"Actually, I think he's a policeman, too." [20/???] [Midsomer Murders]
"Actually, I think he's a policeman, too."
Chapter 19: Indicators
Cully felt his breathing change the closer they came to the front door: it became easier and calmer in the dim room. His arm had been tense when she first touched it, only to relax once they left the kitchen and, perhaps responding to the pressure of her own hand, his palm had tightened around hers without hesitation. That-went well, she thought, smiling.
It had not been planned in the least, but her mother's arrival had not been unexpected. Perhaps the only surprise was her father's absence. All for the best, Cully supposed; she was still not ready to trust his reaction. Yet it had to come, didn't it, and she knew it would be an unpleasant one. She hoped it would come, and the realization almost knocked her breath away. It was too much right now, too much to consider, too much to want...
Want? A shiver ran through her limbs.
Though Cully had thrust all the confusion beneath the mask of a practiced actress, her mother's response had, in fact, mystified her. She had asked no irritated questions, muttered no snide comments, and worn no angry glares. But...why? In the face even of her mother's calm presence, Cully had watched Gavin stiffen and heard his words at first slow with apprehension, then relax.
Please stop worrying, Gavin, she thought, disentangling her fingers from his warm grasp to open the front door. They won't bite-at least Mum won't.
"What?" he asked, stepping over the threshold first. Her gaze must have been distant for a moment.
"Nothing," Cully said, the smile on her face finally weakening as she followed him, closing the door behind herself; the thud was distant. "Just thinking." How many times had they stood here, sometimes closer than they were now, talking and laughing? She had lost count-but each of those moments was easier and less muddled than this one.
Gavin was peering at the drive, squinting as the sun gleamed harshly on the windows of his car; she thought she heard him sigh. "It's hard for you to get a break, isn't it?" she asked quietly.
"Sometimes it feels like I've never had one." He touched her hand lightly again.
"Never?"
His fingers-rough and calloused in many spots-ran from her wrist to her knuckles, tracing the bones and moving almost delicately. "And that I never will," he murmured.
"But never, Gavin?"
"Fine," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Almost never."
Cully drew her hand away, slipping it into her back pocket. "That's not true and you know it."
"After the last couple of weeks, that's what it feels like."
That's the truth of it, Cully thought. "So long as you don't miss opening night-any of it."
He stepped back, settling his weight on one foot. "You know I won't after learning half the play."
"You've left early before."
Gavin lifted a hand to his brow, shielding his eyes from the sun as he continued to look over the drive-away from her. "I didn't want to, Cully."
"I know-"
"And you know who to talk to about that," he added, the keys rattling in his other hand.
"It's not your fault, Gavin," she said quickly, "I understand that. I really do." The lifetime of memories sped through her mind again, the expected absences and sudden disappearances. Even now, the memory of her fourth birthday party-another of her father's absences, this one unexpected-still held a bite. "It just gets a little old."
"Sorry." His hand fell, and he looked at her again, almost guiltily. "It does for me, too." He opened his mouth, but stopped-then continued. "I'll be there."
"How long do you think you'll be tonight?" She had pulled her hand from her pocket without noticing, crossing her arms.
"I don't know," he said lowly. His skin was already sallow, anticipating the exhaustion. "Why?"
"I'm just curious."
"Are you ever not?" With another rattle of metal, the keys dropped into his pocket once more.
You shouldn't keep him much longer. "I like hearing about your work," Cully said, not really caring about holding him up. Whoever that hand had belonged to was still dead or dying-probably-and one more policeman would not make a difference. She shoved aside the voice in her skull chiding her for such a wretched thought.
"Thought you'd be sick of it by now," he said.
"Why would I be?" She flicked a speck of non-existent lint from his jacket, her right hand sitting lightly on his shoulder. "Besides, it's something new."
"Well, I'd rather still be in there talking with you," Gavin said quietly, now clearing his throat, "instead of heading out to Midsomer Magna."
