Chapter Seven—Julie
DALEN IS DESTROYING an onion when I get home Sunday afternoon. I stop inside the kitchen and watch him hack off one end, peel away half the usable onion with the skin, then set what’s left on the cutting board. “You know we own smaller knives.”
He glances at the chef’s knife in his hand. “This one works.”
“Does the onion agree?” I drop my bag on a stool and walk closer to inspect the damage.
Dalen nudges the mangled onion toward me. “It hasn’t complained.”
“It’s dead.”
“That explains it.” He puts down the knife and catches me around the waist before I can pass him.
I laugh as he pulls me against him. His T-shirt smells faintly of garlic, and I kiss him anyway. “You’ve already been cooking awhile.”
“Twenty minutes.” Dalen kisses the corner of my mouth when I pull back.
“That wasn’t praise.” I slide my hands down his chest and step away.
He gestures toward the bottle on the counter. “Wine’s open.”
“I knew there was a reason I married you.” I pour a glass while he returns to the cutting board.
Dalen picks up the knife. “Money.”
“That too.” I climb onto the counter near the stove and take my first sip.
He starts another onion while I tell him about the Hollman dining room. The client has three children under six and still wants white upholstered chairs, which Laurent and I have decided is proof that optimism can become a medical condition.
Dalen scoops the chopped onion into a bowl. “You let her order them?”
“I’m a designer, not a dictator.” I reach over and steal a piece of bell pepper from the pile beside him.
He catches my wrist before I can get away with a second piece. “You told Patricia Salish to move a ten-foot marble island.”
“Charlie put it in wrong, and she was unhappy.” I eat the pepper and grin at him. “I helped her figure out why.”
Dalen releases me and reaches for another onion. “Apparently, you’re only a dictator when justified.”
“Exactly.”
The last week has made ordinary conversation precious. I didn’t understand how much I liked sitting on this counter while Dalen ruined dinner until our kitchen became a place where he watched me rub my temple.
He’s been better since Monday. He hasn’t asked how much I slept or whether my head hurts. When I forgot my sunglasses at home Thursday, he drove them to my office and handed them over without looking at me strangely.
I almost hugged him for treating me like a woman who forgot her sunglasses. That’s a depressing standard for a good week.
Dalen points the knife toward my wineglass. “Are you helping?”
I lift my glass in answer. “I’m supervising.”
“You’re drinking.” He turns back to the cutting board and starts peeling garlic.
“Management.” I swing one foot against the cabinet.
His scoff makes me smile into my wine.
This is what I’ve wanted all week. Dalen cooking, me harassing him, and nothing strange happening. The house has behaved itself for days. My office photographs remain where I put them. My phone hasn’t produced another threatening message.
I still check the locks before bed.
Dalen does too.
His phone vibrates near the stove. He wipes his fingers on a towel and checks the screen.
“Work?” I ask.
“Calla.” He puts the phone facedown and reaches for the garlic again. “Wexler.”
I glance at the phone. “Poor Calla.”
“She volunteered.” Dalen gives me the look he usually reserves for anyone questioning his treatment of his employees.
“Did she?” I grin at him over the rim of my glass.
He shakes his head and starts chopping.
“I’m sure she loves Sunday emails from you.” I check my own phone while he mutters something about paying Calla very well.
Meg texted an hour ago.
Am I being replaced at Sunday dinner?
I’d told her Dalen and I wanted a night alone. Her response was a broken-heart emoji followed by SAVE ME CAKE.
I hold out the phone for Dalen.
He reads the message and looks toward the empty stretch of counter where a cake would need to exist. “She knows I’m not baking.”
“I think she’s optimistic too.” I put my phone beside me.
“Apparently, it runs in your family.” Dalen reaches for the garlic, then stops when I don’t answer. “Sorry.”
The joke catches somewhere I don’t expect. I take another sip of wine and shake my head. “It’s fine.”
“I shouldn’t have said that.” He rests one hand on the counter.
“I said it’s fine.” I force a smile and reach for my glass again.
Dalen watches me for another second before returning to dinner.
The kitchen isn’t quite as easy anymore.
I hate that Meg and Mom can enter a conversation without either of them being here. I hate more that I’m starting to watch Dalen for signs he’s thinking about them.
I swing my foot against the cabinet once. “Meg asked how I slept yesterday.”
Dalen’s knife slows against the cutting board. “Did she?”
“Yes.” He gathers the garlic with the side of the blade. “Has she been asking you?”
He puts the knife down and wipes his fingers on the towel. “She’s asked about you.”
I straighten on the counter. “How often?”
“A few times.” Dalen leans one hip against the island and looks at me.
