Eyes

by Joanne Fluke

  “You can try, but don’t get your hopes up. People like the Stanfords don’t have hearts. All they’ve got are rolls of dollar bills in their chests!”

  “That’s what Alan used to say.” Connie gave a small, sad smile. “But I still think I should call them. I want to hear it from them.”

  Harry nodded and pushed the phone to her side of the desk. “Look, Miss Wilson . . . Connie. Give ’em hell, okay? Alan was crazy about you. He told me you were going to get married. What they did to you is just plain wrong!”

  Connie’s hands were shaking as she dialed the number. She knew the Stanfords hadn’t approved of her, but she hadn’t dreamed they hated her quite this much. What could she say to change their minds, to convince them that she was grieving over Alan just as much, or more, than they were?

  “Stanford residence. Elsa speaking.”

  It was the Swedish maid, and Connie immediately felt better. She’d never actually spoken to Elsa, but Alan had told her the woman was very nice. “Hello, Elsa. This is Connie Wilson, Alan’s fiancé. May I please talk to Mr. or Mrs. Stanford?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Wilson, they’re not taking any calls. They told me to say if you have any questions, you should contact their lawyer, Mr. Quentin Avery.”

  “Their lawyer? But . . . won’t they just talk to me?”

  “Could you hold the line for a moment, please?” There was the sound of a door closing softly, and then Elsa’s voice came on the line again. “Miss Wilson? I can’t talk long, but I want to tell you how sorry I am. Alan told me he loved you, and it’s not right what they’re doing.”

  Connie blinked back tears. When she spoke again, her voice was shaking with emotion. “Thank you, Elsa. Alan said you were nice, and he was right.”

  “Please call their lawyer, Miss Wilson. I’ll give you his number. The Stanfords could have arranged for you to have something of Alan’s, I just don’t know.”

  As Connie wrote down the lawyer’s number, her spirits rose. Perhaps Alan’s parents had acted out of grief, packing up his things so quickly and changing the locks on the door. But now that they’d had time to think about what they’d done, they might have reconsidered. Mr. Avery might tell her that it was all a mistake and she could move back into the condo.

  “Thank you, Elsa.” Commie managed a small smile. “Do you think if I call again, Alan’s parents will talk to me?”

  It was several moments before Elsa answered, and when she did, she sounded doubtful. “They just told me they weren’t taking any calls, except from their lawyer. But he might know, and I think you should call him right away.”

  CHAPTER 5

  It was a gorgeous reception area with soft leather wing chairs and Tiffany lamps, but after almost an hour of staring at the design on the expensive oriental carpet, Connie was feeling much more anxious and much less impressed. When she’d called Mr. Avery, his secretary had given her an appointment at four. The lovely grandfather clock in the corner was only seconds away from chiming five times, and Connie was still waiting.

  She didn’t like waiting rooms. They’d always meant trouble in her life. She remembered sitting on a cheap plastic chair at the emergency clinic, waiting for the doctor to stitch up her mother’s lip; one of her mother’s “dates” had split it. And pacing the tile floor at the veterinarian’s office, only to find that her stepfather had injured her kitty so badly, the little creature couldn’t be saved. Waiting in a small, cramped room on a scratchy sofa for a job that had been filled hours ago. Sitting on a folding chair in the wings until it was time for her to strip for old men with bleary eyes and alcohol-saturated breath, men who reached out to grope her if she ventured too close to the edge of the stage.

  “Miss Wilson? Mr. Avery will see you now. Follow me, please.”

  Connie jumped to her feet as the receptionist beckoned. She was a cold-eyed brunette in her early thirties with an impeccable figure and hair that looked too perfect to be real. She led Connie down a long corridor to a set of double bronze doors.

  The receptionist knocked twice, and then she opened the doors to usher Connie in. “Mr. Avery? This is Miss Wilson.”

  “Thank you, Sheila.”

  The cold-eyed brunette made a hasty exit, and Connie took several steps forward. Mr. Avery looked imposing behind his huge mahogany desk. He appeared to be in his fifties. There were streaks of silver in his dark hair, but he looked tan and fit, obviously the product of a pampered life.

