Crazy for You

  “Really nice.” Barbara smiled. “Taking care of her like that. I’d love to have dinner.”

  “Terrific,” Nick said, and wondered why if everything was going his way, he felt so lousy.

  Bill stood on the porch of the Apple Street house after school—he was never going to call it Quinn’s and she wasn’t going to be there much longer anyway—waiting for Quinn to answer the bell. He was happier than he’d been since she’d moved out, happier really than before she’d moved out, because his life was finally completely on track and he was really paying attention. Spring was in the air, they had a whole future to plan, everything was going to be—

  The door swung open and Quinn stood there in a paint-stained chambray shirt, a two-inch paintbrush in her hand. She looked flushed and beautiful, and just for a moment she took his breath away and he wanted to touch her so much—

  “Bill?”

  “You look great,” he said.

  The damn dog came snuffling up and growled at him. “Quiet, Katie,” Quinn said. She wasn’t smiling at him at all. Well, that would change.

  “Get your coat.” He grinned at her, encouraging her to smile, too. “I have something to show you.”

  “Bill—” She stopped, looking at him as if she was angry. “I’m not in the mood for this. I’ve had a really bad day.”

  “It’ll only take a minute.” His grin widened. “This will turn your day around.”

  “I doubt it.” She took a step back and began to close the door. “I have to go.”

  “Wait a minute.” He put his hand against the door to hold it open. “You don’t understand. I found us a house.”

  “You what?”

  “I found us a house.” This was going to be great. “It’s in the development behind the school, walking distance from both the high school and the elementary. The kids’ll have to ride the bus to junior high, but that’s okay.”

  Quinn looked stunned. “What kids?”

  “Our kids.” He almost laughed, she looked so surprised. He’d just swept her right off her feet. “It’s a great house. Four bedrooms, big backyard, huge basement—”

  “Bill, we’re not having any kids.”

  “—and wait’ll you see the family room, the kids—”

  “Bill!”

  He stopped, jerked out of his plans by her scowl.

  “We’re not having any kids,” she said. “And I’m not buying a house with you. I bought this one yesterday. You can buy that one, but I already bought this one. So we’re not buying one together. We’re not doing anything together.” She stopped, and he could hear the blood pound in his ears. “I’m sorry, but I’ve told you over and over. We’re not getting back together.”

  “How could you buy this house?” he said.

  “Bill, I told you I was going to—”

  “How did you get the loan?” he asked before he could stop himself, and she grew still.

  “I had to put more money down,” she said finally. “Was that your idea?”

  There was something pressing on his chest, making it hard to breathe and hard to see, too, for some reason. “Quinn, you shouldn’t be here alone,” he began and then his mind went blank because he couldn’t explain that it was for her own good, that he hadn’t really done it, that she shouldn’t hate him—

  The damn dog nosed its way past her leg and began to bark at him.

  “You screwed up my loan,” she said over the dog’s yapping. “You keep calling the city on me, you had Bobby threaten me with Jason, and you stole my dog three times—”

  “No,” he said, trying to make her listen.

  “—Stay out of my life.”

  Quinn slammed the door and left him alone on her porch, trying to breathe in enough air so he could say the words that would bring her back, but his lungs just couldn’t suck enough in.

  It’ll be all right, he told himself as his mind slid around the panic. It would be okay. So the new house was out, well, that was all right, maybe this house wouldn’t be that bad. Really, it wasn’t that bad. It was small, he didn’t know how many bedrooms, but maybe they could build on. Yeah, that was it. They could build on.

  He walked off the porch and around the side of the house to the gate to the backyard, walking carefully because he felt a little dizzy. The backyard wasn’t huge, but it was big enough for the kids until they got to junior high age and then they’d be at the school most of the time anyway. Lots of room to run drills at the school. A small backyard here would mean less to mow. That was good. They could put an addition on, an extra bath and bedroom above, a family room below, and still have enough room for a deck. Not a problem. He should have been more flexible from the beginning. It was his fault. He should have listened to her. He felt much calmer. This house was fine.

