by Abby Drake
Alice waited in the kitchen until eleven o’clock, until the lamb chops had dried up and the fresh mint had wilted. It wasn’t like Neal to be so late without calling.
Four times she had tried to reach him, but his BlackBerry had only connected to voice mail. She would have sent him a text, but she didn’t know how. When Kiley Kate had tried to show her, Alice had pooh-poohed it. Texting was only for kids, wasn’t it?
She poured another glass of club soda and wished it was wine. But she’d learned long ago that flying with a hangover was like stuffing one’s head in a sock.
At 11:36, she heard the garage door go up. She stiffened her hold on her glass.
“I thought you’d been in an accident,” she said coolly when her husband walked in. “I thought you were dead.”
He laughed, dropping his briefcase on a tall chair at the breakfast bar. He loosened his tie. She detected the faint scent of bourbon.
“I thought you were gone,” he said.
“Gone?”
“Where are you going this time? Phoenix? Orlando?”
“Orlando. But for heaven’s sake, Neal, I’m not leaving until tomorrow.”
“Oh,” he replied and helped himself to her soda without asking.
“Have you had dinner?”
“Sliders at Max’s.” He took off his jacket and draped it over the chair. He’d pick it up later, Mr. Self-Sufficient.
“Alone?”
He laughed again. “No, Alice, I wasn’t alone. I was with five women from the office who’ve been dying to fuck me. They drew straws tonight. They all won.”
Neal was only crude when he’d had too much to drink or had played a good round of golf, which, for some reason, seemed linked to testosterone.
Alice stood up. “I’m going to bed.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me?”
“Ask you what?”
“If I’ve found a date for the dinner with Tang?”
“No, Neal, I’m not going to play games tonight. I’m tired and my flight leaves at ten.”
He raised his right hand in a mock salute. But as she passed by him, Alice caught another aroma that smelled a lot like Bijon mixed in with the bourbon.
CJ slipped off to bed just before midnight. She’d waited until Mac was in his office, monitoring in real time the Asian pharmaceutical markets as Elinor once said he often did. Or, CJ suspected, he might have simply been waiting for her to retire, to avoid an awkward “Good night, CJ,” “Good night, Malcolm” exchange.
She turned off the light and wondered if she could possibly sleep, what with her naps during the day and Mac in the house. She stared at the red digital numbers that read 12:13.
Sleep is the poor man’s Prozac, Cooper had written in one of his plays. The line was delivered by a middle-aged woman who reluctantly contended with an elderly uncle who visited each afternoon and napped in the living room chair. After all, the old goat had money. The niece and her husband and their kids shaped their comings and goings—indeed, their lives—around Uncle Sol, turning up the volume on the remote to drown out his snoring, acknowledging to one another that some day it would be worth it. At the end of the third act, the poor man was dead. In his pocket was a diary, an amusing journal of daily observation about his niece and her husband and the kids who’d tolerated him in hopes of inheriting his money, of which, it turned out, he had none.
It was a comic tragedy on the human condition.
The play had been brilliantly written, had won several awards, and had been produced in many major locations around the country.
CJ had been so proud of her husband. They’d celebrated by making love each opening night in every city and town: Phoenix, Des Moines, Wichita.
She’d gotten pregnant in Albuquerque.
She tried not to think of what had followed. It had been so long since she’d felt loved.
The red digital numbers flipped to 1:00. CJ closed her eyes, then a moment later she heard the door handle turn.
She sensed a soft light spill in from the hall.
She tried to breathe normally, then wondered why she felt a need to avoid Mac.
Why…when Elinor had been cheating on him?
Why…when Elinor’s charade involved so many others that she didn’t seem to care if she hurt?
Why…when CJ deserved happiness, too. Didn’t she?
She wanted to push back the covers and let Mac in. Let him into her bed and into her heart once again. But as CJ started to stir, the door gently closed, and he was gone.
