Dorothy-Anne's expression did not alter, but her face went chalky. It's strange. Even if you know what's coming, you're still never prepared to actually hear it verbalized.
When she finally spoke, her voice was hushed. 'How . . . how did it happen?'
'That can't be determined yet. First we have to find the flight recorder, the so-called black box. Also, the NTSB is flying in a team to mount an investigation.'
'When will they recover the—'
She couldn't go on, and shut her eyes in pain.
'With luck,' he said, 'as soon as tomorrow.'
She opened her eyes. 'You'll let me know? So I can see him?'
He tightened his thin lips. 'I . . . I really don't think that's . . . er .. . advisable, ma'am.'
Dorothy-Anne stared at him. 'What are you saying?'
He stood there awkwardly, uncomfortably twisting his hat left and right and left, as though steering along a zigzagging road.
'I see,' she whispered faintly.
So it was that bad. We can't even see him one last time. We can't even say our last good-byes.
Captain Friendly tried to comfort her. 'If it's any consolation, ma'am, death was instantaneous.'
But was it instantaneous? Dorothy-Anne could only wonder. What about before the actual crash itself? Were Freddie and the crew alive as the plane dove down, down... who knows how many miles, and for how long, down . . . ?
'Daddy!' blurted Zack with a bursting, convulsive sob. 'D-Did . . . did . . . '
Dorothy-Anne felt an unbearable stab of agony shoot through her. What was it about a child's piercing cry that shatters a mother's heart?
'Did Daddy scream?'
'Oh, sweetie,' Dorothy-Anne said thickly. Turning around, she looked at his quivering lips and huge, hurt eyes and wished, too late, that she had seen Captain Friendly in private. That way she could at least have spared the children the worst of the shock. She might even have managed to find a way to break the news more gently.
As if there was such a way.
'Did he?' Zack demanded in defiant outrage. 'Did he scream?'
Dorothy-Anne reached out, wrapped her arms around him, and pressed his anxious, hyperventilating face against her breast. She rocked him back and forth.
'I'm sure Daddy didn't have a chance to scream,' she soothed. 'Did he, Captain?'
She turned her head and looked beseechingly at Captain Friendly.
'N-no,' he said hoarsely. 'It happened so fast he couldn't have screamed . . . or even known what was happening.'
She nodded gratefully, her eyes bright with held-back tears.
Quickly he looked away, unable to hold her gaze any longer.
He knows. He knows they must have been alive as the plane plummeted down.
The terror inside that cabin was beyond comprehension.
A mile is 5,280feet. If an object falls at the rate of twenty feet per second, that makes two minutes and two seconds of unadulterated horror.
An unimaginable lifetime.
Her flesh had gone icy. She kept wanting to break down and howl, yet she fought it, not wanting to share her grief with a stranger.
Pulling herself together, she said, 'I realize how difficult and thankless this errand must be, Captain. I'm sorry to have caused you so much bother.'
'It's no bother at all, ma'am.'
'And I've been very lax,' she said. 'Can I offer you some refreshment? Coffee or tea? Perhaps something a little more bracing?'
He shook his head. 'No, ma'am. But thanks all the same. If there's anything—'
'We'll be fine, Captain.'
'Well . . . if you're positive . . . ' he said hesitantly.
'I am.
'Well, then, I guess I'll be on my way, ma'am. You have my most sincere condolences.'
'Thank you, Captain. And thank you for coming.'
He stood there awkwardly, trying to think of something else to say, but came up empty. 'Good-bye, Mrs. Cantwell,' he said.
'Good-bye, Captain Friendly. You're a very nice man.'
Still holding Zack's face against her breast, Dorothy-Anne watched Mrs. Plunkett escort him out. Only once he was gone did she, the children, and Venetia instinctively seek the warmth of each other's arms, hugging each other fiercely in a joint embrace.
And it was then that the floodgates opened and their grief poured forth.
It was official. Freddie was dead.
18
Gray skies. Chill wind. Rain in the air.
