by Harlan Coben
“Oh?”
“Tom and I are getting married.”
Myron said nothing. He felt a funny twinge.
“Well?”
“Congrats.”
“That’s it?”
“I’m surprised, that’s all. But really, I think that’s great. When’s the big day?”
“Three weeks from Saturday. But let me ask you something. Now that I’m marrying the father of my baby, am I still a fallen woman?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Damn, I like being a fallen woman.”
“Well, you still had the baby out of wedlock.”
“Good point. I could run with that.”
Myron looked at her.
“What’s wrong?”
“You, married.” He shook his head.
“I was never big on commitment, was I?”
“You change partners like a cineplex changes movies.”
Esperanza smiled. “True.”
“I don’t even remember you staying with the same gender for more than, what, a month?”
“The wonders of bisexuality,” Esperanza said. “But it’s different with Tom.”
“How so?”
“I love him.”
He said nothing.
“You don’t think I can do it,” she said. “Stay true to one person.”
“I never said that.”
“Do you know what bisexual means?”
“Of course,” Myron said. “I dated a lot of bisexual women — I’d mention sex, the girl would say, ‘Bye.’ ”
Esperanza just looked at him.
“Okay, old joke,” he said. “It just…” Myron sort of shrugged.
“I like women and I like men. But if I make a commitment, it’s to a person, not a gender. Make sense?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Now tell me what’s wrong with you and this Ali Wilder.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Win said you two haven’t done the deed yet.”
“Win said that?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“Win just came in here and said that?”
“First he made a comment about my increased cup size since giving birth, then yes, he told me that you’ve been dating this woman for almost two months and haven’t done the nasty yet.”
“What makes him think that?”
“Body language.”
“He said that?”
“Win is good when it comes to body language.”
Myron shook his head.
“So is he right?”
“I’m having dinner at Ali’s house tonight. The kids are staying with her sister.”
“She made this plan?”
“Yes.”
“And you haven’t…?” With Hector still feeding, Esperanza still managed to gesture the point.
“We haven’t.”
“Man.”
“I’m waiting for a signal.”
“Like what, a burning bush? She invited you to her house and told you the kids would be away for the night.”
“I know.”
“That’s the international signal for Jump My Bones.”
He said nothing.
“Myron?”
“Yes.”
“She’s a widow — not a cripple. She’s probably terrified.”
“That’s why I’m taking it slow.”
“That’s sweet and noble, but stupid. And it’s not helping.”
“So you’re suggesting…?”
“A major bone jump, yes.”
CHAPTER 5
Myron arrived at Ali’s at seven P.M.
The Wilders lived in Kasselton, a town about fifteen minutes north of Livingston. Myron had gone through a strange ritual before leaving his house. Cologne or no cologne? That one was easy: no cologne. Tighty-whities or boxers? He chose something between the two, that hybrid that was either tight boxers or long tighties. Boxer briefs, the package said. And he chose them in gray. He wore a Banana Republic tan pullover with a black T-shirt underneath. The jeans were from the Gap. Slip-on loafers from the Tod’s outlet store adorned his size-fourteen feet. He couldn’t be more American Casual if he tried.
Ali opened the door. The lights behind her were low. She wore a black dress with a scooped front. Her hair was pinned back. Myron liked that. Most men, they liked it when the hair came down. Myron had always been a fan of keeping it off the face.
He stared at her for another moment and then said, “Whoa.”
“I thought you said you were smooth.”
“I’m holding back.”
“But why?”
“If I go all out in the smooth department,” Myron said, “women all over the tri-state area begin to disrobe. I need to harness the power.”
“Lucky for me then. Come on in.”
He had never made it past her foyer before. Ali walked to the kitchen. His stomach knotted. There were family photographs on the wall. Myron did a quick scan. He spotted Kevin’s face. He was in at least four different photographs. Myron didn’t want to stare, but his gaze got caught on an image of Erin. She was fishing with her dad. Her smile was heartbreaking. Myron tried to picture the girl in his basement smiling like that, but it wouldn’t hold.
He looked back at Ali. Something crossed her face.
Myron sniffed the air. “What are you cooking?”
“I’m making Chicken Kiev.”
“Smells great.”
“You mind if we talk first?”
“Sure.”
They headed into the den. Myron tried to keep his head about him. He looked around for more pictures. There was a framed wedding photo. Ali’s hair was too big, he thought, but maybe that was the look then. He thought that she was prettier now. That happens with some women. There was also a photograph of five men in matching black tuxedos with bow ties. The groomsmen, Myron figured. Ali followed his gaze. She walked over and picked up the group shot.
“This one is Kevin’s brother,” she said, pointing to the man second on the right.
Myron nodded.
“The other men worked at Carson Wilkie with Kevin. They were his best friends.”
Myron said, “Were they—”
“All dead,” she said. “All married, all had children.”
