Exposé: First of the Sally Harrington Mysteries (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 5)

by Laura Van Wormer

  If I hear that phrase one more time I'm going to scream.

  "And you go off to New York to see if this is, perhaps, the as­signment that will lead you back to your original dream. So what do you do?" She pauses. "You're gone two days and now you're home, telling me you've met someone in New York and you want to break up with Doug."

  "But I've already broken up with Doug."

  "Sally, that's not the point! You've got to focus!" Mother rushes on, "You've got to make some decisions about your life! You cannot take an opportunity like this—this article for Expec­tations, one of the largest, most popular magazines in Amer­ica—and use it as an excuse to play around with some man who clearly has a few problems of his own, when you know you should be working!"

  "How can you say he has problems?" I blaze. "You don't even know him!"

  "Well what was his last girlfriend like?" she wants to know, her voice rising. "Undoubtedly she was some good-looking gal who was as unfocused in life as the two of you obviously are!"

  "Mother!" I am genuinely shocked. Mother is never like this. At least, not since I was fifteen and stole her car in the middle of the night to go joyriding.

  Suddenly Mother drops her face in her hands. "You are so much like your father." When she looks up, there are tears in her eyes. "I love you so much. And I loved your father like no man I will ever love again." A tear spills down her cheek. "But I will not stand by, Sally, and watch you throw your life away on some second-rate relationship and some second-rate job simply because you can't make up your mind about what you want to do."

  "Are you saying Daddy threw his life away?"

  "Sally," she says, leaning forward, "he was a man. It's differ­ent for men, you know that. He found me—he had me to run the rest of his life for him. There is no way he could have gone out on his own if I hadn't helped him. He wasn't meant for cookie-cutter architecture, he would have been miserable. Cer­tainly he would have made a lot more money in the corporate world, but that wasn't who he was—or who we were as a fam­ily. He needed to be who he was, and so I made it possible. I told him it didn't matter how much money he made. No man is going to do that for you."

  "I hope you're giving this same lecture to Rob," I say. "I don't see him beating a path down the aisle anytime soon."

  "Rob's difficulties are different," she says, sniffing. She wipes her eyes.

  "Oh, what's his problem?"

  "He's terrified of loss."

  I look at her.

  "He is. You'd do anything to avoid being responsible for your life, Sally, and he'll do anything to avoid being attached to anything or anybody who can ever be taken away from him." She takes a deep breath. "It's true. You react instead of act, your brother runs away." She sighs, rubbing her neck. "I just don't know. I've tried my best." She looks at me. "I'd like to see you two happily settled, that's all."

  I count to ten. "So what do you think would be best for me? To move to New York? Something like that?"

  "I know I don't want you writing for the sake of a paycheck, Sally. You'll go mad."

  "There is nothing wrong with working for the Herald-­American."

  Mother looks at me. "For Al Junior?"

  "You've got a point. Well," I say, standing to pick up our plates, "I'm not going to make do anymore, Mother. I can promise you that." I take the plates into the kitchen. The dogs follow and I give them their long-awaited scraps—Mother has a fit if anyone feeds them from the table. When I come back out­side, I find her looking off at the pond again.

  "I didn't really mean what I said about you and Rob. You made me angry."

  "Why are you angry?" I ask, sitting down.

  "Because I don't want you to waste this opportunity." She looks at me. "And I resent you trying to use me to assuage your guilt."

  "What guilt?"

  "Your guilt over having slept with a man you obviously don't even know. It’s self-destructive, Sally, and I can't pretend not to be shocked." She pushes her coffee cup. "Al­though I suppose it was the only way you could break it off with Doug."

  I'll be damned if I'll show any evidence to support or contra­dict what she has just said, but this in itself seems to verify what Mother wants to know.

  "Oh, Sally," she says, "don't be like this."

  "Damn it, Mother!" I jump up. "How am I supposed to react when you say things like that to me?"

  "Don't raise your voice."

  As much as I hate her in this moment, she is my mother and I respect her. Sort of.

