“Sir, step out of the car now, please. Right now.”
“Yeah,” Michael said. “Yes. Yeah, of course.” He slid over to the front passenger door and unlocked it.
The policeman stood back, one hand resting on his holstered gun. Jillian didn't think Michael noticed that little detail, but it gave her an icier chill than the October wind. No, Michael wasn't noticing much. His expression was mystified. His eyes were wide, as though he had woken up to find himself lost in Oz. His hangover must have been even worse than hers, though how that could be she did not know. She wanted to scream at him, to hurl blame at him for putting her in this situation. Instead she just asked him to hand her purse back to her, and he did so.
“I'll need your license and your registration, please,” Michael's policeman said curtly.
Jillian stepped out of the car again, even as her husband got out on the other side. She pulled her wallet from her purse, then opened it and retrieved her license, handing it over. Her policeman glanced from the picture on the license to Jillian and then back again several times.
“All right, Mrs. Dansky. Stay right there a minute, please.”
He held on to her license as he made a circuit around the car. Jillian watched as he approached Michael and the other officer, and she realized that the two had separated them purposely. Probably just their usual procedure, but it made her feel even more isolated than she already had. Her policeman took Michael's license as well as the Volvo's registration, said something to his partner, and then started back to the police car. He slid behind the wheel; through the windshield, Jillian could see a gray silhouette as he picked up the handset for his radio. She had been stopped for speeding twice in her life, so she understood that he was checking to make sure the car belonged to them and that there were, God forbid, no warrants for her or Michael's arrest.
An eternity seemed to pass.
Her mouth felt full of cotton and there was a tight little knot in her belly. Though her hearing seemed dull, she caught some of the exchange between Michael and his policeman.
“. . . very late,” Michael was saying, “and I was falling asleep behind the wheel. My wife had had a little too much to drink—”
“What about you, Mr. Dansky?” the policeman asked, cut-the-bullshit in his tone. “You were nodding off at the wheel.”
Michael nodded. “I'd had a couple of beers, yeah. I don't think I was drunk, but throw in how late it was and the kind of day I'd had . . . I thought it would be better to just pull over and sleep an hour or so than end up in a ditch or wrapped around a tree. I never thought I'd end up sleeping until morning.”
“It's not the kind of thing we recommend.”
“Do you recommend driving when you can't keep your eyes open?” Michael asked.
At this, Jillian spun and stared at him. His tone up until that point had been conciliatory, but now Michael was staring at the cop, standing up to him, turning the whole damn thing around. His mother had always said he would have made a wonderful lawyer, and Jillian had often agreed. Michael Dansky knew how to win a debate. What was the cop supposed to say now? No, sir, you should have driven on home, no matter how tired you were or how much you'd had to drink? Never going to happen.
The cop glared at him. Jillian turned away before Michael's policeman could see the tiny smile that flickered at the corners of her mouth. But her amusement only lasted a moment. There was nothing funny about any of this.
She shivered. The wind was cold, but the sun was bright and warm. It was a beautiful Sunday morning in October. People were on their way to church, or to a farm to buy pumpkins or pick apples with their children. If there were any apples left on the trees. And here was Jillian Dansky, her humiliation on display. How would this go over with Bob Ryan and Benny Bartolini, last night's gunslinger and Mexican amigo, who wanted her to run for West Newbury City Council?
Not too well, she thought. And a little piece of her heart broke off, leaving a jagged edge. Jillian had worked very hard to achieve what she had in her career. She loved the community she and Michael had embraced as their own. They wanted roots here. Wanted to have children who would grow up here. But something like this . . . God, if word got around it would haunt her forever.
For the first time, she glanced around at the police car parked behind the Volvo. North Andover. A tremor went through her as she saw the name of the town stenciled on the side of the car, and she spent a moment thanking God, in whom she did not always believe. They hadn't gotten all the way home to West Newbury. It was bad, but not as bad as she had feared.
Her policeman returned from the patrol car. He held the registration and Michael's license in his left hand, but he handed Jillian's ID back to her. His eyes, gentle and kind, searched hers. If she hadn't felt so ridiculous, she might have hugged him, for his eyes told her all she needed to know about what was going to happen next. The registration had not raised any red flags, and neither had their names. Any annoyance she'd felt at being pitied a few minutes earlier disappeared.
“You're free to go, Mrs. Dansky. Your husband broke a city ordinance about overnight parking, and there's a vagrancy issue that comes into play, but nobody wants to cause trouble for you here. I really hope this was a one-time thing, one bad night. I really do.”
There was a sermon waiting in his gaze, but he left it unspoken.
So do I, she thought. But what she said was, “Oh, it is. Honestly. We're really very boring. We're not drinkers at all, but last night there was this masquerade, and—”
“Sort of figured that one out,” the policeman said. He smiled and gestured toward her costume.
“Of course. I just—”
“You have a good day, Mrs. Dansky.” He nodded to her, then started around the car.