  “Miss Wilson. Sit down.”

  His voice had the ring of authority, and Connie sat in the leather chair facing his desk. He had gray eyes that reminded her of polished steel. There was no hint of a smile on his face.

  “I have some papers for you, Miss Wilson.” The lawyer handed her a manila folder with a sheaf of papers inside. “Read them and sign them in duplicate, please.”

  Connie frowned as she opened the folder and began to read the papers inside. They were standard forms of some sort, but she wasn’t sure what they meant. “Excuse me, Mr. Avery. What are these?”

  “The first is an agreement not to press suit against any member of the Stanford family. The second is a voluntary restraining order.”

  Connie glanced down at the papers again, but they still didn’t make sense. “I don’t understand. Why would I want to sue the Stanfords?”

  “For palimony, loss of support, that sort of thing. But I can tell you, Miss Wilson, you would not win.”

  Connie shivered a bit. Mr. Avery kept his office quite cold. Perhaps he didn’t want his clients to stay very long. She remembered reading something about a palimony suit, some famous actor’s girlfriend had sued him, and it had been splashed all over the tabloids. But even if she’d wanted to do such a thing, how could she sue Alan? “But Alan is . . . dead. I couldn’t sue him for palimony.”

  “Precisely. You seem to be an intelligent woman, Miss Wilson, and I’m sure you’ll want to cooperate. Now if you’ll just sign . . .”

  “No.” The hair on the back of Connie’s neck bristled. She hated it when people talked down to her, yet that was exactly what Mr. Avery was doing. “You just told me I couldn’t win a palimony suit, so I don’t see any reason to sign.”

  Mr. Avery began to frown. “Look, Miss Wilson. It’s just a precaution. Alan’s parents need reassurance that you won’t bring a lawsuit. You’ve got to understand their position. They’re grieving for their only son.”

  "They’re grieving?” Connie was so angry, she almost jumped up from the chair. “How do you think I feel, Mr. Avery? I lost the man I love, I lost our baby, and then I lost my home!”

  “Please calm down, Miss Wilson. I appreciate the emotional strain you must be experiencing. I know this could seem odd to you, but people handle grief in various ways. The Stanfords have pulled the wagons in a circle, so to speak. They’ve gathered all of Alan’s belongings, in the hope that these things may provide some comfort to them.”

  “And they left me out in the cold for the Indians to scalp!” Connie shivered again. “If they’re so damned grief-stricken, why don’t they talk to me? Why don’t they find out what Alan really thought? What Alan was really like? I lived with him. I was a part of his life every day and every night. And now that he’s dead, they’re . . . they’re pushing me away!”

  “Believe me, that’s not their intention.” Mr. Avery looked very sad. “Their grief is too fresh right now. It would be too painful for them to bring anyone into their family circle at this time of sorrow. Perhaps it would have been different if you hadn’t lost Alan’s baby. Then they might have taken some comfort in the fact that a part of their son would live on.”

  Despite herself, Connie nodded. What Mr. Avery said had the ring of truth.

  “Please sign the papers, Miss Wilson. Give them the peace of mind they need. Do you really believe Alan would have wanted you to cause his parents additional grief?”

  Connie sighed. Another point, and it was well taken. “Alan never wanted to hurt his parents. I know that. And I don�
��t want to hurt them, either. Tell me about the papers again, Mr. Avery. The first set promises that I won’t sue them?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Connie paged through the document and found the line for her signature at the bottom. Her hand was shaking slightly as she signed both copies. “What about the other set?”

  “It’s a voluntary restraining order. It promises that you won’t try to contact them until they’re ready. They need time, Miss Wilson. Give Alan’s parents time to cope with the loss of their son.”

  “All right.” Connie felt terribly weary as she signed the second set of papers. The Stanfords should have known that she wasn’t the type of person to force herself on them. But as she handed the papers back to Mr. Avery, she had a terrible thought. “How about Alan’s funeral? Please, Mr. Avery . . . I need to see him again to say good-bye! They won’t keep me away from his funeral, will they?”

