by Joy Fielding
“That’s very good,” Doreen Rivers said, her eyes widening as Charley grabbed a second bag from the trunk and carried both bags up the front walkway.
Why was she looking at her that way? Charley wondered, feeling the other woman’s eyes boring into her back. True, the two women had barely spoken since Charley had voiced her objections to their backyard pool. But she wasn’t that unfriendly. Was she?
“Did you buy apple juice?” James asked. “Our mom forgot.”
“Well, no, I didn’t,” Doreen Rivers said. “But I think I may have some in the fridge, if you’d like some.”
“Can we, Mom? Can we?”
“Well, I…”
“Of course you can.” Doreen Rivers unlocked her front door and ushered a hesitant Charley and her eager children inside the cool interior. “The kitchen’s at the back,” she indicated.
“Your house is lovely,” Charley said, noting the dark hardwood floors and the sleek minimalist furniture.
“I think the layout’s the same as yours,” Doreen said as they deposited the bags of groceries on the counter of the modern, black-and-stainless-steel kitchen. “Except we added a third bedroom, and of course…the pool.”
“My dad builds pools,” James said proudly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as Doreen poured him and his sister a glass of apple juice.
“Yes. I believe he built our pool.” She glanced warily at Charley. “Can I get you a glass of something cold?”
“No, thanks. We really shouldn’t be bothering you.”
“It’s no bother. Actually, I think this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had.”
“My mother doesn’t believe in getting too friendly with the neighbors,” Franny explained as Charley closed her eyes and prayed for a hurricane to strike.
“Yes, I suspected as much.”
“Where are your children?” James asked in a voice that could cut glass.
“I only have one son. His name is Todd, and he’s away at school.”
“Finish your drink, James,” Charley instructed.
“I want to see my dad’s pool,” James said. “Can I?”
“James….”
“Of course you can.” Doreen Rivers opened the sliding glass door to the back patio, beyond which a small, kidney-shaped pool took up most of the yard. “In fact, why don’t you go home and get into your bathing suits, and then come back for a swim.”
“Can we, Mom? Can we?” James asked, already pulling on her arm.
“I don’t think so.”
“Please!” James pleaded. Even Franny was looking at her longingly.
“Well, if you’re sure it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I considered it an imposition.”
“Well, thank you. I guess it would be okay.”
“Don’t worry. You don’t have to talk to me,” Doreen said with a sly smile, although her words were all but drowned out by James’s whoops of glee.
Later, after the children had had their swim and their supper, and were both tucked into their beds, Charley was surprised to hear a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” Charley asked, thinking it was probably Doreen Rivers. Come to borrow a cup of sugar, or bring her a piece of homemade coffee cake, or whatever else it was that neighbors did when they were being neighborly, exactly what Charley had studiously avoided doing all these years, because she hadn’t wanted to risk…this. Contact, friendship, dependency. Whatever this was. Good fences make good neighbors, according to the poet, Robert Frost. Had all it taken been an impulsive offer to help carry a few groceries into the house to tear down the imaginary barrier she’d spent years constructing?
I think this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had.
Oh, well. Not to worry, she decided, thinking of Lynn Moore and Gabe Lopez. Sooner or later, she’d find a way to alienate her again. Charley sighed and threw open the front door.
A handsome young man with curly brown hair and dimples in his ruddy cheeks stood smiling at her from the other side of the threshold. It took Charley a minute to realize who he was. She almost didn’t recognize him without his yellow hard hat.
“I thought I’d take a chance you might be home,” he said, pulling a bottle of red wine from behind his back. “Care to join me?”
Charley glanced behind her, half-expecting to see James and Franny standing there, observing them. But James and Franny were sound asleep, and it was Friday night, and she hadn’t had a real date in months, she was thinking, not to mention, she hadn’t had sex in even longer than that, and…what was the matter with her? “I don’t think so, thank you,” she told him.
“You’re sure about that?” he asked, trying not to sound too surprised. A look of bemused disbelief played with his handsome features, telling her he’d used this ploy before, and wasn’t used to being turned down.
What would it hurt? she asked herself. A few glasses of wine with a good-looking stranger, some sweet lies whispered into her ear, a few more whispered into his. Some soft, deep kisses, a few expert caresses, leading perhaps to a few hours of uncomplicated, impassioned lovemaking.
Where? On the sofa? In her bed?
Where her children could walk in and find them.
What would she say? How could she explain?
No, this man isn’t your new daddy. I barely know him. No, he isn’t staying.
Uncomplicated? she repeated silently. Since when had anything in her life ever been uncomplicated?
She remembered the first time Franny had attended a classmate’s birthday party. “Where does Erin’s daddy live?” she’d inquired when Charley arrived to take her home.
“He lives with Erin and her mommy,” Charley told her.
The look of confusion on Franny’s face had been replaced by wonder. “You mean mommies and daddies can live together?” she’d asked.