"No matter what?" she asked, tilting her head. Even with Mum? But why was that surprising? A few moments after her mother had come into the kitchen, Gavin had forgotten to worry and had been given no reason to remember.
Now, he coughed before he spoke again, almost as though he had heard her second question. He blinked heavily. "That's what I meant-"
Gavin hadn't even finished his sentence when she pressed her mouth to his. His lips were warm and melting into hers, his muscles loosening beneath her palm. One of his arms snaked around her shoulders, pulling her closer, and his other hand fell to her waist. His palm moved to the small of her back, taking the fabric of her blouse with it-and her belly twisted again as his fingers met her bare skin, first grazing it and then sliding up along her spine.
Her free hand clutched his shirt, curling around the crisp cloth to touch the base of his throat, trying to hold tighter, to keep him here. He couldn't go...but there was no choice, Cully knew as she pulled away, opening her mouth for a shaky gasp for air. He couldn't leave and abandon her to the sudden burn pulsing through her entire body-one she hoped was clear on her face as she took her left hand away.
"Cully," he whispered, close enough for his breath to touch her cheek, "I can't-" The warmth of his hand on her back vanished and she waited for his face to flush. "I can't stay any longer."
There isn't a choice! she reminded herself, swallowing against the heat that was still rising, now enveloping her completely. "Go on," Cully said after a moment, giving him another brief kiss and then stepping away, forcing his arm to release her shoulders. It was only one step-and a small one-but the distance was suddenly vast and her skin still smoldered where she had touched him and his fingers had lingered on her body. "See you tomorrow?"
Gavin narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips. His cheeks remained pale. "Unless I get held up by something."
"Then don't be."
"I never try to be," he said quietly, glancing to her hand, still resting on his shoulder.
"I know." She drew her hand away, her arm listless and heavy when it fell to her side. "But I'll talk to you tomorrow, right?"
"Sure." One of his fingers brushed her face, running over a patch of still warm skin before he kissed her again. It was quick, yet certain-a goodbye. "I'll try to give you a lift." Tearing his gaze from hers, he turned away, rushing down the front walk as he searched for his keys once more. Gavin glanced back as he opened the car door-and again, just before he closed it. The engine growled as he turned the ignition, and he had the car out of the drive and down the street in a few seconds.
A few months ago, she would have felt new anger kindling. Despite the last few minutes standing before the front door, his departure was almost-rude. No, that was the wrong word. Abrupt and hurried, but not rude. Like he had been afraid to stay.
Cully nearly collapsed onto the front step, her lungs suddenly exhausted and desperate for air, and she folded steady hands together atop shaking knees. It would only be a day, perhaps two if this new case quickly spiraled out of control. Closing her eyes against the still glaring sunlight, Cully pressed her forehead to her hands, taking in and releasing one slow breath after another. She hadn't seen it happen, hadn't thought it could happen. All the anger, the resentment-and here she was again. No, this was worse.
Two months ago, she had thought of him, even missed him at times. Then, he had been a vague and almost distant memory, and now...The thought of not seeing him for just a day was already driving a dull ache. It was ridiculous. She'd hardly spoken to him-let alone seen him-the week of her audition, and this mere possibility-a day!-was already far worse. She inhaled again, holding it for a few seconds before she let it go, the warm air dancing over her fingers.
She hadn't wanted it to happen. That afternoon-how many weeks had passed, three, four?-she had seen an old friend, wanted to talk about the past few months of their lives. And later, she had only meant to offer the apology he deserved, nothing more! A quiet laugh rose in her throat as she lifted her face, immediately closing her eyes. Nothing more...Well, that means a lot now, doesn't it? Standing quickly and clenching her eyes as she waited for the rushing blood to return to her head, Cully shivered again. God, she was in too deep for any easy solution.
