Regrets Only

by Nancy Geary

  Leaning against her broom, she paused in her task of sweeping butts and debris off the floor. Lucy could see the turquoise stud in her pierced navel flashing from the soft white skin of her belly.

  “I’m looking for Archer,” Lucy said.

  Sapphire flicked her chin, indicating that he was in the back. “We missed you last night. I thought you’d be here, given that it was a party for the photographer.”

  Lucy stopped. That Sapphire wouldn’t know what had transpired seemed extremely odd. Between her bookkeeping duties and her role as bartender, let alone her friendship with Archer, secrets were hard to keep. “I was at work late. I just went home and crashed.” She didn’t feel it was her place to explain.

  “You’ve got confidence in him. I’ll give you that.” She shot Lucy a half smile. “I mean, to have him here working the crowd . . . alone. I was out of my mind jealous when we dated.”

  “What?” Another surprise about Archer’s past was not what she needed, not now, not after Saturday night.

  “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. It was nothing.” Sapphire looked worried. “In all honesty I’ve never seen him so enamored of anyone as he is of you. Really. And I’ve seen him with a lot—” She interrupted herself and covered her face with her hands. “I’m making a bad situation worse, aren’t I? I’m sorry. I’m sure he’ll be glad you’re here,” she added, glancing down the short hallway that led to Archer’s office.

  There was no point belaboring the conversation. “We’ll see,” Lucy said, trying hard not to sound too unfriendly as she headed in that direction.

  “Come in,” Archer instructed before she even knocked on the door. No doubt he’d heard her footsteps. Perhaps the brief conversation with Sapphire had penetrated the thin walls, too.

  She stepped into the small, windowless room and shut the door behind her. Papers were stacked on top of a file cabinet in one corner. The coatrack resembled an upright grizzly bear given the mountain of coats, jackets, sweaters, and other outerwear piled onto its few wooden pegs. Manuscripts and portfolios covered most of the cushions of a sagging love seat.

  He looked up from his desk. “How did it go today? Any news?”

  She tried to read his expression, but couldn’t. “We’ve got one lead. I’ll know a lot more tomorrow.” The last thing anyone needed was to generate a false hope that this investigation would be over quickly. Although the Calvin Roth angle had potential, it was a far cry from a closed case. “You look busy,” she said, wanting to change the subject.

  “And you seem surprised by that fact.”

  “I just know this can’t be easy. Waiting. No answers. I worry about you.”

  “Don’t,” he replied dismissively. “This, this place is my life. She wasn’t. Mourning the loss of her is no more painful now than it has been for years.” He paused and shut the checkbook he’d had open in front of him. He dropped his pen and, with his elbows resting on the desk, put his head in his hands. “I heard your conversation with Sapphire.” His voice was muffled. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but it was nearly two years ago. We spent some time together over a couple of weeks. I didn’t even know you existed.” Archer rose and walked around the desk to where Lucy stood. He reached for her arms, wrapped them around his waist, and then put his hands on her shoulders. Leaning forward, he kissed her, his lips moist and warm. “I’m flattered that you’re jealous but you have no reason to be. Whatever happened between Sapphire and me has no bearing on us.”

  “Isn’t it a little odd that she’s still working here? I mean it’s not like Philadelphia doesn’t have a million other bars.” Even as Lucy spoke, she hated that there was a whine in her voice. Everyone had a past—there was nothing to be done about it. Yet the thought of him and Sapphire together irritated her.

  “She’s good at what she does and she’s honest. That’s hard to find in this business. Besides, there was nothing between us.”

  “Does she still come on to you?”

  “This is a totally irrational conversation. I was trying to find out information on your investigation and instead I end up in an inquisition on my sex life.”

  “Next thing you’ll tell me is that I’m the first person you’ve slept with who doesn’t belong to the Merion Cricket Club. Although I guess Sapphire holds that dubious honor, too,” Lucy blurted out.

  He gripped her shoulders and shook her lightly. “Stop! This is crazy. That’s not who I am. You know that.”

