“Are you going to call him?”

“I don't think I should intrude,” India said, and then she remembered the photograph she had taken. She could send it to him now. It was a beautiful picture of both of them, and he might want to have it.

“You could go to the funeral. I'm sure they'll have some kind of memorial service for her in a few days. He might like to see you,” Gail said practically, ever helpful.

“Maybe.” They talked about it for a few minutes, and then hung up. And India went to look for the picture. She found it in a stack of papers she'd been meaning to get to in her darkroom. She had never gotten around to sending it to Serena, as she had promised. And she stood and looked at it for a long time, looking first into Paul's eyes, and then Serena's. Just the way they sat together spoke volumes. He was draped across the back of her chair, and she was leaning her head against him, on the Sea Star, and she was beaming. It was hard to believe she was gone, so instantly, so totally, so quickly. It must have been even harder for Paul to absorb. And as India thought about him, she realized he was probably still in Europe, on the Sea Star. Or flying home by then, after they notified him. She had no idea what one did in a case like this. But it was obvious to her, as she thought about it, that it was better not to call him.

Instead she sat among the breakfast dishes on the kitchen table, and wrote him a letter, telling him how sorry she was, knowing how devastated he must be. It was a short but heartfelt note, and she enclosed it with the photograph, and drove to the post office to send it.

She felt as though she were moving underwater all afternoon. She just couldn't get over what had happened, and she still felt shell-shocked when she picked up the children at school.

She managed to get dinner on the table that night, but when Doug came home, she still hadn't combed her hair since that morning.

“What happened to you today? You look as though you'd been kidnapped.”

“I'm just upset,” she said honestly, needing to share it with him finally. “I feel so badly about Serena Smith.”

“You couldn't have known her that well. You only met her once or twice, didn't you?” He looked disinterested, and puzzled by her reaction.

“I did a shoot with her, for the back of her next book. It was the picture they ran in The Times this morning.”

“You never told me,” he said, his mouth setting into a thin line.

“I must have forgotten. Her husband was crazy about her. He must be just sick over it.” India looked distraught as she explained it to him.

“These things happen,” Doug said blandly, and started talking to Jason, as India felt her heart sink. There was no sympathy whatsoever left between them. There was nothing, only the lingering resentment of the summer, like the acrid smell of smoke after an electrical fire. It seemed to her as though everything they had once had had been burned to ashes in the meantime.

And after the children were in bed that night, India turned on the news to see what they said about the accident. There was a major story about the plane going down, and a smaller one about Serena. There were interviews with several people about the crash, and a spokesman for the FBI. And when the anchorman mentioned Serena being on the plane again, he said arrangements were being made for a memorial service at Saint Ignatius Church in New York on Friday. And India sat there for a long time afterward, staring at the TV, as they talked about sports and the weather. But she was thinking about Gail's suggestion that she go to the service.

“Are you coming to bed?” Doug asked quietly as she sat there. She still hadn't combed her hair or showered. It seemed totally irrelevant now in the face of the crash. She was completely engrossed in what had happened to Serena.

“In a while,” she said vaguely, and walked into the bathroom, closed the door, and sat down in her jeans, on the toilet. She was thinking about Paul, and about his wife, and their ruptured life, that had exploded in a million tiny shards over the Atlantic. And then, somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized she was thinking about her husband, and the fact that she no longer wanted to sleep with him. She even hated getting into the same bed with him, and that couldn't go on forever. She had no idea what to do about it. It was easier to just sit there, grieving for Paul and Serena, instead of for herself and Doug and their crippled marriage.

She took forever in the shower, and washed her hair, hoping he'd be asleep when she got out, but he was in bed reading a magazine when she got there. And he turned to look at her with a cool expression.

“Are we going to keep playing these games for much longer, India?” Nothing about the way he spoke to her made him either alluring or inviting. She viewed him now like the warden in a prison, which was hardly conducive to a seductive sex life.

