Chapter 13: One Way?

Standing by the ironing board with a shrinking pile of towels—she had returned the iron to the cupboard after pressing a handful of napkins that had been mixed in—the day's conversations with Cully were still on Joyce's mind as she folded and stacked the linens. Her daughter had taken the time to call, quite soon after hearing the news, yet the first call had been to neither her nor Tom, but to Gavin. And it was hardly a surprise, though Cully had said nothing more about it and Joyce had not inquired further.

Yet it was so very different. They had always been the first to know about roles and auditions, except in the years when she had dated Nico. Then, it was only to be expected, and...well, perhaps it wasn't so unexpected now either.

Across the house, the front door opened and was nearly slammed shut. That was never a good indication about her husband's workday. "Hello, Joyce?" His voice echoed through the house and his footsteps wound through the sitting room, following the path he took nearly every day.

"I'm in the kitchen," Joyce called, folding another towel. The stack was almost finished, and it was just as well, for it was nearly six thirty—time to start dinner. Reaching for one more, she looked up as her husband entered the kitchen. "Hello, dear. Good day?"

He released a sigh, shaking his head as he did. "Better than some."

Dropping the towel in her hands, Joyce frowned. "You don't sound certain."

"Oh, it was better, just not the way I'd prefer."

Ignoring the final cloths, Joyce walked away from the ironing board to her husband. His face was as tired as it had been the entire week, the case already beginning to wear away at him. "What happened?"

Glancing at the morning paper on the counter, he shuddered. The burglaries had not headlined the Causton Echo, but they claimed much of the remaining front page. "Whoever is dashing all over the county with his hammer and screwdriver, he's giving us the runaround."

Joyce set a hand on his shoulder, the muscles tight beneath her fingers. "It's still that bad, eh?"

"The forensic report came back today," he said, pushing the newspaper away. "A screwdriver or an ice pick, they said—the marks on the sills are identical at each scene." He crossed his arms, turning toward her and away from her touch. "And they match marks left at the scenes of five other burglaries a few months back. Well, we already knew they would, but at least now we can prove it."

"Nine burglaries?" Joyce asked, letting her arm fall.

"Yes. And he's left a few prints—we'll get him with those. But it's always out in the villages, where people think they're safe." He smiled slightly, though it was still an unhappy expression. "Aren't you glad we stayed in Causton?"

"I was then," she said. He had never quite let her forget that, still teasing her occasionally. "If we're ever going to leave Causton, I think we'd have to leave Midsomer."

"That might be safer."

"Oh, Cully rang earlier this afternoon," Joyce added, returning to the ironing board and the last of the laundry. Best to just be done with it.

"What about?"

"She's already heard from the Playhouse."

Tom seemed puzzled as she looked at him again, as though he was trying to remember what Cully had said. The investigation had displaced everything, to the point that he had forgotten her audition; it had never happened before. "Didn't she say they wouldn't call until next week?"

"That's what she thought. She said it's a tight schedule."

Another smile crept across his face, entirely pleased this time. "Well?"

"She's playing Eliza."

"Oh, very good!" he exclaimed, sounding like he had finally forgotten the case, even if only for a moment. "That's a reason to celebrate." His eyes were bright, and he didn't have to say it. Joyce knew he was already anticipating dinner out; his enthusiasm for restaurant meals had long since ceased to trouble her. "Is she back yet?"

"No," Joyce said, folding the final towel, "she's not sure when she'll be home."

"Really?"

Joyce heard the uncertainty—but already, his face showed comprehension. "That's all she said."

"It would be," he said quietly, looking down for a moment to collect his thoughts and parse his words. "Did she say what Troy thinks?"

"He was happy for her."

"I'd hope so. It was a hell of a time keeping his mind on track, Tuesday."

Joyce nearly smiled, holding it back only for her husband's sake. "He was that worried?" she asked softly. And that was hardly unexpected, either. Some day, he would know about that afternoon—almost a week ago, wasn't it?—but not now. He did not want to hear it, and she was still not the one to say it.

