Ripple Effect

Chapter Eighty-Six: ...the way he saw her.

Nothing, just the clink...clonk...clink...clonk...clink...clonk... of the clock on the mantlepiece in the living room, the faint rattle of the central heating pipes reminding him that the radiators needed bleeding again, and the splosh of a car ploughing through the snow-sludge outside.

He toed off his wet-soled shoes—they tumbled with a thunk to the floorboards—and he padded through the shadow-thick lounge and dining room, towards the soft glow that emanated from the floor lamps in the den. The yellow light gave the room a subtle warmth, like the lingering heat of coal embers dying. He thought about calling out to her, but before he could, his throat closed around the sound. He wouldn't know what to say next anyway, something that wasn't monosyllabic, or hurt twisted into anger, or reasoning that verged on desperation. The thought of pointing out that a separation wouldn't play well in her bid for the White House had crossed his mind once or twice that afternoon. As had the question of whether he would consider a charade of marriage if it would help her career, and if it would buy him time to make her see sense, to win her over again. (...And to avoid having to tell his family, of course. Especially Maureen.) Though maybe she didn't want the presidency anymore either. In which case, what did she want?

Henry placed the cardboard box down on the kitchen table, in front of the chair where the bag he had packed for her all those weeks ago now sat. A heavy frown furrowed his brow at the sight of the two stuffed envelopes that lay on top of the bag, the upper one addressed to him in Elizabeth's cursive handwriting, the other one left blank. He picked them up and studied them for a moment, and then pivoted towards the stairs. He was about to call out her name when—

A snuffled snore came from the couch, followed by the rustling of a blanket.

His heart slammed into his ribs, and he spun around.

The buh-boom, buh-boom, buh-boom softened immediately though.

Elizabeth was snuggled into the cushions of the couch, both swathed in shadows and bathed in the glow from the lamps. The grey woollen blanket that usually draped over the back of the sofa now slipped down from her legs, whilst one of Alison's magazines splayed across her chest, and her reading glasses—frames askew—perched on the bridge of her nose. Her sneakers lay in a toppled heap next to the wall at the end.

He studied her, and as he did, he allowed himself a small, if pained, smile. She looked peaceful. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen her look peaceful while she slept. No pinch in the middle of her brow, no frantic flicker as her eyes jerked back and forth, no muscles tensing as though she were trying to rip herself free from her dream.

His smile faded into bitter. Maybe 'don't' was the price to pay for that. If so, he'd pay it again.

He placed the envelopes down on the armchair in the corner, opposite the couch, and shucked off his blazer and laid it over the back. He stooped over her, unhooked her reading glasses and lifted them away, as carefully as he would were he playing a buzz wire game. Then he folded in their plastic arms and set them on the footstool. The magazine he left, seeing as she hugged it to her chest, but the blanket he tucked around her before it could slide down and pool on the floor. In the shadow-tinged light, the gold of her rings gleamed atop the glossy cover of the magazine—another thing that made no sense. Why put them back on just to twist them around and around if she intended on taking them off again?

Or maybe that was just for show. A necessity in front of her DS agents, the White House staff, Conrad, Russell and Stevie.

But he couldn't believe she would do that. She might be an ex-spy and get a thrill from tradecraft, and she might partake in the occasional ruse at State, but she didn't do deceit when it came to their relationship.