  He turned to go back toward the gate and saw movement in the kitchen. He moved closer to the side window and squinted through the lace curtain. It was hard to see because the light wasn’t on inside, but he could make out Quinn at the sink, working her hands back and forth on something, probably the brush, probably cleaning the brush. He stood and watched for a while as she bent over the sink, the curve of her bottom so familiar he felt as if he could reach out and pat her, just like he used to, except he never had, he realized. He wasn’t a patter, Quinn hadn’t seemed like a woman who wanted patted, but now he wanted to. He felt closer to her now than he had when he’d been with her, maybe because she didn’t know he was there so she couldn’t shut him out, couldn’t make her eyes go blank the way she always did now when he tried to talk to her. He couldn’t understand it; he was giving her so much time. When was she going to stop this and let him back in?

  It started to rain, and when he looked up, Patsy Brady had come out to take in her crummy lawn furniture and was looking at him with interest. This is ridiculous, he told himself and ignored her to head back to the car. Anyone would think he’d lost Quinn. Things were going to be fine. He’d be patient and understanding and things would be fine. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t get in to her. He could get in any time.

  He trudged back to the car, reminding himself to call Bucky and tell him the house hunt was off and thinking about packing his stuff for the move to Quinn’s house. He probably wouldn’t need all of it since she’d acquired some extra furniture, but a lot of that was hand-me-downs and junk that she might not want after he brought her their pine furniture from the apartment. They’d have to talk it over when he got ready to move.

  Just thinking about talking things over with Quinn again made him feel better. He imagined their conversations all the way home.

  “Heard the Bank Slut’s dating your husband,” Lois said in the break room of the Upper Cut the next day.

  Darla’s heart leaped to her throat, but she forced herself to lean back against the couch and say, “Did you now?” as if it didn’t matter. Max.

  “Took her to dinner Monday night,” Lois said with smug satisfaction. “The Anchor Inn. She had lobster.”

  “Anybody who has lobster at the Anchor Inn deserves what she gets.” Darla concentrated on keeping her breathing even. “So how’s Matthew?”

  Lois’s satisfaction faded. “He’s moved back in,” she said, her chin in the air. “I’m taking him back.”

  “Good for you,” Darla said. You deserve each other.

  “We’ll see,” Lois said. “We’ll just see how he acts.” She didn’t seem particularly pleased.

  Quinn breezed in and pushed past her to sit in the armchair across from Darla. “Hey, Lois,” she said. “What’s new?”

  “Matthew moved back in, and Max took Barbara to dinner,” Darla said calmly, meeting Quinn’s startled eyes without a flicker.

  “Interesting,” Quinn said, and shut up until Lois gave up and left. Then she said, “Max did what?”

  “Lois said he took her to dinner Monday night.” Darla swallowed. “Lobster at the Anchor Inn.”

  Quinn looked miserable. “He’s trying to make you mad.”

  “It’s
working.” Darla leaned forward to rearrange the magazines on the coffee table so she wouldn’t see the sympathy in Quinn’s eyes. “I thought he didn’t like change.”

  “You want to go back to him?” Quinn asked.

  “I can’t.” Darla dropped the magazines and slumped back. “What’s changed? If I go back, things are going to be the same, and that’s the reason I left.” She felt misery rise like nausea in her throat. “If I go back, and Max doesn’t have a clue why I left, he’ll just think I’ve been a bitch and he’ll never trust me again. If he doesn’t see—”

  “What if he never sees?” Quinn said. “Are you just going to wait forever?”

  “Look who’s talking,” Darla snapped. “You’re not doing anything, either.”

  “Well, actually, I did.” Quinn looked miserable. “I slept with Nick last night.”

  “Oh. Damn.” Darla regrouped. “So how was it?”

  “It was strange,” Quinn said. “Good strange until the end and then just strange. He’s definitely not interested in a replay. It’s over.” She slumped a little. “Not that it ever really started.”

