Concealing her first pregnancy and giving up her newborn son for adoption soon shattered her fledgling religious faith—yet, curiously, not her faith in Garvey, who coerced her into making those decisions. She convinced herself, somehow, that if there was a God, he had betrayed her; even that she had betrayed herself. But not Garvey. No, never Garvey. She never realized the truth about him until last August, when it was too late.
Down the hall, Caroline and Annie continue to squabble. As usual, Caroline is accusing her sister of snooping through something—her room, or her laptop, or her phone…
Marin closes her eyes and presses her thumb and fingertips into her throbbing temples, wondering when the ibuprofen she’d taken earlier is going to kick in.
“I told you not to…”
“Why do you always have to…”
“I’m telling Mom!”
When the ringing telephone chimes into the melee, the girls don’t miss a beat. They never bother to answer anything but their own cell phones.
Normally Marin doesn’t, either, because you never know whether it’s going to be a reporter or Garvey calling from jail. Both tend to register—as this call does—as “private number” on the caller ID.
But anything is better than listening to World War III.
She picks up the receiver.
“Marin! There you are!”
Heather Cottington—the one old friend who’s stuck by her in the wake of Garvey’s scandal. Countless rounds of “I told you so” have been a relatively small price to pay for an adult confidante who, despite a high-profile allegiance with the opposing political party, wouldn’t dream of capitalizing on her proximity to the notorious Quinns.
Plus Heather—who is married to a doctor and whose home medicine cabinet is a veritable pharmacy—is always happy to share her Ambien and Xanax with Marin, who, as Heather often says, needs it more than she does.
“I’ve tried your cell twice this morning. I was getting worried.”
“Sorry. I didn’t hear the phone.”
“Really?”
“Really. Maybe I accidentally silenced the ringer. Or maybe the battery’s dead.”
Maybe she even lost the phone somewhere. Who knows? Who cares?
Heather, who wears her Bluetooth headset like a diamond tiara, pauses dubiously before continuing, “So anyway, I thought I’d better check in and see how it’s going so far.”
“You mean the cleaning service?” Marin knows very well that’s not what this is about, but she isn’t in the mood for another head-spinning ride on the I-told-you-so carousel.
“Not the cleaning service—but how are they doing?”
“So far, so good.”
Actually, beyond the cursory apartment tour and going over the daily chore list, Marin has had very little interaction with the two women, which is fine with her, and also seemed fine with them. They rolled up their sleeves and got right to work. At the moment, they’re behind the closed French doors of the living room, vacuuming and moving furniture around.
“What about your summer plan?” Heather asks, and adds, “Or should I say, nonplan?”
“Actually, that’s going pretty well, too.”
“Mom!” Annie shrieks from down the hall. “She—”
“Oh my God, you are such a nosy little brat!” Caroline bellows.
“Stop it! Who do you think you—”
“Owwwww! Get off me! Mom!”
“Yeah,” Heather says dryly on the other end of the phone, “sounds great. There’s still time to reconsider, you know.”
Slipping into the half bath off the kitchen and closing the door, Marin sighs. “No, there isn’t. Registration was months ago for all the decent sleepaway camps.”
“Which is why I was trying to get you to do it back then. Do you want me to see if I can pull some strings with Chelsea’s camp, or Jack’s?”
Heather’s youngest child, as horse-crazy as Marin’s daughters once were, is attending camp in Wyoming; her big brother will be a CIT in Maine. Their middle sibling, Spencer, is bound for a summer-long academic program in South America.
Naturally, the uber-efficient Heather made all the arrangements before Christmas. In the past, Marin would have been just as proactive; this time, she was just trying to survive the season at hand. Forget summer; she could barely think ahead to New Year’s Eve—which she wasn’t sure whether to dread spending alone, or look forward to because the horrific year would finally be over.
As it turned out, holiday salvation came unexpectedly, from the last person Marin would ever have expected. Now, six months later, a bond that began with a stranger’s New Year’s resolution has become Marin’s sole source of support—from someone other than Heather, anyway. Someone who understands what it’s like to be betrayed by a husband, shunned by a community, left alone with devastated children…
Lauren Walsh—the suburban widow whose three children had been kidnapped and whose husband had been murdered, if not by Garvey’s own hand, then on his command—had shockingly reached out to Marin as a step along her own healing path. But Marin had needed the contact—and the forgiveness—just as much as, if not more than, Lauren herself.
“You know I wouldn’t mind making a couple of calls to see if your girls could—”
“No, it’s okay,” she assures Heather. “They can’t do camp this year, not with the move and everything.”
Perched uncomfortably on the closed toilet seat, Marin pictures Heather lounging on her silk sofa, lazily twisting a strand of long blond hair around a jeweled finger.
“Why don’t you at least get out of the city for a while?” Heather suggests. “Spend some time on the beach, clear your head…”
“You know there’s no way I’m going to Nantucket.”
“Of course I know that.”
It’s no secret that Marin has never liked to spend much time with her blue-blooded Massachusetts in-laws; this year, especially, visiting their rambling island summer home is out of the question. The place has been in the family for generations, shared by the clannish Quinn siblings and their families. Their few obligatory efforts to connect with Garvey since his ordeal seem to have been carefully orchestrated by lawyers and, Marin suspects, by publicists hired to refurbish the tarnished family name.
