by Nancy Moser
They’d had this discussion before. “You’re not—”
“I am.” Brandy looked up the stairs a second time.
“Is she passed out?”
She nodded. “Finally.” She sank onto the bottom step. “I wish I were brave enough to leave. For good.”
Lane put an arm around her friend. “You’re the bravest person I know.”
They sat in silence a moment.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Lane.”
Though the lure of Hollywood still pulled, Lane discovered the feeling was mutual. Maybe everything had worked out for the best.
Bangor—1958
It was all Millie’s fault.
The same file sat in front of David, showing the same empty page. His mug of coffee was full and cold. And no matter where he tried to look, his eyes kept returning to the key sitting on top of his flip calendar. Luring him. Mocking him. Holding secrets he desperately wanted—
“Mr. Stancowsky?”
He looked up and saw Dina standing in front of his desk holding a plate. How long had she been there, watching him watch the key with a 24 on it?
He sat back, putting distance between him and this taunter. “Yes, Miss Edmonds?”
She set the plate on his desk. On it was a piece of cake. “I made this for you,” she said. “It’s carrot cake. Yesterday when we were talking about menus, you mentioned how much you like it, saying it had been a long time…”
“How nice of you.”
She glanced at his coffee. “Would you like me to freshen that for you?”
“That would be great.” He moved the file to the side and zeroed in on the cake. Maybe some sugar would give him a jump start. Dina returned with a steaming mug. “You’re too good to me, Miss Edmonds.”
“Nonsense. You make it easy. I’m very happy to be here, to be of some help.”
He was reminded of her short tenure. What was it now? A month? “So you like working here?”
“I like working for you.”
The distinction was slight, but it created an awkward silence—and a blush on her part. “I’m here to stay, Mr. Stancowsky. I’m very loyal to those I respect and admire.”
Surely he was imagining the undertone of her words. She was his secretary. She wasn’t even that pretty. Besides, he was engaged—to the boss’s daughter.
“Is that a locker key?” she asked, pointing to the key sitting on the calendar.
Locker key? He picked it up, looking at it with new eyes. “I don’t know. Is it? I… I found it.”
“May I?” He handed it over. “It looks like the keys they have for the lockers at the bus station. I used one once when I first moved here and needed a place to keep my suitcases for a bit.”
She handed it back, and he turned the 24 over and over.
“If you’d like me to go over there and turn it in, I’d be happy—”
“No. Thank you.” He set the key down and took up his fork. “But thank you for the cake. It’s very good. That will be all.”
He didn’t look at her face to see if she looked disappointed. He had enough to think about.
David had never been in the Bangor bus station. There’d been no need. One did not drive a new Bonneville and take public transportation.
He spotted a band of lockers against a wall. His heart pounded as he closed in on number 24.
It was a large locker. Large enough to hold a piece of luggage. His hand shook as he aimed the key at the lock, and he was tempted to stop and walk away. Ignorance was bliss.
Ignorance is stupidity.
Call him many things, but never stupid.
He turned the key and opened the door. Inside was a medium-sized suitcase, marbleized ivory in color, along with a matching overnight case. They each had luggage tags. He looked at one of them. The name was Tracy Osgood, and the only address was a post office box in New York City.
Why would Millie have the key to a locker containing a New York woman’s suitcases?
He was about to shut the locker, when an awful, niggling feeling came over him. He removed the overnight case and set it on a bench nearby. It was unlocked. The contents were not unexpected. In the top removable tray were a pink plastic hairbrush, comb, and mirror; toiletries; some pins and matching earrings; and makeup. Underneath were lingerie and some hair curlers.
Then it happened. When he put the tray back he noticed the compact. It was gold with an initial on it.
Not a T for Tracy but an M.
He sank onto the bench and pulled the case to his lap. He rummaged through it roughly, looking for more. More what, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t recognize the lingerie, but that wasn’t surprising considering the limits Millie had set on their relationship.
But in a small pocket on the side he found a wad of money: $280. And within the folds of the bills was a driver’s license issued to Tracy Osgood: five-foot-four, one hundred twelve pounds, brown hair, brown eyes.
No. No.
He shoved the case aside and yanked out the big suitcase, opening it right there on the floor. Inside was a blue sweater set he’d given Millie for her birthday, a red plaid dress he’d seen her wear a thousand times… clothes he knew. Clothes he had felt against his hands as he’d held her. He pulled the sweater to his face and inhaled. “Evening in Paris.” Millie’s scent.
He closed his eyes, nearly sick with the smell.
An old man carrying a broom came close. “You okay, mister?”
“Leave me alone!”
David’s voice echoed in the large room. People looked at him. They whispered behind their hands. He looked at the man, who’d backed away. “Sorry. I’m fine.”
The man nodded but looked unconvinced.
David had to finish this—whatever this was. He tore through the rest of the belongings. He found a metal music box, whose lid came off revealing a dusting of powder and a pink powder puff; two books: Gone with the Wind and Wuthering Heights; and a small photo album.