Thirty-one
Manny said he wasn’t going to drag Poppy to the station in handcuffs. At that hour she’d have to share a cell with the hookers and junkies, and he said there was no need for that. She was a lady, after all.
He also said he couldn’t put her under house arrest at his house because the kids would make her nuts. She suggested that his wife might keep them under control, and he countered by saying he didn’t have one of those. Not anymore, anyway.
So instead of incarcerating her in Brooklyn, Manny drove Poppy upstate to New Falls, to Yolanda’s.
He parked on Main Street. The shop stood in Victorian splendor in the quaint little hamlet where only the very rich once trod—until Yolanda had moved in with her shampoo and mousse. Manny had a key to the front door. They crept in quietly, so as not to awaken Yolanda or Belita, who were no doubt sleeping soundly upstairs. Inside, the only light spilled in from the streetlamps.
Poppy followed Manny past the pedicure spa chairs and the upright hair dryers and the sinks and the stylist booths. It reminded her of a time thirty years ago when she and Alice and Elinor and CJ had crept into the study that had been Poppy’s father’s but Momma had locked up the day he had died. It had been Elinor’s idea.
“Maybe he left you a letter or a special present,” Elinor had coaxed. She’d been reading a lot of Nancy Drew then, and she’d thought mysteries loomed everywhere.
So they’d crept in one night when Momma was out. The room had the same feel of trespass that Yolanda’s did now, as if the lights would flash on at any moment, as if her father might leap from his leather-backed chair and scold her for breaking in.
But he hadn’t leaped or scolded—not that she would have minded. Instead, the room was quiet and dusty and no longer smelled of his pipe tobacco, and Poppy retreated to her bedroom for days.
“Shit,” Manny whispered now.
Poppy stopped tiptoeing. “What?”
“I don’t have the key to the apartment upstairs.”
“We could go up and knock.”
“Her bedroom’s in the back. Besides, I don’t want to wake up Belita.”
Poppy studied his silhouette. “Well then,” she said, “you’ll have to lock me up down here. I could use a manicure after all this commotion.”
He laughed softly. “You’re something, you know?”
Poppy didn’t know how to respond.
“At least let’s sit down so I can figure out what to do next.”
They sat in twin chairs in front of a long mirror that reflected the streetlamps. Poppy’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. It was, she thought, rather romantic.
“So,” Manny said, “what shall I do with you, Miss Veronica?”
“You could kiss me,” she heard herself say.
And so he did.
And she was surprised.
And it felt really nice.
And it felt really safe.
Elinor had shut her eyes hours ago, but she still hadn’t fallen asleep. If she’d stayed at a five-star instead of a two-star, she could have ordered brandy from room service and drunk half a fifth and then fallen asleep.
As it was, the refreshments were confined to a small bottle of “spring-like” water that had been shipped in from the States.
When the sun finally rose, she decided to dress and go for a walk on the beach. There had been no word from CJ yesterday, no calls on her cell. No news, in this case, was simply no news. She had no delusions that
the blackmailer would suddenly vanish.
Outside, the morning air was dry and already warm. She walked past the boarded-up vendor stalls, past a few tourists jogging; they must have been tourists—would islanders jog? Certainly not in new shorts and matching lycra tops. She wan dered past a few delivery vans and a stray dog or two. She counted seven blocks to the beach.
The tide was high, which would make walking uncomfortable in the soft sand. Elinor found a big rock and sat down. She wanted to cry, but she dared not. There was too much to do to lose her cool now.
Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she stared at the keypad. The blackmailer had called her on her cell. How had he found the number?
Then she had a thought.
The cell phone.
Didn’t it record the phone number of the person who’d called?
“Oh, God,” she said out loud. She stared at the buttons. Wasn’t there one that could show her calls sent, calls received? If she were younger, like Jonas or Janice, surely she would have thought of it sooner.
She began to perspire the way Alice did.
