by Marti Green
Jake led me into the kitchen first, where three women were busy finishing up the food preparations. I placed my contribution on the counter.
“Mom, this is Mallory,” Jake said to the oldest of the women, who wore a frilly apron over her ample stomach.
“Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Bowman.”
“Please, call me Jenna. And I’m happy you could come.”
Jake introduced me to his sisters, then brought me into the living room, where his father and two brothers-in-law, along with his grandparents, were seated around the stone fireplace. Four children sat huddled in a corner with a stack of LEGO bricks. Once again, Jake made introductions. His father, like his mother, insisted I use his first name, Joel, and his grandmother said, “Call us Gammy and Pop Pop. That’s what everyone does.”
Jake led me to the corner where a Christmas tree stood, tastefully decorated. Scattered around it were open boxes and torn wrapping paper, except for one box, still wrapped. Jake handed it to me. “This is from my mom.” I opened it and found a hand-knitted wool scarf in colors of red and green and fought back tears. Her thoughtfulness overwhelmed me.
Jake settled in a chair next to his father, and I went back to the kitchen to thank his mother. “It’s beautiful, and just what I need now that winter’s arrived in full force.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“Can I do anything here to help?”
“Nonsense, you’re our guest,” Jenna said.
I remained there, anyway. They were easy to chat with, taking turns filling me in on places I should visit while I was living in the area. When it came time for everyone to take seats around the table, I already felt like I’d known them for years.
“Jake tells me you’re writing a novel,” Joel said.
“Trying to.”
“What’s it about?”
A good liar is always prepared. “It’s a murder mystery. About a man who wants to kill his business partner. He’s in debt to him for two million dollars and sees that as his only way out.”
“I like mysteries,” Joel said. “How does he get caught?”
I smiled. “Now, if I tell you, you won’t buy the book. Besides, maybe he doesn’t get caught.”
“Ah, now I’m intrigued. In every mystery I’ve read, the bad guy is always punished in the end. Of course, that’s not real life. I suppose there are plenty of people who’ve gotten away with murder.”
I hoped that was true.
I fell in love with Jake’s family. His father made me laugh throughout the meal, and his mother treated me like a daughter. His sisters, Julia and Sherry, both teachers, entranced me with stories of their students. And their children: four-year-old Jillian, five-year-old twins, Hailey and Zach, and the oldest, seven-year-old Jessica, already assuming the role of boss, made me think once again that I’d like to be a mother. I watched the twins’ obvious affection for each other and felt a stab of wistfulness at what I had missed with my own twin.
Jake’s grandmother kept asking me questions about my life, not as a grilling but because she genuinely seemed interested. Everyone gushed over the dishes I’d brought, and after dinner, we broke into two teams and played charades. I was hopeless at it but laughed and laughed. When the game was over, Jake’s brothers-in-law, Steven and Mark, brought out their guitars, and we all sang Christmas songs.
Christmas with my own mother always had been a solitary experience. Sometimes she had enough money for a tree and gifts to put under it; other times all I’d gotten was a trinket from the drugstore. Rarely had dinner been anything different from every other night of the year. The home of Jake’s parents was filled with warmth, not just from the fireplace but from every person present.
When Jake pulled into my driveway, I wasn’t ready to let go of the magic of the evening. “Want to come in for a bit?”
He turned off the ignition and followed me into the house. Without even asking, he got a fire started in the fireplace.
“Coffee?” I asked.
“Nope.” He patted the seat on the sofa next to him, and I sat down. “I’m glad you came tonight. I’m glad you met my family.”
I smiled. “They were lovely. Every one of them.”
Jake scraped his hand through his hair, then cleared his throat. “I was wondering if next week, instead of lunch, maybe we could go to dinner.”
Here it was—the pitch to move our relationship forward. I was surprised it had taken him this long. Every part of me wanted to say, “Yes,” to lean over and kiss his full lips, to take his hand and lead him into the bedroom. I knew that I couldn’t. “I like you. I really do. But I don’t want to get entangled with anyone while I’m working on my novel. And when it’s finished . . . I’ll be moving on from here.”