  "Did it every occur to you," she continues in that same quiet voice, "that the reason why you've 'met someone' so quickly in New York is because you've been absolutely starving out here? For the life you were always destined to have?"

  "And what kind of life is that?"

  "Bigger than Castleford, Sally."

  I sigh, shaking my head. "You seemed so happy that I was back here, that I liked living here again."

  "It's not about living here." She leans forward again. "It's about the difference between choosing to live here, and staying because it's the easiest thing to do. The same principle applies to Doug." She stands up and pushes back her chair. "Don't let yourself run away with your emotions, Sally. No more making ­do with what you happen to find on the side of the road."

  My mouth's open, ready to scream. Something I happen to find on the side of the road?

  "And for heaven's sake," she adds, picking up the coffeepot and her cup, "be careful of your health."

  Buddy D'Amico is standing on the sidelines of a tournament soccer field in Cheshire. He is shouting and jumping up and down. He is wearing pleated shorts and a polo shirt that has the logo of the Castleford public golf course on it. When the referee whistles the action to a stop, Buddy stops jumping and catches sight of me out of the comer of his eye. He groans, turning away. "Not fair! Not here!"

  "Hi, Bud," I say, sidling on up next to him. "Your team looks good."

  He can't help it. He smiles. "Yeah, they are. They work hard."

  I point. "Look, I've brought Devon. He's going to take some pictures for the paper."

  A couple of the parents come over when they hear this.

  "Steve, Angie," Buddy says, "this is Sally Harrington of the Herald-American. Steve Bernstein and Angie Manado."

  We say hi and I ask which girls are theirs and dutifully take down their names. I get a soda for Buddy from the concession stand and sip one myself and watch the game and cheer and whistle. (I like sports.) Only after the game is over (Buddy's team won) and he has talked to the girls, before they go running off to leave with their parents, do I approach him.

  "Anything on the murderer?"

  "No. Here, make yourself useful." He shoves an equipment bag in my hand.

  "I think Pete Sabatino knows something about why Tony Meyers went to Kaegle's Pond," I say.

  "Tell me something I don't already know." Buddy sighs, hefting his bag over his shoulder and leading the way to the parking lot. "Unfortunately, his story sort of bites its own tail, doesn't it?"

  "So does anybody know what kind of explosives were used to blow up Tranowsky's yesterday?"

  He looks at me. "I didn't hear anything like that."

  "Well, you will. Someone blew it up."

  "Well thanks," he says sarcastically. "Just what I want to hear on my day off."

  "I think it's cool you're coaching girls."

  "Well I've got to practice for when Ceil gets bigger," he said, referring to his baby daughter.

  "Buddy? I need to ask you a favor."

  "What a shock." He swings his bag down next to his car.

  "No, I mean it."

  He glances at me, and then pulls his keys out to open his trunk. "What kind of favor?"

  "It's about my father's accident. I wondered if you could find out if there's a file on it."

  "There should be something," he says, taking the bag from me and tossing it into the trunk. "Why, what's up?"

  "I'm just curious. I'd like to see it."

 
He closes the trunk. "Sure." He gives me a pat on the arm. "Everything okay?"

  "Yes. Mom and I were just curious about something."

  He cocks his head slightly, studying me. "What about?"

  "I'll tell you when I find it," I promise.

  25

  Driving home from the soccer game, I feel exhausted. And I feel sad.

  Having Mother yell at me like she did this morning makes me feel terrible. I guess it was supposed to. Well, there's not much I can do but try and do what she said—put my nose to the grindstone and get this piece finished, don't be emotionally rash, grow up and figure out what I want to do with my life.

  So that's why I tracked Buddy down and asked him for the police report on my father's death.

  Mother's right. I do prefer chaos. I don't call it that—I call it keeping busy—but I keep myself hopping because I don't like a lot of downtime to think.

  Because when I have a lot of downtime to think, like now, I get sad.

  There's nothing worse than thinking you were robbed as a child. Because if you think that way, part of you will forever long for what you missed. And yet you know you can never get it. And so you get sad. Like I feel right now.

