Heart to Heart

by Meline Nadeau

  As the afternoon waned, and the time drew near for them to part briefly until the party, they sealed their belief in each other, in love, and in their bright hope for the future. “God, Jane,” Mark breathed, “I can’t get enough of you.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Abby called out eagerly, “Jane, hurry up, let’s see it!” Abby, who had never celebrated Halloween as a child, took to the holiday like a duck to water. Jane emerged awkwardly in full regalia, including the wig, lipstick, and the blood-red nails that Phoebe had provided. “Whatdya think?” she asked nervously.

  “I think that outfit is illegal in forty-eight states. Girl, you look absolutely smashing in that costume. Has Mark seen it?”

  “Oh yes,” Jane said, recollecting what it had led to. As she considered her reflection in the mirror, she said, “It kind of begs for a pole, though, don’t you think?”

  “You might get lucky later,” Abby joked. “So, sweetie, I’ve been meaning to ask you, but is it okay if I start seeing Ben?”

  “Of course!” Jane said, happily shocked. “When did this all happen?”

  “Well, nothing has ‘happened’ yet, but at the movie — he held my hand,” she said, placing said hand dramatically to her heart, and biting her lower lip, she laughed, “I may never wash it again. Seriously, he’s pretty wonderful. Tell me I look like a sick kitty, who needs to call a vet.”

  Just then Rachel entered and teased, “Hey, good pole dancing outfit.”

  “Rachel,” Jane said, laughing, “I swear, sometimes you turn on that clairvoyance like a faucet on purpose.”

  “Nah, I heard you talking.”

  Jane looked at Abby and declared, “We gotta get her a boyfriend.”

  Just then, the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it — it might be Ben!” Abby said, dashing down the stairs.

  Rachel impulsively kissed Jane and observed, “Don’t look now, but you’re glowing.”

  “What about you, Rachel, are you sad that your best buds are hooking up?”

  “No, not at all. I’m thrilled for both of you.”

  “What about Ben and Abby — is there a good shot there?”

  Rachel closed her eyes a moment and smiled, “I see much dancing at the wedding — a wild Jewish affair, you understand!” she added, laughing.

  But Jane sensed something not quite right in Rachel’s countenance. Still, she didn’t want to probe lest it concern her. She didn’t want her spirits dampened with any vague misgivings and quickly changing the subject, asked, “So, what do you think? Gorgeous or gruesome?” extending her arms and spinning around.

  “C’mon,” Rachel replied, “Quit yer fishing. You’re totally gorgeous, and you know it.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Veronica didn’t think much of Halloween dress up. She supposed it was because she was so often photographed in outlandish costumes and makeup. And she especially reviled this particular Halloween for obvious reasons: she was readying herself to crash a party where she had not been invited, and was intending to confront its host. She peered into her mirror and brushed her hair, so black it shone blue in the light. She lightly powdered her porcelain skin, leaving off any blush. Pale suited her. She applied her signature crimson lipstick.

  On the bed lay her Deringer, in dark contrast against the white bedspread. Her black, jeweled evening bag appeared curiously mated to the black gun next to it. She placed the Deringer inside the purse and put the strap of the purse on her shoulder as the doorman rang to announce that her limo had arrived. She slid into its blackness in silence. The driver had the address and held the door for her. Passing through Elizabeth, the sulfurous smell of rotting petrol-chemicals got into the car and attached itself to the linings of her nasal passages. She could not get rid of the smell the rest of the way into New Jersey. Even when the car was well away and in the country, the stench rode with her and clung to her.