Charley stared at the muscular young man smiling seductively at her from her front step. He was even sexier without his yellow hard hat, she was thinking, feeling her resolve weaken and her body sway toward him. “I’m sure,” she said, and quietly closed the door.
CHAPTER 13
Scot-free’ is an expression that stems from a municipal tax going back to medieval times,” Charley said as Jill Rohmer was ushered into the small interview room at Pembroke Correctional. “According to the Internet, it has absolutely no connection with Scotsmen, frugal or otherwise,” she continued, trying to still the erratic beating of her heart as the guard removed Jill’s handcuffs, left the room, and shut the door behind her.
Jill, dressed in her regulation orange T-shirt and baggy pants, pulled out a chair and sat down across from Charley, folding one small hand inside the other on the table between them, and staring at Charley with eyes the color of rich sable. “Tell me more.”
“Scot is actually a Scandinavian word meaning ‘payment,’” Charley continued, pleased to oblige because it gave her time to get her thoughts in order. Although she’d spent the last five days doing research and preparing questions, the sight of the pony-tailed young woman in her death row uniform had temporarily rendered her mind a blank slate. All that remained was the information she’d been able to dredge up regarding the term scot-free, and which she now tossed out like handfuls of confetti. “The whole term was actually scot and lot, scot meaning ‘tax’ and lot meaning the amount of tax you had to pay. Apparently only those who paid their ‘scot and lot’ were allowed to vote.”
“I’m not allowed to vote anymore,” Jill interjected. Then, quickly, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Go on.”
“It’s not really that interesting. I was just showing off.”
“No,” Jill protested. “It’s very interesting. Please, go on.”
Charley wondered briefly if Jill was toying with her. Or maybe she also needed a little time to relax, a few minutes to ease her way into the difficult hours ahead. “People were taxed proportionate to their own income,” Charley continued, ob
ligingly, “and that tax went to relief for the poor. Someone who evaded paying their share was said to get off ‘scot-free.’ And that’s where the expression comes from,” she concluded with an emphatic nod of her head. Enough of this nonsense, the nod said. Time to get this show on the road. She pulled a tiny tape recorder out of her purse and set it on the table, along with her notebook and several black felt-tip pens.
“Wow. I didn’t realize you’d be using a tape recorder.”
“I thought you liked tape recorders,” Charley said, biting down on her tongue as the color drained from Jill’s heart-shaped face. What was the matter with her? Did she want to alienate the young woman before they even began? You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, she was reminded, wondering where that expression came from. “Sorry. That was uncalled-for.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Jill said, although her skin remained ashen. “I know what you think of me.”
“I thought it would be a good idea to tape record our sessions for a number of reasons,” Charley offered. “First, because even though I’ll be taking notes, there’s no way I’ll be able to write fast enough to get everything you say, no matter how slowly you speak. And I don’t want you to have to even think about that. I want you to speak freely and as fast as you want, just like we were having a normal conversation.” As normal as it can be, considering we’re sitting in a locked room on death row, she thought, but didn’t say. “And secondly, this way there’ll be no confusion later on about what was said. We can avoid future arguments about you being misquoted, or my not understanding what you really meant. We’ll have something concrete and absolute to refer back to. Also, it’s a useful tool for me, something I can use to create context, or if I need to remember the exact tone in which something was said.”
“It’s a way of protecting yourself.”
“It protects both of us.”
“Okay,” Jill said. “I’m fine with it.”
“Okay,” Charley agreed. “I should just test it to make sure it’s working.” She turned on the recorder.
Jill leaned forward, angling her shoulders toward the recording device and speaking directly to it. “Name, rank, and serial number?” she asked, then tittered nervously.
Charley pressed the PLAYBACK button. Name, rank, and serial number? echoed throughout the room, accompanied by waves of girlish giggles. “Seems to be working fine.” She pressed the STOP button. “And you don’t have to speak directly into it. It’s small but it’s powerful. It’ll pick up whatever we say, so you can even get up and walk around, if you want.”
“Wow. That’s a lot better than the tape recorder I had.”
Charley felt her breath catch in her chest. Could she have heard Jill correctly? “So, are you ready to start?” she asked when she was able to find her voice.
“Can I ask you a few questions first?”
“Of course.”
“Did you speak to any publishers?”
“I spoke to a couple,” Charley told her, “as well as to a few literary agents. They seem quite interested.”
“Really?” Jill looked immensely pleased. “What’d they say?”
“They asked me to submit a written proposal, which I’ve already started work on. I hope I’ll be able to get something to them by the end of next week.”
“Pretty exciting, huh?”
“I guess.”
“What does Alex think?”
“I haven’t spoken to him.”
“Really?” Jill looked disappointed. “Me neither. I guess he’s pretty busy.”
“Apparently.”
“What do you think of him?” Jill asked.
Charley shrugged. “Seems like a nice enough person.”
“He’s a great lawyer.”
