Chapter 15: A Red Light

The tray was already laid out: two mugs, a small jug of milk, the sugar dish, and a small plate of biscuits. Those last two were probably more important than the coffee, Cully knew. Gavin had, if nothing else, a sweet tooth; she had never seen him drink either coffee or tea without adding a sickly amount of sugar. Even on the previous occasion when she had prepared coffee for him in this kitchen, she had almost retched when he dipped the spoon into the sugar bowl—what was it, three times? Sugar with a little coffee, really. And he would surely dunk a biscuit or two as well. He'll never change, she thought, putting on the kettle.

It was for the best, having the coffee outside. If she allowed herself to think about that day, the guilt still rose sometimes. That afternoon, she had not merely played a character, she had performed a lie, at least at first. Someone calm and collected who did not still seethe with anger—until that woman collapsed around the edges. The fury had escaped and regret had taken its place. But today she was just Eliza, and herself. No, even that was wrong: Eliza had departed for the day, leaving only her. Not a caricature: the other woman she had transformed herself into had vanished long ago, and Cully was certain she would never return.

Cully counted the scoops of coffee: six generous spoonfuls, each dropped cleanly into the cafetière as she listened for bubbling water. Each afternoon or evening spent over tea or coffee was the happiest point of her day, bright minutes and occasionally hours that she anticipated when she woke. A copy of Pygmalion always lay between them, ignored as often as not; and really, the pretense had nearly run its course. Now, she was merely refining and reviewing, a task she had in the past easily accomplished on her own, occasionally seeking out a few minutes of help for a fiddly phrase. Every time she had needed help with her lines, when she had been home, she had sought out her mother or father. But for this one, not once.

"Times are already that desperate?"

Cully looked up as her father spoke, surprised to see him at all. The entire time she had spent on the patio with Gavin on Sunday, he had not emerged from his study once until Gavin had gone. "Hi, Dad," she said, glancing back to the kettle, impatiently demanding the water to come to a boil. "I didn't think I'd see you at all this afternoon." Through most of the week as well, their paths had hardly crossed: most of his time at home was devoted to rereading reports, and she rarely arrived before dinner. She loved him dearly, but it was a relief to avoid the questions he asked to mask those he would not.

"Even I reach a point when I don't want to work anymore," he said, almost grinning as he crossed the kitchen to join her. "Believe it or not."

"I don't," Cully said, sliding the mugs around the tray, creating more space for the coffee pot. "But I'll let Mum know. She'll be happy to hear that."

"She's seen me reach it."

"I'm sure." Turning her gaze to the kettle again—a few spots on the surface jumped as the water reached a simmer—Cully rolled her eyes. Her father allowed his work to take over his life more often than not. No day was sacred when he was consumed by a case, not holidays, birthdays, even his wedding anniversary.

"Once or twice," he said after a moment.

"Then she won't need me to remind her. She'll remember all of them."

"Probably. How are things coming along?"

"Pretty well," she said, returning her gaze to him. His face was tight, a thought in his mind struggling to form. "We're reading through it a second time."

"Any problems?" he asked, relaxing slightly as he rested his lower back against the counter.

"Only the little ones that never go away."

"Well, no surprises there."

"Thanks, Dad," Cully said lowly, now pushing the milk jug behind the coffee mugs. He didn't mean anything by it, she knew: in his mind, it was probably humorous. And it was—or it would be in a week or so, but not yet.

Lifting his hand, he pointed a finger at her, almost kindly. "You're the one always pointing out what went wrong."

"Because I always know." Each rendition of any play she had ever acted in ended with that same review: the mistakes, the errors that were not errors but she hated nonetheless, the moments she would change for the next performance, a dozen other things that rankled...

"So what you're telling me is that you know your lines perfectly."

"No—"

"Almost perfectly."

"I'm getting there," she said. Everything remained in flux well beyond the first performance—lines were perfected, lighting and cues altered, the entire play waited to be remolded to the director's vision and whim. "That's always the way it is."

"Oh, I remember," he went on. "That's what you've always said." Stopping for a moment, he folded his arms across his chest. "Done for the day?"

"We're just taking a break." The kettle finally boiled with ferocious, violent bubbles, and Cully turned the switch off. Reaching for the jar of coffee to drop a few more spoonfuls into the pot, she added, "Cup of coffee for you?"

"Ah, no," he said, his voice flat and distant, almost empty. "No, thank you."

Pulling her hand back from the jar, Cully stiffened as she picked up the kettle. There it is. "What is it?" she asked, pouring the water over the coffee, foam the color of milk chocolate instantly rising to the top, coating the sides of the pot as the grounds floated.

"How long have you been working today?"

"A couple of hours, that's all," she said, setting the kettle down again and moving the steaming coffee pot to the center of the tray.

He stared at it—thinking—as she placed the plunger on top, pressing it down to just above the water's surface. "And, uh, how is Troy?"

"He's fine, Dad," Cully said, turning back around. "Why wouldn't he be?"

"No reason—"

"Yes, there is."

"I ask questions. That's my job," he said, frowning as he did.

"I thought you were done with work for the day."

"I did—"

"It's not work, though," she said, glancing out the kitchen window for a moment. The patio table was just visible, as was Gavin, slouching in his chair with his head down. Reading, she hoped as she smiled—no, she was certain he was.

"I never said I was through asking questions—"

"Can't you just leave it alone?" she snapped, looking back. A flush was spreading across her cheeks, her eyes narrowing with anger.

"Leave what alone?" her father asked lightly, almost innocently.