  She was not well. She felt nauseous and depressed. She stared out the window of the car at the passing lights and the lines of the turnpike, each of which was accompanied by a monotonous bumping of the undercarriage. She was so tired. Veronica, super model, abandoned child, beautiful, ugly duckling, who could have any man, rejected, pregnant. She closed her eyes and pulled her coat about her. She felt her evening bag and the small lady’s weapon it concealed. It occurred to her that she could stop. She could knock on the glass barrier that separated her from the driver and simply ask him to turn the car around. Maybe he was a nice guy, and she could take him out to dinner somewhere. And then, they could go back to New York. Maybe a guy like that would fall in love with her and appreciate her. She wondered if he was married. Probably. Probably had ten kids, too.

  She knocked on the glass. “Excuse me,” she said, “do you know how much longer it will take?”

  “Not long, now, Miss. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes.”

  There was something in the way he called her “Miss” that was so impersonal, so cold, it enraged her. She knew that she could not turn back. She stared at the back of his head. He was probably about Mark’s age, late thirties or early forties. His neck swelled slightly above his collar. Beefy. His hands on the steering wheel were beefy too. His fingers like disgusting sausages wound around the wheel.

  He would not have dinner with her. He would dump her at Mark’s and later, he would return to his wife and ten kids. When he got home, he’d mention his pathetic last passenger, “Guess who I rode out to the country, tonight, hon.” And his wife would say, indifferently, “Who?” And he’d reply, “That famous super model — you know, Veronica. Man, she was messed up looking.”

  She inhaled suddenly and deeply. She resolved to have her vengeance against the driver’s imagined pity, and his imagined wife’s imagined disdain. She would stand up to Mark and make him pay for hurting her. And all the men of the world who had already left or would leave her, if they had the chance, would know that she was not to be trifled with. All those thoughtless men with no feelings, no conscience in them, they were everywhere. Talking about how beautiful she was and how crazy.

  Yes, her plan was a good one. She continued to ride in silence to Lamington Road. She was committed. There was no turning back, now.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mark was on duty early at the house. Manuel, Mac, Phillips, and several men from the job crews assembled early as well. They all had cell phones to talk to each other or to call the police in case anything went wrong.

  “Phillips, you watch the door and the east portion of the living room. Manuel, you take your men and circulate among the guests and keep an eye on the open bar, especially for those returning too frequently. And Mac, you watch the gypsy corner in the library,” he instructed.

  The men nodded to their assignments, and as they were on holiday pay, eagerly accepted their duty. Except for Phillips, the men all wore black shirts and pants, to blend in with the servers and bartenders. Mark lent Mac one of his black jackets, as they were similar in frame. Mark implored Mac, always so serious and responsible, to try to enjoy himself at the party and to try not to look quite so much like a secret serviceman.

  At four P.M., the first of the early visitors to the farm, young couples with small children, began to shyly appear. The pumpkins, jack o’lanterns, witches, and Halloween lights about the house were all lit. Eerie music and smoking cauldrons, skeletons, monsters, and all of the wonderful Halloween ornaments were in full effect. Phillips and his wife and children were all dressed as pirates with eye patches, bandanas, baggy pants, muslin shirts, and fake scabbards at their sides.

  At one point, there seemed to be hundreds of children present. The bandleader had them formally march about, ostensibly to choose a winner. One child was dressed as a jelly bean jar — a clear plastic bag holding different colored balloons surrounded him. There were the assorted animal costumes, princesses, tramps, angels, and a variety of little witches.
The best of these was a pert young girl dressed in a trim black miniature business suit, wearing a pointed hat, a black bird stitched to the shoulder of her jacket, carrying a small black briefcase labeled, “boardroom witch.” It was impossible to choose a winner. Mark presented each of the parents with a bond for their children, and for immediate gratification, there was an endless supply of candy. And for the parents, an assortment of refreshments to reinforce them through the rigors of their Halloween celebrations.

  As the young families began to disperse to continue their trick-or-treating elsewhere, the more serious party-going townspeople began to arrive. This population of celebrants was decidedly more adult and enthusiastic at their hob-nobbing and alcohol reinforcement. Jane, Abby, Ben, and Rachel joined the party as this group of party-goers reached its maximum, and just before the limousines from afar began to arrive.