  “Of course not. But you see, Miss Wilson, there won’t be a funeral. Alan didn’t want one. His wish was that he be cremated and placed in the family mausoleum.”

  “Alan didn’t want a funeral?” Connie frowned slightly. Perhaps it was true. They’d never discussed it.

  “Alan thought funerals were much too painful for the survivors. He wanted his family to hold a memorial one year after his death. Alan felt it should be a celebration of his life at a time when everyone could remember him without tears.”

  Connie nodded. That sounded like Alan. He’d always been very concerned about everyone else’s feelings. “So he’ll be cremated?”

  “That’s right.” Mr. Avery nodded. “Just as soon as the hospital releases his body.”

  “His . . . body? But the police told me Alan died at the scene of the accident. Why does the hospital have his body?”

  “You didn’t know?” Mr. Avery looked surprised. “Several years ago, Alan filled out a donor card. It was on the back of his driver’s license.”

  It took Connie a moment to get over her shock, but then she remembered. She’d seen the pink card on the back of Alan’s license. Perhaps that was one of the reasons he’d insisted on cremation. He hadn’t wanted anyone to see him after they’d taken his organs.

  “This is for you, Miss Wilson.” Mr. Avery handed her a small white envelope. “Alan’s parents wanted you to have it. The family is leaving the country for a while. Going to Italy, I believe. They have a villa there.”

  “But . . . do you think they’ll call me when they get back?”

  “I’m sure they will.” Mr. Avery stood up, signifying that her appointment was over. “Good luck, Miss Wilson. I’m very sorry we had to meet at such a distressing time.”

  Connie rose. Mr. Avery was extending his hand, so she shook it. It was cold and dry, exactly what she’d expected, and Connie shivered as she followed him out of his office, down the long corridor, and past the deserted reception area.

  “Good-bye, Miss Wilson.” Mr. Avery held open the outer door.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Avery.” Connie went through the doorway and walked to the elevator. It wasn’t a long wait, the building seemed to be deserted, and when the doors slid open she found that she was the only passenger.

  Her hands were trembling as she pressed the button for the ground floor. She waited until the doors had closed, then removed the envelope from her purse and held it close to her chest. What was inside? A picture of Alan? A small keepsake of his that they wanted her to have? A handwritten note from Alan’s parents, apologizing for changing the locks on the condo and moving her things? A sympathy card that said they were terribly sorry she’d lost the baby?

  The envelope was sealed, and Connie was almost afraid to open it. She hoped it would contain something of Alan’s. She had nothing of his, and desperately needed a memento that had belonged to the man she’d loved. It would be a comfort to her, something she could keep forever.

  The elevator stopped on the ground floor, and Connie got out. She called for a cab at the pay phone in the lobby. Then she stood by the huge plate-glass window, watching snow drift down as her fingers slowly opened the envelope. It had to be something of Alan’s. It just had to be!

  Connie held her breath as her fingers pulled out what seemed to be sheets of paper, five of them, exactly the same size. Then she took a deep breath and looked down at what she was holding.

  “Money!” Connie’s eyes widened in shock. There were five crisp hundred-dollar bills, nothing more, not even a note.

  Her first instinct was to tear up the bills and throw them in the trash. The Stanfords had decided to buy her off with five hundred dollars. It was a reward for signing the papers and promising not to make trouble. They’d been smart enough to realize she had no income. Much as it rankled, Connie knew she’d have to keep the money.

  A horn honked outside, and she looked up. Her cab had arrived. She pushed open the door, ran out to the curb, and climbed into the backseat.

  “Where to, lady?”

  The driver turned around to look at her, and for a moment Connie wasn’t sure. She couldn’t go back to the condo. It was no longer her home. But where could she go?

  “Lady?”

  The driver was frowning. He looked impatient, so Connie gave the first address that popped into her head. It was a dive, a bar on lower Hennepin. She’d gone there with the other strippers when their shift was over.

  “You sure you want to go there?” The driver looked surprised when Connie nodded. “It’s no place for a lady like you.”