  “Oh, just hell,” Darla said.

  “Pretty much,” Quinn said.

  Twelve

  Bill decided he really needed to see the interior of Quinn’s house to plan the addition they needed. Which meant he had to go inside again. It was unavoidable. He had to.

  The dog barked as he came in, so he picked up a bottle of window cleaner Quinn had left out—that was like her, careless—and sprayed it in the dog’s eyes. The mutt shrieked and went under a chair, and Bill laughed and measured the kitchen, planning the addition, making notes in his pocket organizer. When he was done there, he went upstairs to make notes for the second-story part of the addition, his heart now pounding for some reason.

  It was dimmer upstairs. The narrow hall had only one window and it looked out on the blank brick wall of the house next door. Five doors off the hall. Too many. Too crowded.

  The first one at the head of the stairs was Quinn’s bedroom.

  He stopped in the doorway because it was so hers that it hit him like a fist to the chest. Then he stepped in and took possession. Quinn wouldn’t care, she’d be glad.

  She’d left a mess as usual, drawers shut crooked, closet door half open, the bed unmade—that was his Quinn—but it was still the bedroom he remembered from their apartment before she’d moved out, her grandfather’s washstand and the pie safe she used as a linen cupboard and—

  He slid his eyes away from the bed. The bed was new. He had their old bed. He’d bring it here when he moved in and then things would be the same again. There was a heavy lamp beside the bed and that was new, too, with a glass shade, and he hated it because it wasn’t theirs. They’d get rid of it when he moved in.

  Her bunny slippers were kicked off near the fireplace—she had a fireplace in the bedroom, now that was wonderful—and the slippers looked so funny and so Quinn, tumbled over each other, almost as if they were doing it—

  His eyes slid away from the bunny slippers and back to the bed.

  It was rumpled, the thick blue blanket and the blue and yellow quilt rolled back together, the bottom sheet still curved with the print of Quinn’s body. He walked over—no reason to feel breathless, everything was fine—and let his hand rest where she’d been. It was cold, she’d been gone for hours, and he lay down where she’d been just for a minute, and put his throbbing head on her yellow pillow—bright like Quinn—and smelled her warmth and her laughter—was it her shampoo really? she didn’t wear perfume; no, it was Quinn—and almost wept because he wanted her back so much.

  Not that she was gone. She wasn’t. They were just in a readjustment phase. Things would be fine.

  He lay there for a while, thinking of how fine things would be, of how they’d build a fire in the fireplace and then hold each other here, right here, and she’d be under him again and—

  His mind went dull as he thought about having her again, thought about how she’d lie quiet in his arms, about how he’d have her soon, here, in this bed, he’d take her back here—his breath came faster and he squeezed his eyes shut until he couldn’t see anything anymore.

  Then he got up and slowed his breathing, made himself calm, taking one last look around their bedroom, not wanting to leave, or if he had to leave, wanting to take her with him. Something that was like her.

  He slipped the pillowcase off her pillow and held it to his face, breathing her in.

  Her pillow lay white and naked on the bed. That wasn’t right.

  He went to the bottom shelf of the pie safe and got a new yellow pillowcase. He put the clean one on, and then folded the used one, that one that had Quinn on it, under his coat.

  And then he went back to school, carefully locking the door behind him so nobody could get in to hurt her.

  The BP met him at the weight-room door.

  “Bill,” he said. “You got to pull yourself together.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, thinking about swatting Bobby like a gnat.

  “It’s still that woman, isn’t it? I don’t see why you don’t just forget her,” Bobby shook his head. “She’s not worth it. Why don’t you—”

  “She’s worth it,” Bill said through clenched teeth. “We’re going to be together, so just butt out, Bobby.”

  The BP winced at the “Bobby,” and Bill realized he’d slipped, he should have called him “Robert,” but really that was what he deserved for doubting Quinn.

  “We lose three more games,” Bobby said, “we don’t even go to regionals.”

  “It’s not going to happen,” Bill said and pushed past him.

