by Jean Stone
Throughout the story Frank sat, unemotional. When she was finished he asked, “It's that simple?”
“Yes.”
“Had you had an argument?”
“No.”
He looked at her with the same doubt that the police had in the beginning, as if trying to determine if she were trying to cover up . . . what?
“Was it about money?” Frank asked. “Did Brian try and pull some sort of scam?”
Oh. Money. If she told Frank the truth, she'd be exposing Brian for the rogue he might or might not be, depending on if he were willingly missing, or if he were dead. Dead. She tried to rub the chill from her forearms. “I don't know,” she said, which, in part, was true.
“Four months ago?”
Four? Had it been that long already? “Since April. Yes.” And then it occurred to Jo that, as far as she knew, there were only two ways Frank could have learned about Brian: either through her mother or through the police. Surely Marion would not have revealed her daughter's humiliation. “Frank?” she asked bravely. “How did you find out?”
Frank stood up and put his hands into his pockets. He walked first one way, then back another. He stopped in front of Jo. There were tears in his eyes. “The Boston Police were here,” he said. “They told me Brian is missing. They wanted me to look at a photo and tell them if it was him.”
“But I saw the photo,” Jo said. “When I was in Boston. It was of a man and woman in South America. The man wasn't Brian.”
Frank shook his head. “The picture they showed me wasn't from South America. It was a picture of a guy in Boston. He'd been pulled out of the river. Jo, the guy was dead.”
Andrew was leaning over her. “Jo?” he asked. “Do you want me to call your mother?” He held a glass of water to her lips. “Jo?” he asked again.
She sipped the water. She realized she was sitting in one of the navy chairs. When had she sat down?
“Are you okay?” It was Andrew's voice again.
She blinked. Frank sat beside her, his eyes steady on her, his expression one of concern. Had she ever seen that expression on Brian?
“I'm okay,” she answered. “Please, don't call my mother.”
A half-smile crept across Frank's face. It reminded Jo that Frank had a mother, too, a mother and a father right there in West Hope. Right there under the magnifier of their lives.
“Brian might still be alive,” he said quickly.
Jo sat up straight. Andrew handed her the glass and moved to another chair.
“I couldn't tell if it was him. I'm going to drive down there. I didn't know if you'd like to come.”
The gleaming hardwood floor seemed to captivate her attention. She could not pull her gaze from it to look up at Frank. She could not look at him. “I just moved back from Boston,” she said, as if that had anything to do with what he had asked.
“I know,” he said with polite patience. “I also have no idea what my brother did or didn't do this time, but I'm glad the police came to me and did not go directly to my parents.”
Jo nodded. She thought of Helen and Jonathan Forbes. Brian had told her they were in their eighties now, that his mother hadn't been well, that his father was deteriorating from his stressful role as her caregiver. They'd been a family once, with a busy antiques business and two robust boys and respectability in West Hope. There had been rumors, of course, when Brian had gone to Montreal, but the speculation had gone the way of old gossip and life had gone on. And now the parents were ailing, and Brian was gone once again. Jo could only imagine how this news would affect them. “I'm sorry, Frank,” she said. “I should have told you when it happened. You're his family, after all.”
Frank lowered his eyes. “I heard from him last fall, but we haven't seen him in years. Brian wasn't the greatest at staying in touch.” Like Jo, Frank was still making excuses for Brian's hurtful flaws. Frank's gaze moved to Jo, then to Andrew, then back to Jo, almost unsure if he should speak in front of a stranger. “Would you like to go somewhere and talk?”
She shook her head. “This is fine,” she said. “Andrew is fine. But, no, I don't want to go to Boston. I don't want to go to the morgue.” The word slipped out with surprising ease, as if it were a word she said every day.
Frank inhaled a long breath, then slowly let it out. “Jo,” he said, “I'd like to help.”
She shrugged.
“I didn't even know you and Brian had been in touch again.”
“He found me in Boston,” she said. “We spent a few months together. We weren't going to tell anyone until we were sure about our future.” She did not add they were not going to tell anyone until Brian's business was up and running, until he could say that he had finally made it, the way Jo had done, the way his father and brother had done. She drank more water. She supposed she was no different than Frank, defending a man who might or might not be worthy of their efforts. But was it so bad to still protect Brian? Especially if he were . . . dead?
Dead.
Brian?
The only man she'd ever loved.
“You don't think it's him?” she asked.
“I . . . I couldn't tell. It was a police photo, taken when they'd found him. There was mud and blood in his hair and on his face . . .” He hesitated, looked back at Andrew, then out the window. “It's been a long time since I've seen him.”
With an unsteady fingertip Jo edged the rim of the water glass. “So you want me to go with you.”
“It would help. Yes.”
“What if I looked at the picture? Would that help?”
Frank twisted on his chair. “I'd rather you didn't see it, Jo. It's not especially nice.”
She flashed her eyes at him. “But a body in the morgue would be better?”
“He'd be cleaned up, I'm sure. He'd look . . . better.”
The cry she cried was more like a wail, an animal wounded, caught in a trap.