“New York City’s not so far away.”
I put my hand on his. “Can we just put it on hold for the time being? Stick to lunches?”
He nodded, but I knew he was disappointed. So was I. Of all the men I’d met since leaving Scranton, he was the one I could see making a life with. I could picture myself as part of his family. But I was leaving this life behind and, in a few months, maybe less, inhabiting someone else’s.
Jake stayed for another hour and then got up to leave. When he was gone, I realized that it wasn’t money that I’d missed growing up. It was family.
CHAPTER 22
I’d settled in to a weekly routine. Each morning I’d have two hard-boiled eggs and coffee for breakfast and then start some form of exercise. Twice a week, I trained with Jackie, followed by a half-hour jog on the treadmill; two other days, I ran for an hour on the treadmill; and twice a week, I hiked in Mohonk Preserve. That didn’t change when we began getting snow every few days—usually a dusting but sometimes six to eight inches. I’d put on my hiking boots, long waterproof pants, and enough layers on top to keep me warm in the coldest weather. Sometimes I’d go back to Duck Pond; other times I’d do the walk around the circle known as Undercliff/Overcliff and watch the rock climbers as they did their ascent. Once or twice, I parked my car at Spring Farm and hiked up to Mohonk Mountain House, a stately hotel that brought to mind what the grand mansions in olden Europe must have looked like. I gave myself one day to just laze around. Every afternoon, I’d have a light lunch, then I’d rewatch the tapes of Charly, study the notes Ben gave me, and follow her Facebook page. And, of course, I still had lunch with Jake once a week.
Today would be different. Ben had texted me a picture he’d taken of Charly just the other day and instructed me that it was time to get my hair cut and colored to match hers. Tomorrow, he’d drive up and check me out for the first time since he’d dropped me off at this house. I’d made an appointment with a hair salon in New Paltz and arrived there promptly at 10:00 a.m. Once I checked in, I was led to Donna’s chair.
“Cut and color today?” Donna asked after I sat down.
“That’s right.”
She ran her fingers through my hair. “So, what are you looking for, just a little lightening?”
I took out my cell phone and showed her the picture of Charly. “This is the color I used to have. And the hairstyle. I’ve let my hair go, and I want to get back to this. Exactly this.”
She studied the picture. “Sure. No problem.”
I’d passed my first test. Donna had given no hint that the woman she saw in the picture wasn’t me.
“I’ll be right back, hon. I’m just going to mix up the chemicals,” she said, before leaving me to stare at the mirror in front of me. I’d never been to a hair salon before. My mother used to cut my hair. Now, I cut it myself. It was why I wore it long—just a straight cut across the bottom every few months, and I was done. It had never been styled, as Charly’s hair clearly was, and certainly never colored.
I looked around the salon. There were eight chairs behind the receptionist’s desk, four on each side of the room. Farther back were three chairs in front of sinks on one side, and on the other, two chairs for pedicures and two for manicures. Eve
ry chair but one was filled, with women ranging from late teens to one silver-haired senior citizen. Only one man occupied a chair.
“I’m back,” Donna said in a cheery voice.
“You’re busy here,” I noted.
“You should see us on Saturdays. Then, you have to book a month in advance.”
I knew this would set me back a couple of hundred dollars. After the cut and color, I was scheduled for a pedicure and manicure. It might not be an exact match to Charly’s, but it would be easy enough to say I’d decided to change the color.
Donna chatted nonstop as she meticulously applied the dye to my hair. When she’d finished and left me alone for it to process, I took out my iPad and did what I always did when I needed a break from exercise or studying—I looked at travel websites, at locations throughout the world. I thought I’d like to go on an African safari and visit the Sistine Chapel in Rome. Now that I’d gotten fitter, I wanted to hike in the Swiss Alps, then relax in a luxury hut in Bora Bora. I wanted to visit every museum in Paris and the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. I wanted to go on an Alaskan cruise, learn the tango in Buenos Aires, and eat tapas in Barcelona. I wanted to walk on the Great Wall of China and ride an elephant in Laos.
