Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

back. They both watched me jerk the yellow square of paper free of the pushpin and toss it in the trash can, but they didn’t comment, asking me instead what I’d bought.
    Mother, who enjoyed cooking on the weekends, had prepared one of my favorite dishes, rice with chicken chunks, almonds and raisins, spices and herbs. Michelle complained all through dinner about her school schedule. I was conscious of Mother’s sidelong glances, knew she was judging my demeanor and the state of my appetite. I ate more than I wanted, and told her the food was delicious. 
    Michelle and I cleaned up the dishes, at first in silence. After a few minutes she leaned over the open dishwasher and whispered, even though Mother was upstairs and unable to hear, “What are you going to do about Luke? Are you going to keep seeing him? You didn’t know he’d been married, did you? What a rotten way to find out.”
    “It’s no big deal,” I said, not looking at her. I dropped flatware into its basket.
    “I don’t understand why he didn’t tell you something that important.”
    I scraped bits of rice from a plate into the sink before I said, “I haven’t known him long. There are lots of things we don’t know about each other yet.”
    “Well, you know him well enough to sleep with him. You have been sleeping with him, haven’t you?”
    I flipped a wall switch and the garbage disposal roared.
    As soon as the noise stopped, she said, “I can’t help wondering what else he’s hiding.”
    It took an effort to keep my voice level. “Do you think I’ll find out he’s a serial killer? An escaped madman?”
    “Oh, Rachel, be serious.”
    “I am being serious.” I removed the dishwasher liquid from the under-sink cabinet and squeezed the big yellow bottle. Lemon-scented gelatinous detergent oozed into the cup on the dishwasher door. “Exactly what is it you think he’s hiding?”
    “I don’t know.” But her lifted brows, her skeptical eyes, suggested plenty of possibilities.
    “Just drop it, will you?” I slammed the dishwasher door and jabbed a button with my index finger. Water hissed into the machine. “I don’t want to hear it.”
    “Why are you getting mad at me?” Her tone was instantly hot, affronted. “I’m not the one who lied to you.”
    “He didn’t lie to—Oh, for God’s sake. I’m not going to talk about this.”
    I walked out.
    She followed right behind me, up the hallway toward the stairs. “I don’t know what you see in him anyway. He’s an arrogant s.o.b. All that talk about dogs and cats being more deserving than people. Who does he think he is? What do you want with somebody like that?”
    I stopped and turned so abruptly that she almost collided with me. “I’m asking you for the last time. Drop it.”
    She took a step back, her expression petulant and defensive. When I ran up the stairs she didn’t follow.
    ***
    Later, I was stretched out on the little couch in my room, trying without much success to concentrate on a veterinary journal, when I heard one soft rap on the door.
    “Go away,” I muttered under my breath. Aloud, I said, “Come in.”
    The door opened a few inches and Michelle poked her head in. She dropped my name into the silence between us. “Rachel?”
    For a moment I was swept back to childhood nights, my door slowly swinging open in a slant of moonlight and my sister’s tiny voice reaching for me in the shadows. “Rachel? I had a bad dream.” I would lift the covers and she’d crawl in, snuggling close for safety, her bony knees and elbows pressing against me. It was always me she came to when she was scared. I remembered Mother’s distressed little smile as she brushed back Michelle’s blond wisps one morning and murmured, “Why didn’t you come tell Mommy you had a bad dream?” Michelle, perhaps sensing she’d failed Mother somehow, answered in an uncertain whisper, “I just wanted Rachel. Is that okay?”
    Now my sister said, “I’m really sorry about all this.”
    She withdrew and closed the door. I didn’t know whether she was talking about her own behavior or Luke’s. Certainly not Mother’s.
    On Monday and Tuesday Luke tried repeatedly to get me alone at the clinic, tried to make me listen to him, but I resisted even though I knew I was behaving with the maturity of a twelve-year-old. I was afraid of what else he might tell me. I was afraid he would leave me feeling stupid as well as betrayed.
    He caught up with me at quitting time Tuesday