Then she pushed one button.
Another.
Another.
And then there it was.
TUES 4:12PM
212–555-7974
Her hand was shaking. Did she dare make the call? Of course. She had nothing to lose.
Nothing.
But everything.
Which was probably lost anyway.
She clicked back to the main menu. Did she have a signal?
Two bars. It might be enough.
Slowly, she punched in the numbers.
In a moment, the phone began ringing on the other end. 212. Somewhere in Manhattan.
She tried to remember to breathe.
She counted two, three, four rings. Surely voice mail would pick up.
Five, six, seven.
Then she was connected.
“Yeah?” It was a man’s voice.
“Who is this?” she demanded, as if he would tell her and that would be that.
“Who you looking for, lady?”
“Where…where are you?”
“Hmm, well, let’s see, I’m on the corner of Sixty-sixth and West End.”
Her trembling eased. “Is this a pay phone?”
“Yes, ma’am. And this is Harry. I live on the park bench outside.” The man chuckled loudly. Elinor hung up.
She looked out over the water as the sun rose full in the sky. She bit back her tears and wondered why she was surprised there were any pay phones left in Manhattan.
Manny didn’t kiss Poppy again until after the sun had come up, until after she’d told him every detail of her life; until after he’d told her all of his.
She didn’t expect he’d want to kiss her again, so as he leaned toward her, she turned her head and his lips landed square in her hair. They laughed.
“I still have to arrest you,” he said.
“Because I’m a bad kisser?”
“Because you killed a man.”
Oh, that.
“My guess is we can get you off on the petty theft if you’re willing to return the things. Do you know where they all came from?”
Poppy nodded with a teeny bit of reluctance. She didn’t mention the pieces her mother had helped herself to long ago, mostly throughout Europe. It was how Poppy had learned the craft. But this was about Poppy, not Momma, so she decided to keep Momma’s part to herself.
“As for the murder,” Manny continued, “you were underage. It was self-defense. Can you prove it?”
The only way to prove self-defense was if Momma came forward and finally told the truth. Fat chance of that. Momma had been a martyr on behalf of her daughter, and when she’d been released, she’d told Poppy it was over, their sins were atoned. The few times Poppy had tried to talk to her about it (like when Duane had popped into the room, unannounced), Momma had not been receptive to discussion. Besides, even if Poppy could convince her, in her current fragile condition, Momma might pretend not to remember the day, the event, or Mr. Harding, for that matter, who was of course dead, so that let him out.
“I can’t prove it,” Poppy said. “But it doesn’t matter. I did it, not Momma. And if Duane thinks he’s going to hold it over my head, he’s wrong. I’d rather go to jail.” For a minute, it was hard for Poppy to believe she was saying those words. But she knew it was time, had been time for a while. It was too late for her, but maybe not for Elinor, who had hurled her life into a blender.
Manny pushed a red curl off her forehead. He traced the outline of her face, then moved his finger across her cheeks, as if connecting her freckles. “You are a good daughter,” he said quietly, “and a good friend.”
“Elinor has always been good to me.” She felt guilty for having thought Elinor had been sleeping with Duane. “It might hurt her and CJ to learn the truth about their father, but it’s better than having my husband ruin Elinor’s life.” She looked into his dark eyes. “Do you think I can go to jail without anyone finding out about Momma and Mr. Harding?”
“I will do everything possible.”
Then he leaned closer again. This time she let his lips travel toward hers. But just before contact, a light flipped on.
“Coffee, anyone?”
It was Yolanda, at the top of the stairs.
Poppy stayed with Yolanda while Manny grabbed coffee and half a bagel and said he was going to pay a visit to Duane. When the ladies were alone with little Belita, Poppy told Yolanda about Momma and Mr. Harding and Sam Yates, the erstwhile gardener.
“He was going to kill you?” Yolanda asked.
Until then, the fact hadn’t really impacted on Poppy’s brain. “Well,” she said. “Yes.”