Before I knew it, Donna was back. She brought me over to one of the sinks to wash out the dye, then back to the chair at her station. I looked in the mirror and smiled. The color was perfect. She cut my hair and then began to blow it dry. I averted my eyes from the mirror. I didn’t want to look until it was finished.
“So, what do you think?” Donna said when she turned off the hair dryer.
I looked up and saw Charly in the mirror. “It’s perfect. Just perfect.”
The next morning, Ben drove up in his Lexus 450 SUV. A much more practical car, I thought, than the Porsche Carrera he’d driven me up in almost three months ago. I waited by the door as he bounded up the steps, then opened it just before his knock. I laughed when I saw the look of shock on his face.
“You like?” I asked.
“It’s . . . It’s . . . I can’t believe it. I can’t tell you apart. How much weight did you lose?”
“Sixteen pounds,” I said proudly.
He stepped inside, and we went into the kitchen. I had prepared lunch—a salad with just red wine vinegar and no oil for me—and an assortment of cold cuts with rolls for Ben. “What do you want to drink with lunch?” I asked him. “Soda, coffee, water?”
“Do you have Coke?”
“Just diet Coke.”
“I’ll have water, then.”
I set everything down on the table, then sat. As we ate, he peppered me with questions.
“What’s the name of Charly’s grandfather?”
“Herman Jensen.”
“My parents’ names?
“Judith and Sidney.”
“My grandmother?”
“Linda.”
“Where do they all live?”
“Herman, who Charly calls Poppy, lives in Miami Beach and also has a summer home in East Hampton. Your parents spend eight months a year in Boca Raton, where your grandmother lives year-round. The rest of the time, they’re here, at this house.”
“What are the names of Charly’s parents, and where do they own property?”
“Rick and Sarah Jensen. Sarah died when Charly was ten, in a car accident. Rick owns a penthouse condo on West Seventy-Second Street and Central Park West. The doorman there is named Carlos, and the concierge is Smithy—probably not his full name, but that’s what he’s called by everyone. Her father also has a seven-bedroom home on the water in Southampton, which you and Charly go to on weekends between Memorial Day and Labor Day.”
I looked over at Ben and saw he was smiling.
“You sound exactly like her,” he said. “No Pennsylvania twang anymore.”
We spent the next two hours going over every detail, Ben asking me questions about Charly’s life, and me answering every one. When he finished, he said, “The doctor says his kidneys are failing. Rick has a week, maybe ten days left. That’s all.”
“Have you found someone to do it? To Charly?”
Ben nodded.
“What’s his name?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
“I want to meet him.”
“It’s better for you that you don’t.”
“Look, I’m on the line here, too. If something goes wrong and he fingers you, you can turn on me to sweeten your deal. I need to make sure I can trust him.”
“It’s enough that I trust him.”
I folded my arms and began tapping my foot, without saying a word. Finally, Ben said, “I’m going to meet him in two nights to give him a payment. You can come with me.”
I smiled. “Thank you.”
He grabbed his jacket and started toward the door. “I’ll text you where and when.”
As he pulled out of the driveway, it hit me that this was real. In two days, I would come face-to-face with the man hired to murder Charlotte Jensen Gordon, my sister.
Two nights later, I drove into Brooklyn, to an address Ben had texted me. We were to meet the hit man at 9:00 p.m. sharp. I wasn’t familiar with this borough, so I gave myself extra time. I arrived ten minutes early and parked in front of what looked like an abandoned building. There were no lights visible from outside, and at least a quarter of the windows were broken. I remained in the car with the doors locked. At two minutes to nine, there was a tap on my window. I turned and saw Ben, motioning me to get out. I turned off the motor and left the safety of the car.