  Connie almost laughed out loud. She was no lady. All he had to do was ask the Stanfords. They’d paid her off with hundred-dollar bills in a plain white envelope, as if she were some kind of expensive whore!

  “Did you hear me, lady?”

  “I heard,” Connie nodded, bitterly. “Just take me there. I know what it is, and you’re wrong. It’s exactly my kind of place.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “I’m scared, Jill.” Neil reached out for her hand. “What if the disease destroyed too many nerves? If they take off the bandages and I can’t see, I . . . I don’t know what I’ll do!”

  Jill gripped his hand tightly. She’d never seen him this vulnerable before, and her heart went out to him. “Don’t borrow trouble, honey. Dr. Varney said the operation went perfectly. I’m sure it’s going to be all right.”

  “That’s easy for you to say! You have no idea what I’m going through. Let me tell you, it’d be a lot different if you were the one who was stuck here with bandages over your eyes! What time is it anyway? And where’s that damned doctor?”

  “It’s almost two.” Jill did her best to be patient. Neil had been like a bear all morning, alternating between rage and utter despair. Several minutes ago, she’d gone out to the desk to ask if he could have a tranquilizer, but the nurse had told her they’d have to wait for the doctor to arrive. “I know it’s hard, Neil, but try to relax. Dr. Varney will be here any minute.”

  “And doctors are always on time. Isn’t that right, Jill?”

  From the tone of his voice, she knew he would have glared at her if he’d been able. She’d seen that caustic glare many times in the past; she knew it well. She could almost feel it searing the inside of his closed eyelids, making the bandages smolder with his hurtful brand of sarcasm. “Neil . . . please. It’s not good for you to get upset.”

  “I . . . am . . . not . . . upset!”

  His voice dripped icicles, and Jill found herself backing away from the bed. Even though he was flat on his back in a head restraint, he still held the power to intimidate her. But today, some crazy instinct made her do something totally unexpected. Influenced by the vampire movie she’d seen the past night, she raised both forefingers in the sign of the cross and stifled a very inappropriate giggle.

  “Jill? What was that? What are you doing?”

  “It’s all right, Neil.” She dropped her hands and moved toward the bed again. “I was just . . . uh . . . coughing.”

  “Well, you’d better not be coming down with a bug. I
need you to take care of me!”

  The words on the tip of Jill’s tongue struggled to be set free. She wanted to tell him that if he wasn’t nicer to her, she might very well walk out the door. But she stifled the words and then sighed. Her husband was anxious and frustrated, both entirely understandable reactions. Today he would learn whether he’d ever be able to see again.

  There were footsteps in the hall, someone walking quickly and with authority. The steps slowed at the door, and a moment later, Dr. Varney stepped into Neil’s room. “Jill . . . Neil. How are you this afternoon?”

  Jill glanced at Neil. Would he make some sarcastic retort about how he’d been a hell of a lot better before he’d set foot in this hospital? Would he lash out at the doctor for being late? But Neil didn’t do either. He just smiled, the nicest smile that Jill had ever seen.

  “I’m fine, Doc.” Neil’s voice was friendly. “Are you going to let me sit up?”

  Dr. Varney shook his head. “Not right away. We’ll take off your bandages first, and then we’ll see.”

  “I hope you’re right!” Neil actually produced a laugh. “About the seeing part, that is.”

  The doctor laughed, too, and patted Neil on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’re in good spirits. Now let me tell you exactly what I’m going to do.”

  Jill listened while the doctor explained. They would pull the drapes and turn off the fluorescent lights. After almost forty-eight hours of total darkness, a sudden exposure to light could be painful. Dr. Varney would use a small, specially designed light to examine Neil’s eyes. Neil had to be careful not to move his head or open his eyes.

  “I don’t understand,” Jill said, “if Neil isn’t supposed to open his eyes, how can you tell whether he can see?”

  Dr. Varney turned to her. “I’ll check for perceived light through Neil’s eyelids. That’ll tell us whether the optic nerve is functioning properly.”

  “Doctor?” A middle-aged nurse with frizzy blond hair entered the room. She was pushing a cart draped with sterile towels.