  Maybe, Lucy thought. But she couldn’t deny that she did feel more than slightly paranoid about this woman in her tight purple jeans that sat low on her hips. That Sapphire didn’t wear a bra only added to the problem. She leaned into his chest. She knew her reaction had more to do with Saturday night than with a past lover; Sapphire was simply a catalyst for the more fundamental issue that tugged at her, the one that had led her to end up here in the first place when she had more than enough work to do elsewhere. Jack had an excuse to take time off from the investigation. Hers hardly qualified. “Then why didn’t you tell me about your family?”

  He sighed and cocked his head slightly, as if he wanted a different perspective. “You were the one who once said, ‘Who we are can be different from who we might be destined to be.’ I remember your words. We were sitting in front of your wood-burning stove staring at the flames and Cyclops had just taken a crap in my lap.”

  “He did?” She laughed. “You never told me that.”

  “Well, it was a romantic moment and I didn’t want to spoil it over rabbit shit. But seriously, the moment you made that comment I realized I loved you more than I’d been willing to admit, even to myself. I knew you had a capacity to understand me—the me of me—in a way that no one had before.”

  She wasn’t at all sure she was buying this story, but his face was so earnest that she decided not to interrupt.

  “I feel so inarticulate a lot of the time, and now is definitely one of those moments. Maybe that’s why I surround myself with artists and writers—the people I consider most expressive. I hope some of their talent wears off.”

  “Oh, please. I’ve come across plenty of creative types who can barely have a conversation or, if they do open their mouths, they’re incomprehensible. Just say whatever you want.”

  “Thanks.” He stepped away from her and leaned against the top of his desk. “How can I explain this?” He ran his hands through his thick hair. “My life was preprogrammed: St. Mark’s, captain of the lacrosse team, summers in Bar Harbor, Yale, a slew of debutante cotillions where I escorted various girls I’d known forever down some presentation aisle, a summer on Wall Street as an intern at Merrill Lynch, graduation, a job at my father’s company, dates with girls from the Cricket Club.”

  She must have given him an odd glance—she’d been right after all—because he added, “I can’t tell you how many Bunnies and Marnies I wasted hours with, women who talked about marriage on the third date and didn’t take their headbands off when they had sex. Think Papagallo shoes, Maidenform bras, plenty of martinis, and a complete absence of passion of any kind. One woman even had the audacity to ask me to watch out for her hairdo!”

  “Thanks for sharing that,” Lucy remarked. Although she didn’t particularly want to dwell on the picture he painted, she could imagine it well. Instead of talk of bridesmaids’ dresses and floral arrangements, her friends obsessed on greenback showers and registering at Home Depot; but the graduating class of Somerville High shared the same concerns as their Main Line peers: finding a mate, planning a wedding, decorating a home, settling down.

  “I look at guys now—guys in their thirties with slight potbellies and smug expressions who chew on cigars and talk as if they’re middle-aged—and I cringe. That was me in college. I even wore an ascot occasionally—some sort of weird Winston Churchill wannabe, who drank too much port and tried to talk like an intellectual. It worked in the investment banking arena, but I guarantee you wouldn’t have been interested in me for a minute.”

  “I didn’t kn
ow you worked for your father,” she said, ignoring his last remark.

  “Briefly. There was a huge sense of security that came with doing exactly what my father had done, and his father had done before him, and so on. The known, the familiar, even if it’s not perfect, is better than the mysterious place of novelty, or something like that. But it wasn’t me. The problem was that rather than quit I stayed in the job and quietly—or rather not so quietly—rebelled. I moved into a houseboat on the Delaware River and fell asleep at night listening to the scratching and patter of rats. My clothes stank of mildew. It was a pathetic effort at trying to be a bohemian when what I really needed was a different focus. After about eighteen months, I scrapped both a life in finance and the stupid boat. That was when I bought The Arch.”

  “How did your father take that?”

  “He told me I was just like my mother.”

  They were both silent for several moments.