"Yes, Joyce, he was." His face twisted in a scowl. "So—she'll be out all evening?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask." Tom shuddered, and Joyce wondered how much he had deduced. Most other fathers would guess, but he would think, connect, analyze—and know. "Why is it bothering you, Tom?"

"Why?" he snapped, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Why?"

"Yes, why?" Joyce added quickly.

"Joyce, he's—he's my sergeant." The exhaustion had overwhelmed him and now it was erasing any chance of discussion. "That's reason enough."

She supposed he forgot sometimes, though now he might just be ignoring the memory. "I think I remember another young woman whose parents weren't fond of a policeman."

"Joyce—"

"Maybe that's why she and the policeman were married in a registry office," she continued. Not that that was the end of this—for several months they had been certain Cully would marry Nico, and nothing had come of it—but if he could just remember...

His hands were out of his pockets, set across his chest, almost defensively. "But after they got to know him better—"

"Hmm."

"It is not the same thing."

Joyce lifted an eyebrow. "Really?"

"I've known Troy for years—"

"So has Cully." He would have to listen eventually, and surely the fury would die down—or at least burn itself out.

"She does not know him as well as I do."

"Then why don't you let her?"

"Let her?" her husband asked, his gaze searing.

"Get to know him better," she said, happy that her voice remained level. Joyce was already exasperated, and for once wished she had another stack of towels to fold or something else to iron. She knew where the conversation would end, where all the prior ones had.

"I can tell her enough." He was pacing, anxious and nearly angry, and his words were faster. "The worst driver I've ever met, no sense, married and divorced long before he was thirty, and never—never—a good thing to say about her—Maureen—ever!" He spat out the woman's name like a vile curse or poison.

The anger in Tom's voice shocked Joyce, like everything that been pent-up—Cully, Gavin, the case—was streaming out, and he was unable to halt it. "Really?" she asked quietly. "Married once already?"

"Yes, Joyce," he continued, his face beginning to color from the hot blood under the skin, "Gavin Troy. Married god knows when and divorced a year after he was promoted to sergeant."

"Tom—"

"Just the sort of man you want, isn't he—dating your daughter?"

Well, that's a start, she thought. Even if he didn't like it, he had at least said what it was. "What on earth happened?"

He breathed easier, the sudden redness on his cheeks already fading. "How the hell should I know—"

Joyce walked away from the ironing board again, stopping a foot or so away from him. "We're all allowed mistakes, dear."

"That's more than just a mistake," Tom said quietly, drawing his arms in tighter.

"Then half the country is in trouble," she added lightly.

"Half the country is not what I'm worried about."

Joyce laid her hand against his shoulder once more; it was now loose and almost sagging beneath her fingers. "It can't be that bad."

"Oh yes, it can be—it is."

"Do you really think she doesn't know?" Joyce asked. Even if Cully had never mentioned it, she was sure her daughter was aware of it, just as Gavin knew of Cully's relationship with Nico. And probably for some time.

"Of course she does," Tom said, shaking his head again. "I can only think she doesn't care."

Joyce dropped her hands to the counter, curling them around the edge as she leaned against it. He won't be happy to hear it. But it was only a question. "What happens, Tom, if you don't do anything?"

"If I don't do anything..." He spoke each word cautiously, slowly, like he was considering the option for the first time, staring at the tile and tracing the possibilities through the grout as though they might lead to an answer.

Surely not, Joyce thought. He must have turned it over more than once, if only to dismiss it. "Because you don't have to, you know."

"I should keep myself to myself?" he asked quietly.

"Something like that."

Tom scowled, almost shivering. "It's out of the question."

"It's not your question to ask and it's not your choice to make," she said, moving away from the counter into the main part of the kitchen and letting her mind drift to the evening's dinner. There was no point in trying to reason with him now, not when his mind was already set. "It's Cully's, and you can't make it for her," she continued, opening the cupboard and removing two plates.

"I can make sure it's a fair choice."

The ceramic was shrill on the counter as she set the plates down heavily. No point at all. "It's still not yours."

Her husband said nothing but let out a long breath instead, running a hand over his face and rubbing his eyes for a brief moment. "Joyce..."

