Faith and Fidelity Read Online Free Page B
Author: Tere Michaels
desk. The paperwork he'd finished an hour ago. Then he'd cleaned out his drawers, updated several files, sharpened some pencils. He was about to go clean the coffee machine— anything to keep him from having to go home— when Matt Haight provided him with an escape plan. A drink. Maybe a whole lot of drinks. Conversation with someone who didn't automatically affect the “poor Evan” expression when addressing him.
Haight was essentially a stranger. He wouldn't be searching for clues to Evan's mental state or checking on his eating habits. Or watching his hands to see if they shook. (Which they did, but maybe Haight wouldn't notice.)
The kids needed this break— the house was a living testament to Sherri's life and a constant reminder of her death, and he knew it got to them as much as it did him. He was exhausted keeping up a normal front and his in-laws had picked up on it last time they “dropped in” for a quick visit. How anyone “dropped in” to Queens from Long Island he had no idea, but these days he preferred to keep his relationship with Phil and Josie as politely distant as humanly possible. He had no interest in hearing another two voices comment on how they thought he was holding up.
They'd insisted on taking the kids for the weekend— picked them up from school and driven straight out to the Island. Promised to return them on Sunday night. That would give Evan “time to relax"— oh yeah, ‘cause you know, sleeping in an empty house, feeling the absence of your dead wife and your children, that just screamed relaxation.
Evan sighed. He thought maybe, with a belly full of liquor, he might sleep for a few hours tonight. It was the best he could hope for.
* * * *
Matt arrived at Vice in a record forty-two minutes. He'd spent the entire ferry and cab ride over sobering up and trying to comprehend the fluttery feeling in his chest. Staring up at the brick building, he swallowed back the rush of memories, the overwhelming sense of longing he felt. It was bittersweet— like seeing your ex happy in the arms of someone else.
He took the stairs up to the third floor and paused at the squad room's doorway. Evan was sitting at his desk, staring off into space, his head turned away from where Matt stood. He slumped in his chair, his hands lying limp on the surface of his desk. His posture spoke of exhaustion, defeat. Matt suddenly realized how gaunt the man was— pale skin, looked like he could stand to gain ten or fifteen pounds. A wave of sympathy pushed Matt through the door. He cleared his throat, giving Evan a chance to pull himself together.
* * * *
Blinking, Evan turned to see who had entered the squad room. Except for the occasional uniform wandering through looking for leftovers, he had been alone all evening.
Matt Haight stood a few feet away, smiling broadly.
“Hey, you ready to get that drink?”
* * * *
They ended up at a hole-in-the-wall Matt remembered called O'Malley's— one of about six hundred bars in the five boroughs with that name but this one had the distinction of being run by a guy who was Cuban on his mother's side and Jamaican on his father's.
The place was filled to capacity— ten people— mostly at the bar, a few at the tables and booths that haphazardly filled the place, one guy having a fight with someone on the pay phone near the bathrooms. The two men moved to the table furthest from the door, tucked into the far left corner, just far enough from the angry drunk at the phone to be able to talk.
Evan took off his overcoat and suit jacket, pulling his tie off as he sat down with a heavy sigh.
“You weren't kidding when you said you could use a drink.”
Evan shrugged. “Long week. I think I just need to unwind for awhile.”
“Beer okay, or you want something stronger?
“Beer's fine.”
Matt got up and walked over to the bartender, ordered them two pitchers. “Ya want food?” asked the burly man. His faded tattoos peeked out from under his
Haight was essentially a stranger. He wouldn't be searching for clues to Evan's mental state or checking on his eating habits. Or watching his hands to see if they shook. (Which they did, but maybe Haight wouldn't notice.)
The kids needed this break— the house was a living testament to Sherri's life and a constant reminder of her death, and he knew it got to them as much as it did him. He was exhausted keeping up a normal front and his in-laws had picked up on it last time they “dropped in” for a quick visit. How anyone “dropped in” to Queens from Long Island he had no idea, but these days he preferred to keep his relationship with Phil and Josie as politely distant as humanly possible. He had no interest in hearing another two voices comment on how they thought he was holding up.
They'd insisted on taking the kids for the weekend— picked them up from school and driven straight out to the Island. Promised to return them on Sunday night. That would give Evan “time to relax"— oh yeah, ‘cause you know, sleeping in an empty house, feeling the absence of your dead wife and your children, that just screamed relaxation.
Evan sighed. He thought maybe, with a belly full of liquor, he might sleep for a few hours tonight. It was the best he could hope for.
* * * *
Matt arrived at Vice in a record forty-two minutes. He'd spent the entire ferry and cab ride over sobering up and trying to comprehend the fluttery feeling in his chest. Staring up at the brick building, he swallowed back the rush of memories, the overwhelming sense of longing he felt. It was bittersweet— like seeing your ex happy in the arms of someone else.
He took the stairs up to the third floor and paused at the squad room's doorway. Evan was sitting at his desk, staring off into space, his head turned away from where Matt stood. He slumped in his chair, his hands lying limp on the surface of his desk. His posture spoke of exhaustion, defeat. Matt suddenly realized how gaunt the man was— pale skin, looked like he could stand to gain ten or fifteen pounds. A wave of sympathy pushed Matt through the door. He cleared his throat, giving Evan a chance to pull himself together.
* * * *
Blinking, Evan turned to see who had entered the squad room. Except for the occasional uniform wandering through looking for leftovers, he had been alone all evening.
Matt Haight stood a few feet away, smiling broadly.
“Hey, you ready to get that drink?”
* * * *
They ended up at a hole-in-the-wall Matt remembered called O'Malley's— one of about six hundred bars in the five boroughs with that name but this one had the distinction of being run by a guy who was Cuban on his mother's side and Jamaican on his father's.
The place was filled to capacity— ten people— mostly at the bar, a few at the tables and booths that haphazardly filled the place, one guy having a fight with someone on the pay phone near the bathrooms. The two men moved to the table furthest from the door, tucked into the far left corner, just far enough from the angry drunk at the phone to be able to talk.
Evan took off his overcoat and suit jacket, pulling his tie off as he sat down with a heavy sigh.
“You weren't kidding when you said you could use a drink.”
Evan shrugged. “Long week. I think I just need to unwind for awhile.”
“Beer okay, or you want something stronger?
“Beer's fine.”
Matt got up and walked over to the bartender, ordered them two pitchers. “Ya want food?” asked the burly man. His faded tattoos peeked out from under his
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