Christos Zzzyonopoulos hopped off the bus at Jackson, crossed Van Ness, and proceeded to hike uphill, purposely leaving two blocks between himself and Broadway—a precaution in case Gloria Winslow happened to drive by. This was her neck of the woods, and he'd rather she didn't see him and get the idea he was there to case her real estate. Which he was. But why take unnecessary risks?
Why indeed.
Nonetheless, it was necessity, not curiosity, that prompted this trek. Matching a mark with her domicile was essential in ascertaining that she was the real McCoy. He'd learned that the hard way in Miami, where he'd zeroed in on Marife, a Spanish lady with big bazooms and a blue Rolls Corniche.
Their relationship ended when he woke up one morning and found she'd taken a powder—along with his gold Rolex and his ten-thousand- dollar stash.
Guess who'd been conning whom.
A subsequent trace of the Rolls's license plate led to Marife's employer, a Palm Beach divorcee who'd returned from Europe to find her silver missing, her Corniche dented, and her maid gone.
Talk about adding insult to injury. He'd targeted an heiress and ended up romancing a freakin' maid!
Worse, she'd cleaned him out. Completely. Christos had yet to recover from his loss. It was as if Marife had put a hex on him. Maybe that explained why his life had gone downhill ever since.
Because it took money to make money, dammit! Without some cash to flash, his overtures were instantly suspect.
The ladies he hit upon were not impressed. They could smell desperation from a mile away.
Then came the last straw—a midnight visit from the repo man.
Deciding a change of scenery was in order, Christos hitchhiked west, meeting and hooking up with Amber along the way. Their destination: sunny southern California. However, a ride headed for the Bay Area— and a severe shortage of cash—necessitated an unplanned stopover.
So here they were. In foggy, chilly northern California. Barely scraping by.
Meanwhile, the unplanned stopover had stretched into six months.
And then yesterday, clear out of the blue—whammo! He'd found a live one—or rather, she'd stumbled across him. More amazing yet, all his instincts told him he'd struck pay dirt.
Maybe his luck was finally changing. It was about time!
But once burned, twice shy. After Marife, Christos had stopped taking anyone at face value. Which was why he'd just come from City Hall, where he'd done a property title search.
The address had presented no problem. He'd gotten that, along with Gloria's name, off her driver's license while she'd been using the john.
Discovering that the property wasn't owned by Gloria, but by one Althea Magdalena Netherland Winslow, didn't deter. At least it was in the Winslow family.
Still, it behooved him to check out Gloria's digs for himself.
On he walked. Franklin, Gough, Octavia . . . Webster, Fillmore, Steiner.
Holy shit! he thought. He knew Pacific Heights was swanky, but the farther west he walked, the freakin' bigger the houses got! He couldn't believe the size of those places!
Divisadero, Broderick, Baker. He made a right, wishing he could do his recon by drive-by. It was a lot easier to remain anonymous in a car than it was on foot.
Fine time to be without wheels, he thought sardonically.
He reminded himself that it was merely a temporary inconvenience. So long as he played his cards right—and he held a winning hand, he could smell it—he'd soon be sitting behind the wheel of a brand-new Mercedes.
A sporty silver 500SL. Or, at the very least, a nifty red Mustang convertible. A GT, with mag wheels and tan leather bucket seats.
Until then he'd have to bus it and walk. Hey, a little exercise never hurt anybody. It helped keep him trim and fit. His body was his fortune, right?
Damn right. It behooved him to stay in prime shape.
Pacific. Broadway. And there it was—
'Hot damn! ' he breathed aloud, coming to a dead halt.
One mother of a mansion set on half a city block of manicured sloping lawn. A great white palace with a sweet tooth's architectural predictions: all turn-of-the-century pilasters and cornices and two stories of pedimented French windows. A freakin' Versailles!
So this is what Gloria Winslow calls home, he thought. This is where, right this very minute, she could be taking a bath or counting her money and getting waited on hand and foot. Hopefully remembering her date with yours truly later in the afternoon . . .
Quickly, before he attracted undue attention to himself, he turned around and strode back the way he had come. His mind was spinning out of orbit.
One thing was for sure. The Winslows had greenbacks coming out their ears.