  No cure except to work and drown the sadness in a sense of achievement.

  My friend Morning from UCLA landed in both Cocaine Anonymous and Alcoholics Anonymous a few years back, which in this past year has led her to Adult Children of Alco­holics, Sex Anonymous and Emotions Anonymous. Morning never does things half-assed, not even recovery, it seems. Any­way, Morning sent me a meditation book for Christmas, which of course I just stared at for a while, wondering if she had fi­nally flipped or what.

  The point is, I opened that book and read a couple of chapters and I tried to meditate, which the author called "listening." I couldn't do it. I literally have too much, what he called "noise," in my head. The author talked about people like me, people who have to keep the radio or TV on, or who are forever talking to themselves, or who are on the phone, or working or what­ever—never just sitting, listening to the universe. When I try to meditate, my head fills with thoughts and lists of things to do and within seconds, I am up and doing something. Morning said it's the sign of an undisciplined mind, which I know she knew would drive me up the wall.

  After what Mother said this morning, I can't help but think Morning is right, but it is not just my mind. It is my emotions, it is my career, too.

  Before we're around the big bend of the driveway, Scotty has begun to bark and whine and jump around in the back of the Jeep. When the cottage swings into view, I see why. There's a blue Miata parked in the driveway and, although it is cloudy now, the top is down.

  Now what? I think, pulling in. No one seems to be around. I let Scotty out the back and he goes racing off into the woods, barking his head off.

  This is weird. Where is whoever drove this car here? I walk around the back of the house. No one.

  Scotty sounds like he's miles off, still barking.

  Huh.

  I unlock the kitchen door and let myself into the house and go to the answering machine. First message is from Doug. Sorry he missed me; he has some work he has to do. He'll call me later.

  My brother Rob, wanting to know why Mother sounds so pissed at me today, what's going on. Spencer. "You can't hide from me," he laughs. "I hope you're working hard. Talk to you soon." Mother. Apologizing for being so hard on me. She loves me. I am the greatest thing since sliced bread. Spencer. "Maybe you can hide from me," he says this time. "Where are you?"

  I pick up the phone and call the number he left. There is no answer. I walk into the kitchen to let Scotty in and nearly jump out of my skin because Spencer's waving to me through the kitchen door. He is shirtless and glistening with perspiration, wearing a pair of white tennis shorts, belt and sneakers. Scotty is holding his t-shirt in his mouth, tail wagging. I can't help but smile.

  "What are you doing here?" I say, flinging open the door.

  "Looking for you. I decided to take a little run while I was waiting. I'm pretty sweaty, but can I get a kiss?" He does. And he smiles. "Wow. I found you." He gestures. "Nice house! Nice dog!"

  "He'll put a hole in that," I say, making Scotty hand the shirt over while Spencer comes in. I turn around. "I can't believe you're here."

  "Me, neither."

  We're shy. At least I am. It is so strange to see him standing here. This is my house, my town. I suppose I should be an­noyed he just came, but I'm not. I'm glad. Nervous, but glad.

  "I was on my way back to the city." He crinkles up his face. "Would you mind if I had a glass of water?"

  "Oh, sure!" I say, jumping to it and getting him one.

  "Anyway, I looked on the map and found Castleford, and then I got off at a gas station and looked you up in the phone book. There was a number, but no address. So I called and you weren't here. So I'm standing there, wondering what to do, when I think of calling the paper. So I ask the lady behind the counter what the name of the paper is and she says, 'Who are you looking for?' and I say, ‘A reporter, Sally Harrington.' And she told me how to get here." He takes the glass from me. "Thank you." He gulps it. "Mmm, is this the famous well wa­ter?"

  I smile. "Yes. But who was that lady, I wonder?"

  "Oh," he says, lowering the glass, "she said to tell you hi from Bernice from choir practice." He polishes the water off and then walks over to the sink to help himself to some more. "I didn't know you were in choir."

  "Not since fourth grade. I remember Bernice. She's working at a gas station?"