Heavy footsteps brought her back into the house and she missed the door handle when she reached for it the first time. The click of the lock almost made her jump. What's wrong with you? Cully asked herself, shaking her head. What are you worried about, that you care? Again, her stomach twisted into a knot, suddenly throbbing with a renewed heat. But that was it: she did care-more than she had ever wanted to, she realized as she walked across the front room. Far more than she should, more than any one else would think possible. The knot loosened at that thought, at the acknowledgment. She drew one final, deep breath before she stepped into the kitchen.
"That was a while," her mother said, her fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of tea.
"Um...sorry," Cully said, nearly praying that her face was not flushed as she stood beside the entrance from the corridor. "We just-talked for a few minutes."
"Is something wrong?"
"No, nothing," Cully said, the words rushing out. "We just talked and I needed another minute to think, that's all."
"All right." Her mother cleared her throat before lifting her cup for another sip. "I hope Tom doesn't keep him too long. You know your father: he won't be home for hours."
"Probably." Cully knew she would hear nothing more from Gavin at whatever ungodly hour the investigation ceased. Their conversations were finished for the day, even though she would have eagerly answered her mobile. "I'm sorry about what I said earlier, Mum. About the funeral."
"Everyone's allowed an opinion, Cully. Even if they're not really polite."
"I guess," she said quietly, smiling to herself. After all, it wasn't her opinion.
"It was...nice to see Gavin again."
Her mother's words were slow, almost measured and calculated, and Cully stiffened before they were finished. It might have gone well, but in spite of the calm, neither she nor Gavin had ever been entirely at ease sitting at the table. Whilst his face had exposed his nerves at first, she had completely buried her own beneath the same practiced mask that had once concealed her anger. "He's always good enough to bring me home."
"I know." Another sip of tea. "I'm glad someone enjoyed what was left over."
"I think he was just happy to have something besides a takeaway." It wasn't even that, Cully knew. He would have been happy sitting at the table with nothing-just like her.
"You should think about having him around for dinner again."
God, no, not with Dad. I couldn't do that to Gavin, Cully thought as she pulled a chair away from the table-the one he had been sitting in. "Mum-"
"It might be nice," her mother continued, looking directly at her, raising her eyebrows, "since he is bringing you home every day."
Cully rolled her eyes as she leaned back, crossing her legs. "So I could upset Dad?"
"He's trying to be better about it, dear. You know he worries about you-he always has-"
"I would be worried for Gavin," she muttered as she frowned. Gavin's words that night were impossible to forget, even when she winced at her own: "Does he not bother you about anything?" The answer she had never managed to give him was "No". Whatever words had passed between them, she remained ignorant of them, as she believed she always would.
"He's trying, Cully," her mother said quietly.
Cully traced a circle on her knee, staring as her fingertip went round and round again. Why did he have to make it so difficult? "He could try a little harder."
"It's not easy for him, you know."
"Him?"
"Yes, Cully."
But that-couldn't be right. Just Dad? "Mum-"
"I told him he shouldn't worry so much," her mother continued, reaching out and touching Cully's hand lightly.
"But, what-" She looked up to see her mother smile, though a few frown lines surrounded it, as if she was remembering something. But why else would she have sat there like she did? Cully asked herself. She has to care- "Oh," Cully whispered, the flush she had feared before creeping across her skin. She can't mean that. But isn't that what you want? "I'm not sure he listened."
"He probably will, in the end." She took her hand back, once again lifting her tea cup to her mouth for another sip. "Do you need to go through your lines again?"
"Uh, sure," Cully said quietly, twisting in her chair as she stretched one arm to the edge of the kitchen table for her bag. "I did have a couple spots of trouble," she added, unzipping the main compartment to remove the already battered book. As she fumbled through the contents, staring at her pens and notebook and wallet rather more intently than necessary, her pulse slowed. God, she thought, pulling the book out and thumbing past the preface to the middle of the first act, what would Dad have said? Well, maybe nothing, but he wouldn't need to.
"What did you want to review?"
Cully nearly jumped when her mother spoke, so quickly buried in her own thoughts. "Act One," she said, flipping through a few more pages before turning the book around and passing it across the table.
