Mercy - Jodi Picoult by Jodi Picoult

Author:Jodi Picoult
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Contemporary Women, Family Life, General, Romance, Suspense, Thrillers, Fiction
ISBN: 9781476796000
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2014-11-28T08:00:00+00:00

Cam walked around the small studio apartment, which was overfurnished in a country-kitchen way complete with an oxen yoke over the doorway and braided rag rugs. There was a staggering amount of bovine paraphernalia: Holstein-patterned spoon rests and salt and pepper shakers, a milk pitcher in the shape of a heifer, a black-and-white-spotted armchair, cow quilts and posters framed and tacked on the wall. It was a frowsy, overblown room and he never would have believed it was Mia’s if he hadn’t seen her bonsai, centered by itself on the kitchen table, a palm tree on an island in a storm.

Bally Beene had called him three weeks and one day after Mia left, to tell him she’d been under his nose the whole time. He had braced himself when he’d taken the call at the station, expecting to be given an address in the Texas Panhandle, or maybe Bombay, but Bally had only laughed. “You won’t believe this,” he said. “She’s living over a family’s garage in North Adams.” For a nominal fee, Bally had been able to get Cam an extra key.

North Adams was fifteen minutes away from Wheelock, if you were driving very fast.

Cam told Allie he had a Drug Awareness and Resistance Education meeting that night; not to expect him for dinner. He had been planning to work the day and then set off for North Adams. But he had gone out on patrol and pulled over a drunk driver, only to find that he couldn’t remember the words that made up the Miranda rights—something he could normally recite in his sleep. So after lunch, when he could not sit still behind his desk any longer, he drove to Mia’s new address.

He parked his car down the street and just stared at the place where Mia had managed to exist for three weeks without him. He played the scene over and over in his mind, the one where she opened the door and found him standing on the other side. She was wearing a fluffy white robe and a towel over her wet hair; she held her hand to her throat as if she were seeing a ghost. Then she whispered his name and leaned forward, fitting herself to him.

The funny thing was, he did not picture hopping into bed with her. He imagined sitting down on the floor, his back to a corner, with Mia between his legs. He imagined pulling the towel from her head and combing the tangles from her hair. He imagined their voices weaving the house into a delicate net that could hold the night as it fell all around them.

When it became clear she was not there, Cam made himself at home in Mia’s apartment. He ran his fingers over the familiar curled edges of the old bonsai tree and let Kafka rub up against his legs. He opened a can of salmon, gave half to the cat, and ate the other half himself. He would have liked a beer, but

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