Read Online Cool Water by Dianne Warren - Free Book Online Page B

and then got up in his pyjamas and watched whatever was on TV, whatever appeared on the screen when he hit the Power button on the remote—music videos, football or golf, some reality show about redecorating houses or ballroom dancing—and when the day was over he’d go back to bed and sleep with a free conscience. He wonders whether this is possible, if he could ever, at his age, close enough to retirement that the word has entered his vocabulary, quit his job?
    And then he reminds himself that he’s considering just the thing that he fears for his daughter—poverty resulting from a rash act—and he knows that if it gets too bad he’ll apply for a transfer to another town and he’ll start all over with new clients who will trust him, or give him the benefit of the doubt, for a few years at least.
    Lila sits up in bed. “Did you hear that?” she asks.
    â€œThe wind?” Norval asks.
    â€œNot the wind,” she says. “There is no wind. I think it was the front door.”
    Now Norval hears something too. Footsteps.
    â€œRachelle’s been home all night,” says Lila. “I’m sure of it.”
    â€œI wouldn’t bet your life savings,” Norval says, throwing the covers aside and stepping onto the plush wall-to-wall carpet.
    â€œBe careful,” his wife whispers. “You hear stories. It could be a home invasion.”
    â€œIt’s not a home invasion,” says Norval, reaching for his pants, which Lila has neatly folded over the back of a chair. “Rachelle,” he calls, “where the hell have you been?”
    No answer.
    Norval pulls his pants on over his cotton pyjama bottoms and steps into the hallway. He descends the four carpeted steps to the landing, another six to the main level of the house, and finds Rachelle in the kitchen, her head in the fridge. She’s wearing cut-off shorts and what they call a “tank top,” which means to Norval that she’s only half dressed, or more to the point, she’s half naked.
    â€œWhere the hell have you been?” he asks again.
    â€œOut,” says Rachelle.
    â€œWith Kyle,” says Norval.
    â€œWith the girls,” she says, closing the fridge door and turning to face him.
    Her eyes are bloodshot and he’s pretty sure she’s been drinking. He tries to keep his eyes from her belly but they keep drifting there. Maybe Lila is right. You can’t yet tell.
    â€œWe went to the drive-in. That annoying Willard Shoenfeld checked the trunk of the car again. He has no right. I’m pretty sure about that. You can’t just search cars without a warrant.”
    â€œFor booze,” says Norval.
    â€œFor people trying to sneak in,” says Rachelle. “I suppose you’re implying we were driving around with booze in the car. We’re not stupid, you know.”
    â€œRachelle,” Norval says. “You’re pregnant. Think about it.”
    â€œI may be pregnant but my life isn’t over.”
    Norval pauses and then takes the opportunity to say, one last time, “Tell me honestly. Don’t you wish, even just a little, that you were going away to school with Haley and Kristen?”
    Rachelle looks him square in the eye. “No,” she says. “Why would I want to do that? I’m getting married.”
    She tosses her long blonde hair away from her face, a move she’s been practising since she was a small girl. There’s not much Norval can say in response. He used to say, “Don’t you shake your hair at me, young lady,” but he learned long ago that his bland retort couldn’t compete with Rachelle’s dramatic gestures. She stomps away from him and up the carpeted stairs to her room, leaving him alone in front of the fridge with his pyjama bottoms bunched up under his pants. He stands in Lila’s immaculate, glaringly modern kitchen and wonders if he should, after all, give Mrs. Baxter and