Having distanced themselves from their disgraced brother, the Quinns wouldn’t exactly welcome Marin and the kids to the rambling seaside home—if she were willing to visit.
Garvey’s defense is working on the theory that he has a sociopathic disorder—which is, in all likelihood, genetically inherited. No one would dispute, in retrospect, that his grandmother Eleanor fit the bill. Who knows what other branches of the family tree are affected? Marin intends to keep her distance from the Quinns, at least for the time being.
As for her own side of the family—she’s an only child, and her mother passed away years ago, when the kids were little. Her father, diagnosed with dementia, is in a Brighton nursing home.
And now you’re feeling even sorrier for yourself. With good reason, but still…
“I didn’t mean you should go to Nantucket,” Heather is saying. “Ron and I are headed to St. Tropez on Saturday, so our cottage will be empty for another couple of weeks.”
Cottage—Marin’s lips twitch at that description. The Cottingtons’ summer house in the Hamptons is an imposing three-story architectural masterpiece perched in the dunes. Last summer, Marin and the girls spent quite a bit of time out there.
Her smile fades as she remembers that Garvey even paid an unexpected visit once, just before all hell broke loose. She was so shocked and happy to see him, so touched that he’d driven all that way in the midst of his hectic campaign. Little did she know…
“You and the girls are welcome to stay out there if you want.”
“Thanks, Heather, that’s sweet of you, but…”
But I just can’t go back there yet. Or maybe ever again.
Only last fall, after her life had been destroyed, had she foun
d out that Garvey hadn’t come to the Hamptons that weekend because he missed her and the girls; he was there to establish an alibi for one of the murders he’d engineered.
How could she not have known? All those years, he had her fooled.
Not just me. The whole world. What if he’d won the election, become governor of New York?
Not that he’d have been the first duplicitous politician in that role, but…
“How about coming with us to France, Marin?”
“Heather, you know I would never horn in on—”
“Believe me, you wouldn’t be horning in. Ron golfs all day, every day there—same as here. You could keep me company. We’ll shop, and drink good wine, and sun ourselves on the boat…”
Ah, the “boat”: a hundred-foot luxury yacht kept moored on the French Riviera.
“It sounds great, but what about the girls?”
Heather hesitates just long enough for Marin to realize they weren’t included in the invite.
“Maybe you could leave them here with someone.”
Someone. Like whom? Henry the doorman? The cleaning service ladies?
Anyway, she can barely leave the apartment these days. How is she supposed to get on a plane and fly to Europe?
“Thanks, Heather, I really appreciate the invite, but I have a lot to do around here, and I can’t be away from the kids right now.”
They’re all I have left.
“Then bring them along. I’m sure there’d be things for them to do.”
“You’re sweet, but we’ll be fine here. Really.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Marin lies, trying to remember the last time she felt sure of anything at all.
Chinese checkers, potholder weaving, a book of brain teasers, TV…
Trying to keep Renny occupied, Elsa has pretty much exhausted the contents of the special rainy day toy bin she keeps filled with games, puzzles, craft kits, and art supplies. And it isn’t even raining. Far from it: Beyond the living room picture window, a glorious day beckons.
Renny, sitting on the couch in the next room watching The Little Mermaid, wants no part of it.
“What do you want me to do? Drag her out the door?” Elsa whispers to Brett, on the phone from work. He’s called several times to check on her.
She wanted to ask why he even bothered to go in if he’s so worried about them—but she knows he had little choice. He’s worried about losing his job, with good reason. His boss, Lew—a three-times divorced, childless workaholic—hasn’t exactly been thrilled with the many personal days Brett’s had to take since he got involved with foster parenting and brought Renny home.
“Maybe you can get her to go out if you promise her something fun.”
“Like what? Disney World?” Elsa sorts a handful of Crayolas back into their cardboard slots. “Because we already promised her that, remember?”
“I remember. Why don’t you take her to the seaport? She loves that.”
“I already tried. She’s not interested. And I don’t think it’s a good idea to force her to go out, do you?”
“If she doesn’t confront her fear, it might snowball, and she’ll end up…I don’t know, agoraphobic or something.”
“Brett…come on.” Elsa dumps the crayon box back into the rainy day bin. “Think about that. Renny?”
Renny, who has the opposite problem?
According to her psychiatric evaluation, the little girl’s claustrophobia is a result of being locked away for hours at a time by her birth mother. Paulette Almeida suffered from schizophrenia and was ridden with delusions—including one that her small daughter was a ferocious jungle animal who had escaped its cage and was trying to kill her. She would corral a desperate Renny into a closet and keep her there until someone—usually Renny’s father, Paulette’s deadbeat boyfriend, Leon—came along.
Presumably it went on for years before a suspicious new neighbor reported the situation to the authorities.
“I never laid a hand on her,” Paulette Almeida reportedly told Michelle, the social worker who handled the case before it was turned over to a woman named Peggy, who came before Roxanne.