Holding the book a short distance away, her mother's eyes widened, dancing over the text and pencil marks. "The director did give you a lot of notes."
"He's always been thorough like that."
"It's better than leaving things unanswered, isn't it?"
Cully almost laughed, for the man had already changed his mind at least a dozen times. "It is. Could you start from Clara's line, near the bottom?"
Her mother pressed a finger to the page. "The Daughter?"
"Yes."
With a deep breath, her mother began. " 'And what about us? Are we to stay here all night in this draught, with next to nothing on. You selfish pig-' " She stopped, her eyes skipping to the next line, now taking on the role of Freddy. " 'Oh, very well: I'll go, I'll go.' " Cully had to hold back another laugh: her mother's voice didn't change for the new character, either.
" 'Nah then,' " Cully began, still struggling to torture the words as she had to, " 'Freddy: look where you're goin', dear.' "
" 'Sorry.' "
Her mother was no actress and never had been, but few people with whom she had ever read lines were worse than Gavin. " 'There's manners f' yer!' " When they first read through this scene, interspersed with his wooden renditions of each character-'The Mother', 'The Daughter', Freddy, and all the others-were numerous pauses for him to scowl at her lines on the page and mutter, "What the hell does that say?"
After a minute or so, Cully stood, the stage directions only partially coming back to her; she ignored what was uncertain. Best not to memorize it wrong, she thought, holding her arms still as the director's third vision blended with his second. But even without those directions, the small problems from earlier in the day vanished. Though many of the moves awaited clarification the next day-and all of them remained under the threat of alteration-each line was clearer in her mind as the other actors' voices spoke in tandem with her mother's.
And Gavin's.
By the time Colonel Pickering and Professor Higgins introduced themselves by name and her mother had long since drained her tea cup, Cully waved her hand, saying, "I think that's all I need, Mum."
"You've got it from there?"
"At least in Act One." As she sat again, her mother handed the book back to her. Even this early, a few of her words had smudged, still legible but no longer clear and precise.
"Will you want to read any of the other acts later?"
"No, I don't think so." The pages fluttering closed, Cully dropped the play onto the table. "Mum," she said, tapping her fingers on the cover, "can I ask you something?"
"Of course," her mother said, picking up one of the bowls and stacking it inside the other. Cully saw her own half-full one on top.
"You said Dad worries."
"He does. Sometimes." Now she added the empty bread plate and salad bowl to the bottom of the pile, then collected the silverware, nestling them into whatever free space remained on the plate. "Fathers always do."
"Don't mothers?" Cully asked quietly, one of her feet tapping as well.
"You know I do."
"What about?"
"Cully, you're an adult," her mother said, standing with the dishes in her hands. "I don't worry about all of your choices anymore."
"Then why won't he stop?" Cully asked, even quieter. The book was almost spinning from the force of her fingers.
Walking around the table to the counter, her mother set the dishes in the sink, quickly turning back around. "Your father sees the worst of-people every day."
"People?" She almost spat the word out. You mean he thinks he sees the worst of Gavin. He was different at CID, different when a nasty murder-or burglary-demanded his presence in the far corners of the county, but could he be so different? No.
"You know what I mean."
Another deep, slow breath. "I'm sorry, Mum, you weren't here for-"
"You don't argue very much, Cully." Her mother took her seat again, pressing her palm to Cully's hand, holding it and the book still. "But with his job, if he didn't worry more than most..."
"He wouldn't be Dad."
"No, he wouldn't."
"But this isn't work, Mum," Cully continued, fidgeting in her chair and pulling her hand away.
"You know him-there isn't a difference."
"No, there isn't, is there?" Cully twisted her mouth into a frown. "There should be."
Her mother set her elbows on the table's edge. "Are you sure you don't want to read over part of Act Two?" she asked quickly.
"I'm sure," Cully said as she stood. "But thanks." Taking her bag, she tucked the play away again. It had been strange enough reading Act One with-someone else. God, that's childish, she thought as she turned, walking out of the kitchen. For the moment, she wanted to keep those readings between them.
