by Cindy Davis
Still, Harry made no reply.
Paige rose and let Spirit out of her carrier. The cat rushed to Paige and burrowed her head under Paige's arm. “What happens now?"
"You're safe here. I went to the bookstore. It was locked up tight. They must have broken up the party when you disappeared. I'll go see Max on Monday morning and see what he's got to say. Maybe I can get a handle on the guy who was asking about you. Sit tight. Don't go out, though I can't imagine who'd want to in this weather. Don't let anyone see you, not even the maid. I've already ordered room service for tonight and tomorrow morning so you should be all set until I get back. Okay now, listen. I told room service I wasn't feeling well, for them to knock once, then leave the tray outside the room. Okay?"
Paige nodded and followed him to the door, slipping a bundle of cash in his hand. Twenty thousand ought to pay for what he'd done for her. “Thanks for everything, Harry,” she said.
"Rest easy. I'll pick you up at 11:30.” He planted a fatherly kiss on the top of her head and started to leave. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He took out a shoebox-sized package wrapped in blue from the pocket of his overcoat. “Merry Christmas."
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Thirty-eight
Paige fell asleep in her clothes, curled in a fetal position around the cat. When she woke on Christmas morning, the sun was in her eyes. It glinted off the snow drifted in the corners of the windows. She looked out at the silent, snow-shrouded street. Waist high banks of snow turned sidewalks into narrow paths. A sidewalk plow chugged along, pushing the plowed snow back into the street.
Snow clung to electric wires strung from poles to buildings. It obliterated much of the Burger King sign on the roof of the building across the street. “Isn't it beautiful?” she asked Spirit, then realized where she was, and why.
Max. Polly. Her books. Her quilt. The cat looked up into her owner's face and stopped purring. Paige clutched the cat tighter and went back to bed, burrowing her head in the pillows, pulling the blanket over them both. She stayed this way until the sun was high in the sky. It now streamed directly onto the floor, making a bright yellow triangle on the low piled carpet.
At some point, Spirit had climbed out of the bed and folded herself in the patch of sunshine. Paige rubbed her eyes and sat up. The digital clock on the bedside table said 9:18.
Tears flowed unchecked when she thought about what she would normally be doing on Christmas morning: sitting in the huge, echoing living room, opening gifts from Stefano. Diamonds and furs mostly. Things she'd always thought so important. She grabbed a wad of toilet paper to blow her nose. Max must've been angry she left so abruptly.
She thought about Polly and the handsome Miles. Despair engulfed her. Her shoulders heaved until she gagged and gasped for breath. The clock said 10:40.
Harry would arrive soon. She needed to take a bath. “And you must be hungry,” she said to the cat. Breakfast. Harry said he'd ordered breakfast. She hadn't heard a knock. She cautiously opened the door and peered into the empty hallway. The food should be here by now.
Paige went to run water in the tub. Twenty minutes later, while toweling herself dry, two taps sounded on the door. “Room service.” For long moments she remained standing there. No other knock came. No footsteps sounded. Paige let three minutes tick past, then opened the door.
On the other side stood a silver cart covered in a flowing white tablecloth. A silver coffeepot and silver domed dish emitted smells that made her mouth water. Paige lifted the largest silver cover—eggs benedict, garnished with a sprig of parsley. A small crystal dish held cat food. A plastic wrapped glass of orange juice completed the contents of the top shelf.
Paige bent and lifted the corner of the cloth to see a litterbox. She stowed it in the bathroom. She blew her nose and set the bowl of cat food in front of the purring calico cat.
Paige paced the small room, memorizing the spots on the carpet, wondering where the hell Harry was. It was nearing one o'clock and still not a word. Worry, confusion, and fear crept over her, even though she tried to convince herself that he just had some family emergency, someone in more trouble and danger than she. She giggled, something she rarely did. The giggle turned into a laugh, then evolved into gut wrenching sobs.
"More trouble and danger than I have will be hard to find, Harry old boy.” He hadn't told her exactly what time the flight was supposed to leave, and she hadn't thought to ask what airport he'd used.
