her forehead against the window, she toyed with the faded ribbon, winding it around her finger and shivering as the still-smooth satin slid against her skin. It was one thing to be loved, even to be wanted. To be needed so deeply and so intensely she could feel the tug of that desire from two hundred miles away?
She glanced down at the unopened letter resting on the windowsill.
Gently, she slid her fingertips beneath the flap and worked it loose. Before sliding the folded sheets free, however, she experienced a brief flash of fear. She could pretend she'd never gotten the damned thing. He didn't know for sure she was here—there was no way he could know for certain—and he certainly had no way of knowing that even if she was here, that it would have been passed on to her. She could just pretend and be the one to let him go this time—be the one to do the right thing, even though what her father had pushed Carlton to do had been so very wrong.
While her brain presented every argument possible, her heart took charge, pushing her to reach inside the envelope and draw the letter out. Taking a deep breath, she unfolded the sheets with hands that shook enough, she couldn't focus past the greeting—
My dear Karen—
A sob escaped as the rest of the words momentarily blurred. She sniffed and blinked and drew on every ounce of reserve she possessed to steady her hands enough to read on—
My dear Karen—
It's been so damned long since I did this. Nearly twenty-five years as a matter of fact. Police reports I can do in my sleep—short notes, I'm golden—but a letter that reveals more? I'm not even sure I know how to do this anymore. But that's the thing about you—you've always drawn more from me than I ever thought myself capable of—professionally and personally. Especially personally.
I may have denied that to myself for far too long, but whether by chance or design or that fickle bitch, Fate, it's been made clear to me that you are the driving force behind so much of who I am. At least, the good parts.
O'Hara thinks we were maybe like little birds—we imprinted on each other early and while we may have ventured away from the nest, as it were, we always found ways back to each other. I told her that sounded like a crock of crap.
I'm pretty sure she knows I was lying through my teeth.
But it's a hell of a thing to have to come to terms with, you know? The idea that there really is only one person who completes you and holds the ability to make you happy. I'm not talking about the day-to-day, I can function and fake it to the rest of the world sort of happy, but that soul deep, abiding, makes you feel complete, happy. The only time I ever believed in the possibility of such a thing was when I was first with you.
I thought I'd convinced myself it was youthful, romantic, idealistic BS—after all, we both know the last thing I've ever been prone to is idealism. Again, you were the only person who ever brought that quality out in me. This time is no different.
I know you're probably reading this and wondering what the hell I'm babbling about and where I'm going with this. I would hope it's obvious—I know it would've been to the girl you were, but you haven't been that girl for a long time, have you? I ruined that and you'll never know how sorry I am but to resort to another one of those damned hoary clichés, that's water under the bridge.
Anyhow—just so we're perfectly clear:
Marlowe and I are over. It was mutual and was honestly more due to my inability to be unflinchingly honest with her about you as it was your confessing our past to her. If you want, I'll tell you everything we said—I'll tell you anything you want to know—but that's better done face-to-face, I think.
The other reason Marlowe and I are over is because I realized I couldn't be with her. Not feeling the way I do about you.
I know you, Karen. I know you're going to try to convince yourself none of this can possibly be true and I'm just on the rebound and you know what? You're right—sort of. I have been on the rebound—for nearly twenty-five years.
I owe you so much, sweetheart and I need to prove myself to you again. I need to win you again and that's exactly what I intend to do.
I went to your house on Monday to tell you all of this but of course, you were already gone. I swear to God, nothing I've ever experienced in the field has ever come close to the sheer terror I experienced when I realized you were gone. You can thank O'Hara for your windows remaining intact. She also kept me from tracking your financials and putting a BOLO out on your car, so no, Chief, no reprimands will be necessary. After a couple of shots of Scotch and talking me off the ledge, she got me to stop and think.
While I don't know for certain that you went home to San Diego, I can be reasonably certain that wherever you've gone, you'll be in contact with your family at some point. So I'll put this in the mail with a wing and a prayer that whoever receives this, sees fit to give it to you. I'd hope that even your father wouldn't try to keep us apart a second time. After all, I'm reasonably certain you finally managed to convince him of your intent to become a cop and I have to think that despite my personal failings, professionally, I've acquitted myself fairly admirably.
At least enough to be someone who's worthy of you.
So I'll do what I did before. I'll write you a letter every day that we're apart. I'll let you know exactly how I'm feeling. And I'll hope that it's at least a start in convincing you how damned serious I am.
Please come home soon.
I miss you.
Love always,
Carlton
