Live to Tell

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “You have quite the vocabulary there, Miss Sadie,” Sam comments.

  “I’m pretty sure she’s quoting the commercial,” Lauren tells him. “Not that she isn’t brilliant, of course.”

  “Of course. My son is also brilliant, mind you. Although he’s not quoting commercials yet. But he did find his feet.”

  “Ah, the first sign of extraordinary intelligence.”

  “So they say. Oops, there’s my cell.” Sam pulls his vibrating phone from his pocket and looks at it. “Excuse me for a second.”

  “Sure.” Lauren fights the urge to smooth her hair as he steps away. Chlorine-stiff and air-dried after her swim, it hasn’t seen a brush in a few hours. She wishes she was wearing something other than a pair of shorts and T-shirt that have seen better days.

  “Mommy, can we go?” Sadie asks impatiently.

  “In a minute.”

  Lauren sneaks a peek at Sam’s basket. It holds a loaf of white bread, a six-pack of beer, a box of Entenmann’s donuts. Bachelor food.

  She hears him say, “I’m in a store, can I call you back?…Yeah, give me two minutes.”

  He hangs up and covers the short distance back to her. “Sorry—that was work.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a consultant. I’ll tell you more next time I see you. Gotta take off now.”

  “Sure. Take care.”

  “You too. Hey, why don’t you give me your number so I can call you sometime?”

  “Sure.” Her stomach flutters. “Um, do you have something to write with?”

  “No. Do you?”

  She searches through her bag, conscious that her hands are shaking. She can’t help it. It’s been years since a man asked her for her phone number.

  That Sam Henning even requested it is an unexpected pleasure. That she finds herself wanting him to have it—and use it—is shocking.

  “Sorry—I don’t have a pen,” she tells him.

  “No worries. Just call me.”

  “I… I don’t have your number.”

  He grins. “No, I mean my cell. Right now. I’ll tell you the number and you dial it, and then you’ll have it in your phone and I’ll have yours in mine.”

  “Mommy, can we buy these?” Sadie again, with a box of Cheez-Its.

  “Hang on a second, sweetie. Okay, what’s the number?”

  Lauren dials it in as Sam tells her, then hits send. His phone rings promptly.

  He answers it—standing two feet away from her and smiling into her eyes. “Hello?”

  “Hi, is Sam there, please?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Sam, it’s Lauren Walsh.”

  “Lauren! It’s good to hear from you. I’ve been wondering how you are.”

  “Pretty good, Sam, pretty good. And you?”

  “Mommy! He’s right there!”

  Lauren looks down at Sadie, sees the exasperated expression on her daughter’s face. Clearly, she’s not thrilled by the flirtation.

  The spell is broken.

  “Bye, Sam,” Lauren says abruptly into the phone.

  “Bye, Lauren.”

  They hang up.

  “Mommy, can I have these?”

  “Hmm?” Lauren gives a little wave at Sam. He waves back and walks away.

  “Mommy!”

  Lauren turns to Sadie and the box of crackers, but out of the corner of her eye, she watches Sam until he disappears around the end of the aisle.

  “Elsa! There you are.” Brett puts aside his newspaper and rises from his leather recliner. He’s changed out of his suit into a pink polo shirt, madras shorts, and loafers. A martini glass sits on the table beside him.

  Ordinarily, Elsa mixes his drink for him, and pours a glass of wine for herself—an evening tradition begun long before Jeremy came along.

  For a few years after their son went missing, Elsa didn’t drink at all—and Brett drank too much. At some point, though, they settled back into the civilized nightly routine.

  “I tried to call you,” Brett tells her, crossing the room to place a perfunctory kiss on her cheek.

  “I’m sorry… I heard it ring but I couldn’t get to it in time.” And so the lies begin.

  Hadn’t she just been thinking of telling him the truth?

  But it’s so much harder, now that they’re face-to-face.

  Brett Cavalon is an imposing man—tall, handsome, distinguished, accomplished, brilliant. At twenty-one, she met him in New York and fell in love with him at first sight. Miraculously, he was equally smitten, and Elsa began to fantasize about something she’d never imagined for herself: marriage and children in a world far from the glamorous runways, showrooms, and avenues of Manhattan’s fashion industry.

  She’d never dreamed about a domestic happily-ever-after because she’d never seen it, thus never believed in it. Raised by a single mother who’d been an industry icon in her own right, Elsa had inherited her mother’s incredible beauty—and, until she met Brett, her single-minded ambition.

  “It’ll never last,” her mother warned her when she got engaged.

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because nothing worthwhile ever does.”

  At the time, Elsa hated her mother for that, certain she was wrong.

  She hates her still—because she might have been right.

  “Where were you? Shopping?” Settling back into his chair, Brett inadvertently provides Elsa with a viable alibi, and she’s fully prepared to take it.

  But then she hears herself say, “No. Not shopping.”

  “No? Where were you, then?”

  Should she or shouldn’t she?

  She probably shouldn’t, but she does.

  “I went to Boston.”

  About to sip his drink, he looks up sharply.

  “I saw Mike Fantoni.”

  Brett hesitates a moment longer, then raises the glass to his lips. Elsa perches on the edge of the sofa, waiting.