Andrew stood up. “Frank,” he said, “I don't think this is a good time for Jo. Why don't you go to Boston and let us know if there's anything she'll really be able to do. After you've checked things out.”
Frank stood up. He was grayer now than when he'd walked in; he looked older and sadder and awfully alone.
“I'm sorry,” Andrew said. “If it is your brother, I am very sorry.”
Frank nodded and headed for the door.
“Wait,” Jo said, as she slowly stood, her legs feeling weak, but her will now resolved. “I'll go with you, Frank. If I sit here I won't think of anything else. Let's just get it over with.” And then the wondering might be over, she thought but did not say, and maybe I can finally truly grieve, then get on with my life.
21
Andrew wondered how long it would be before Cassie told him about the letter from Patty.
Jo left for Boston with Frank right away—she'd said waiting until tomorrow would only guarantee a totally sleepless night.
With no one at the shop, Andrew closed up early. He supposed he should have stayed and worked on his next column: The soap opera around him was getting quite juicy. But Andrew felt too sorry for Jo to expose this latest angle. After all, he now knew why she'd reacted so strongly when she'd learned that Lily had gone out with Frank Forbes. Jo hadn't been jealous, she'd been afraid. Afraid that her vulnerability would be exposed to the world, afraid that she wasn't equipped to withstand any more pain.
For Andrew, writing about dating and the fun of the man-woman world was one thing. Writing about someone's fears was another altogether. He had known that kind of fear when Patty had left him, and he wouldn't have wanted anyone announcing it to the mass market, incognito or not.
Besides, he reasoned, as he headed for the stables, he deserved some time off. And it was Wednesday. Cassie would be at her riding lesson. He'd surprise her and show up to watch.
He sat on the bleachers with no sign of Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name-Was. From high atop Big Bailey, Cassie was hard at work, going through her paces around the ring. She did not notice her fat
her; she kept her eyes forward on the next jump.
“Relax!” Andrew heard her instructor call. It was then that he noticed that Cassie, indeed, seemed stiff in the saddle, as if it were the first time she'd been up on a horse.
Bailey went over a small fence and knocked off the post.
“Cassie, relax. You're too tense on the reins.”
It wasn't like Cassie to be tense about anything unless her room was a mess and her bed was unmade and one of her friends had called and said she was on her way over. Andrew watched his daughter with concern.
Another jump faced them. But Bailey slowed down. He did not seem to want to go for it.
Cassie veered him from the course and stopped Bailey in front of the instructor. She said something to the woman that Andrew could not hear. Then she got off the horse and began leading him back to the barn.
“Cassie?” Andrew called out as he stood up.
She looked to the bleachers, shielded her eyes against the sun. “Dad?” she said.
He scrambled down the wooden planks and jogged across the packed dirt. “What's up, honey? Quittin' early today?”
Cassie shrugged and resumed walking the horse. “An off day,” she said. “For both of us.”
He wondered if she meant it was an off day for Bailey and her or for her and her father. Then again, she wouldn't know that Andrew had been having an off day, too, because Cassie didn't know he'd found the card and the picture and had thought of little else all afternoon besides men and women and their tenuous relationships.
And of Jo, of course. And this perplexing new situation of hers.
“Off days happen,” he said, falling in step beside his daughter. “Can I help?”
She hesitated a minute, then said, “You can tell me why I have such a turd for a mother.”
He laughed. Well, Jesus, how could he help himself? Patty O'Shay, once the world's most desirable model, being referred to as a turd by her own daughter? “Remind me never to go away,” he said. “I can't imagine what kind of word you'd come up with for me.” Of course, he would have rather agreed with Cassie, would rather have said, “No kidding your mother's a turd,” and added a few expletives of his own. But Andrew had vowed to himself to never do or say anything to turn Cassie against her mother. It was a vow that hadn't always been easy to keep.
Cassie stroked the horse's neck as they walked. “She has another kid, Dad,” she said. “It's a boy.”
Sometimes, Andrew thought, life works out the way it should. The fact that he already knew about the latest Patty-news acted as a shock absorber for Cassie's announcement. If he hadn't already known, he might not have been able to keep himself in check. “Well,” he said, putting his hand on Cassie's shoulder. “I'll bet he's not nearly as pretty as you.”
Cassie rolled her eyes. “His name is Gilbert. What a stupid name. Like Gilbert Grape.”
“Is he purple?” Andrew asked.
She laughed. “Not quite. But he's bald.”
A tiny catch came into Andrew's throat. Corral dust, he suspected. What else would it be? He tried not to remember that Cassie had been hairless, too, with the roundest pink face and the hugest blue eyes and the most fetching smile he had ever seen.
“So,” he said, “you have a brother.”
“A half brother, Dad. It's not the same thing. Besides,” she added, “it really doesn't matter. It's not like I'll ever see him. Or her.” The her, of course, meaning her mother.
He could have said part of the reason he was writing “Real Women” was to gather some money to take Cassie to Australia, that if Mother Mohammed wouldn't come to the Berkshire Mountains, he damn well would see to it that the mountains went there. He could have told Cassie, but he did not want her to get her hopes up. Besides, the not-so-charitable side of him enjoyed the position that Patty had earned of being the bad guy and the turd.