  When Archer spoke again, his words came slowly, as if he were thinking about each one. “I love my father and I truly believe he loves me. It’s taken us years to get to know each other, longer than most parent-child relationships. I think Dad finally understands that I’m not out to embarrass him; I’m just trying to find my own way. And I’ve accepted that he’s not responsible for my mother’s departure. That she may have felt stifled in her life isn’t his fault. Perhaps they were looking for different things. He has a set of values that are basically decent. There’s nothing wrong with the life he’s chosen. I guess over the years we both realized we needed each other.”

  “Then why did it take you so long to tell me?”

  He glanced down at the floor, and she wondered for a moment whether he was going to cry. But when he looked back up, his eyes were dry. “A noble reason and an ignoble one.”

  “Let’s start with the good one.”

  “It’s taken me a long time to get to this place. A place where I’m basically happy with myself and with the choices I’ve made. And I wanted to see if we could truly have a relationship without any reference to external trappings. Your apartment reminds me of childhood camping trips—warm and comfortable with everything we need but nothing extra. And look how great we’ve managed.” He pulled her toward him.

  She kissed his forehead.

  “I suppose you’re going to ask about my ignoble reason, too, so I might as well fess up,” he said, his voice sounding lighter. “If the truth be told I don’t think I completely trusted you not to be enamored. Women have seen my house and it seems to change them. I didn’t want that for us.”

  “If you think some overworked servant and a table that could seat a cheerleading squad is the way to my heart, you’re wrong. Though the meal was delicious.” She smiled.

  “Look, I’ll be honest. I work hard because I want to, because I love The Arch, not because I need to pay the utility bills. And that gives me a great deal of freedom—much more than most people have. But I wanted to make sure that your feelings about me wouldn’t change, that when you learned about my family you wouldn’t try to convince me to go back and do what had been expected of me my whole life. I don’t want to be a member of any board. I don’t want to be courted by charities. If I’m philanthropic, I don’t want anyone to know. I need to live my life my own way and I only hope that you’ll think I’m a good person in what I choose. But I sold you short in ever thinking you’d care about any of this.”

  “You did.”

  “I’m sorry. Once I felt I really knew you and realized it wouldn’t be an issue, it was too late. I didn’t quite know how to announce myself. So I just thought it would be simpler if I took you home to meet Dad. I’d met your family.”

  She thought for a moment. Then she stared directly into his eyes and spoke matter-of-factly. “I don’t want my appeal to be because I’m different. I don’t like having my greatest asset be that I’m not from the Main Line. And I guess after last night, and then discovering about your other nonconformist girlfriend today, I’m wondering whether that’s the case,” she said, relieved to articulate how she felt.

  “Don’t be absurd. Nonconformity has nothing to do with your best assets. You’re wonderful.” He moved to the door and turned the lock. She heard the bolt click as it closed. “Now if you’re very, very quiet . . .” he said with a smile as he pushed the pile of papers off the couch.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, even though she knew she had no intention of offering the slightest resistance. There was still so much to do, so much to discover about Morgan’s death, but for just a few minutes she wanted to forget, as she suspected he did, too. When she went back on duty, the status of the homicide investigation would be just where she’d left it.

  “I could use some serious consoling,” he said, apparently sensing her hesitation. “And you’re the only one in the world who can do it,” he added, reaching to undo the button on her blouse.

  15

  9:07 p.m.

  The poet, an androgynous male with the incongruous name of Fred Smith, had just finished what had to be his hundredth haiku. There was unenthusiastic, scattered applause from the small crowd. As the noise subsided, one young man began clapping furiously. Fred smiled, walked over to where the man sat, gave him a prolonged kiss on the lips, and then slipped into the chair next to him. Sitting at the bar with a plate of lemon hummus and pita chips—the house specialty—and a glass of Chardonnay, Lucy felt relieved that he had at least one fan. Somebody for everyone. Archer thanked Fred, as well as the crowd. For the first time in nearly two days she felt peaceful.

