Read Online It Isn't Cheating if He's Dead by Julie Frayn - Free Book Online Page A

everywhere. But his main connection to
them was my grandmother’s pearl ring. When he started listening to the pearl
and whispering into it, I knew whatever was going on was very, very wrong.”
    Her mind wandered to Chief. Did he hear
voices too? Maybe the shrub was some conduit to whoever was telling him to keep
quiet and not go home. Wherever the hell home was.
    She tapped her fingernails on the table.
“I’ve done some research into Gerald’s disease since he left. He always said
oranges had been genetically modified because they started to taste like
apples. And the water that came out of the taps in his apartment — before we
moved in together — smelled of gas. I didn’t smell it, and oranges tasted the
same. I found out later those were signs.” She sucked on her front teeth.
“Those, and when he thought the Chinook winds spoke his name, kept seeing a dog
in the lab at the university in his peripheral vision. The same dog all the
time. He used to laugh at himself, said he must be going senile.” She shook her
head. “Nope, not senile. They were just more indicators of the shit storm to
come. According to Dean, all that had been going on for years.”
    Jem pushed her chair away from the table
and put her hands on her thighs. “I need wine. You want some?”
    “Sure. Why not?”
    “You know what?” She eyed the indigo digits
on the stove that offered an eerie glow to the darkening room. Almost eight
o’clock. “It’s getting late and I’m starved.”
    “Oh, yeah. All right.” He rushed to gather
papers and tucked them into the file. “I’ll get out of your hair. Maybe I can come
back tomorrow?”
    She poured two glasses of wine and placed
one in front of him. There hadn’t been many visitors the past two years. Most
people didn’t know what to say, how to act. Jokes might be misconstrued, simple
turns of phrase took on ominous meanings. The unwavering support wavered. The
daily check-ins from friends and family became weekly, then monthly, then
almost non-existent. Having someone stay for more than ten minutes, even if the
topic was her dead lover, was a comfort.
    “No, I don’t mean leave. I mean — do you
like spaghetti?”
    “Yeah, I love it.” His eyes seemed backlit
against the dusk, his smile warm and genuine.
    “Great. You can make the garlic toast.”
     Jem pulled the pasta pot from a deep
drawer, set it in the sink and turned on the tap. “Bread’s on the counter,
margarine in the fridge. Garlic pot is left of the blender.”
    “Yes ma’am. I’m on it. Margarine?”
    “Gerald’s old vegan habits die hard I guess.”
    Gerald had loved to cook. She was always in
his way when he had control of the stove and the knives and the vegetables.
When he had control of himself. He was a master, each component of a meal, each
course all ready and served in perfect time. Nothing undercooked. No soggy noodles,
never a burned carrot. Perfect.
    She’d managed to feed them both in his
decline, when he couldn’t connect with his love of cooking. Couldn’t connect
with her. She ate nothing but take-out early in his disappearance. If she never
saw another pizza again it would be too soon. But she’d figured out the kitchen
and cooked for herself in the years since.  She took command. She was now the
master. Or at least not a total bumbling fool.
    Finn’s presence in her arena brought nerves
bubbling to the surface, as if Gerald was back and she wasn’t good enough to
share the space. Except that Finn was nothing like Gerald. For one thing he
took up twice as much room. And he didn’t shuffle her aside and take over her
tasks. Even so, she was tempted to sit and drink while he made dinner for them
both.
    What would Gerald think of another man in
his kitchen? The fact that Finn was using his utensils would be far worse than
discovering that she’d spent so much time with the detective. Worse than
knowing she couldn’t deny a growing attraction to him.
    Gerald never was the jealous type.