Live to Tell

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Maybe she won’t call the cops after all. Not just yet. And she definitely won’t call Beth.

  “So do you want it, Mom?”

  “What?”

  “Beth’s number.”

  It’s not Lucy’s fault Nick has a girlfriend whose number is in Lucy’s phone.

  This is so not the life Lauren had envisioned…for any of them.

  It’s been a long time since she cried over her failed marriage, but suddenly, she can feel hot tears in her eyes. She turns away quickly.

  “No, I don’t think I need Beth’s number. But thank you.”

  “Maybe we should go check Daddy’s apartment. I have the key.”

  “No,” Lauren repeats. “Come on, girls. Let’s go.”

  “To look for Daddy?” Sadie asks.

  “No. To the pool.” Because I can’t put these children through another second of sitting around here worrying. If something horrible happened, they’ll all know soon enough, right?

  “We’re going to the pool?” Lucy is incredulous.

  “Yes, it’s a gorgeous day and I don’t want to waste it sitting inside.”

  “But…what about Dad?”

  “Dad can get ahold of us on my cell phone, or yours.” Lauren hastily wipes her eyes and turns back to Lucy. “Go on up and get your bathing suits on, girls, and then we’ll go. Okay?”

  “Sure. Come on, Sadie,” Lucy says, so agreeably that Lauren knows she’s seen the tears. She quickly bends over to finish unloading the dishwasher, surreptitiously wiping them away on the sleeve of her T-shirt. A fresh flood quickly replaces them, and she gives in, crying as she puts away cups and plates and silverware.

  Oh, Nick. What have you done? Where have you gone? And what am I supposed to do about it?

  The task completed, tears streaming down her face, Lauren stands staring bleakly out the window, absently watching dappled shadows moving over the grass as the breeze stirs the surrounding foliage.

  Gradually, she becomes aware of a different kind of shadow. More solid. Long. It almost looks like a human silhouette, cast in a sunny patch of lawn.

  A chill creeps over Lauren as she leans toward the screen, peering out at the strange shadow. Is the blur from her tears creating an optical illusion?

  Or is someone really there?

  Even as she wonders, she has the distinct sensation that she’s being watched.

  She presses the heels of her palms into her watery eyes, then looks again.

  The shadow is gone.

  Did she see me?

  For a moment there, it seemed as though Lauren Walsh had indeed realized she had a backyard visitor. But then she rubbed her eyes, and that split second was enough time to slip farther back among the leafy boughs at the edge of the yard. From here, it’s still possible to see the figure framed in the window—but impossible to be seen.

  Lauren looks out again, seemingly scanning the landscape. Then she nods, as if she’s quite satisfied that there’s nothing—no one—out here.

  Ha. You couldn’t be more wrong, Lauren Walsh.

  On the other side of the flimsy window screen, the woman seems poised, thoughtful, seemingly unaware that she’s being watched. Then she turns and disappears from view.

  Just as well.

  Watching Lauren Walsh, alone in her kitchen and crying, has been quite a disquieting experience.

  Not as visually disquieting, by any means, as anything that occurred over the weekend—but disquieting just the same.

  Why was she crying?

  She was just on the phone asking about her ex-husband. Her voice came through the screen loud and clear.

  Does she suspect the truth about him? Maybe. Maybe she just didn’t want to let on in front of the kids.

  Besides—there were no witnesses; there is no easy evidence.

  She’ll never know—not for sure, anyway.

  Poor woman. But what’s the difference, really? He already left her. She’d be alone either way. Alone with her children in this creepy old house in the middle of nowhere.

  Well, not as middle-of-nowhere as Greymeadow…but it’s hard to believe that this rinky-dink town is less than an hour’s drive from Manhattan.

  In some ways, this would be a hell of a lot easier to do in the city. More anonymity. No one gives you a second glance.

  Here, one must make an effort to blend into the suburban landscape so as not to raise suspicion.

  On the other hand, back in Manhattan, people are naturally wary. They’re quick to retreat, slow to trust. Being invited into the home of someone you’ve just met would be next to impossible. Breaking in would mean getting past deadbolts, alarms, doormen, even window bars.

  Here in Glenhaven Park, it’s almost laughably simple—if one were inclined to look for the humor in a deadly serious matter such as this.

  But this, of course, is no joke.

  This is life or death.

  “What are you doing home?”

  They say it in unison, Marin and Garvey, staring at each other in surprise across the threshold of the master bedroom. Dressed in a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase, he was about to walk out; wearing a beach dress and sandals and carrying a straw bag, she was about to walk in.

  For a moment, they just look at each other.

  Then Marin stands on her tiptoes and gives him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. He puts an arm around her—also perfunctory. It’s not like they haven’t seen each other in ages.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at a groundbreaking for a hospital in Yorktown?” she asks.

  “Yonkers. And not until noon.” And he was so unsettled by the missing file that he canceled this morning’s breakfast meeting with his advisers—but of course he doesn’t mention that to Marin.

  “Where are you going now?”

  “To my office to go over some paperwork. I thought you were staying out at the beach until later today.”