Chapter 19: Indicators
Cully felt his breathing change the closer they came to the front door: it became easier and calmer in the dim room. His arm had been tense when she first touched it, only to relax once they left the kitchen and, perhaps responding to the pressure of her own hand, his palm had tightened around hers without hesitation. That-went well, she thought, smiling.
It had not been planned in the least, but her mother's arrival had not been unexpected. Perhaps the only surprise was her father's absence. All for the best, Cully supposed; she was still not ready to trust his reaction. Yet it had to come, didn't it, and she knew it would be an unpleasant one. She hoped it would come, and the realization almost knocked her breath away. It was too much right now, too much to consider, too much to want...
Want? A shiver ran through her limbs.
Though Cully had thrust all the confusion beneath the mask of a practiced actress, her mother's response had, in fact, mystified her. She had asked no irritated questions, muttered no snide comments, and worn no angry glares. But...why? In the face even of her mother's calm presence, Cully had watched Gavin stiffen and heard his words at first slow with apprehension, then relax.
Please stop worrying, Gavin, she thought, disentangling her fingers from his warm grasp to open the front door. They won't bite-at least Mum won't.
"What?" he asked, stepping over the threshold first. Her gaze must have been distant for a moment.
"Nothing," Cully said, the smile on her face finally weakening as she followed him, closing the door behind herself; the thud was distant. "Just thinking." How many times had they stood here, sometimes closer than they were now, talking and laughing? She had lost count-but each of those moments was easier and less muddled than this one.
Gavin was peering at the drive, squinting as the sun gleamed harshly on the windows of his car; she thought she heard him sigh. "It's hard for you to get a break, isn't it?" she asked quietly.
"Sometimes it feels like I've never had one." He touched her hand lightly again.
"Never?"
His fingers-rough and calloused in many spots-ran from her wrist to her knuckles, tracing the bones and moving almost delicately. "And that I never will," he murmured.
"But never, Gavin?"
"Fine," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Almost never."
Cully drew her hand away, slipping it into her back pocket. "That's not true and you know it."
"After the last couple of weeks, that's what it feels like."
That's the truth of it, Cully thought. "So long as you don't miss opening night-any of it."
He stepped back, settling his weight on one foot. "You know I won't after learning half the play."
"You've left early before."
Gavin lifted a hand to his brow, shielding his eyes from the sun as he continued to look over the drive-away from her. "I didn't want to, Cully."
"I know-"
"And you know who to talk to about that," he added, the keys rattling in his other hand.
"It's not your fault, Gavin," she said quickly, "I understand that. I really do." The lifetime of memories sped through her mind again, the expected absences and sudden disappearances. Even now, the memory of her fourth birthday party-another of her father's absences, this one unexpected-still held a bite. "It just gets a little old."
"Sorry." His hand fell, and he looked at her again, almost guiltily. "It does for me, too." He opened his mouth, but stopped-then continued. "I'll be there."
"How long do you think you'll be tonight?" She had pulled her hand from her pocket without noticing, crossing her arms.
"I don't know," he said lowly. His skin was already sallow, anticipating the exhaustion. "Why?"
"I'm just curious."
"Are you ever not?" With another rattle of metal, the keys dropped into his pocket once more.
You shouldn't keep him much longer. "I like hearing about your work," Cully said, not really caring about holding him up. Whoever that hand had belonged to was still dead or dying-probably-and one more policeman would not make a difference. She shoved aside the voice in her skull chiding her for such a wretched thought.
"Thought you'd be sick of it by now," he said.
"Why would I be?" She flicked a speck of non-existent lint from his jacket, her right hand sitting lightly on his shoulder. "Besides, it's something new."
"Well, I'd rather still be in there talking with you," Gavin said quietly, now clearing his throat, "instead of heading out to Midsomer Magna."
"No matter what?" she asked, tilting her head. Even with Mum? But why was that surprising? A few moments after her mother had come into the kitchen, Gavin had forgotten to worry and had been given no reason to remember.