  “Why?” he asks at last, setting down the martini, now half empty.

  Or half full, as the cliché goes, depending on one’s philosophy.

  Before Jeremy, Elsa was a glass-full kind of woman. And now…

  “I want closure, Brett, if nothing else. Don’t you?”

  He’s silent for a minute.

  Then he asks, “Why now?”

  “It’s not just now. I’ve always wanted—”

  “No, I know, but why all of a sudden are you getting in touch with Mike Fantoni again, going to see him? What’s changed?”

  “Being back here, in New England—it’s brought back so many memories. It’s like we’ve come full circle, but we’re no closer to knowing what happened to him than we were when we left.”

  “Chances are we’re never going to know. Why can’t you accept that, Elsa?”

  “Why can you?” she returns. “I feel like you’ve given up. I feel like you gave up years ago.”

  “You know that’s not true. You know I’ve done everything in my power to get him back, from day one.”

  Yes, Brett was just as involved, initially. But somewhere along the line, he drifted back to the real world, the world without Jeremy, leaving Elsa behind.

  Or was it the other way around? Was it Elsa who drifted away, Elsa who left Brett behind?

  “What did Mike say?” Brett asks, after a long moment of silence.

  “He said he’s still looking.”

  “He should be. We’re still paying him. We’ve been paying him for years.”

  “We can afford it.”

  Brett shrugs. “That’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?”

  “Never mind.”

  She wants to tell him the private investigator’s fee is a hell of a lot cheaper than fourteen years’ worth of food and clothing and baseball equipment and college tuition and all the things they’d expected to provide for Jeremy.

  But he knows all that. She’s said it before—and so has he. Just…not in a long time. Years.

 
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going, Elsa?”

  “Because I knew you wouldn’t approve.”

  “You just don’t get it, do you? It’s not that I don’t approve. It’s that I’m trying to protect you. Going down this road again…” He shakes his head, drinks from his martini. “I don’t want to lose you, too.”

  “You won’t. You won’t lose me, Brett, if you let me do what I have to do.”

  He looks at her. Shrugs. “The same is true for me.”

  For a long time, they just look at each other.

  Then Brett sets down the glass, leans toward her, and holds out his hand.

  She hesitates only for a moment. Then she takes it.

  At last alone behind the closed door of the bedroom she shared with Nick, the kids safely tucked in down the hall, Lauren clutches the phone in one hand, a piece of paper containing a scribbled phone number in the other.

  She can’t put it off any longer.

  She dials.

  The phone rings. Rings. Rings.

  “Hi, it’s Beth, I’m out, leave a message.”

  Beep.

  “Beth, hi, it’s Lauren Walsh. The kids have been trying to get in touch with Nick, and I’m wondering if you can have him call them back. Thanks.”

  After uttering the speech she memorized word for word over the course of the last few hours, she hangs up, feeling shaken.

  There.

  Done.

  She exhales through puffed cheeks and goes over to the open window, where a cool breeze stirs the curtains.

  What if Beth calls her back?

  She might, now that Lauren has made an overture. Never mind that she only did it because she’s been backed into a corner. Beth might decide the two of them should talk.

  But that’s not what I want. Not in a million years.

  All I want is to know where Nick is, and that he’s okay. For the kids’ sake.

  Hearing a telltale rustling in the boughs beyond the screen, she wonders if the rain that’s been threatening all evening is about to roll in at last.

  Flipping off the lamp, she peers outside. Most of the neighboring houses have darkened windows. In a bucolic town like Glenhaven Park, no one bothers to leave lights on timers when they go on vacation.

  Elm Street is deserted in the glow of the streetlamps. No strange shadows or Peeping Toms tonight.

  Lauren tries not to think about what happened to her in the kitchen, when she thought she saw someone out there in the yard. No reason to get spooked by that now. It was her imagination, right?

  Right.

  And it was Sadie’s imagination that someone was prowling around her room, too, she tells herself firmly.

  But if it wasn’t…

  A chill slithers down Lauren’s back.

  She’s done her best to make as light of Sadie’s suspicion as she has of her own. Lauren helped her make several “Keep Out” signs before bed and taped them up outside her room. That seems to have helped, because Sadie has actually stayed in her own room so far tonight. She’s probably worn out from all that swimming—not to mention all the worry, and the visit to the psychiatrist.

  Thunder rumbles in the distance.

  Nick always loved to fall asleep listening to the rain, Lauren finds herself remembering—and then wondering, like a teenage girl with a crush, about Sam Henning.

  Does he like the rain?

  She wonders what he’s doing now, just a block away over on Castle Lane. If she were Lucy’s age, she might find an excuse to call him, or even walk by his house. But he lives on a dead end street, and she’s not Lucy’s age; she’s a grown woman with more baggage than a 747, and there is no way she’s going to get into another relationship—even if someone was interested in her.

  Which Sam seems to be, though God only knows why.

  Pushing Sam—and, for that matter, Nick and Beth—from her mind, she turns away from the window and flips the light on again.