  “We were planning to, but it really cooled off overnight, and anyway, poor Caroline—”

  “What?” Garvey’s heart lurches. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Relax. She got a lot of sun yesterday, and I didn’t want her out in it today.”

  “Are you sure that’s all?”

  Their eyes lock for a long moment.

  “Yes,” Marin tells him, “I’m sure.”

  But Garvey isn’t. Every time Caroline so much as winces, or complains of the slightest ache, he’s swept by a familiar dread.

  There’s no reason to think his elder daughter won’t live a long and healthy life—that’s what Garvey was told years ago, by a trusted physician.

  But can you ever be sure?

  Of course not.

  Any one of us could be struck down by lightning at any time, Garvey reminds himself. Or be hit by a bus, or…

  Or gunned down in a random mugging on the street.

  Like Byron Gregson.

  “Where is she?” he asks Marin abruptly.

  “In her room. But seriously, Garvey, she’s fine.”

  He’s already striding down the hall, needing to see for himself.

  Caroline’s bedroom door is closed. He sets his briefcase on the floor and knocks.

  No reply.

  His breath catches in his throat as he knocks again.

  “Annie, I told you, leave me the hell alone!”

  Relieved to hear her voice—foul language and all—he pushes the door open. “It’s not Annie.”

  “Oh—hi, Daddy.” She’s lying on her stomach on her bed in front of an open fashion magazine, bare legs bent behind her, feet swinging back and forth. Her face is flushed pink.

  “Mom said you’re sick.”

  “What? I’m not sick. Why does she have to freak over every little thing?”

  “You know how she is.” Garvey shrugs and rests the back of his hand against his daughter’s forehead. “You feel warm.”

  “Duh—that’s because I have a sunburn. But hey, guess what? I learned the pop-up.”

  “What’
s the pop-up?”

  “It’s this move where you get up on your feet on the board in one quick motion. I thought you used to surf.”

  “I did.”

  Summer on Nantucket—a lifetime ago. The Beach Boys playing in his head as he tried to catch a wave in frigid water, wanting to impress a teenage Marin watching from the sand…

  “Were you any good at it?”

  Garvey grins and shakes his head. “Not very. Are you?”

  Caroline nods. “We should go together sometime, Daddy. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “Absolutely.” He pats her tousled dark hair. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine. Why are you always worrying about how I’m feeling?”

  Garvey toys with the fringe on a throw pillow. “Because you’re my little girl. I’m supposed to worry about you.”

  “You don’t worry about Annie.”

  “Sure I do.”

  “Not like you worry about me. Is it because I was sick when I was little?”

  He nods, not wanting to discuss it with her. Caroline knows very little about her childhood illness. She was too young to remember, and has never asked many questions. Garvey and Marin decided long ago that there’s no need to burden her with the details. All she knows is that she was in the hospital, had surgery, got better.

  But maybe those days of Caroline’s willing oblivion are coming to an end, because she asks, “Daddy? What did I have, exactly?”

  He feigns confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “When I was sick. Was it cancer?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Something far rarer, and much more lethal.

  “Can I get it back again?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “But was it—”

  “I’ve got to go get some work done now, okay? You get some rest.”

  Garvey plants a kiss on Caroline’s cheek and leaves the room, closing the door again behind him.

  Passing the gallery of family photos in the hallway, he glances, as always, at his favorite, a prominently displayed black and white father-daughter portrait.

  The sitting with a well-known photographer was an appropriate—and bittersweet—Father’s Day gift from Marin. Garvey knew only too well what she was thinking. Neither of them ever said it aloud, though.

  The photo was taken years ago, but every detail of the day is as vividly etched in Garvey’s mind as the precious image is captured on film.

  He remembers Marin, six months’ pregnant with Annie, huffing and puffing up the four flights of stairs to the Tribeca studio. It was on the top floor—exposed brick, barren floor space, skylights.

  He remembers how the sunlight spilled over Caroline’s silky hair as she sat for hours on his lap, so still—so very still.

  “What a serene little girl she is,” the photographer commented, and Garvey forced a smile.

  The smile appeared in the portrait, as well—a sweet, tender smile directed at his little girl, whose head was tilted against his chest, dark eyes solemnly looking up at her daddy.

  “She looks just like you,” the photographer said, several times. He even grinned at Marin and asked, “Are you sure she’s yours?”

  “No,” Marin quipped in return, patting her rounded belly, “but I’m pretty sure this one is.”

  Garvey was sorry when the session was over that day. He would have been quite content to sit there forever with his daughter safely held in his arms.

  I still would, he thinks, and forces himself to turn away from the picture.

  He can’t believe, after all these years, that the past is coming back to haunt him in a way that he never imagined.

  That some lowbrow reporter with spectacular luck and a sketchy plan actually thought he could get away with blackmailing one of the most powerful men in New York should have been laughable. Yet somehow, instead of a joke, Byron Gregson turned into Garvey’s worst nightmare—even posthumously.

  But it’ll be over soon, he assures himself.

  For all he knows, the mission to Glenhaven Park has already been accomplished. Really, there’s no reason to think that it won’t be.

  He hopes that this time, there will be no bloodshed.