Jillian glanced over at Michael, who looked on expectantly, brows knitted. She gave him an encouraging nod as the police officer approached him and they exchanged a few quiet words. The other cop was giving Michael a hard look, but Jillian's policeman handed her husband's license and registration back, and a moment later both officers were walking back to their car.
Jillian stood where she was and watched as they got into the patrol car and drove off. Her policeman waved at her as they passed. A moment later, Michael came to stand beside her on the roadside, car keys jangling at the end of one finger.
“Do you want to drive?” he asked.
“No,” she said, surprised by the venom in her voice. She and Michael rarely fought, and on those rare occasions it was more healthy debate than bitter argument. At the moment, however, she wasn't in the mood for a healthy debate.
“You drive,” she told him, walking around toward the passenger's side. “And on the way, you can explain what the hell just happened.”
IN THE MONTHS BETWEEN HIS junior and senior years at Emerson College, Michael worked a summer job at the secretary of state’s office, right up on Beacon Hill in Boston. He had grown up in Sudbury, thirty minutes west of the city, and the commute was a bitch. But he had spent enough time delivering pizzas and working in video stores, and wanted to have a real job on his résumé. As always when it came to city politics, strings had been pulled to score him the job. More than a decade earlier, his father had been a state representative out of Sudbury. The old man had been taken by cancer when Michael was in high school, but he’d been well liked and the connections remained. Teresa Dansky had made a few phone calls on her son’s behalf, and quick as you please he had a job.
Other than its location—Michael loved Boston Common and the State House—the job was wholly unremarkable. He answered phones and filled out paperwork; the department had half a dozen people doing the work of two. He sketched a lot, working on covers to imaginary CD's and books, and sometimes he even read, there at his desk.
But the job was not a total loss. If he hadn't made that trek into Boston all summer, if his mother hadn't made those calls, if his father hadn't been in state politics, he never would have met Jillian.
One July morn
ing, he sat at his desk typing up a form and trying to ignore the uncomfortable closeness of the air. The air-conditioning wheezed from vents in the ceiling as though on its last gasp. His desk was nearest the window, and the glare of the sun on his back combined with the failing air conditioner to make his work space almost stifling. They were supposed to get around to fixing the a/c soon, but Michael had no faith in what “they” said. It was a government building, after all. It took two to do half the work of one, and that was on the off chance they weren't on break. He figured they'd get around to fixing the a/c just in time for the cold weather to come blustering in.
The office was filled with conversation, a steady hum of voices. Michael typed the date at the bottom of the document he was completing, then tapped the key to print it. He stood to stretch, and glanced around. Kara, the woman who headed up his department, was on the phone. Sheila was bent over her computer, doing a background search on a corporation. He had no idea where the others were. Their area was separated from a much larger room of files and computer stations where paralegals could come and do UCC searches for their firms' clients, but his missing coworkers were nowhere in sight.
“Michael?”
He turned to Sheila, who had pulled her focus away from her computer long enough to get his attention. She smiled and gestured toward the long open counter-window at the front of the office.
“You have a customer.”
The girl on the other side of the counter stood patiently, a file clutched against her chest. Michael felt a warmth kindled in his gut that had nothing to do with the faltering air-conditioning. He knew her name, of course. She came up to the Corporations division at least twice a day to do UCC searches or to get certificates of good standing for her firm's clients. There were other things he knew as well. She was Italian. From Medford. She had only just graduated from Suffolk University, and in addition to her B.A. had earned a certificate that allowed her to work as a paralegal.
As Michael strode toward the counter, Jillian Lopresti glanced up at him and her eyes lit up. He drew a sharp breath through his nostrils and held it, trying not to smile like an idiot. Jillian reached up and pushed a stray lock of chestnut hair away from her face and laid her folder down on the counter.
“I was beginning to think you had the day off,” Michael told her.
Jillian rolled her eyes. “I wish. I could use a day off. I'd rather be at the beach.”
Michael tried not to imagine her at the beach—in a bikini—for fear that his eyes would trail downward and she would catch him looking, catch him imagining.
“What've we got today?” he asked.
She opened her file and withdrew several documents. “The usual. Three separate corporations, all owned by the same client. I need to know if they're in good standing. If not, how far back do we have to file to get a certificate?”
He nodded, taking the pages from her. There were a dozen little bullshit things he could have said, just to shoot the breeze, but he was not in the mood for small talk. Michael had other things in mind.
Jillian looked at him expectantly, clearly wondering why he wasn't off to look up the corporations in question. She raised her eyebrows.
“So, what do you usually do for lunch?” he asked.
One corner of her mouth lifted in an adorable smirk. Perhaps she was only a year older than he was, but there was so much confidence in her. Michael admired that. He also found it incredibly alluring. Even more so than the images his mind had conjured of her in a bikini.
What do you usually do for lunch? he had asked.
Jillian studied him. “Eat.”
Michael laughed politely, but he was not deterred. “When's your lunch hour?”
Her smile turned sly. “When I'm hungry.”
“Well, when you're hungry today, I'd love to take you to lunch.”