He opened it, only to find pictures of Millie and her parents. Millie and her friends. A picture of the Reynolds’ house. Her high school. Her favorite park. Old pictures of grandparents long gone. Noticeably absent were any pictures of David. He kept flipping the pages, hoping the chronology of her life would place him at the back, on the final page. The climax.
But when he got to the back page, there was a snapshot of Millie with another man. Her teacher with the red curly hair. Smiling. His arm around her waist, and hers around his.
He ripped the photo from its corner mounts and started to tear it in two. A half inch in, he stopped. No. This was evidence. He put it in the inner pocket of his suit coat. Then he closed the suitcases and returned them to their hiding place. He strode from the station, the determination of his stride echoing in the hall.
It was a hollow, empty, lonely sound.
David was within a block of the Reynolds home when he slammed on the brakes, mirroring the abrupt stop of his thoughts.
Yes, he desperately wanted to confront Millie with her betrayal. Demand answers. But…
This was bigger than Millie. Bigger than a wedding. His entire future was at stake. If the wedding was off, then his position as the favored son-in-law was off. There was a chance—business talent or no business talent—that he’d be just another employee. Could Ray Reynolds ignore his daughter’s personal life even if it would be best for Mariner Construction?
Maybe. Yet who knew the true power of a heartbroken child on her parents? Suddenly, his future was based on emotion, which made David uncomfortable. In the business world, one plus one always equaled two. Not so with women, love, marriage, and family.
David needed time to think. He turned right and headed out of town. North. Going nowhere in particular.
Going nowhere fast.
Until Mrs. Stephens appeared. “Welcome! Wel—” She stopped. Her eyebrows rose. “Oh. Mr. Stancowsky. What… how are you today?”
He moved to the check-in desk, putting his hands upon it. He needed it for support. “I have to cancel our reservations for May.”
“For your honeymoon?”
The next words didn’t want to come out. To be said out loud would make them real.
She gently put a hand on his. “Did you two have a spat?”
If only they had. A spat could be repaired. A hidden suitcase packed for flight, a driver’s license with a new name… Those things were not fixed with an “I’m sorry.” Or even a “Forgive me.” There was no forgiveness for betrayal.
He slapped a hand on the counter, making her jump. “Just cancel it!” He walked out.
“Of course, Mr. Stancowsky. But I hope things work out…”
He slammed the door.
It was over. It was really over.
David sat in the dark of his house, his hands clamped on the armrests of the chair, his feet flat on the floor. For the ninth time the phone rang. For the ninth time David didn’t answer it. It didn’t matter who it was. Ray, wondering where he’d been all afternoon. Dina, pledging her undying loyalty. Or Millie, wondering—
Wondering what? Had she even missed him when he hadn’t called all day? All evening? When he hadn’t shown up at the Reynolds’ door like a puppy panting for its mistress, had she worried and wondered why? Or had she felt nothing but relief? Good. I have some time without him.
His heart flipped at the knock on the door. He pushed a hand against his chest. He wished he could look out and see who it was without being seen. But that was impossible. Who’d missed him? Who’d been worried? Who’d come to see if he was okay?
Or was it the Fuller Brush man, wanting to sell him a new toilet brush? He stifled a snicker.
The knock repeated itself. A pattern of five instead of three. Then the female voice: “David? Are you in there?”
He said nothing but slowly leaned forward, covered his face with his hands, and waited for Dina Edmonds to go away.
Fifteen
Find rest, O my soul, in God alone;
my hope comes from him.
He alone is my rock and my salvation;
he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.
Psalm 62:5-6
Present-Day Bangor
So much for Dina’s resolve to leave things alone.
Even with the cameras running, with the TV lights bright in her eyes, with the interviewer asking her questions, Dina Edmonds chastised herself for being a chump. Loyal beyond all logic.
But it was too late now. Although this was just a local television station, they’d told her that the network wanted clips of the interview. By the end of the day, the entire nation would know that Mariner Construction did not do shoddy work and Yardley Pruitt was a liar. David would come back the day after tomorrow with his reputation intact.
And his Millie alive.
If he came back at all.
Dina gave her thoughts a mental shake. She couldn’t think about that. Especially not while on TV as the interviewer, Lynn Daniels, was asking her the question that would bring out the truth.
“Ms. Edmonds, you contacted us because of some comments that Yardley Pruitt made regarding your boss, David Stancowsky, and his company, Mariner Construction.” The woman looked at her notes. “Mr. Pruitt stated that David Stancowsky—and I quote—‘built a bank building for me back in the seventies. Did a shoddy job of it, too. If memory serves, we ended up withholding money from him because of the workmanship.’” She looked up. “What would you like to say in regard to Mr. Pruitt’s comments?”
“I have proof that Mr. Pruitt’s memory is faulty. Mariner Construction did an exemplary job on the building, and the money withheld had nothing to do with workmanship. Mr. Pruitt didn’t want to pay for some change orders—that he’d approved. Back in 1976, the issue was handled by our lawyer, Mr. Pruitt realized his error, and he paid us in full.”