  "Evidently. Anyway, I drove around a little. It's not much of a city, Castleford, is it?"

  "You should have been here last night," I tell him. "Part of it blew up."

  "Really?" He is drinking water again, muttering how good it tastes. A little hard, but good, which is an apt description.

  For a book editor in New York City, Spencer looks pretty fit. He's told me he goes to the gym a lot—he has one in his apart­ment building. And this weekend, unlike me, it appears he's gotten some sun.

  I tell him a little about the fire last night, the sandbag line, and how late I got in, and then how I had to meet my mother this morning, that's why I hadn't called. I give him a little tour of the house and in the living room he makes a beeline for a picture of Rob and me when we were kids, standing with my parents in front of our house.

  "This is your father?" he asks, picking it up.

  "Yes." I come over to stand next to him.

  "He was so young."

  I smile, looking at Daddy. He was.

  "Your mother is a knockout, Sally," he says, putting the pic­ture down and picking up another, a more recent one. "Wow."

  "Yes, she is," I agree.

  "You look like her."

  "But I'm not like her," I sigh.

  "What's the matter?"

  I drop sideways into one of my armchairs. "She told me this morning I have to grow up. I've been fooling around too long."

  "She doesn't want you to marry that Doug guy, does she?" he asks, coming over to kneel next to my chair. "I mean, part of me is hoping you told her about me," he continues, reaching for my hand, "and part of me is freaking out because she might want you to stay with that guy."

  "It's not about any guy," I answer him. "It's about me and my rash decisions and my habit of creating havoc in my life."

  He kisses my hand. "I missed you. I know it's ridiculous, but I have."

  I feel that tingle between my legs. It doesn't take much.

  "I was hoping I could talk you into letting me drive you into New York for the week," he continues. "And stay with me. Set up your stuff in my living room-there's a desk and phone, and there's a fax downstairs—"

  "Spencer," I whisper, putting a finger over his mouth and shaking my head. "It's too fast."

  "I don't care," he says, looking into my eyes. He pulls himself up to sit next to me in the chair, cradling me in his arm.

  I see he has an erection in his shorts and I
feel a falling sen­sation in my lower body, a hopeful anticipation. I am a dis­grace. He is kissing my neck, lightly touching my breast through my T-shirt.

  "Come with me," he whispers. "There's no reason why not to. You need to work. I'll be at the office all day. The doorman will get you cabs, take messages, send faxes, whatever you want. You can order coffee, food. But then at night—" he is kissing my chest through my T-shirt" —we can eat dinner, talk about our day, crawl into bed. You and me." He kisses me for a long time. "Just you and me. All night. All week."

  "It's crazy," I sigh, closing my eyes.

  "It's wonderful," he breathes into my ear.

  I don't know what we're doing; we're just sort of kissing and touching each other, and the next thing I know, I have my shorts off and I am undoing his belt and unzipping his shorts and he is pulling my legs up around him. He lowers himself to his knees, pulls me to the very edge of the chair where he care­fully, skillfully, enters me.

  "God," I groan into his shoulder.

  I feel him pull back a little and I open my eyes. He smiles, his eyes narrow, as if he's bordering on pain. Then he presses his mouth to mine, firmly holding my derriere, and pushes himself all the way in. And pulls out. And in. And out, each thrust gracefully sliding deeper inside me, and then all the way back up, and then down, and then back, and then down, and then back.

  "Oh, Sally," he breathes, pulling his mouth off mine. Now his eyes are closed, and his head is falling back, his movement starting to falter. He is about to come and I can't stand it, I don't want him to yet, and I find myself easing him back down on the floor and I slide down onto his lap. My breasts are in his face and I start to move against him, trapping him inside me, and I move, riding him, moaning, and he has completely stiffened, and I feel something and I know he is coming, but I have to keep going, and then there it is, it's coming, and I say, "Yes, Spencer, yes," through my teeth and I am over the top, having spasms around him. "Oh!" I finally shudder, collapsing on his shoulder.