And another thing. Gloria Winslow was one lady he wasn't about to let slip through his fingers. No, sirree, Bob. She was his future. His one-way ticket to Paradise.
And it would be first class all the way!
Christos! In the gilded prison of her half of the mansion, Gloria repeated his name silently to herself throughout the morning and early afternoon. She obsessed on him; he was all she could think of.
Was it really possible that they'd met only yesterday, that they'd shared but a few stolen hours? And yet that brief encounter had swollen to monumental importance in her life.
Christos, Christos. His name, chanted mentally like a mantra, was a sunbeam bringing warmth and light into the joyless mausoleum of luxury she inhabited, to the icy, lifeless luxury to which she was shackled: the Winslow billions, that inexorably insensate and pitiless pile of cold, hard cash.
Christos. Somehow, his presence in her life changed her perception of that fortune, reduced it from some awesome, unimaginably powerful but unseen abstract force into something far less mighty and manageable.
And with that realization came a multitude of others. It was as if her eyes had suddenly been opened and she could see, really see.
For the first time in years, she noticed—truly noticed—the fine view through the living room's tall French doors. She stood in front of one and lingered, her admiring gaze traveling downhill, past the enviable expanse of sharply sloped manicured lawn, the staggered rooftops of the mansions clinging to the side of the hill below, the whiteness of the houses down in the flatlands of the marina, where the small craft harbor sailboats and cabin cruisers, buffeted by the winds of the approaching storm, heaved in agitation.
It was a magical moment, a moment to be cherished, to be shared with somebody—but not just anybody; no. With that somebody special; yes, with Christos! A moment so achingly beautiful that seeing it alone made her want to weep.
There was a discreet knock; a polite cough.
'Mrs. Winslow?' The butler's voice intruded on Gloria's aura of well- being sent her thoughts scattering like so many sparks.
Gloria turned around in annoyance. 'Oh, what is it now, Roddy?' she asked in a vexed tone.
The butler crossed the huge room, his face impassive.
'Mr. Winslow's publicist telephoned, madam.' If Roddy found it embarrassing to act as go-between for husband and wife, he was careful never to let on.
Gloria sighed. 'Do tell,' she said archly, 'what message did the estimable Ms. Beckett ask you to pass along?'
'That Mr. Winslow would be flying back from Sacramento late this afternoon, madam. His estimated time of arrival is five o'clock. Ms. Beckett said to remind you that the visit to the Senior Citizens' Center in Burlingame is at six-thirty.'
Damn, Gloria thought. I forgot about that one.
'Also, the political fund-raising dinner at the Legion of Honor is at nine. Due to the tight scheduling, I was specifically asked to convey that Mr. Winslow would . . . er . . . appreciate leaving here at five-thirty sharp.'
How typical! thought Gloria sourly. Not only does it take two intermediaries to pass along a command—for that's what it amounts to—but naturally, I'm expected to twitch and jerk like a marionette, jumping whenever Hunt pulls a string.
'Is there anything else?' she asked coldly.
'No, madam.' Roddy's face was an impenetrable mask.
'No call from the other Mrs. Winslow?' she asked in surprise. Telling me how I should look. What I should say.
'No, madam.'
Well, what do you know? Miracle of miracles.
'If she does call, you're to tell her I'm out. Is that understood?'
'Quite, madam.'
'Also, have the car waiting out front at three. I have some last-minute shopping to do.'
'Very well, madam.'
'Thank you, Roddy,' Gloria said dismissively, in an unconscious imitation of her mother-in-law. 'That will be all.'
'Thank you, madam,' he said, leaving the room and shutting the double doors behind him.
Gloria sighed to herself. Reality. It would have to intrude. Now it had taken the shine off her day.
Or had it?
There was no law that said she had to cut short her rendezvous with Christos, was there? And anyway, it would do Hunt some good to keep him waiting, letting him stew.
Besides, she thought with contempt, why should I rush? Those dreary senior citizens aren't going anywhere. Make them wait. What else do they have to do, except mark time?
That decided, Gloria instantly felt her spirits lift.