Now, he coughed before he spoke again, almost as though he had heard her second question. He blinked heavily. "That's what I meant-"
Gavin hadn't even finished his sentence when she pressed her mouth to his. His lips were warm and melting into hers, his muscles loosening beneath her palm. One of his arms snaked around her shoulders, pulling her closer, and his other hand fell to her waist. His palm moved to the small of her back, taking the fabric of her blouse with it-and her belly twisted again as his fingers met her bare skin, first grazing it and then sliding up along her spine.
Her free hand clutched his shirt, curling around the crisp cloth to touch the base of his throat, trying to hold tighter, to keep him here. He couldn't go...but there was no choice, Cully knew as she pulled away, opening her mouth for a shaky gasp for air. He couldn't leave and abandon her to the sudden burn pulsing through her entire body-one she hoped was clear on her face as she took her left hand away.
"Cully," he whispered, close enough for his breath to touch her cheek, "I can't-" The warmth of his hand on her back vanished and she waited for his face to flush. "I can't stay any longer."
There isn't a choice! she reminded herself, swallowing against the heat that was still rising, now enveloping her completely. "Go on," Cully said after a moment, giving him another brief kiss and then stepping away, forcing his arm to release her shoulders. It was only one step-and a small one-but the distance was suddenly vast and her skin still smoldered where she had touched him and his fingers had lingered on her body. "See you tomorrow?"
Gavin narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips. His cheeks remained pale. "Unless I get held up by something."
"Then don't be."
"I never try to be," he said quietly, glancing to her hand, still resting on his shoulder.
"I know." She drew her hand away, her arm listless and heavy when it fell to her side. "But I'll talk to you tomorrow, right?"
"Sure." One of his fingers brushed her face, running over a patch of still warm skin before he kissed her again. It was quick, yet certain-a goodbye. "I'll try to give you a lift." Tearing his gaze from hers, he turned away, rushing down the front walk as he searched for his keys once more. Gavin glanced back as he opened the car door-and again, just before he closed it. The engine growled as he turned the ignition, and he had the car out of the drive and down the street in a few seconds.
A few months ago, she would have felt new anger kindling. Despite the last few minutes standing before the front door, his departure was almost-rude. No, that was the wrong word. Abrupt and hurried, but not rude. Like he had been afraid to stay.
Cully nearly collapsed onto the front step, her lungs suddenly exhausted and desperate for air, and she folded steady hands together atop shaking knees. It would only be a day, perhaps two if this new case quickly spiraled out of control. Closing her eyes against the still glaring sunlight, Cully pressed her forehead to her hands, taking in and releasing one slow breath after another. She hadn't seen it happen, hadn't thought it could happen. All the anger, the resentment-and here she was again. No, this was worse.
Two months ago, she had thought of him, even missed him at times. Then, he had been a vague and almost distant memory, and now...The thought of not seeing him for just a day was already driving a dull ache. It was ridiculous. She'd hardly spoken to him-let alone seen him-the week of her audition, and this mere possibility-a day!-was already far worse. She inhaled again, holding it for a few seconds before she let it go, the warm air dancing over her fingers.
She hadn't wanted it to happen. That afternoon-how many weeks had passed, three, four?-she had seen an old friend, wanted to talk about the past few months of their lives. And later, she had only meant to offer the apology he deserved, nothing more! A quiet laugh rose in her throat as she lifted her face, immediately closing her eyes. Nothing more...Well, that means a lot now, doesn't it? Standing quickly and clenching her eyes as she waited for the rushing blood to return to her head, Cully shivered again. God, she was in too deep for any easy solution.
Heavy footsteps brought her back into the house and she missed the door handle when she reached for it the first time. The click of the lock almost made her jump. What's wrong with you? Cully asked herself, shaking her head. What are you worried about, that you care? Again, her stomach twisted into a knot, suddenly throbbing with a renewed heat. But that was it: she did care-more than she had ever wanted to, she realized as she walked across the front room. Far more than she should, more than any one else would think possible. The knot loosened at that thought, at the acknowledgment. She drew one final, deep breath before she stepped into the kitchen.