  “Praise the Lord that’s over,” Sapphire said as she uncorked a bottle and refilled Lucy’s glass. “Sometimes I wish Archer would lighten up his act and get a real entertainer—a comedian or a master storyteller. But no,” she said sarcastically. “We have to be subjected to Fred the homosexual haiku poet from Lancaster. Can you imagine? The guy’s parents are Amish. Ask me, the world gets weirder every day. Plus he’s managed to run up a one-hundred-and-forty-dollar bill that Archer will inevitably write off.”

  Lucy chuckled. A patron at the opposite end of the bar lifted a hand to get Sapphire’s attention. “Do you have today’s paper?” she asked quickly. She hadn’t read it and wanted to see what, if anything, the press was saying about Dr. Reese’s murder.

  “Sure.” Sapphire reached beneath the bar and produced a badly folded edition of the Inquirer. “It’s yours.”

  It took Lucy a moment to refold the sections and find the front page. Foreign affairs, another article on the rising price of gasoline, a column on the Reese murder. Inside, one story caught her interest: DAVID ELLERY NAMED DIRECTOR OF WILDER CENTER, the headline read. “Appointment Follows Gruesome Death of Front-runner” was the subhead.

  Lucy skimmed the article, pausing at a paragraph close to the end.

  Ellery’s longtime colleague and close friend Dr. Morgan Reese was the initial choice, one source close to the Board disclosed on the condition of anonymity. Following news of the psychiatrist’s grisly murder, Ellery was notified yesterday that the job was his. “He accepted immediately,” the source said. Calls to the police chief on the status of that investigation were not returned.

  Only a few hours before, she had articulated her suspicions of Calvin Roth in an affidavit in order to search his residence. Now an alternative scenario seemed just as plausible, if not more compelling: Ellery reports his gun stolen. Focus is immediately on the psycho patient. A month later, that very weapon is used to shoot his competition for a prestigious and lucrative appointment to run a major new psychiatric hospital.

  Had the theft been a ruse? Had Ellery been plotting Morgan’s demise for weeks, a plot that included getting himself invited to the Rabbit Club? Means, motive, and opportunity—it seemed almost too easy. Besides, it made sense only if he knew for certain that he would get the appointment if she were eliminated, an assumption that discounted other candidates. For a position this desirable, there had to be plenty of qualified people.

  He
r mind was playing tricks on her. He was a successful professional—a psychiatrist no less. He wouldn’t murder anyone.

  The vibration of her cell phone interrupted her musings. “Detective O’Malley,” she answered.

  “This is Rodman Haverill, Archer’s father.”

  “Are you . . . all right?” she stammered. That he’d even known her number was surprising, let alone that he’d called it. “I’m sorry. So sorry about your . . . about Dr. Reese.”

  “I very much need to discuss with you some details pertaining to her death,” he said, apparently ignoring her expression of sympathy. “I’d like you to join me for lunch tomorrow at the Cricket Club. At noontime.”

  Tomorrow. She thought of the search warrant. Lunch would be over by two, three at the latest. There was still time in the day.

  “Okay. I can meet you there,” she replied.

  “Very good. Please come alone.”

  She paused, thinking of what she might say to Jack. He wouldn’t approve. “All right.” Even as she uttered the words, she had the strange sense that she was getting herself into trouble.

  “I’ll register you. Just drive right in. No announcement will be necessary.”

  “Fine.”

  “And Lucy, I would appreciate your discretion. With Archer, I mean.”

  This time she didn’t respond. He could take her silence to be assent without a verbal commitment.

  Across the room, Archer was engaged in animated conversation with Fred and his friend, oblivious to what had just transpired. What exactly was she doing? She sighed, wondering how the situation had become so complicated so fast.

  10:15 p.m.

  Gertrude draped her robe over the back of a chair, removed her slippers, and turned back the covers. Switching off the light, she settled against the pillow. The night was still; but for the sound of a few crickets through the open window, it was quiet. A sliver of a moon partly illuminated the room, so she secured her satin sleep mask and ushered in total darkness. She needed sleep.