“Nice neighborhood,” I said, assuming he picked up the sarcasm.
“I didn’t choose it. Come on. He said he’d be in the back of the building.”
It was very dark, and I wondered what I’d gotten myself into by asking to meet him. I flipped through the apps on my phone for the flashlight, and the light helped dispel some of my unease. I skirted the broken glass and debris in the alleyway as I made my way, alongside Ben, to the rear. When we reached it, no one was there. The mid-January temperature hovered just below freezing, and a gust of cold air seemed to go right through me. I pulled the collar of my jacket tighter around my neck.
“He’ll be here any minute,” Ben said, although his voice didn’t sound very certain.
A moment later, a figure emerged from the shadows of the building, and Ben whispered, “That’s him.” He was short and bulky, with pitch-black hair. My first thought was that I was glad I wasn’t alone with him. When he reached us, I saw he had a scar that ran from the side of his eye down to the bottom of his cheek.
As soon as he spotted me, he asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m part of this. That’s who.”
He looked over at Ben, who nodded.
“You have the money?” he asked Ben.
“I have some questions first,” I said.
“What do you want to know?”
“Have you ever done this before?”
“Why? You want references?”
I frowned at him. “No. I want to make sure we’re not dealing with an amateur.”
“You want my body count? I stopped counting after a hundred.”
Ben leaned over toward me. “He was in the army.”
The hit man smiled. “Be precise. I was a sniper in the army, trained to kill unsuspecting targets.”
“That’s a lot different than killing a civilian woman. How do I know you won’t back out? That you won’t be persuaded by Ben’s wife to let her live in exchange for more money than Ben’s giving you? That you won’t go running to the police, now that you have half the payment?”
“I like you. You’re sharp. Sharper than your cohort here. So, here’s your answer. I stopped caring about human life back in Afghanistan. Mine, yours, or any other fucking person on this earth. Ben wants to pay me money to get rid of his wife, I have no moral compunctions against that. I do have moral compunctions against stiffing a buyer of my services, so I don’t change allegiance. As for the police, I’ve
already answered that question for Ben. He was satisfied.”
“How are you going to do it?”
“That’s irrelevant for you. It’ll be done, and no clues will be left behind. That’s all you need to know.”
“How will we know you’ve carried it out?”
The hit man looked over at Ben.
“Actually, I’d like to know that, too,” Ben said.
He laughed. “What, you won’t take my word for it?”
“The word of a hit man?” I said. “Maybe if this was a murder that would end up splashed all over the newspapers, yeah, that would do. But here, you’ve promised to make sure no one ever finds the body. So, how do we know she’s really dead?”
He thought for a while. “I’ll leave a disposable cell phone at your house, with pictures of her on it. Take a look, then throw away the phone.”
“She could be pretending to be dead.”
He laughed again. “Not in the pictures I’ll send.” He turned to me. “Satisfied?”
I nodded. “Completely.”
He held out his hand, and Ben placed an envelope in it.
“Pleasure doing business with you both,” he said, then disappeared into the darkness.
CHAPTER 23
Ben knew this past week had been brutal for Charly. Rick was under hospice care, and Charly had told Ben he was barely conscious most of the time. When Charly arrived home that night from her father’s apartment, he expected her to retreat into the bedroom as she always did. Instead, she sat down next to him. She put her head on his shoulder. “I miss you.”
What the hell? Ben thought. He picked up her hand and stroked it.
“I miss us. I miss intimacy.” She turned to Ben and kissed his lips softly, then harder. She placed her hand on his crotch and began stroking his genitals. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help responding. Any guy would, he knew. When she felt him get hard, she stood up and motioned for him to follow her into the bedroom, then began slowly undressing. He followed suit, only more quickly, then jumped into bed, pulling her to him when she’d taken off the last items of clothing. It had been months since they’d made love, and they tore at each other hungrily. When it was finished, Ben rolled over, confused.