She downed some aspirin and turned on the television, hoping it would distract her from the ultimate boredom and loneliness. But all it did was remind her of what she'd left behind and the friends she'd lost, all in the name of escape from Stefano Santangelo, a man she was beginning to hate more than life itself.
As she paced, Paige harbored thoughts of retaliation and murder.
* * * *
At 4:45, with a throbbing headache, she donned heavy clothing and went in search of a pay phone. She found one inside a convenience store a few doors away from the hotel.
She listened to the coins tinkle into the metal collection box then dialed Harry's office number. No answer. She didn't leave a message. She thumbed through the phone book, hoping his home phone would be listed. He'd given her his home number. Where had she put it? She pressed fingers to her aching temples. Think! Paige dumped her purse on the tiny metal counter and rummaged through the contents, knowing she wasn't going to find it there, but she needed to look or the compulsion wouldn't leave her alone.
She slid coins back into the machine, dialing his office again and listening to the unacknowledged ringing on the other end. Where the hell was Max? She leaned her head against the metal frame of the booth and shut her eyes.
Suddenly, Paige recalled where she'd put Harry's number. It was tucked in the binding of her pink leather address book. And that book was in the desk at her apartment. Not her apartment. Not any more. Someone else would be living there before too long. Someone else would stand in the wide expanse of windows, calmed by the scenery, watching the snow fall. Someone else would enjoy the deep cushioned sofa in the apartment Harry had found for her.
What was Harry's number? But, try as she might, she couldn't recall the order of the seven digits he'd scribbled in ink on the back of his business card.
Paige purchased a few packages of junk food, grimaced at the selection of supermarket wines, but purchased some anyway, plus some cat supplies, and trudged back to the hotel. Her shoes were soaked through and her toes were feeling the beginnings of frostbite.
She averted her face as she passed the desk, wanting to ask if there were any messages, but Harry had reminded her not call attention to herself. “Don't let anyone be able to give a description of you."
She ran down the hallway and let herself into the room. Spirit greeted her mistress with a meow and purred happily when Paige popped the top of a can of food and placed it on the floor. “Sorry, I don't have a bowl for you."
Against Harry's orders, Paige dialed the front desk and asked for messages. Nothing. She sat on the bed, patting the cat, staring blankly at the television, and willing the telephone to ring. At eight o'clock she ordered up a bottle of wine and Caesar salad with a breast of chicken. She ate the salad and fed most of the chicken to Spirit.
After a sleepless night, Paige sat in the bed with the blanket wrapped around herself, dark circles beneath her eyes, and tear-streaked cheeks. Something must've happened to Harry. That was the only answer.
Then, the bundle of money flashed into her head. The bundle she'd tucked into his fist as he'd left her in this place. Twenty-thousand dollars—the amount she considered he'd earned. Was it enough money for him to desert her?
Paige showered and dressed, packed her few belongings, coerced Spirit into her carrier, and called a cab.
* * * *
Harry's office was deserted. At least she thought it was since the outer door was locked. No wet or salty footprints dirtied the hardwood floor in front of the door. She cupped her hands around
her face and tried to see through the opaque glass. There were only shadows inside, but none of them moved and all the furniture-type shadows seemed to be in the same place they'd been on her visit a few days ago. She sniffed the crack near the hinges. Was there a strange smell? What had she smelled last time she was there? Oh yes, furniture polish. This certainly didn't smell like furniture polish. What could it be? Or was it anything?
Paige thought of breaking the glass to get inside. Find his home phone number, she told herself, knowing chances were slim to none, that he'd have his home number written anywhere in his office.
Paige pounded her fist on the doorframe and leaned her forehead in the same spot.
"Can I help you with something?"
Spirit meowed in her crate beside Paige's wet feet.
"I am looking for Harry,” she told the woman who'd appeared out of nowhere.
"I am the tenant of an office down the hall.” She extended a stubby fingered hand. “Mary Wingate."
Paige returned the handshake but didn't offer her name. “I need to find Harry."
"I'm sure he's with his family today.” Mary rattled the knob. “Did you have an appointment? He's probably digging himself out of his driveway. What a storm that was, don't you agree?"