  “Where do you go on your planning period, anyway?” Bobby called after him, and Bill ignored him.

  They’d be in the regionals. They’d even win the tournament. Once he got Quinn back, everything would be fine. He’d see that it was fine.

  He’d make her see tonight.

  Quinn was alone in the art storeroom getting brushes for the techies that evening, still fuming over Nick and how stupid she’d been—it wasn’t as if he hadn’t had a track record of non-involvement, for heaven’s sake—when Bill came in and stood by the door, blocking her from the rest of the art room. When she turned and saw him filling the doorway, her heart clutched for a minute because he was so big and she was so alone. The kids were all down on the stage, nobody there to hear her yell if she needed help…

  But that was dumb. This was Bill, after all.

  “You scared me,” she said, wanting to walk forward so he’d step back and let her out of the closet but afraid to, afraid he might not step back.

  “I just wanted to talk,” he said, smiling at her.

  She hated that smile. “Bill, we have nothing to talk about and I’m late.” She did walk forward then, and he didn’t move, so she stopped. “You’re in my way.”

  “I can’t be in your way,” he said. “We belong together. Your way is my way.”

  “No,” she said, and he said, “If you’d just listen, we’d be okay again.”

  “There isn’t any ‘we.’” Quinn heard her voice shake a little. “There never was, Bill. We never connected at all.”

  “Of course, we did,” he said. “We’re getting married as soon as—”

  “No!” she said, and his face changed, twisted for a minute before it smoothed and he said, “It’s okay, we can live in the Apple Street house.”

  She put out her hand to one of the shelves to steady herself, dizzy with how angry she was, that he wouldn’t listen, that he wouldn’t see how much she’d changed, and scared, too, although that was ridiculous, this was Bill. “We are not getting married,” she said as calmly as possible. “I don’t love you. I never did. It was a mistake and it’s over and you’re never moving into the house on Apple Street. Now let me out.”

  His jaw clenched, and he said, “You’re not listening.” She moved forward then, determined not to let him stop her, saying, “Let me out!” but he slamm
ed the door shut in her face and trapped her inside.

  “Bill?” Quinn said and pounded on the door. “Let me out! This is ridiculous. I’ve told you—”

  “Just listen,” he said from outside. “I’ve made plans. I know you think there’s not enough room, but we can put an addition on.”

  He went on to her growing horror, explaining how they’d build on the house, where they’d put the doors and windows, where their kids would sleep, and Quinn felt paralyzed, trapped not only in a cold storeroom but in the cold world of Bill’s denial while he talked on and on in his calm teacher’s voice, sounding as sane as anybody.

  He broke off in the middle of explaining the deck they’d build out in back, and Quinn pressed closer to the door to find out why.

  “Have you seen McKenzie?” she heard Jason ask. “We need her down on the stage, and Mrs. Buchman said to try here.”

  “Jason,” Quinn called before Bill could say anything, “I’m in here.” She rattled the storeroom doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge. Bill must be holding it. “Let me out, Bill,” she said. “I have to go work on the play.”

  “We’re talking,” she heard Bill say to Jason. “She’ll be down later.”

  “No!” Quinn heard the panic in her voice and forced herself to be calm. Catching Jason in the middle of this wasn’t a good idea. “Jason, go get Mrs. Buchman, please. And Mrs. Ziegler.” She was pretty sure Bill wasn’t violent, just detached from reality and that only in reference to her, so if Edie and Darla came in, he’d see the absurdity of the whole thing and open the door.

  She hoped.

  “Coach, we really need her now,” Jason said. “I think you’d better let her out.”

  “She’ll be down as soon as we’re finished talking,” Bill said kindly. “You go on now.”

  “Well, I can’t,” Jason said. “We’re out of red paint and the extra’s in the storeroom.”

  It wasn’t a bad lie since Bill didn’t know the play stuff was kept in the stage storeroom, but he wasn’t buying it. “She’ll bring it down when she comes.”