“Yes, I read the trial transcripts. He did as good a job defending you as anyone could have, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“The overwhelming evidence against you.”
Jill’s lips formed a pout of disgust, which quickly transformed itself into a bright smile. “Do you think he’s cute?”
“What?”
“Alex. Do you think he’s cute?”
“I hadn’t really noticed,” Charley lied.
“Well, I think he’s cute. I mean, he’s a little conservative and he’ll probably be bald in a few years, but…”
“Jill…” Charley interrupted.
“I’m sorry,” Jill said immediately, as if she was used to apologizing, even before she knew what she’d done wrong.
“We’re not girlfriends here,” Charley reminded her. “I’m not here so we can have a nice little chat about boys.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“It’s just that we only have a few hours, and I don’t want to waste any of it.”
“I understand.”
“We have a lot of ground to cover.”
“Sorry. We can start now. I’m really sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry.”
“Right. I’m sorry.”
Charley sighed, pressed the START button on the recorder. “Why don’t we begin with the letter you wrote me last week?”
“Was it okay? Was it what you had in mind?”
“It was very informative, yes.”
“Good. I decided to wait to write more until I knew if you liked it.”
“It’s not a question of my liking it or not….”
“No, of course not. I didn’t mean that. I meant…I’m sorry.”
“I know what you meant.”
Jill breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Good.”
“In your letter, you alluded to the fact you’d been sexually abused,” Charley said, deciding it made more sense to plunge right in, rather than simply go over what Jill had written.
“I didn’t say I was sexually abused,” Jill protested vehemently. “I said Pam was abused.”
Charley pulled the letter out of her purse, found the correct paragraph. “‘I didn’t know how you could get blood from tickling, and I guess I didn’t want to know,’” she read. “‘At any rate, I’d learn soon enough.’ What does that mean exactly?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Charley pressed. “‘At any rate, I’d learn soon enough.’”
“I don’t want to talk about that now.” Jill folded her arms across her chest and looked toward the far wall.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s too soon.”
“Too soon for what?”
“To get into this kind of stuff. I feel like I don’t know you well enough.”
“You’re saying you don’t trust me?”
“I trust you,” Jill insisted. “It’s just that it’s kind of like having sex on a first date, you know, before you’re really ready. I need you to take me to dinner, maybe buy me a few drinks first.” She rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue, like a playful child.
“You want to be wooed?” Charley asked incredulously, wondering, not for the first time, what the hell she was doing here.
“I’m saying I’d appreciate a little sensitivity, that’s all,” Jill answered, the playful child gone, replaced by the stern adult.
Charley nodded. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”
“It’s just that it was kind of a painful time in my life.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“I don’t like talking about it.”
“What would you like to talk about?” Charley asked, backtracking. Maybe the direct approach wasn’t the best one to be taking after all. Maybe it was simply better to let Jill take control, to follow her down whatever path she chose to lead them.
“I don’t know. How about Wayne?”
“That would be Wayne Howland?” Charley said, referring to her notes, although there was no need.
“Yeah. I feel like talking about him.”
“Okay. Tell me about Wayne.”
“He was my first real boyfriend
.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen. I remember because I’d just started getting my period. How old were you when you first got your period?”
Charley thought of telling Jill it was none of her business, reminding her again that they weren’t girlfriends, here to share a pleasant trip down the memory lane of personal hygiene. She was here to write a book. A bestseller, if possible. Something of substance and weight that would shoot up the charts and silence her critics once and for all.
But maybe a girlfriend was exactly what was needed to get the job done. If it took a few shared confidences to get Jill to open up and reveal all her terrible secrets, so be it. Charley thought back. “I was twelve,” she said.
“Yeah? Did you get a lot of cramps?”
“I don’t remember.” Charley’s first period was memorable only because there was no one around to help her deal with it. Her mother was somewhere in Australia, her father was locked in his study, her sisters were younger and even more naive than she was, she didn’t have any friends in whom she could confide, and their latest housekeeper referred to her own periods ominously as “the curse.” What little Charley knew about such matters came from health classes and textbooks. It was terribly cold and clinical, when all she really wanted was for someone to put their arms around her and tell her everything was going to be all right, that the world of grown-ups she was now entering wasn’t such a scary and terrible place to be. A little sensitivity would have been appreciated, she thought now, borrowing Jill’s words.
“You have this funny look on your face,” Jill said. “What are you thinking about?”
Charley shook her head. “I was just remembering the first time I used Tampax,” she sidestepped. “I didn’t realize you had to remove the cardboard.”
“Ouch,” Jill said, and they both laughed.
“This was in the days before they made plastic applicators. Anyway, you were talking about Wayne,” Charley said, directing Jill back to the topic at hand.
“I thought he was so cool,” Jill said. “He wasn’t very tall. Probably shorter than you. How tall are you anyway?”
“Five-eight.”
“That’s all? You look taller.”