“Come on,” Andrew said, “Let's cool down Big Bailey. Then we'll figure out when you'd like to go shopping. Jo wants to take you to buy some new school clothes.”
If Cassie made a connection between Patty's letter and this sudden shopping trip, she was bright enough not to bring it up.
22
DON'T
Forget that this is his wedding, too! Let your groom be part of the planning and the fun. Not to mention that, as a second wedding, some of his money is most likely paying for it, as well. It's the 21st century girls; we must allow the men to get involved, and even to make decisions.
It should have been the longest trip on the turnpike Jo had ever taken. They didn't speak much: She told Frank a little about the business she'd had; he told her how antiquing had become a fine art in the Berkshires, competitive, cutthroat sometimes. Mostly they listened to CDs of the Boston Symphony at Tanglewood, and watched the cars whiz past on their way to the Cape, the islands, the beaches, north and south.
Then, suddenly, they were gliding through downtown traffic, slipping into a parking garage, climbing the cement steps of an old building, moving as if on automatic pilot, destination predirected by an unknown source.
Once inside they were directed to a small waiting room. It had green vinyl chairs and a small coffee table that held an assortment of magazines: Parents magazine, Woman's Day, People, Buzz.
Jo sighed, almost surprised that she had been able to sigh, that she had not programmed herself to hold her breath until this was over, until they knew.
She studied the magazines. Why would anyone want to sit in the morgue and glance through such pages as if awaiting the next available manicurist?
Against all judgment that might be deemed sane, Jo picked up People and flipped to the back.
“I'll go in first,” Frank said beside her, as if she expected a different plan. “If I can't be certain, I'll come out and get you. There's no need for you to go in unless . . .”
Unless he can't tell if it's his brother because it's been too many years and his face is too mangled.
She knew what he meant, but was glad he hadn't said it.
She turned to an article on the L.A. scene. She scanned the images of youthful actors whose movies she had not seen, whose names she did not know, a reminder that those likely to succeed were now a generation younger.
She closed the magazine and tossed it back onto the table. She tapped her foot.
“Mr. Forbes?”
A young man in a crisp white coat approached. Anxiety rushed through her like a hot flash.
A hot flash? she wondered. Wasn't she too young for hot flashes?
Frank stood up and straightened his slacks, adjusted his belt, tucked in his shirt. He hesitated. Jo touched his hand. He looked down at her and nodded. Then he followed the young man from the room.
Her pulse paced out the time at the base of her throat. She forced herself not to wring her hands, not to bite her lip. She glanced back at the magazines, looking for a distraction. She picked up Buzz.
Leafing through the pages of not-quite-naked women and their lucky escort men, Jo realized they were from the world of Perfect, where she did not belong.
She turned to the editorial, as if she might be capable of reading, of comprehending, or caring about anything beyond this place and the reason she was there.
But the words bled together like an ink spill on the page.
She pitched the magazine.
She folded her arms.
She waited.
23
Lesson #4: True or False? Though we don't like them to know it, men are as sensitive as women.
So, let's talk about Jacquelin, one of the women I work for, the drop-dead gorgeous one. Forgive the cliché, but you know the type. Light blond-beigy hair, feline green eyes, legs that go all the way up to there. But she has some sort of secret and it has to do with a man (of course).
She has an old boyfriend who apparently is missing from the world, or at least from her world. One night while they were in a restaurant, the guy went to the men's room and—abracadabra!—he was gone.
That wa
s four months ago.
Now the guy's brother shows up and wants to whisk our woman off to a morgue to check out a body that has turned up with no name. It might be the boyfriend, and he might be dead.
So why is Jacquelin reluctant to find out?
You might think it's because if he's dead she can no longer fantasize that he'll come back to her, but I don't think that's the reason. She's too smart for that.
I think.
I tell you this story, not to spread gossip or invoke mystery, but with the hopes that maybe we'll learn, once and for all, if the old adage is true: that a woman—even the brightest, the hottest, the most unlikely—truly does act with her heart, while a man truly acts with his lower parts.
He was, of course, writing as much about himself as he was writing about Jo Lyons.
24
It wasn't Brian.
Frank returned to the waiting room shaking his head and saying, “Thank God, Jo. It's some other man.”
They left the building and got into the car.
“I'm sorry to have put you through this,” he added.
“It's fine,” she whispered as she buckled her seat belt. She was glad, of course, that the dead man wasn't Brian. Yet if it had been, she was ashamed to admit that she might have felt some relief. If Brian were dead, it would have meant his disappearance had not been her fault, that he was not gone because he no longer loved her or never had at all, or because he had found someone better. If Brian were dead, there would have been closure.
But now the unknown would go on.
“Maybe we should talk to a private investigator,” Frank said as he drove up the ramp and onto the turnpike.
She'd already done that months ago.
She told Frank about the man in Brookline named R.J. Browne, who had a reputation for getting the job done. He had said he would be candid.
“Unless there's a reason to suspect foul play, I've found that most times adult males disappear because they want to.”