She let out a little breath and shook her head. “Sorry. I have plans.”
All the air seemed to go out of him. Those hazel eyes sparkled, and her smile remained, but apparently Jillian hadn't been nearly as interested in him as he had been in her. Michael had been taken by her the very first time he had seen her. She carried herself with the air of someone much older, and she always had a pleasant word for the others in his department. That first day she had worn a burgundy blouse and a black skirt with a slit up one leg. He could still hear the echo of her heels the way they clicked on the linoleum on the other side of the counter.
There had been no overt flirtation between them, just an exchange of pleasantries. Not very different from the way she spoke to anyone else in that office. But, still, he had hoped.
Michael forced a smile that he hoped didn't reveal how foolish he felt. He waved the documents at her as if she needed to be reminded what he was doing, and started back toward the computer at his desk.
“Isn't tomorrow your birthday?” she said to his retreating back.
He frowned as he turned to face her. How did Jillian know it was his birthday? “Yeah?”
She shifted her stance, putting all her weight on one foot, her hip outthrust beneath her skirt. It was a defiant pose, and heartbreakingly sexy. “Do you already have plans?”
“No.”
“Well, then, why don't I buy you lunch tomorrow? To celebrate?”
Michael stared at her a moment. Then he nodded. “I'd like that.”
She played me, he thought. The girl played me. She was busting my balls the whole time.
I think I'm in love.
MICHAEL FELT LIKE SHIT.
It had been only a few hours since their rude roadside awakening. They had come home and showered, and immediately he had retreated to the basement to avoid Jillian.
The house was only three years old. They had bought into a new development and watched excitedly over the months as the house went up. West Newbury was expensive, but not in Andover's league. With their joint salaries, they had still been overreaching, but had hoped that in a short time their income would catch up with their expenses.
With Jillian's promotion last year to paralegal manager, they at last had a little breathing room. Now it was time to do some of the things to the house on Persimmon Road that they had been holding off on. One of those was finishing the basement. Michael had begun framing for walls in July. It was the sort of thing he had to do in spurts, when he had the time and inclination.
No day like today, he thought.
He was nearly done. A couple of hours of work remained, and then he would be able to go out and buy the insulation and the sheetrock. That would be a big job, however, and it wasn't something he was going to worry about today. Not with the thudding headache that had settled like storm clouds across his skull. Not when every quick move shot him full of so many aches that he felt a hundred years old.
The Patriots were playing Dallas today. Kickoff was at one o'clock. Once the game started, he could hide in front of the television. Jillian didn't mind football, but it held no interest for her. With the game on, she would find other things to do in the house, perhaps even go out to do errands, as she so often did on Sundays. By the time the game was over, it would be dinnertime.
By then, Michael hoped that her anger would have cooled some. Then, maybe, they would be able to talk about what had happened the previous night. Their conversation in the car had been clipped and tense. Never in his life had he been so confused, and yet the person to whom he would naturally have turned for help was in no mood to lend him comfort.
It had taken Michael several minutes just driving around before he was able to get his bearings enough to find his way home. Jillian had wanted to know what had happened, how they had ended up spending the night on the side of the road. To his shame, Michael hadn't been able to tell her. He knew he must have had some flash of insight and realized he had to pull over before he passed out behind the wheel, but he couldn't remember any of it. Images of the previous night were jumbled in his mind, many of them disturbing and some, he felt, possibly only dreams or drug-induced hallucina
tions.
He remembered the masquerade perfectly, including their departure. He could recall Jilly passed out in the backseat. But the drive home from the Wayside Inn was all a blur. The hum of his tires on the road, of the car engine. He had been sleepy. Drunker than he had thought. God, how could you have driven like that? But that was the key, wasn't it? He had not felt drunk when he had gotten behind the wheel. Then again, wasn't that what they all said?
A ripple of silver. Come find me.
Michael winced at the picture that flitted across his mind, like the lingering colors on the inside of his eyelids after a camera flash had gone off. And a voice. A little girl's voice . . .
“Jesus,” he whispered to himself. He shook his head. None of it made sense. He had had only a few bottles of Guinness. Certainly not enough to induce this kind of blackout. He knew it was possible, of course. Had experienced it before, waking up in the morning to discover himself guilty of some fairly embarrassing behavior. But it had been years since he had been that intoxicated. Since college, in fact.
But to drive that way, to park on the side of the road and sleep it off and not remember how he got them there?
Michael was almost as angry with Jillian as she was with him, but most of his hostility came from guilt, and from the terror that filled him when he thought about what might have happened to them. As humiliating as it had been to be woken by the police rapping on the car windows, it was nothing compared to the worst-case scenario that had played out in his mind again and again since they had reached home that morning.
Not his own death. No, the worst thing would have been if he had gotten Jillian killed, and survived to know it.
He squeezed his eyes tightly together and took a long, shuddering breath. Then he steadied himself and drove another nail.
There were images in his mind that confused him. The last thing he remembered—really remembered—was nodding off at the wheel. But there were other things
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