The elephant in the room — it was as if all hands and fingers were suddenly pointing at it.
“You don’t have to do this,” Myron said.
“Yeah, Myron, I do.”
They sat down.
“When Claire first set us up,” she began, “I told her that you’d have to raise the subject of 9/11. Did she tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. “How was I supposed to do that exactly? Hi, how are you, I hear you’re a 9/11 widow, do you want Italian or maybe Chinese?”
Ali nodded. “Fair enough.”
There was a grandfather clock in the corner, a huge ornate thing. It chose then to start chiming. Myron wondered where Ali had gotten it, where she had gotten everything in this house, how much of Kevin was watching them now, in this house, in his house.
“Kevin and I started dating when we were juniors in high school. We decided to take time off during our freshman year of college. I was going to NYU. He would be off at Wharton. It would be the mature thing to do. But when we came home for Thanksgiving, and we saw each other…” She shrugged. “I’ve never been with another man. Ever. There, I said it. I don’t know if we did it right or wrong. Isn’t that weird? I think we sorta learned together.”
Myron sat there. She was no more than a foot away from him. He wasn’t sure of the right move here — the story of his life. He put his hand close to hers. She picked it up and held it.
“I don’t know when I first realized I was ready to start dating. It took me longer than most of the widows. We talk about it, of course — the widows, I mean. We talk a lot. But one day I
just said to myself, okay, now maybe it’s time. I told Claire. And when she suggested you, do you know what I thought?”
Myron shook his head.
“He’s out of my league, but maybe this will be fun. I thought — this is going to sound stupid and please remember I really didn’t know you at all — that you’d be a good transition.”
“Transition?”
“You know what I mean. You were a pro athlete. You probably had a lot of women. I thought maybe, well, it would be a fun fling. A physical thing. And then, afterwards, maybe I’d find someone nice. Does that make sense?”
“I think so,” Myron said. “You just wanted me for my body.”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“I feel so cheap,” he said. “Or is it thrilled? Let’s go with thrilled.”
That made her smile. “Please don’t take offense.”
“No offense taken.” Then: “Hussy.”
She laughed. The sound was melodic.
“So what happened to your plan?” he asked.
“You weren’t what I expected.”
“That a good thing or bad?”
“I don’t know. You used to date Jessica Culver. I read that in a People magazine.”
“I did.”
“Was it serious?”
“Yes.”
“She’s a great writer.”
Myron nodded.
“She’s also stunning.”
“You’re stunning.”
“Not like that.”
He was going to argue, but he knew that it would sound too patronizing.
“When you asked me out, I figured that you were looking for something, I don’t know, different.”
“Different how?” he asked.
“Being a 9/11 widow,” she said. “The truth is, and I hate to admit this, but it gives me something of a warped celebrity.”
He did know. He thought about what Win had said, about that first thing that pops in your head when you hear her name.
“So I figured — again not knowing you, just knowing that you were this good-looking pro athlete who dates women who look like supermodels — I figured that I might be an interesting notch on the belt.”
“Because you were a 9/11 widow?”
“Yes.”
“That’s pretty sick.”
“Not really.”
“How’s that?”
“It’s like I said. There’s a weird sort of celebrity attached. People who wouldn’t give me the time of day suddenly wanted to meet me. It still happens. About a month ago, I started playing in this new tennis league at the Racket Club. One of the women — this rich snob who wouldn’t let me cut through her yard when we first moved to town — comes up to me and she’s making the poo-poo face.”
“The poo-poo face?”
“That’s what I call it. The poo-poo face. It looks like this.”
Ali demonstrated. She pursed her lips, frowned, and batted her eyes.
“You look like Donald Trump being sprayed with mace.”
“That’s the poo-poo face. I get it all the time since Kevin died. I don’t blame anyone. It’s natural. But this woman with the poo-poo face comes up to me and she takes both of my hands in hers and looks me in the eyes and has this whole earnest thing going on so that I want to scream, and she says, ‘Are you Ali Wilder? Oh, I so wanted to contact you. How are you doing?’ You get the point.”
“I do.”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“You’ve turned into the dating version of the poo-poo face.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“You keep telling me I’m beautiful.”
“You are.”
“You met me three times when I was married.”
Myron said nothing.
“Did you think I was beautiful then?”
“I try not to think that way about married women.”
“Do you even remember meeting me?”
“Not really, no.”
“And if I looked like Jessica Culver, even if I were married, you’d have remembered.”
She waited.
“What do you want me to say here, Ali?”
“Nothing. But it’s time to stop treating me like the poo-poo face. It doesn’t matter why you first started dating me. It matters why you’re here now.”
“Can I do that?”
“Do what?”
“Can I tell you why I’m here now?”
Ali swallowed and for the first time she looked unsure of herself. She made a go-ahead gesture with her hand.