  There. That’s better. She climbs into bed with the new issue of People magazine she’d thrown into her cart at the checkout line earlier. She figured some fluffy reading might help to take her mind off her problems, but now she finds herself absently flipping pages, listening to the rain and thinking about Sam Henning.

  When she hears her cell phone buzz with an incoming text, the first thought that pops into her head is, It’s him! Sam!

  Who else would it be? Not Beth. She wouldn’t text…would she? No, and besides, she wouldn’t have Lauren’s cell number…would she?

  No. No way.

  God, I hope not.

  Lucy and Ryan occasionally text her, but they’re both home tonight.

  Lauren leans over the bedside table, where the phone is plugged into the charger.

  We need to talk. Meet me at my place tomorrow at noon.

  Whoa! Talk about forward. Does Sam Henning actually think she—

  Oh.

  It’s not from Sam at all.

  It’s from Nick.

  “This is absolutely insane,” Garvey hisses into the phone, having snatched it up on the first ring. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “What do you mean where have I been? In Glenhaven Park, looking for the file.”

  “And the reason I haven’t heard from you in two days is because you haven’t found it yet.”

  “Right.”

  He slams his elbow down onto his desk and plunks his forehead into his hand, kneading his temples. It’s late, and he’s exhausted. Coming home from a charity benefit a half hour ago, he’d been tempted to go down the hall to his bedroom and climb into bed beside Marin.

  Instead, he forced himself to settle into his home office to go over some paperwork—and it’s a good thing. This is one phone call he needs to be wide-awake to handle.

  “I thought you said you knew where it was,” he says succinctly into the phone.

  “I thought I did. I mean, I think I do. I just need a little more time to pinpoint it. You’d be proud of me, Garvey. I’ve managed to work myself right in like a chameleon. They have no idea that I don’t belong there. Sooner or later, I’m going to get close enough to—”

  “Sooner or later?” Garvey cuts in. “There is no later—there’s only too late. And sooner can’t come soon enough. Stop playing charades, do you hear me? I need that file and I need it now.”

  “Now? But—”

  “You have until tomorrow. That’s it. Twenty-four hours, and then…”

  There’s a long moment of silence on the other end of the line.

  Then Garvey hears a heavy sigh, followed by a resigned “Okay.”

  With a crisp nod to himself, he hangs up.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” he whispers, pounding his hand softly on the polished mahogany desktop with each utterance.

  He should have known better.

  He did know better.

  The only way to get something done right is to do it yourself. Don’t you ever forget that, Garvey.

  Why, why hadn’t he listened to his grandmother? To his own conscience?

  Because you were afraid. Admit it. You were afraid that if you got involved directly, you’d get caught. You thought it was much safer to keep your distance, to rely on someone else to do the dirty work…just like before. With Jeremy.

  That turned out fine.

  This will, too.

  It has to.

  Sitting on her bed, Lauren holds the cell phone with Nick’s text message in one hand and the cordless phone to her ear with her other.

  On the other end of the line, her sister says, “I think he’s up to something, texting you out of the blue after pulling a disappearing act like that—and right after you leave a message for his girlfriend.”

  “What could he possibly be up to?”

  “He obviously has something big to tell you. Something so serious that he blew off work—not to mention the kids—just to do some soul-searching about it.”

  “Right. Something that warrants a face-to-face meeting—at his place, no less
.”

  “So are you going?”

  “No way.”

  “I think that’s a mistake, Laur.”

  “Why? He’s probably going to tell me he’s getting married again. I don’t need to hear that in person. He can send me a lovely announcement in the mail. Who knows, maybe I’ll even be invited to the wedding.” She tries to come off as glib, but she’s feeling far from it.

  “I doubt it’s going to be that,” Alyssa tells her. “Maybe it’s something serious about his job or his health or something.”

  “Well, unless they fired him for not showing up on Monday, his job is fine. You’re not thinking he’s dying of cancer or something, are you?”

  “His father did.”

  “I know.” Lauren exhales through puffed cheeks. The thought of her children losing their father is sobering. Then again, they already did their share of mourning when he moved out. Nothing is the same. And for as much as they’ve seen him lately, their day-to-day lives wouldn’t be drastically different if something were to happen to Nick.

  Still…

  “I honestly hope he’s not sick,” she tells Alyssa.

  “I really doubt it. I bet I know what it is.”

  “What?”

  “Bet you anything he wants to come home again.”

  Lauren is silent for a minute. Then she forces a laugh. “That’s about as appealing as cancer.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I don’t want him back, Alyssa. And I doubt he wants me back, so…”

  “I think you’re wrong.”

  “Really?”

  “He wants you back, Lauren. Trust me.”

  It figures.

  Just when she’s gotten used to being on her own…

  Just when she’s met someone she might actually want to date…

  Nick barges back into her life, demanding her attention.

  “What if he tells her he made a mistake when he left?” Alyssa asks.

  “He won’t. Are you kidding?”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Ignore him,” Lauren informs her sister.

  They chat for a few more minutes. Then Alyssa tells her, “I’ve got to get going. Ben just got out of the shower and we were going to watch CSI.”

  “That’s on?”

  “DVD. I got him a box set for our anniversary. We’ve been working our way through it all summer. I’ll call you tomorrow.”