Page 34 of The House Across the Lake
Tom still listening at the bedroom door.
Katherine’s face lit by the laptop’s glow.
Tom slipping out of the room.
Katherine leaning forward slightly, getting a better look at the computer screen.
Tom reappearing in the doorway behind her.
He says something, alerting Katherine to his presence.
She jolts at the sound of his voice, slams the laptop shut, whirls around to face him. Although I can only see the back of her head, it’s clear she’s speaking. Her gestures are big, demonstrative. A pantomime of innocence.
Tom says something back, chuckles, scratches the back of his neck. He doesn’t appear angry or even suspicious, which means Katherine must have said the right thing.
She stands and kisses Tom the same way a sitcom wife would. Perched on tiptoes for a quick peck, one leg bent back in a flirty kick. Tom hits the light switch by the door, and the office becomes a rectangle of blackness.
Two seconds later, they’re back in the bedroom. Tom climbs into bed and rolls onto his side, his back to the window. Katherine disappears into the bathroom. There’s another flash of perfect lighting, followed by the door closing.
In the bed, Tom rolls over. The last thing I see is him reaching for the bedside lamp. He turns it off and the house is plunged into darkness.
I lower the binoculars, unnerved by what I just saw, although I can’t articulate why. I want to think it stems from getting another unfiltered glimpse of someone else’s life. Or maybe it’s simply guilt over convincing myself it was okay to yet again watch something I was never supposed to see. As a result, I’m turning what I saw into something bigger than it really is. The proverbial mountain out of a molehill.
Yet I can’t shake the way Katherine reacted the moment she realized Tom had entered the room.
Lifted out of her chair.
Panic writ large on her face.
The more I think about it, the more certain I am that she’d been caught looking at something she didn’t want Tom to see. The way she slammed the laptop shut made that abundantly clear, followed up with the too-cutesy kiss.
It all leads me to one conclusion.
Tom Royce has a secret.
And I think Katherine just discovered what it is.
One a.m.
Porch, rocking chair, booze, etc.
I’m half asleep in the chair, doing that dozing-until-your-head-droops-and-wakes-you-up thing my father used to do when I was a kid. I’d watch it happen as the two of us sat in front of the TV, waiting for my mother to get home from a performance. First the eyes would slide shut. Then came stillness and maybe some growl-like snoring. Finally his head would tilt forward, startling him awake. I’d chuckle, he’d mumble something, and the whole process would begin again.
Now it’s me doing it, the traits of the father passed on to his daughter. After another bob-and-wake, I tell myself it’s time to go to bed.
But then a light blinks on at the Royce house on the other side of the lake.
The kitchen.
Suddenly wide-awake, I fumble for the binoculars, not even thinking about resisting this time. I simply grab them, lift them to my eyes, and see Katherine march into the kitchen. The robe she’d been wearing earlier is gone, replaced by jeans and a bulky white sweater.
Tom’s right behind her, still in pajama bottoms, talking.
No.
Shouting.
His mouth is wide open, an angry oval that expands and contracts as he keeps yelling at his wife in the middle of the kitchen. She whirls around, shouts something back.