  As soon as he saw Jane, Mark came over to her. He wore his black cape and had rather generously splattered food dye on his white shirt — not the decorous collar markings Phoebe had suggested. “Subtle, Mark. I’m feeling much more Texas Chainsaw Massacre now,” Jane said.

  “Well, I was going more for Blade than Buffy. Who wants a bloodless vampire?” he teased. He smiled and nodded to the group, and whirled Jane around in his arms. “I missed you. How long has it been?”

  “Infinity!” Jane laughed.

  “I vant to suck your blood,” he joked.

  “And I vant to suck your … award,” she snickered, coloring at her own crassness.

  “Why, Jane, I’m shocked, you vixen! I knew I loved you,” Mark chortled.

  The band switched to a slow dance, and Mark didn’t miss a beat. He swept Jane onto the dance floor.

  The party was in full swing. The wine flowed liberally, Jane’s black martinis were a huge success, the food was ample and impeccable, and the two bands, extraordinary. Then the limousines began to arrive and the many clients, professional acquaintances, staff, and friends from New York brightened the party further with their glamorous presence. Their costumes seemed more extravagant, their relationships more purposeful, somehow.

  When the swing bandleader announced that it was time for the bachelor and bachelorette drawing, five men and sixteen women had put their names in the hat. But the last couple called were Mark Hannon and Jane O’Hara. Mark squeezed Jane’s hand — “I cheated,” he cheerfully confessed. “I hope you don’t mind.” And, of course, she didn’t.

  As the music began and couples once again hit the dance floor, Jane and Mark decided to pop into the gypsy corner to see if Rachel needed anything. They had not seen her all evening. They chatted briefly with Mac at the library door. “How’s it going?” Jane asked.

  Mac stood impassively against the wall. “No screams. I guess she’s all right. She’s been busy though.”

  “Take a break, Mac,” Mark offered. “Go get a plate of food before the New York crowd scarfs it all up. We’ll keep an eye on things in the gypsy corner for you.” Mac didn’t need extra encouragement and disappeared in search of refreshments, as Jane and Mark breezed into the library, holding hands. They plunked down on the couch in front of Rachel who sat at the table with a crystal ball set on it.

  “So, how’s it going in here? Mac says a ton of people have been coming in and out,” Jane said.

  “I’m exhausted,” Rachel groaned, pulling off her wart and blackened tooth. “I’ve never given so many readings — my pad is full. I hate to say it, Mark, but I’m going to have to close down the gypsy corner soon. My psychic membranes are swollen,” she moaned, rubbing her temples.

  “Blech. Sounds nasty — shall I make you some tea?” Jane offered.

  “Oh hell no! Get me one of those martinis,” she dictated, “and hold the espresso. I need mother’s milk.”

  Mark went to get Rachel a martini, while Jane encouraged her to close up shop for the night. “C’mon,” Jane said. “You’re done here.”

  “No, not yet. There’s one other reading. I’ve been waiting for her.”

  “Waiting for who, honey?”

  “Mark’s ex-girlfriend,” she said darkly. “She’s close by. I can sense her.” They both looked through the door at the crowds of people dancing, laughing loudly, conversing, eating and drinking in the living room adjacent to the library.

  “There must be two hundred people in there,” Jane calculated. “Well, sweetie, you think she’ll swing by for a reading?”

  “I know she will. Remember when I read Mark? This is the room I saw her in.”

  Just then Mark returned with the martini and placed it in front of Rachel. “Here you go Madame Babushka. Drink up,” he ordered, cheerfully.

  “Mmmm,” she happily crooned, sipping her martini, “forget about Jane, marry me!”

  “What’s your view of bigamy, Jane?” he teased, and seeing her mock rueful look, added, “Okay, okay, I’m all mahogany, I mean monogamy,” he laughed and put his arm around Jane. He drew little circles on her shoulder and pouted handsomely until she laughed.