He dove in. “I’m here because I really like you — because I may be confused about a lot of things and maybe you’re making a good point about the poo-poo face, but the fact is, I’m here right now because I can’t stop thinking about you. I think about you all the time and when I do, I have this goofy smile on my face. It looks like this.” Now it was his turn to demonstrate. “So that’s why I’m here, okay?”
“That,” Ali said, trying to hold back a smile, “is a really good answer.”
He was about to crack wise, but he held back. With maturity comes restraint.
“Myron?”
“Yes?”
“I want you to kiss me. I want you to hold me. I want you to take me upstairs and make love to me. I want you to do it with no expectations because I don’t have any. I could dump you tomorrow and you could dump me. It doesn’t matter. But I’m not fragile. I’m not going to describe the hell of the past five years, but I’m stronger than you’ll ever know. If this relationship continues after tonight, you’re the one who’ll have to be strong, not me. This is a no-obligation offer. I know how valiant and noble you want to be. But I don’t want that. All I want tonight is you.”
Ali leaned toward him and kissed him on the lips. First gently then with more hunger. Myron felt a surge go through him.
She kissed him again. And Myron felt lost.
An hour later — or maybe it was only twenty minutes — Myron collapsed and rolled onto his back.
“Well?” Ali said.
“Wow.”
“Tell me more.”
“Let me catch my breath.”
Ali laughed, snuggled closer.
“My limbs,” he said. “I can’t feel my limbs.”
“Not a thing?”
“A little tingle maybe.”
“Not so little. And you were pretty good yourself.”
“As Woody Allen once said, I practice a lot when I’m alone.”
She put her head on his chest. His racing heart started to slow. He stared at the ceiling.
“Myron?”
“Yes.”
“He’ll never leave my life. He’ll never leave Erin and Jack either.”
“I know.”
“Most men can’t handle that.”
“I don’t know if I can either.”
She looked at him and smiled.
“What?”
“You’re being honest,” she said. “I like that.”
“No more poo-poo face?”
“Oh, I wiped that off twenty minutes ago.”
He pursed his lips, frowned, and batted his eyes. “But wait, it’s back.”
She put her head back on his chest.
“Myron?”
“Yes?”
“He’ll never leave my life,” she said. “But he’s not here now. Right now I think it’s just the two of us.”
CHAPTER 6
On the third floor of St. Barnabas Medical Center, Essex County investigator Loren Muse rapped on a door that read edna skylar, md, geneticist.
A woman’s voice said, “Come in.”
Loren turned the knob and entered. Skylar stood. She was taller than Loren, but most people were. Skylar crossed the room, hand extended. They both offered up firm handshakes and plenty of eye contact. Edna Skylar nodded in a sisterhood way to her. Loren had seen it before. They were both in professions still dominated by men. That gave them a bond.
�
��Won’t you please have a seat?”
They both sat. Edna Skylar’s desk was immaculate. There were manila folders, but they were stacked without any papers peeking out. The office was standard issue, dominated by a picture window that offered up a wonderful view of a parking lot.
Dr. Skylar stared intently at Loren Muse. Loren didn’t like it. She waited a moment. Skylar kept staring.
Loren said, “Problem?”
Edna Skylar smiled. “Sorry, bad habit.”
“What’s that?”
“I look at faces.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s not important. Well, maybe it is. That’s how I got into this predicament.”
Loren wanted to get to it. “You told my boss that you have information on Katie Rochester?”
“How is Ed?”
“He’s good.”
She smiled warmly. “He’s a nice man.”
“Yeah,” Loren said, “a prince.”
“I’ve known him a long time.”
“He told me.”
“That’s why I called Ed. We had a long talk about the case.”
“Right,” Loren said. “And that’s why he sent me here.”
Edna Skylar looked off, out the window. Loren tried to guess her age. Mid-sixties probably, but she wore it well. Dr. Skylar was a handsome woman, short gray hair, high cheekbones, knew how to sport a beige suit without coming across as too butch or overly feminine.
“Dr. Skylar?”
“Could you tell me something about the case?”
“Excuse me?”
“Katie Rochester. Is she officially listed as missing?”
“I’m not sure how that’s relevant.”
Edna Skylar’s eyes moved slowly back to Loren Muse. “Do you think she met up with foul play—”
“I can’t really discuss that.”
“—or do you think she ran away? When I talked to Ed, he seemed pretty sure she was a runaway. She took money out of an ATM in midtown, he said. Her father is rather unsavory.”
“Prosecutor Steinberg told you all that?”
“He did.”
“So why are you asking me?”
“I know his take,” she said. “I want yours.”
Loren was about to protest some more, but Edna Skylar was again staring with too much intensity. She scanned Skylar’s desk for family photographs. There were none. She wondered what to make of that and decided nothing. Skylar was waiting.
“She’s eighteen years old,” Loren tried, treading carefully.