“Why?” I set my wineglass beside me.
His mouth pulls down. “She worries about you.”
“She has my number.”
“I told her to call you directly.” He folds the towel and leaves it beside the cutting board.
The answer comes too smoothly. There’s history behind it that I don’t know. I slide off the counter. “When did she ask you?”
“Monday morning.” Dalen stays where he is as I move to the other side of the island.
“About how I slept?”
He nods. “Yes.”
I wait for him to continue. He doesn’t. “Why?” I ask again.
Dalen looks down at the towel he just folded. “She said you’d called her the night before.”
I stop moving. “What call?”
“She said you called around eleven and sounded confused.” His attention returns to me, and I can see how much he hates telling me this.
Sunday night, I was in bed with Dalen. I remember working on my phone for a few minutes. I remember him complaining when I stole back the blanket he’d pulled onto his side.
“I didn’t call Meg.” My fingers close around the back of a stool.
“I didn’t think you did.” Dalen takes a step toward me.
Something in his answer bothers me enough that I raise a hand, stopping him. “What does that mean?”
He rubs his palm over the back of his neck. “She sent me a screenshot of her call history. It showed an incoming call from you at eleven-seventeen.”
I hold out my hand. “Show me.”
Dalen reaches for his phone, then stops. “I deleted it.”
My hand drops. “Why?”
“I kept looking at it.” He puts his phone back on the island without unlocking it.
My stomach turns. “Why didn’t you ask me about it?”
“I should have.” Dalen’s shoulders sag slightly.
“You had a week. You’ve been sitting beside me every night.” I pick up my wine because my hand needs something to do.
He watches me over the island. “I kept thinking I’d bring it up when you were less upset.”
I laugh once. “That’s convenient.”
“It was a bad decision.” He moves toward the end of the island.
I move the opposite direction before he can come closer. “What else have you and Meg talked about?”
Dalen stops.
My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass. “There’s more.”
“She told me some things about your mother.” He stays where he is now.
I close my eyes briefly. I asked him about that Saturday morning. He told me Meg hadn’t said anything else. Apparently, she waited until Monday. “What things?” I set down the wine before I squeeze too hard.
Dalen rests both hands on the island. “She said your mom sometimes forgot conversations and moved things. She said there was a hospitalization.”
“Meg was a child.” I stare at him across the marble.
“I know.” His fingers curl against the edge.
“She remembers pieces. Half the time, she remembers things Mom told her years later as though she saw them herself.” I walk toward the stove and turn down the pan he has ignored.
Dalen follows me with his eyes. “I told her she was young.”
“Yet you kept listening.” I turn to face him.
His mouth presses into a line.
I fold my arms. “Why?”
“She was worried.” He straightens from the island.
“So am I. I’m the one this is happening to.” The words come out louder than I intend.
Dalen takes a breath. “I know that.”
“Really?” I watch the hurt cross his face and don’t try to soften the question. Then I walk to the stove and turn the burner down another notch. Something in the pan spits against the metal. “What else?” I ask without looking at him.
“Julie...”
I turn. “You keep saying my name when you don’t want to answer me.”
Dalen rubs his forehead.
My stomach drops. I leave the stove and face him fully. “What did you do?”
“I talked to Dr. Petrov.” He lowers his hand.
It takes me a second to place the name. “Your doctor?”
“Yes.” Dalen watches me carefully.
“About me?” I grip the edge of the counter.
“I asked him general questions.” He starts toward me, then apparently thinks better of it.
My face gets hot. “What questions?”
Dalen puts his hands in his pockets. “I told him what had been happening. I asked whether lack of sleep or stress could cause memory problems.”
I stare at him. “Did you ask him about hallucinations?”
He blinks twice before he answers. “Yes.”
I turn away and stare at the pan. Dalen went to a doctor because of me. He sat in an exam room and described what I’ve been saying for two weeks to a man who’s never met me. I switch off the burner. “When?”
“Monday.” His answer is quiet behind me.
“The same day Meg called you.” I turn back.
Dalen nods. “Yes.”
A sharp laugh escapes me. “You moved fast.”
“I was scared.” He takes one hand out of his pocket.
“Of what?” I ask.
His hand drops to his side. “I didn’t know what was happening.”
“That didn’t stop you from picking a direction.” I wipe my damp palms against my jeans.
Dalen comes around the end of the island but leaves several feet between us. “Dr. Petrov told me he couldn’t diagnose you. He said stress and sleep problems can cause all kinds of symptoms, and none of that means they’re causing yours.”
“You still asked.” I hate how badly my voice shakes.
“Yes.” Dalen doesn’t look away.