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Laura had adored him and took his death hard, not only because of the bizarre unfairness of it but because he hadn’t lived to see her achieve all the goals she’d set for herself.
Her mother had considered her dashing husband an unparalleled hero. She worshiped him and never recovered from the shock of finding him lying dead beside her. Grief deteriorated into depression. Laura was helpless to stop its inexorable pull until eventually it claimed her mother’s life.
Laura had been a straight-A student, valedictorian, Phi Beta Kappa. She had achieved every goal she’d ever set for herself. Her parents had openly showed their pride. They’d called her their crowning achievement. But their deaths, both tragic and premature, had left her feeling that she had failed them miserably.
Foster knew this. She pointed her finger at him now, saying, “Don’t start with that psychobabble about me not wanting to disappoint my parents.”
“Okay.”
“But that’s what you’re thinking,” she accused. “Just like you’re thinking that this is your fault because you didn’t ask me about my period this morning.”
He laughed. “Who knows whom well?”
She ran her fingers through his hair. “I know that you don’t like changing your routine, because if you do, terrible things will happen. Isn’t that the principle by which you live, Foster Speakman?”
“And now here’s proof of how sound that principle is.”
“The laws of nature are also sound.” She shrugged. “An egg wasn’t fertilized. It’s as simple as that.”
He shook his head stubbornly. “Nothing’s that simple.”
“Foster—”
“It’s indisputable, Laura. Unwritten laws govern our lives.”
“To some extent, possibly, but—”
“No but. There are cosmic patterns in place that one should not violate. If one does, the consequences can be severe.”
Lowering her head, she said softly, “Like switching drivers at the last minute.”
“Oh, Christ. Now I’ve made you even more unhappy.” He pulled her head down onto his chest and stroked her back.
She couldn’t argue this with him. To try to do so would be futile. Shortly after they were married, in an effort to better understand his OCD, she had talked with his psychiatrist. He had explained Foster’s conviction that disorder predestined disaster. Patterns could not be broken. Series could not be interrupted. Foster believed this with his heart, mind, and soul, and the doctor had told her that trying to convince him otherwise was a waste of breath. “He copes with it extremely well,” he’d told her. “But you would do well to remember that what to you is a hitch, is chaos to him.”
Tacitly agreeing to let the matter drop, they sat quietly. After a time, Foster said, “Griff Burkett will be disappointed, too.”
“Yes. He’ll have to wait at least another month for his half million.”
He hadn’t asked her anything specific about her first meeting with Burkett. When she came home that evening, she’d given him a detailed account of everything that had taken place in the office, but she’d told him nothing about that until he asked. “How was your appointment with Burkett?”
“Brief. He did what he needed to do and left.”
She hadn’t elaborated, and he hadn’t asked for more information, perhaps sensing that going into detail would make her uncomfortable.
“So you’ll be calling him again in a couple of weeks?” he asked now.
She sat up and looked deeply into his eyes. “Do you want me to, Foster?”
“Yes. Unless it was unbearable to you.”
She shook her head but looked away. “If you can bear it, I can.”
“Isn’t this what we agreed?”
“Yes.”
“It’s what we want.”