Paige nodded, clenching her jaw against the threat of tears. “Do you know any way I can contact him? He gave me his home number but I can't remember it."
"Sorry, I don't know him that well,” she said. “Can I do anything for you?"
"No. I have another idea."
* * * *
"Well, Spirit, here goes nothing.” She held her breath as she slid the security card through the slot on her apartment door, a gentle click as the lock recognized her code. She pushed the door open and took a step onto the pale blue Berber. It silenced her footsteps as she made her way into the large open living space, eyes darting warily, blinking in the bright sunlight.
She set the cat carrier on the floor. Spirit, knowing she was home, asked to be released from her chamber. Paige didn't acknowledge Spirit's meows as she cautiously inspected the apartment. Nothing looked disturbed. No one had been here. Hopefully.
A rush of sadness engulfed her when she spotted her books, neatly arranged on a shelf beside the dining table. The attachment she'd formed for some of her belongings was something she'd never felt before.
The bathroom was as she'd left it. So was the bedroom. The quilt was still balled inside a black trash bag on the floor of the closet. She fingered the cotton fabric, recalling the time she'd spent selecting the pattern and colors, the attention she'd put into sewing the small pieces together, the care she'd taken to make all the quilted stitches the same size. Paige buried her face in the material, then placed it back into the bag and laid it lovingly on the closet floor.
The low hum of the elevator penetrated the apartment walls. Swallowing hard, Paige ran to the living room and got the cat, ran back to the bedroom and crowded into her closet, wishing she had her huge wardrobe from the Santa Barbara house to hide behind.
The tiny hairs on her arms and the back of her neck rose at the sound of the elevator doors whooshing open. Spirit meowed. Paige shushed her and put two fingers through the bars on the carrier, scratching whatever fur was closest.
Paige waited, listening for the elevator doors to close and whir its way down, but they didn't. Had someone propped it open for a quick getaway? Minutes passed. No sound from the elevator. No sounds in her apartment.
After the longest half hour of her life, Paige crept from the closet, tiptoeing along the hallway, the bright sun not seeming to know—or care—that her world was falling apart. She poked her head around the corner. The living room was empty, the hall door firmly locked. Feeling paranoid, Paige tiptoed to the desk where she rescued the address book from the drawer in the telephone table. Harry's card was in the binding where she'd put it. She put the book into her purse, picked up the cat, and hurried to the door.
"Damn.” She put the cat down, went to the closet, and retrieved the quilt. She added the quilt pattern book to the bag, grabbed the cat, and peeked into the hallway.
The elevator door was indeed propped open. The hairs on her arms stood at attention once again. She ran down the long, wide hall, to the freight elevator. She punched the button with her elbow and retreated into a corner to wait for it to hum its way to the twelfth floor. Sweat popped out over every inch of her body. Her eyes never left the lighted numbers above the other elevator.
"Spirit, what the hell do we do now?"
Afraid to hail a cab—as if there were any cabs to hail in this weather—Paige sprinted most of the way back to her hotel. She released the confused cat from the cage and sat on the bed. Then, unmindful of all Harry's warnings—well, they hadn't done much good anyway—dialed his number.
A woman's voice announced the number she'd dialed and told her something she'd already deduced, no one was there to take her call. Where the hell was Harry?
Paige thumbed through the yellow pages and dialed once more. “Hello, Crystal Airport?"
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Thirty-nine
The Cessna rumbled to a halt at the airport in Springfield, Vermont. Once again, Paige had been the only one on the plane, so she'd taken Spirit from the carrier. The had cat settled in her lap, curled in a round ball. Paige shivered as she looked out the tiny plane window. Shoulder high snowbanks lined the runway. In the distance, tiers of mountains, black this time of year, with white tops edged the sky. The mood created by the gray sky exactly mirrored her own.
She sighed, coaxed the cat back into the cage, slung her purse over her shoulder, and stepped into the cold Vermont winter.