"Dad!" God, she thought, why can't you just say it?

"What do you want me to do?" Dropping his arms, he stood straight.

"To stay out of it."

"Stay out of what?" he asked, sounding exactly like what she knew he was, a concerned father ready to pry.

Please, won't you just say it? "Dad, don't pretend—"

"This is not something I want to do, Cully," he said, stepping closer to her.

"What?"

"Let you make another mistake." He spat the words out, all the concern suddenly gone.

"You don't want to let me?" she said quietly. Let me? I'm not a child.

"Watch you, then," he said, reaching out a hand for her shoulder—and Cully pulled away from him.

God, he was the one being childish—or at least stubborn. "I'm the one who has to decide if it's a mistake or not!" It isn't, Cully wanted to add—but, no, she couldn't. She hardly knew what to make of it all—but it couldn't be that!

"Fine, I'll just watch—"

"Like you did before?" she asked, not caring that she interrupted him.

"Cully—"

"What, do you think I don't know?" It was anger now, nothing else. She had kept no secrets from Gavin and if he had wanted to keep any from her, he had chosen them poorly. Surely his marriage and divorce would have been buried the furthest, yet he had freely mentioned both long ago—albeit with a touch of embarrassment. "Because whatever it is, you're wrong."

He sighed, shaking his head—almost shuddering—as he closed his eyes. "Cully—"

"What did you say to Gavin?"

"I don't know what you mean," he said, the unhappy expression deepening as he stepped away from her.

Well, you should be unhappy, she said to herself. "That's what I thought," she said, again playing with the mugs and coffee pot. If she didn't have one moment to breathe, to shove it all aside..."He still hasn't told me," she added, calmer, "and I don't think he ever will."

"That is his choice."

"You could tell me."

"I only reminded him of the way things were." He appeared so tired, like the row—surely that was what it was—was suddenly exhausting.

"Were?" Cully couldn't push away the guilt that had surged when the angry words began. She hated arguing with her father and rarely had since she had first gone to university, but this one couldn't be helped, not when it was his doing.

"Are," he said, louder, finding one more burst of energy.

"And nothing can ever change?" she asked. They were only going to begin the cycle anew, running around in a circle that would never end.

"Not that much."

"Maybe for you," Cully said quietly, finally picking up the tray. He could think whatever he wanted—and he would.

"Are you sure there's enough sugar in there?" he asked as she walked to the patio door, nodding at the platter.

"Dad, it's fine."

"You never know with Troy."

Cully offered her father a scowl as she reached the door, turning and stepping into the afternoon sun without saying anything else, the world blindingly bright at first. If that was all he had to say, she would leave him to it.

Gavin was still reading, his body loose in the chair, the book's spine kept open with one hand and the back pages held with the other. This afternoon, he was outside of that uniform he wore every working day, as he often was when she saw him now. Instead of a suit and tie, he was dressed like any other man on a Saturday: jeans, a dark button-down shirt open at the collar—though tucked in at the waist—and shoes chosen for comfort rather than show.

"Have you gotten to the end?" she asked, almost laughing as he jumped, his limbs tensing as he sat straight and his fingers tightening on the book's cover.

Gavin shook his head. "All that?" he asked, holding it aloft, the final section of notes still firmly tucked behind his right thumb.

"Then where are you?" Setting the tray on the table, Cully sat again, pushing her chair closer to his. Over Gavin's shoulder, she glanced at the kitchen window; even with the glare from the sun, she saw his face, still unhappy.

"To Eliza knowing 'even had there been no mother-rival, she would still have refused to accept an interest in herself that was secondary to philosophic interests.' " He tossed the book down. "God, if he wanted you to know all that, why not find a way to get it into the bloody play?"

"Because drama doesn't always work that way," Cully said, pressing the cafetière's plunger through the grounds.

"Or maybe Shaw just wasn't good enough."

"If you wanted to see all that performed, you'd be sitting in the theater for a lot longer." Lifting the coffee pot, she poured out the first cup, sliding it to Gavin before pouring the second.

"Thanks." Into his mug went a generous dollop of milk, then two—no, still three—heaping spoonfuls of sugar. Adding a little of each to her own cup, Cully grinned, passing the plate of biscuits to him.

"What's so funny?" he asked, taking the first sip of coffee.

"Dad was right."

Gavin grimaced for a moment—though the expression vanished almost as soon as it was born—while he reached for a biscuit. "About what?"

His words had been light and easy. "It's a good thing that dish of sugar is full." Cully set her hand on his arm as he touched the plate, kissing his cheek before he could say anything. "Don't worry, Gavin," she said, "he's not always right."

"Yeah," he said quietly, sliding his arm beneath her fingers, bringing his hand to hers. "Try telling him."

"I just did."

Gavin looked at her, his eyes confused and...almost happy as he twisted his fingers through hers. "I'm sure he liked that."

"Of course not." Cully laughed briefly. "Did you expect anything else?"

"No." He almost looked away but then leaned to her, his lips lingering on hers as her heart rushed. The kiss—gentle and desperately hungry—gave way to hot breath when he drew away, clenching her hand tighter, his pale skin revealing no apprehension.

Good, she thought. You can't be afraid forever, Gavin. "I don't think he liked that either," she said softly. It was impossible to forget, her father probably still standing at the window, frowning, glowering...and she refused to look, her gaze never leaving Gavin. Her father could have his own thoughts—she didn't care.

Gavin settled further back into his chair, not loosening his grip. Already, she hated the distance. "No," he said, "I don't think so."