“Nineteen seventy-six is a long time ago. You must have had to do a lot of digging for that information.”
“Not really. Though I didn’t initially remember the connection our company had with Mr. Pruitt, as soon as he said something, I remembered—”
“You remembered?”
Dina straightened her spine. “I’ve worked for Mariner Construction for forty-six years, since 1958. I’ve been Mr. Stancowsky’s secretary, office manager, and assistant for that entire time.”
“Your longevity is amazing, Ms. Edmonds. Very few people can make such a claim of loyalty.”
Or is it gullibility and false hopes?
“You must really enjoy working for him.”
Dina was appalled to feel a blush. She looked at her lap. “I do. He’s a good man.” She quickly added, “A good boss.”
The interviewer hesitated the slightest moment. “Are you married, Ms. Edmonds?”
Dina’s radar flipped its ON switch. “No, I’m not. I’ve never been married.”
“And neither has Mr. Stancowsky, correct?”
No, he was obsessed with Millie. She shook her head.
“You’ve been loyal only to each other all these years?”
Suddenly, Dina saw herself on national television with commentators focusing on a sordid love relationship between herself and David, all reports of his company’s reputation pushed aside. She had to stop this. Now.
She sat forward on her chair. “Excuse me, Ms. Daniels, but I resent your implications. There is not, and never has been, any love connection between myself and my employer. For over four decades we have enjoyed a relationship based on hard work, respect, and friendship. I will not have you implying anything more to gain ratings. I will not have Mr. Stancowsky come back to anything hinting of the unsavory.”
Ms. Daniels’s eyes had widened. But she recovered quickly. “What do you think about his ex-fiancée coming forward, saying that she faked her death to get away from him? Since you worked for him back in 1958, did you know Millie?”
Were you jealous of Millie even then?
“Yes, I knew her.”
Ms. Daniels leaned closer. “So you were there when she supposedly died?”
Dina didn’t want to get into all this. “Yes, but—”
“Did you have any inclination that she hadn’t died? Were there any clues? Did you ever suspect?”
“I… I think these are questions you need to ask Mr. Stancowsky when he gets back.”
“If he comes back. You do realize there is a good chance he may not come back. Especially considering that he traveled back to 1958 to save Millie’s life.”
Dina managed to swallow. “Of course I realize that.”
“How do you feel about it?”
Dina wanted to get back to the office. She’d had enough celebrity. “If Mr. Stancowsky decides to stay in his Alternity, then I will mourn his absence, but I will find joy in knowing that he obviously has found new happiness in the past.”
Now leave me alone.
Ms. Daniels nodded. “I’d say he’s lucky to call you a friend.” She looked at the camera. “Lynn Daniels, Breaking News, in Bangor.”
Atlanta
The intercom in Yardley Pruitt’s office buzzed. “There’s a reporter on line one, Mr. Pruitt. Would you like—?”
“No reporters! No calls!”
The line went dead. He turned his chair toward the window that looked out over downtown
Atlanta. If only he’d stuck with the “No comment” answer. Why had he felt the need to cash in on David Stancowsky’s name? He was the father of a Time Lottery winner; why hadn’t that been enough?
Because you’re an egotistical, arrogant, manipulative—
Yes, yes, he was all that and more. He wasn’t blind. He was an intelligent man who recognized his weaknesses.
No.
Weaknesses was not the correct term. Because having an ego and being arrogant did have their place, especially in the business world. They could be a strength—as could the art of manipulation.
But not this time. He’d blown it. And not out of ego or arrogance. He honestly hadn’t remembered the David incident correctly. Now, reminded, he seemed to remember the threat of a lawsuit on Mariner’s part and his lawyer telling him, “You have to pay this, Yardley. They’re legitimate change orders that you approved.”
He remembered this now but hadn’t at the time. And that fact bothered him. A lot. He was seventy-seven years old. Up until now, he’d rejected all suggestion that he should retire or pass the reigns of the bank to someone younger.
More able?
He turned his chair away from the expanse of the city and noticed a picture of Vanessa and her family on his desk. He picked it up, really looking at his daughter for the first time in years. She was not a pretty woman anymore. Her hair had thinned and was cut in a nondescript short shag. She had bags under her eyes. And even though she was smiling, there was no joy there.
Joy. What was that?
Yardley tried to remember a time he’d felt true joy. Decades rewound without stopping until an image appeared, that of a little Vanessa, sitting on his lap at another office desk in another bank building. He had his arm around her, pulling her close as he showed her how to use an adding machine. Ca-chunk, ca-chunk.
“This is fun, Daddy.”
And it had been. One moment of joy in a life filled with… what?
He touched Vanessa’s photo-cheek but only felt the cold of the glass. He sucked in a breath, breaking the moment. “She’ll be home day after tomorrow.”
