Deirdre knew that Jared hated the term “man cave,” but Jared’s office, to her mind, was just that. It was his space, his kingdom, and she was careful not to intrude.
But now, now that she knew his time was limited, she wanted to spend every possible minute with her husband. Part of her wanted to be nearby in case he needed help, but mostly she just wanted them to be together. Spending time with Jared, even passive time, was the only cure for the overwhelming sadness that had settled in the marrow of her bones.
Raised voices were coming from downstairs. It wasn’t unusual. There were often arguments between members of the crew—usually about something small like the placement of a light or the angle of a camera—and she had learned to tune it out. But this was different.
“How did they even get past the gate?” she heard someone ask.
“Everything okay?” Jared, his eyes now open, had heard it, too. “What’s that ruckus?”
“ ‘Can you describe the ruckus, sir?’ ” This was a line from one of Deirdre and Jared’s favorite guilty-pleasure movies, The Breakfast Club; they used it with each other often when the girls were younger and more boisterous. Now Deirdre saw no flicker of recognition in her husband’s eyes.
“The ruckus downstairs,” he said.
“I’ll go check,” she answered, a new drop of despair added to the lake growing inside her. Cancer, she thought, is like being nibbled to death by ducks. She got up to go.
“Me too.” Jared started to stand.
“No, sweetie, I’ve got this.”
“Really, D, I have nothing else to do.”
She looked at him and nodded.
When they got to the landing on the bottom of the stairs, they saw one of the new ATN security guards, a burly man in a black T-shirt that didn’t quite fit, talking to someone at the door.
“This is private property, and you’re trespassing. You have to leave now. If you don’t, we will forcibly remove you.” The guard said this in a flat monotone, but his sheer girth left no room to question his intentions.
“What’s going on?” Deirdre asked.
“Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Stone,” the guard said, seeming flustered. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. The construction crew hasn’t completed work on The Wall, and someone managed to get to the front door. Would you like us to call the police?”
Deirdre was about to answer, but Jared put a hand on her arm. “That depends,” he said. “Who is it?” Deirdre turned to her husband and saw that the politician in him had found its way back to the surface. It was the most fervent sign of life she’d seen in Jared since they’d made love on Jared’s office floor. She allowed herself a rare smile and hooked arms with him.
“Yes, who is it? We do have neighbors, you know.”
“They say they’re from the Portland Area Hospice Foundation.”
Deirdre and Jared looked at each other before Jared said, “Let them in, please.”
“But we’re under orders from Mr. Overbee—”
“When Mr. Overbee starts paying the mortgage on this house, he can decide who does and does not get through the front door.”
The guard, like the rest of the crew, was on pins and needles after the Sherman Kingsborough incident. While he did have strict instructions to let no unauthorized outsiders on the property, it was also made clear that he should make any and all accommodations for the Stone family. Had he known that ATN had assumed the responsibility for the mortgage on the house as part of Jared’s contract, he might have acted differently. But he didn’t know that, and Jared, largely because he didn’t remember that detail, didn’t offer it. The guard let the intruder pass.
The guest was a tall, slender woman steeped in middle age. She had curly, unkempt hair that was gray enough to obscure its original color; she wore a black pantsuit with a cream-colored shirt, a peacoat draped over one arm. The only word to describe her shoes was sensible.
“Mr. and Mrs. Stone,” she said, extending her hand, “I’m Joanne Stark. I’m the director of the Portland Area Hospice Foundation. May I have a few minutes of your time?”
Deirdre and Jared each shook her hand in turn, then invited her into the living room. Deirdre watched the woman marvel at the television equipment strewn about.
“You don’t see all this on TV, do you?” she asked.
“No,” Deirdre agreed. “It would ruin the illusion of reality. Can I offer you a cup of coffee or tea?”
“No, thank you. I don’t want to be an imposition.”
“It’s not an imposition at all. As you might imagine, we don’t have many visitors these days.” She could feel a silent understanding pass between her and Joanne.
“Really, I’m fine. I don’t want to take up much of your time. I just want to talk with you about your options regarding Mr. Stone’s condition.”
As the three of them sat on the couch, Deirdre could see the wind go out of Jared’s sails. His brief burst of energy had cost him. The spark that had been in his eyes just a moment ago was fading quickly.
“Please,” Deirdre said, “call us Jared and Deirdre.”