“It’s good to meet you,” I said. “I’m Millie, your husband’s guinea pig. I was coming by to see Johnny, since I heard he was staying here.”
Linda hesitated, but then her good manners overcame her good sense. “Please, come in,” she said. “I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing, but I can at least make you a cup of tea or something. David’s talked about you quite a bit.”
There might have been tension in that last sentence, so I made a note to myself to tread carefully. Rule number one when befriending men: do not piss off the wife.
Linda opened the door, and I stepped inside.
36
I knew Linda Berenbaum worked as an interior designer, and so I expected her home to be well decorated, but its lived-in, homey quality surprised me. Everything was artfully cluttered and welcoming in a way that strummed some perversely unpleasant chords.
“Are you from the South?” I asked her.
“Alabama,” she said with a faint smile. “Don’t tell me I -haven’t lost the accent.”
“No, it’s the house; it reminds me of the ones I saw grow-ing up.”
“How long have you been out here?” she said, leading me into the small, sunlit kitchen. The window was full of potted herbs, some trailing from hanging baskets.
“Eight years,” I said.
“Please have a seat. I have Earl Grey, chamomile, or jasmine; I’m afraid we’re not coffee drinkers.”
“I’d love some Earl Grey, thank you.” I took a seat and leaned my cane against the kitchen table; the chairs had cushions tied onto them with dainty fabric bows.
Silence settled as she filled the teapot and set it on the burner. At last she spoke, her brows drawn together. “Why did you expect to find Johnny here?”
Nice people are easy to read; she was reluctant to lie to someone her husband cared about. I suspected that Rivenholt was in the house somewhere at this very moment, and the thought made me tense with anticipation.
“Vivian told me,” I said.
Linda made a soft sound of dismay as she fumbled and dropped a tea bag on the floor. She bent to pick it up, then placed it in one of the cups. “Don’t worry, that one’s mine,” she said with a wry smile when she saw me watching.
“You can afford to throw it away,” I teased.
She laughed uncomfortably, running a hand through her hair. “You sound like David.”
Fantastic, Millie. Wives love it when the Mysterious Younger Woman takes their husband’s side.
“So Johnny isn’t here right now?” I said.
“I’ll let David field that one,” said Linda. “He should be on his way back from work; I called him as soon as the lady at the gate announced you.”
I sat up straight in my chair. “You didn’t need to do that. If I’m not welcome, I’ll just leave.”
“I don’t want to treat you rudely,” she said. “But I’m not going to bail David out, either. This is his mess, and he can sort it out like a big boy.”
“I really didn’t mean to interrupt David’s work,” I said, -rising carefully. “I’ll go.”
“Sit,” said Linda sharply. My butt was back in the chair before I even knew I’d sat. For someone with no children, she certainly had the tone right. Then again, she’d been married to David Berenbaum for twenty-five years.
Awkward silence reigned as Linda poured steaming water into the two cups and brought them to the table on saucers. She sat down next to me and idly bobbed her tea bag up and down with her spoon, staring into the cup.
“So, you’re with the Arcadia Project,” she said finally.
“For now.”
“Do you have an Echo?”
“Not that I know of.”
She was quiet and wouldn’t look at me.
I studied her for a moment. “Having Johnny around, do you ever feel . . .” I tried to think of a word that wasn’t insulting or melodramatic, but before I could find one, she shook her head.
“No,” she said. “Their relationship isn’t sexual, and it’s also not exactly practical. Johnny has done wonders for David, since before I met either of them, but he doesn’t maintain him. Do you know what I mean?” She lifted her eyes from her cup to meet mine. “A man like that needs an anchor,” she said. “Someone to tell him it’s time to get some sleep or take his vitamins.”
“And what does David do for you?” I asked.
Her eyes softened then, and she looked out the window with a comfortable sort of joy that made me feel more of an intruder than any direct challenge could have done. “If I’m the anchor,” she said, “he’s the sail.”
“You’re lucky,” I said, trying not to sound bitter.
“Just be careful,” she said in a disturbingly compassionate tone. I didn’t have time to ask what she meant before she changed the subject. “Have you ever been to Arcadia?”
“No, have you?”
“I’m not authorized. David goes sometimes.”
I thought about it for a moment. “I probably can’t. I’ve got steel pins and screws and plates everywhere; I can suck the magic out of something just by touching it.”
Linda looked at me with intense interest. “Really?”