No, Renny’s birth mother didn’t inflict the brand of torture that leaves telltale marks that can be seen by would-be rescuers. The child’s wounds are hidden on the inside.
Once in a while, Elsa glimpses evidence of those emotional scars, but for the most part, Renny’s been doing so well. She’s no happy-go-lucky first grader, but she does laugh more than she used to, and Elsa actually saw her skipping down the hall to her room the other day. She even overcame her shyness enough to make a friend at her new school.
Please don’t let there be setbacks now.
“I just don’t like this, Elsa,” Brett tells her.
“I don’t, either, but we both know she’s been through a lot worse than spending a summer day indoors.”
“But she shouldn’t be afraid to go outside. Why don’t you just take her outside and show her that there’s nothing to be afraid of?”
“Because she won’t—” Suddenly aware that the living room has fallen quiet, Elsa peeks through the doorway and sees that Renny has turned off the TV. Either the movie is over or she’s getting restless.
“Brett, I’ve got to go.” She hangs up the phone quickly and goes in to find Renny sitting with her chin in her hands.
“Movie’s over?”
“No, but I already saw it.”
Elsa smiles. Understatement of the year. Renny knows The Little Mermaid by heart, usually mouthing the dialogue along with the characters.
“Was that Daddy again, on the phone?”
“Yup.”
“Is he coming home?”
“Not yet. He’s at work.”
“I wish he could come home.”
“He will, tonight. What do you want to do now?”
The little girl sneaks a wistful peek at the window before turning her back and surveying the room. “I don’t know. I guess maybe we can play Don’t Break the Ice again.”
“We can. Or there are some other fun things in the rainy day bin. An Etch A Sketch, or this paint-with-water book—”
“I don’t really feel like playing with anything else.”
“Well, we can go outside and have a picnic like we did yesterday. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
Renny is shaking her head even before Elsa’s done speaking. “I don’t want to.”
But she does want to. Elsa can tell.
“Well, you know what? I think I’m going to go out and take a walk around the yard.”
Renny’s dark eyebrows shoot up toward her bangs. “To check for monsters?”
“I already did, honey. There aren’t any. I just want to get some fresh air. Want to come?”
“Maybe.”
Carefully nonchalant, Elsa holds out her hand. “Come on.”
Renny hesitates. Then, silently, she comes over to take Elsa’s hand. Her fingers are so small, and cold.
They walk to the door. As Elsa opens it, Renny holds back, clenching her hand.
“It’s okay, honey. Come on.”
She doesn’t exactly drag Renny outside, but she does have to give her a little tug over the threshold.
The sun is warm, and a slight breeze stirs the forsythia, whose April yellow blooms have long since given way to a dense, summery green. Elsa does her best not to peer at the boughs as she leads a reluctant Renny around the corner of the house toward the backyard.
She can feel her daughter’s grasp relax a bit.
“See?” she tells Renny. “Everything is fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. Look around.”
As they stroll across the yard, taking in the ordinariness of the June afternoon, Elsa feels Renny’s grip relax a bit. Fat bumblebees buzz over a clump of pink peony blossoms, birds call from the trees, and higher overhead, a humming jet trails a white path across the blue sky.
Suddenly, a voice calls out from
somewhere close by.
Elsa clutches Renny and spins around.
Oh. Meg Warren. Thank God.
Ordinarily she wouldn’t be thrilled to see her next-door neighbor, but today, Elsa practically throws her arms around the woman in sheer relief.
“Well, aren’t you two a couple of nervous Nellies!”
“Hi, Meg.” To her own ears, Elsa’s voice sounds an octave higher than usual. Renny cowers against her, saying nothing.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it? What are you up to?”
“Not much. How about you? No work today?”
“I don’t go in until five,” Meg tells her. “All nights this week. Half shifts.”
“Well that’s nice. At least you get to enjoy the weather.”
“I can’t enjoy it when I’m worrying about paying my bills and they’re cutting my hours. Anyhoo”—she gestures with the shears in her hand—“I just stepped outside to snip some fresh basil for my salad. Would you two like to join me for lunch?”
“No, thanks, we—”
“Wouldn’t you know something got into my herb patch and trampled the bed? I’d blame my kids, but they’re off spending a week with their father. You wouldn’t happen to have any basil over there, would you?”
“I have dried basil in the kitchen, if you want to—”
“Lord, no!” Meg throws up her hands in horror. “Fresh basil or nothing—that’s what I always say.”
It’s not the only thing she always says. As she launches into one of her monologues, Elsa reminds herself that the woman means well.
But Meg Warren—a lonely, chatty divorcee—is one of those people who sorely lacks audience awareness. She tends to park herself in the yard or driveway and prattle on, with no regard to whether Elsa might have someplace to go, or has any interest whatsoever in Meg’s bunions—one of her all-time favorite conversational topics. She blames the bunions—like everything else—on her deadbeat ex-husband, because she’s on her feet all day as a Macy’s cashier, her only means of support other than his frequently late alimony payments.
For a while there last August and September, Meg spent far less time talking about her feet and her ex, instead wanting to know all about the Cavalons—specifically, their experience with Jeremy.
Scared to Death Page 4
