Read Spy Who Jumped Off the Screen : A Novel (9781101565766) for Free Online

the Johnnie Walker Black, red Lillet, and Angostura bitters with an apothecary’s precision. When he had finished and poured the liquor and crushed ice into sterling-silver Jefferson cups, he felt Cynthia beside him, her cheek fleetingly against his shoulder. Was this an apology for her mood or an expression of her exhaustion? As usual, Billy could not be sure.
    â€œHave you done much hunting this year, darling?” he asked finally.
    â€œI always do, don’t I?” Cynthia replied, taking the cocktail from him. A taste for Rob Roys was something she had inherited from him. “Tuesdays and Thursdays, all season, whenever I can. What’s the point of living where I do and not?”
    Billy nodded. Horses—the entire equestrian life—bored him, but foxhunting filled him with fear. He knew better than to say it out loud in his daughter’s presence, but he was pleased that Stuart showed signs of sharing his disinterest and hoped that Emily, suddenly faced with the distractions of adolescence, might herself be growing less keen. There was a reason they called it “breakneck” speed, and he could think of no other sport in which experience so increased the risk of injury, even paralysis. Years in the hunting field seemed to embolden people, causing them to forget that it was not only their skill at play but also the simpleton brain of a fast and heavy animal in whose custody they had placed their lives. “None, I expect,” he told her, not quite mastering a laugh and raising his glass slightly before sipping from it.
    â€œAlways have and always will.” She took his hand, squeezed it, then let it go. Billy was still imagining his daughter on horseback. He couldn’t help it. Fear had seized him, as occasionally it was apt to. What would he do if she fell? How would her high-powered lawyer husband manage the children without her? If she were to die, would his next wife, who would no doubt be younger, like them or even want them around? Why, for heaven’s sake, didn’t Cynthia sense the risk as acutely as he did? Why didn’t she concentrate her energy on one of her other loves, such as gardening or yoga or paddle tennis?
    â€œWell, knock on wood,” he said, striking the chair arm three times.
    â€œIt’s just my nature, Daddy,” Cynthia said “that’s all.” Then, as she turned her face to the children, she gently patted the back of his hand.
    Studying the fiery, opinionated creature to whom he’d given life without planning to, he could still not specify with which of her qualities her husband—any man, for that matter—might have fallen in love. Youth, he supposed, but that had vanished long ago, and anyway, youth was a mask. While it survived, a man could cling to the illusion that his lover’s temperament might change, but once it fled, he was left with what had been there all along. Perhaps what Michael had responded to was the challenge of taming her, or—despite the electric tension that ran through her—he had blithely calculated that she seemed the right sort of woman to be his wife and the mother of his children. She was who she was, after all. She liked sex and would be unlikely to stray. It was too much to figure out at the moment.
    Just then the doorbell rang.
    â€œWho on earth could that be?” Billy asked.
    â€œYour guess is as good as mine,” Cynthia said.
    â€œCould be carolers,” Emily ventured.
    â€œCould be,” Billy agreed, yet at the door he found not a party of holiday singers but a lone, gaunt figure in a clerical collar. “Good evening,” he said. “May I help you, Father?”
    â€œWould Mr. Claussen be at home?” inquired the priest, without giving his name.
    â€œYou’ll forgive my surprise. I wasn’t actually expecting—”
    â€œNo, of course you weren’t. I am sorry. Is this your wife?” the stranger asked, glancing at