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that night. Christine and I talked for a while on the front porch. I didn't
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want to go inside, but I didn't want to leave yet. And if I wasn't imagining
it, her eyes were a little red. Ever since I'd known her, she'd had mood
swings, but they seemed to be getting worse.
"I guess it's my turn to ask if you're all right," I said. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Alex. Just the usual. Trust me, you don't want to hear about my
stuff."
"Well, if you mean romance, then you're right. But otherwise, go ahead."
She laughed. "Romance? No, I'm just a little overextended these days. I do it
to myself, always have. I'm working way too hard."
I knew she was the new head at a private school nearby. Other than that, I
really didn't have a clue what Christine's life looked like anymore much
less why she had been crying before I got back to the house with Alex.
"Besides," she said, "we agreed last time I would ask aboutyou . How are you
doing? I know it's hard, and I'm sorry for that, for everything that's
happened."
I told her in the briefest possible terms about the Mary Smith case, Nana's
recent dizzy spell, and that Jannie and Damon were doing fine. I left Jamilla
out of the conversation, and she didn't ask.
"I've been reading about that terrible murder case in the paper," Christine
said. "I hope you're being careful. It surprises me that a woman could be a
killer."
"I'm always careful," I told her. There was all kinds of irony going on here.
Obviously, my job stood for a lot between Christine and me, and none of it was
good.
"This is all so strange, isn't it?" she said suddenly. "Was it harder than
you expected, being here today?"
I told her that seeing Alex was worth whatever it took, but that honestly,
seeing her was hard, too.
"We've certainly had easier times than this, haven't we?" she asked.
"Yes, just not as parents."
She looked at me, and her dark eyes were so intelligent, as they always had
been. "That's so sad, Alex, when you put it that way."
I shrugged, with nothing to say.
She put a tentative hand on my forearm. "I'm sorry, Alex. Really. I hope I'm
not being insensitive. I don't know what you're feeling, but I do think I
understand the position you're in. I just " She mustered up her next thought.
"I just wonder sometimes what kind of parents we would have made. Together, I
mean."
That was it. "Christine, you eitherare being insensitive or you're trying to
tell me something."
She sighed deeply. "I'm doing this all wrong. As usual. I wasn't going to say
anything today, but now I have. So, okay, here it is. I want Alex to have a
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two-parent life. I want him to know you, and believe it or not, I want you to
know him. For everyone's sake. Even mine."
I took a step back, and her hand fell limply away. "I don't know what to say
to that, Christine. I think it's obvious that I wanted the same thing. You're
the one who decided to move out here to Seattle."
"I know," she said. "That's what I really wanted to speak with you about. I'm
thinking of moving back to Virginia. I'm almost sure that's what I'm going to
do."
My mind, finally, was completely blown.
Chapter 56
VANCOUVERWAS ONE of the Storyteller's favorite cities along withLondon
,Berlin , andCopenhagen . He flew up there on Alaska Air and arrived just in
time to wait on a long line with about five hundred "visitors" from Korea and
China. Vancouver was crawling with Chinese and Koreans, but that was about the
only thing he didn't like about the beautiful Canadian seaport, and it seemed
a minor complaint.
He had some movie business in town that took up most of the day and also put
him in a dark mood. By five or so that night he was in a wretched state of
mind, and he needed to get the bottled-up anger out somehow.
Know what I need? To tell somebody what's going on, to share.
Maybe not tell everything, but some of it at least an idea of how
incredible this whole thing was, this totally strange period of his life, this
wilding, as he'd come to call it, this story.
There was this foxy red-haired producer he knew who was in Vancouver to shoot
a TV movie. Maybe he should connect with her. Tracey Willett had her own
wilding period in Hollywood, starting when she was eighteen and continuing
into her late twenties. She'd had a kid since and had apparently cooled her
jets some.
But she kept in touch with him, and that had to mean something. He'd always
been able to talk to Tracey, and about almost anything.
So he called her, and sure enough, she said she'd love to have dinner and
drinks with him. About an hour later, Tracey called back from the movie set.
The movie shoot was running late. Not her fault, he knew. Probably some hack
director's fault. Some disorganized, arrogant, glorified art director two or
three years out of film school.
So he didn't get to see Tracey until past eleven, when she came over to his
room at the Marriott. She gave him a big hug and a sloppy kiss, and she looked
pretty good for having worked all day. "I missed you, sweetcakes. I missed you
so much. Where have youbeen? You look great by the way. So thin,good thin,
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