"I already told you, you only know Sergeant Troy," she said, turning back to him.

"Isn't that enough?"

"Not right now." There was nothing new to be said, not when they stood on opposite sides of the divide. "All that can happen is Cully will make another choice you don't like." Joyce was still unsure of how much she liked it—but what else was there to do?

"I thought we were done with those before she went off to Cambridge."

"She's an adult. You have to let go—"

"I have," he said rather loudly.

"Then you shouldn't be so worried," she added, now reaching for the wine glasses.

"I'm not worried—"

"Or upset."

"I am not upset."

"Yes, you are."

They both fell silent as Joyce opened the refrigerator, removing odds and ends for the meal—chicken breast and salad—before she filled a pot with water for the potatoes. And soon, Tom disappeared from the kitchen. Off to the study, Joyce decided. The best place for him right now. But for a time, she stopped thinking about it all, instead focusing on the meal: plain baked chicken, boiled potatoes, and salad with a bottled vinaigrette. Not the meal Cully would have made, but edible, she hoped.

The potatoes were jumping in the water and the chicken was baking when she heard him again, looking up at the sound. His suit coat was gone, the knot in his tie was loose, and his face was calmer. "Feeling any better?" she asked gently.

"Not really," he said, though the ire was gone.

"You sound like you are."

"Only an illusion." His gaze remained unreadable: no longer angry, but certainly not happy. "You know I can blame you for this."

"Me?" Joyce asked, turning around quickly. "What did I do?"

"Your drama group," he said as he walked to her slowly and almost—tentatively. "Amadeus. That's when they met."

"It couldn't be avoided forever."

"I'll still do it," he said, almost amused.

"Only if you'll let it be," Joyce said, returning to the pot on the stove. The water sputtered, one large bubble exploding on the surface and sending off tiny droplets that immediately vanished.

"Then I'll blame you later." Tom peered at the potatoes, still dancing at the bottom, and Joyce wondered if he was imagining what their daughter might have prepared instead.

"Now you're just being tetchy."

"You're surprised?"

"No. But let me finish dinner," she said, checking the timer. She had produced dry and rubbery chicken too often to take her eyes away from it for more than a minute. "It might do you good to think about something else."

Standing straight once more, he opened his mouth, then stopped for a moment. "You're sure—it's just for two?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes, Tom." Opening the drawer beside the stove, Joyce removed a paring knife. "You should be, too."

"Don't make me think about it any more than I have to." His gaze moved from the potatoes to the salad—a package of mixed lettuce already in the bowl waiting to be dressed. "What's in the oven?"

"Chicken. Are you hungry?"

"Hardly had a chance to stop all day, except when—" He stopped, closing his eyes and just breathing. "Except when Troy almost took us off the road."

Reaching for his hand, Joyce wrapped her fingers around his briefly. They were warm, but stiff—still tense. "I'm glad to hear you say it," she said, smiling as she pushed up her other arm's sleeve.

"And don't expect much more." Already, Tom was looking at the bottles of wine on the counter, pondering and considering. Something to occupy his mind. "I'm hoping to avoid indigestion."

"Do you know what I think the real problem is?"

"I don't, but I'm sure you'll tell me."

Selecting a potato in the middle, Joyce prodded at it with the tip of the knife—once lightly, then more forcefully as her forearm turned bright pink, hovering in the white steam wafting off the water. "You and she are as stubborn as each other."

Her husband laughed, the sound at last easy and free. "You knew that a long time ago," he said, lifting the bottle he had chosen. "And it's not going to change."

The potato was still hard, refusing to yield to the tip of her knife in the slightest. "For either of you," she said, setting the knife beside the stove. "But could you do something for me, Tom?"

"Of course, love." Turning the bottle in his hand, Tom dropped his eyes to the label, reexamining his selection. "What?"

"Could you put those towels away?" she asked, nodding to them as she shook her arm, the sting already fading.

"Now you're just trying to get rid of me," he said, setting the bottle down again.

"And the board?"

He kissed her quickly and lightly. "Really trying to get rid of me."

Giving the timer another glance, Joyce said, "No, I'm just trying to keep your mind off of things."