“What games?”

“You know what I'm talking about. If you stayed in the shower any longer than you do these days, you'd melt and go down the drain. I get the message.”

“You were the one with the message all summer.” She suddenly felt angry and cornered, and tired and depressed. What had happened to them in the last three

months? Their relationship had become a nightmare. “It seemed pretty clear that you had no interest in me, until I told you I wasn't going to take any more assignments, and then you decided it was okay to lay a hand on me again. That's not particularly touching. You got what you wanted, so now you think you own me. Well, you do. But maybe you need to be a little subtler about it.” She had never said anything like it to him, and they both looked shocked when she said it. He recoiled from her almost as though she'd slapped him.

“It's certainly helpful to know how you view things.”

“You made it pretty obvious. You decided to get laid as soon as you got what you wanted. You didn't even bother to thank me, or acknowledge the concession I made, or tell me you loved me.” All she wanted was to know that he cared about her and loved her.

“That again,” he said, with a look of extreme irritation. “You don't exactly create an atmosphere in our bedroom that inspires that kind of declaration.”

“Well, I'm sorry,” she said, her eyes blazing now. She was tired of it, all of it, and particularly his attitude about their sex life. Now that he had flipped the switch to the green light again, after two months of ignoring her, he was upset that she wasn't more willing. But he did absolutely nothing to repair the hurt he had caused her all summer. “Maybe you should have put that in our ‘deal’ too, sex whenever you're in the mood, and who cares when I am.”

“Fine, India. I get it. Forget it.” He turned off the light and left her sitting in the darkness, fuming with anger. And with that, he lay on his side, turned his back to her, and in two minutes he was snoring. Their argument didn't seem to have distressed him. And she lay there for hours, hating him, and wishing that she didn't. She knew that what she had said to him had been hurtful, but after everything he'd said and done to her, he deserved it.

She closed her eyes finally, and tried to think of Paul, sending him good thoughts of sympathy and friendship. And when she fell asleep finally, she dreamed of Serena. She was trying to tell India something, but as hard as India tried, she couldn't hear it. And somewhere in the distance, she saw Paul crying, and standing all alone. But no matter how hard India tried in the dream, she couldn't get to him.





Chapter 12

THE PAPERS were full of the crash for the next few days, and India read everything she could about it. She sat for hours in the kitchen, poring over the stories. They didn't know much more than they had at first. Several Arab groups were being accused of it, but no one had taken responsibility. Though it made little difference to the families of the victims. And India had seen nothing about Paul in the papers. In his undoubtedly grief-stricken state, he was keeping well out of sight. And India's heart ached for him.

And then finally, on Thursday, there was a notice in the paper that Serena's memorial service would be held the next day at Saint Ignatius. She sat holding the paper in her hand for a long time, and she was still debating about it that night, when she and Doug went upstairs to bed. The atmosphere between them had been strained all week. There had been no way to erase the things they had said to each other three days before, and no way to forget them. Their words, as well as their actions, had done considerable damage. But she thought she should at least talk to him. It was all they had left now.

“I'm thinking of going to Serena Smith's funeral tomorrow, in the city.” She was holding a black suit in her hands as she said it. Doug had bought it for her for Christmas and it seemed the right thing to wear for the service.

“Isn't that a little silly? You hardly knew her. Why get all emotional about a stranger you met once last summer?” He just didn't understand, but he also didn't know about the bond she had with Paul, and Serena was a link to it. But she couldn't explain that to him.

“I just thought it seemed respectful, since I took her picture.” It was the simplest way to explain it, and Paul had been nice to Sam. She felt as though she owed him something. She hadn't heard from him since she sent the picture, but she didn't expect to. Whatever else was happening, she was sure he had his hands full. She just hoped he had gotten it, with her letter.

“It makes you look like a stargazer.” Doug looked at her irritably. “Just because she was famous doesn't mean you knew her.”