“And you never told anyone what you did?”
“Momma knew. She made me promise never to tell. She said she would take care of it for me.”
Yolanda cuddled Belita. “I understand that. I understand that kind of love a mother has for her child.”
Poppy blinked. She hadn’t thought of it that way before. She’d only thought about the fact that Momma had been doing something she shouldn’t have been doing….
“So she went to jail for five years to protect you,” Yolanda continued.
“And Mr. Harding, I guess.”
Yolanda shook her head. “Having money doesn’t mean one has brains, does it?”
Poppy did not take it personally.
Thirty-two
Alice had driven to the airport because she hadn’t felt like speaking to Neal. How dare he become so…unpredictable? Other husbands did that sort of thing, not hers.
She sat with Kiley Kate in the VIP lounge, waiting for the pre-boarding announcement. She sipped on a weak Bloody Mary while her granddaughter yakked into a Bluetooth connection. Alice thought nine was too young for a phone, but she supposed some people thought it was also too young to be focused on a singing career.
“I packed my pink sequins and my dress with the pale blue pailettes,” Kiley Kate said into the air. “I can do the Hannah in pink and the Christina in the blue.” She chattered about rock stars as if they were her friends; her hands darted about as she talked, her little fingernails high-glossed and glittered. “If we end up in Hollywood, maybe you can come, too. That would be so much fun. Gram? Can she, Gram?”
Kiley Kate tugged on Alice’s forearm. Alice knew she must have been talking with Shannon O’Neill, her bff, as she called her, her Elinor.
“We’ll see,” Alice said. “First we must get past Orlando.”
Kiley Kate giggled and returned to her conversation.
Alice stood up and walked to the window. She nibbled on the celery stalk from her drink, a poor proxy for breakfast. She looked out at the planes lined up at the gates, taking people away, bringing people home, from here, from there, from everywhere. She wondered if Neal was cheating on her.
There, she thought with a crunch of the stalk that was louder than she would have wished, I’ve decla
red the possibility.
She thought about swallowing the celery but feared it wouldn’t go down. Raising the square white napkin with the red and orange FlyUS logo up to her lips, Alice discreetly spit into it.
Was Neal really capable?
Was he really sneaky enough, distrustful enough, desperate enough?
She wondered what kind of a woman he would have selected. Young, probably. They always went for the young ones once they passed forty. Pretty, of course. A new trophy.
And smart. Today, the young women were all smart. They zipped up the ladder right alongside the men, their laptops and their BlackBerries and their short-skirted suits with the lace camisoles poking out from the top. And their stilettos that glammed up their calves in the boardrooms. And their dark-framed eyeglasses that hinted of their brains.
Would Neal ask for a divorce?
She plucked an ice cube from her glass and ran it up and down her throat. Why did they keep the airports so frightfully warm in the summer?
As best as CJ calculated, there were five cordless phones scattered throughout Elinor’s house: three downstairs, two up. Hopefully no more.
She waited until she heard Mac in the shower, then she quickly swept the place of the handsets. Though she’d forwarded the calls to her cell, she didn’t know if the house phone would still ring. She couldn’t risk the blackmailer calling with Mac in the house.
After quickly zipping herself into the polyester, she carted the handsets to her car, started the engine, rolled down the driveway, and escaped to the train station, hoping Mac would simply think she’d gone home, retreated from the temptation of him.
Now, she sat on the rumbling, rattling commuter heading toward Manhattan, gazing out the clouded window at the summer-slow Hudson. Maybe she could find some answers this morning that would finally set Elinor—and the rest of them—free.
“Is this seat taken?”
The voice sounded familiar. It belonged to Ray Williams, and it was just what CJ didn’t need.
“Hello, Ray.”
He sat beside her. “You going into the city?”
She decided not to point out that his question was moot, that they were both on the train headed south. “Yes.”