Christos! She wanted him so badly she could taste it, just as, yesterday, she had tasted him. Sucking and licking; consuming his burning flesh as he had consumed hers.
In a few hours they would be tearing their clothes off each other, and she would be drowning in pleasures, swept away on tidal waves of magnificent release.
Forgotten now was Hunt's third-hand message; her so-called duties that everyone took for granted she'd docilely perform.
Well, were they in for a big surprise!
Visions of Christos dancing in her head, Gloria hummed softly to herself and waltzed around the room, heedless of her alcohol-induced stumbles. Now more things, little things previously taken for granted, captured her notice. The lavish arrangement of pink parrot tulips and full-blown white roses, for one.
Pausing, she did something she hadn't done in years. Bent her face into a rose and drew a deep breath, shutting her eyes as she inhaled the sweet, heady fragrance, understanding, once and for all, what it was that bees sought inside those precious petals.
The same thing Christos seeks in the blossom between my legs, she thought pleasurably. I am his stamen. He is my pistil. Together we are as one.
She and Christos. They had arranged to meet at three-thirty.
Gloria could hardly wait.
Amber flew to the door and had it open before Christos could turn his key in the lock. He was soaked to the skin; water dripped off him in puddles.
'Aw, man!' she exclaimed, backing away from him in disgust. 'You're all wet!'
He thought: This is the way I get welcomed back to this dump?
'No shit, Sherlock.' He yanked his key out of the lock and tossed it on the dinette table, where it landed with a clatter. 'Case ya haven't noticed, babe, it's rainin' cats an' dogs.'
He kicked the door shut with his heel. Reached behind him and slammed the bolt home. Then shook his head like a wet dog, sending droplets of water flying in all directions.
Amber squealed, slapping at the cold drops landing on her arms as if they were live bugs.
Christos grabbed a dish towel from the one-unit kitchenette and proceeded to rub his hair furiously.
'Hon' bunch?' Amber's voice took on a reproachful, childish whine. 'You was s'posed to be back hours ago.
Where've you been all this time? I was startin' to think you took a powder.'
Head cocked to one side, Christos stopped drying his hair and contemplated her with one baleful eye. Jeez! Just what he needed—the freakin' Inquisition!
'Amb? Where'd I say I was goin'?' He tried for patience, but it came out sounding testy. Too bad: how many times had he told her to stifle the wifely noises?
Amber scratched her bare belly—a fidgety, nervous reaction. She was wearing skin-tight Guess? jeans and a sleeveless, faded pink T-shirt cut off at midriff, which exposed her navel and accentuated her flat, boyish breasts, prominent shoulder blades, and fragile thinness. 'To check out the woman?' she replied hesitantly, as if unsure of supplying the right answer.
Einstein she wasn't, but her exotic dancing kept them from starvation. Just.
'If you knew that, then why're ya bustin' my balls?' he groused.
She sulked, waiflike eyes huge with hurt. It made her look like one of those cheap, mass-produced paintings sold in malls. 'And?' she asked tentatively.
He tossed the drenched towel on the floor, shed his wet jacket, added it to the growing pile, and started unbuttoning his soaked shirt. 'And what?' he asked.
She fidgeted and shrugged. Popped a wad of gum. Drew aside her curtain of long, limp black hair with her index fingers and looped it carefully behind her ears. 'You know . . . ' she prompted.
'I do?'
'Yeah.' Her hesitant smile quivered on and off.
He stripped off his shirt, then his T-shirt, and after kicking off his Westerns, began to divest himself of his trousers. 'What do I look like? Jeanne fuckin' Dixon?'
'Christos!' Her tone became wheedling. 'You're holdin' out on me!'
He looked at her, his lips drawing back over his lupine teeth in a smile. 'Now why would I wanna do that?' he asked. 'Huh, babe?'
'I dunno.' Amber gave a sullen shrug, fished a mangled pack of cigarettes out of her rear pocket, and stuck one in her mouth. She flicked her Bic, dipped the cigarette into it, and dragged deeply. 'So whatcha find out?' She exhaled the smoke from her mouth and drew it right back up through her nostrils. 'About the woman. She loaded, or what?'
Second Love Page 17