This time, with absolutely no plan or thought of what to do next, Paige stood on the narrow, cracked sidewalk outside the terminal. The wind whistled across the parking lot, picking up speed after it cleared the Green Mountains, crashing into the stand of pines and hardwoods to the east, causing them to carom against each other. She fought back tears as the feeling of isolation and loneliness assailed her once again.
"Dear, can we help you?” came a squeaky, elderly voice.
Paige readjusted her grip on Spirit's cage and turned to see a tiny white-haired couple standing before her. “Excuse me?"
"You look positively forlorn. We wondered if there was something we might do for you,” said the woman. “Didn't we, Abner?"
The spindly little man transferred his pipe to one corner of his mouth before replying, “Hrmph."
"Oh, Abner, how many times have I asked you not to talk with that damned pipe in your mouth?” She turned to Paige. “I'm sorry, dear. After fifty-two years, you'd think he'd know how I feel about that."
Spirit meowed. Paige forced a smile.
"Is someone supposed to be picking you up?” the woman asked, handing her overnight bag to her husband.
"Yes, er, no, I intended to surprise my family. I sort of expected a larger airport and a line of waiting taxicabs."
"Not likely around here,” Abner scoffed.
"Is there someone you can call for a ride, dear?"
"Yes.” Paige retraced her steps into the building. She could feel the couple's eyes watching as she found a pay telephone. She lifted the receiver, put some coins into the slot and then dialed.
Paige let Harry's phone ring ten times. She laid the receiver down. Where was he? Why didn't his machine pick up?
"No one home?"
Paige started.
"I'm sorry to frighten you, dear. We're the Peterson's, by the way. Abner and Hester. Abner and I just couldn't leave unless we knew you were all right."
"You mean you wouldn't leave,” Abner mumbled.
"I'll be just fine. I appreciate your concern,” Paige said.
"Didn't anyone answer?” Hester asked.
"It was busy. I'll just call back in a few minutes."
"Where are you headed?"
"North."
"Is there somewhere we might drop you, dear? We're head
ed north, aren't we Abner?"
"Yes. But only as far as White River Junction."
"Come, dear. Don't fret,” Hester said, placing a wrinkled hand on Paige's sleeve. “We'll take you to White River."
"That's more than kind of you,” Paige said. “I can call my family from there."
"Don't you worry—"
"They have phones in White River, Hester."
"Abner, stop being so rude to the young lady. It's Christmas."
Paige followed them across the packed snow covering the parking lot. A few cars were parked facing a chain-link fence that outlined one of the dirt runways at this small privately owned airport.
"I'm Cassidy Larson,” Paige said.
"Nice to meet you.” Hester said. “We've just flown in from Dallas. We could've flown into the Lebanon, New Hampshire airport. It's much closer to where we're going, but Abner had a run-in with one of the—"
"Hester, take this while I get the keys,” Abner interrupted.
The couple's car was a new model Chrysler Concorde with Vermont tags and a heavy coating of ice. Abner pressed the button on his remote door opener and started toward the driver's side.
"Abner,” came Hester's irritated squeak.
Abner sighed, walked around the car and held the door for her. Hester settled into her seat. Abner pointedly ignored Paige as she reached for the rear passenger door handle. Abner steered the car north on Route 91, at no more than forty-five miles-per-hour. The interstate meandered along the westerly shore of the Connecticut River, the dividing line between the Green Mountain State of Vermont and the White Mountain State of New Hampshire.
"Have you ever been to Vermont, dear?"
"No."
"Isn't the view beautiful?"
"Yes,” Paige answered. Spirit meowed.
"Can't you see the girl doesn't want to chat, Hester?"
"I was trying to cheer her up."
While Hester and Abner bickered, Paige stared out the window. The river flowed rapidly southward. Whitecaps tumbled over each other and onto the broken chunks of ice carried from northern locations. On the New Hampshire side, white-topped, naked black deciduous trees and bright evergreens peppered the landscape as far as she could see. Closer, wild rhododendrons and scrub pines bowed under the weight of the previous night's coating of snow that dropped like A-bombs as the wind rippled up the tunnel formed by the surrounding woodlands. She sighed, leaned her head against the chilly window, and closed her eyes.