  But sometimes, it simply can’t be avoided.

  And sometimes, if you want something done right…

  Garvey sighs, shaking his head, praying it won’t come to that.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Higher!” Sadie calls, pumping her bare little legs as the swing arcs into the air.

  Lauren steps back a bit, positioning her hands as it pendulums back toward her.

  They’ve been at it for a good ten minutes now, and her arms are getting tired. She can smell the chlorine from her swim wafting from her skin. She wouldn’t mind jumping back into the water. Funny, because earlier, she was chilly in the pool and couldn’t wait to get out.

  But it’s warm here in the open field with the sun high overhead.

  And her nerves are on edge.

  Even a vigorous swim didn’t ease the tension gnawing away at her. Tension because of Nick—and because, back at the house earlier, she could have sworn someone was lurking in the backyard.

  She knows what she saw—for a split second, anyway. She knows what she felt—a pair of eyes on her.

  Yet who’s to say whether her own mind conjured both the shadow—a trick of the light?—and the sensation? Would it be that surprising, under the circumstances?

  It might be more surprising to find that someone had actually been out there.

  Imagine—a garden-variety Peeping Tom in Glenhaven Park. Ludicrous.

  About as ludicrous as it is for her to be here with the kids, like it’s just an ordinary summer’s day. But she’s got to keep them busy, at least, until she knows more about Nick.

  She’s almost found herself wishing Beth would show up. If she does, Lauren has every intention of putting her pride aside and questioning her about Nick’s whereabouts.

  That she isn’t here doesn’t bode well.

  “Higher, Mommy!”

  She gives the swing another push and Sadie giggles, soaring toward the clear blue sky once again.

  “I can’t wait until he’s that age.”

  Lauren turns to see a man strapping a chubby, bald baby into one of the harness swings on the adjacent bar.

  “Higher!” Sadie screeches, descending again.

  “Sometimes I wish she were that age,” Lauren replies, indicating her daughter and then the baby.

  “Really? How come?”

  “Mommy! Higher!” Sadie demands. “Higher!”

  “Guess.” Lauren smiles wryly, and the dad laughs.

  The dad? How do you know he’s a dad?

  She sneaks a sidewise look at him. Baggy khaki cargo shorts, five o’clock shadow, a bit of a gut, baseball cap, boat shoes without socks—yep. He’s a dad, taking the week off from a corporate job, no doubt.

  Then again, he might be an uncle. Or a manny. Trilby says lots of local women are hiring male sitters for their sons.

  “I’d get a manny for my boys if Bob weren’t such a jealous type,” she once told Lauren.

  “Bob probably wouldn’t be a jealous type if you weren’t such a flirt,” Lauren returned with a grin.

  “True. Can you imagine having a strapping young manny around the house?”

  Lauren couldn’t imagine it, no.

  She sneaks another peek at the guy pushing the baby on the swing. He’s not exactly strapping—nor particularly young. Early forties, she’d guess.

  He sees her looking. “So you’re saying I should be glad my son can’t talk, is that it?”

  His son. So she was right the first time. He is a dad.

  “Enjoy it while it lasts,” she advises, appreciating the momentary distraction of casual conversation. “Once they start talking, they don’t stop—unless they’re thirteen, and you need information from them. Then it’s like they took the vow of silence and will be shot if they speak.”

  �
��What kind of information do you need?”

  “Is the party going to be chaperoned? Who drank the rest of the milk and put the empty carton back into the fridge? You know—that sort of thing.”

  He laughs. “I don’t need that kind of information yet. But I do need to know other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, is something hurting you or are you just screaming for the hell of it?”

  “Oh, right. I remember those days. Trust me, after three kids, I know the answer is usually B, I’m just screaming for the hell of it.”

  He laughs again. Wow, she’s on a roll.

  “So you have three kids?”

  She nods and indicates Sadie. “She’s my youngest.”

  “He’s my only.”

  “One is good. One is outnumbered.”

  “Not exactly.”

  Hmm. A single dad?

  “You know,” he goes on, looking around, “I kind of expected this playground and the pool to be more of a happening place.”

  “It usually is, but it’s August. The town is empty right now—everyone’s on vacation. Are you new here?”

  He nods. “We just moved into a house over on Castle Lane.”

  “Really? That’s the next street over from me. I’m on Elm.”

  “You know the three-story stone house on the corner of Castle and Second?”

  She nods, impressed. “The one with the portico? That’s an amazing house.” A mansion, really. Interesting, because this guy doesn’t strike her as fabulously wealthy.

  “It’s an architectural masterpiece,” he agrees. “Our place is four doors down on the opposite side.”

  “Really? Then you must be right in my backyard.”

  “What does your house look like?”

  “A dark yellow Queen Anne.”

  “I think I’ve seen it through the trees out back. I’m in the dumpy white Cape with the puke green shutters.”

  She laughs.

  “Ah, finally.”

  “Finally what?”

  “You’re laughing. You seemed so serious, like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

  If only he knew.

  “I was hoping to make you laugh—even if it is at my poor little house.”

  “Actually, I haven’t even seen your house. I mean, I never go down that street, believe it or not.”