"That was a while," her mother said, her fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of tea.
"Um...sorry," Cully said, nearly praying that her face was not flushed as she stood beside the entrance from the corridor. "We just-talked for a few minutes."
"Is something wrong?"
"No, nothing," Cully said, the words rushing out. "We just talked and I needed another minute to think, that's all."
"All right." Her mother cleared her throat before lifting her cup for another sip. "I hope Tom doesn't keep him too long. You know your father: he won't be home for hours."
"Probably." Cully knew she would hear nothing more from Gavin at whatever ungodly hour the investigation ceased. Their conversations were finished for the day, even though she would have eagerly answered her mobile. "I'm sorry about what I said earlier, Mum. About the funeral."
"Everyone's allowed an opinion, Cully. Even if they're not really polite."
"I guess," she said quietly, smiling to herself. After all, it wasn't her opinion.
"It was...nice to see Gavin again."
Her mother's words were slow, almost measured and calculated, and Cully stiffened before they were finished. It might have gone well, but in spite of the calm, neither she nor Gavin had ever been entirely at ease sitting at the table. Whilst his face had exposed his nerves at first, she had completely buried her own beneath the same practiced mask that had once concealed her anger. "He's always good enough to bring me home."
"I know." Another sip of tea. "I'm glad someone enjoyed what was left over."
"I think he was just happy to have something besides a takeaway." It wasn't even that, Cully knew. He would have been happy sitting at the table with nothing-just like her.
"You should think about having him around for dinner again."
God, no, not with Dad. I couldn't do that to Gavin, Cully thought as she pulled a chair away from the table-the one he had been sitting in. "Mum-"
"It might be nice," her mother continued, looking directly at her, raising her eyebrows, "since he is bringing you home every day."
Cully rolled her eyes as she leaned back, crossing her legs. "So I could upset Dad?"
"He's trying to be better about it, dear. You know he worries about you-he always has-"
"I would be worried for Gavin," she muttered as she frowned. Gavin's words that night were impossible to forget, even when she winced at her own: "Does he not bother you about anything?" The answer she had never managed to give him was "No". Whatever words had passed between them, she remained ignorant of them, as she believed she always would.
"He's trying, Cully," her mother said quietly.
Cully traced a circle on her knee, staring as her fingertip went round and round again. Why did he have to make it so difficult? "He could try a little harder."
"It's not easy for him, you know."
"Him?"
"Yes, Cully."
But that-couldn't be right. Just Dad? "Mum-"
"I told him he shouldn't worry so much," her mother continued, reaching out and touching Cully's hand lightly.
"But, what-" She looked up to see her mother smile, though a few frown lines surrounded it, as if she was remembering something. But why else would she have sat there like she did? Cully asked herself. She has to care- "Oh," Cully whispered, the flush she had feared before creeping across her skin. She can't mean that. But isn't that what you want? "I'm not sure he listened."
"He probably will, in the end." She took her hand back, once again lifting her tea cup to her mouth for another sip. "Do you need to go through your lines again?"
"Uh, sure," Cully said quietly, twisting in her chair as she stretched one arm to the edge of the kitchen table for her bag. "I did have a couple spots of trouble," she added, unzipping the main compartment to remove the already battered book. As she fumbled through the contents, staring at her pens and notebook and wallet rather more intently than necessary, her pulse slowed. God, she thought, pulling the book out and thumbing past the preface to the middle of the first act, what would Dad have said? Well, maybe nothing, but he wouldn't need to.
"What did you want to review?"
Cully nearly jumped when her mother spoke, so quickly buried in her own thoughts. "Act One," she said, flipping through a few more pages before turning the book around and passing it across the table.
Holding the book a short distance away, her mother's eyes widened, dancing over the text and pencil marks. "The director did give you a lot of notes."
"He's always been thorough like that."
"It's better than leaving things unanswered, isn't it?"
Cully almost laughed, for the man had already changed his mind at least a dozen times. "It is. Could you start from Clara's line, near the bottom?"
Her mother pressed a finger to the page. "The Daughter?"
"Yes."
With a deep breath, her mother began. " 'And what about us? Are we to stay here all night in this draught, with next to nothing on. You selfish pig-' " She stopped, her eyes skipping to the next line, now taking on the role of Freddy. " 'Oh, very well: I'll go, I'll go.' " Cully had to hold back another laugh: her mother's voice didn't change for the new character, either.
" 'Nah then,' " Cully began, still struggling to torture the words as she had to, " 'Freddy: look where you're goin', dear.' "
" 'Sorry.' "
Her mother was no actress and never had been, but few people with whom she had ever read lines were worse than Gavin. " 'There's manners f' yer!' " When they first read through this scene, interspersed with his wooden renditions of each character-'The Mother', 'The Daughter', Freddy, and all the others-were numerous pauses for him to scowl at her lines on the page and mutter, "What the hell does that say?"
After a minute or so, Cully stood, the stage directions only partially coming back to her; she ignored what was uncertain. Best not to memorize it wrong, she thought, holding her arms still as the director's third vision blended with his second. But even without those directions, the small problems from earlier in the day vanished. Though many of the moves awaited clarification the next day-and all of them remained under the threat of alteration-each line was clearer in her mind as the other actors' voices spoke in tandem with her mother's.
And Gavin's.
By the time Colonel Pickering and Professor Higgins introduced themselves by name and her mother had long since drained her tea cup, Cully waved her hand, saying, "I think that's all I need, Mum."
"You've got it from there?"
"At least in Act One." As she sat again, her mother handed the book back to her. Even this early, a few of her words had smudged, still legible but no longer clear and precise.
"Will you want to read any of the other acts later?"
"No, I don't think so." The pages fluttering closed, Cully dropped the play onto the table. "Mum," she said, tapping her fingers on the cover, "can I ask you something?"
"Of course," her mother said, picking up one of the bowls and stacking it inside the other. Cully saw her own half-full one on top.
"You said Dad worries."
"He does. Sometimes." Now she added the empty bread plate and salad bowl to the bottom of the pile, then collected the silverware, nestling them into whatever free space remained on the plate. "Fathers always do."
"Don't mothers?" Cully asked quietly, one of her feet tapping as well.
"You know I do."
"What about?"
"Cully, you're an adult," her mother said, standing with the dishes in her hands. "I don't worry about all of your choices anymore."
"Then why won't he stop?" Cully asked, even quieter. The book was almost spinning from the force of her fingers.
Walking around the table to the counter, her mother set the dishes in the sink, quickly turning back around. "Your father sees the worst of-people every day."
"People?" She almost spat the word out. You mean he thinks he sees the worst of Gavin. He was different at CID, different when a nasty murder-or burglary-demanded his presence in the far corners of the county, but could he be so different? No.
"You know what I mean."
Another deep, slow breath. "I'm sorry, Mum, you weren't here for-"
"You don't argue very much, Cully." Her mother took her seat again, pressing her palm to Cully's hand, holding it and the book still. "But with his job, if he didn't worry more than most..."
"He wouldn't be Dad."
"No, he wouldn't."
"But this isn't work, Mum," Cully continued, fidgeting in her chair and pulling her hand away.
"You know him-there isn't a difference."
"No, there isn't, is there?" Cully twisted her mouth into a frown. "There should be."
Her mother set her elbows on the table's edge. "Are you sure you don't want to read over part of Act Two?" she asked quickly.
"I'm sure," Cully said as she stood. "But thanks." Taking her bag, she tucked the play away again. It had been strange enough reading Act One with-someone else. God, that's childish, she thought as she turned, walking out of the kitchen. For the moment, she wanted to keep those readings between them.