  “Mark,” Rachel said, “I took the liberty of going into that old run-down mansion again the other day. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all, Jane told me you were interested in renting it. It’s yours, if you want it. No charge. But it’s kind of a mess, isn’t it?”

  “Well it needs airing,” she said. “Psychically speaking, it’s rotten fish.”

  “Manuel will work on it, but only during the day. He’s more superstitious than I thought. I always thought the whole story was just a myth the locals invented to keep their kids out of the place.”

  “Right,” added Jane. “You, know, Timmy scraped his knee, ergo the place is haunted … right?” she looked at Rachel hopefully.

  “’Fraid not, guys. The place is totally haunted. And,” she paused, sipping her martini, “it could use a coat of paint. But it’s a great place, if I can get the bad out of it. It’s what our grandmothers would have called ‘swell’ or ‘swank’ at our age. I’d love to restore it. What about Mac? He doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything. Would he help, do you think?”

  “If Jane can give him time away from the barn. What do you think, Jane?”

  “It’s up to Mac. I don’t mind sharing.”

  “Maggie, our Realtor, won’t even show the place. She says it creeps her out to set foot in it.”

  “She’ll be the first test case, then, when I’ve cured it — the canary in the mind, as it were,” Rachel said.

  “So, what’s your plan?” asked Jane.

  “I’m not sure yet. But, it’ll come to me. I hate the idea of a séance — even I find séances spooky. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Well, if you need us, we’ll help,” Mark offered.

  “Are you crazy?” Jane broke in. “Séance? That’s a hole-done-choke multiverse of ‘no’ for me. Horse whisperer here, not ghost whisperer,” Jane said, emphatically.

  “I’ll talk her into it, Rachel, don’t worry,” Mark winked.

  Abby and Ben whisked in with more drinks and a plate of food for Rachel. “I thought you might be hungry,” Abby said to Rachel. Then tossing back her third black martini, she complimented Jane on her “little espresso thingies,” momentarily unable to recollect the word “martini,” and luxuriously stretched out, looking less like cat woman and more like an actual cat flopped on a chair.

  “Thank God you’re here. Save me,” Jane said to Ben and Abby.

  “You bet, honey,” Abby said fuzzily, “what are we saving you from?”

  “Ghosts!” Jane winced. “And a séance.”

  Oh, cool!” Abby hiccoughed.

  Ben glanced from Abby to Jane, in obvious commiseration with Jane and mumbled something about The Exorcist and not asking for trouble.

  “I just want to assist whatever spirits are wrecking the old mansion to lea
ve so I can live in it. You know, help them move on into the light and all,” Rachel insisted.

  “Couldn’t we just call Jennifer Love Hewitt?” Jane asked.

  As they discussed whether to séance or not to séance, an angry, larger-than-life, Veronica-shaped silhouette, her hand shoved in her purse, and her purse held out at arm’s length in front of her violently filled the doorway, like The Thing from Another World.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mark was in a panic. He couldn’t believe his eyes: Veronica held the strap of her purse with one hand, the other plunged into it. She withdrew her hand for a second, to reveal the gun, and quickly plunged it back again, as she glanced over her shoulder and kicked the door shut behind her.

  Abby was so drunk, she was the only one not to see the gun, nor to understand the importance of Veronica’s showing up. “Who’s that?” she asked Rachel in a loud whisper.

  “Shhhh. Shut up, Abby,” Rachel hissed.

  “Veronica,” Mark stepped toward her, “what do you want?”

  “Veronica!” Abby pronounced, “uh-oh.”

  “Stay right where you are, Mark” Veronica said. As she locked the door, she demanded, “Who are these people?”

  Trying to protect his friends, especially Jane, Mark lied, “I don’t know them. I just came in to get away from the party, and they were here. Let them go, we can talk.”

  Ignoring Mark, Veronica commanded, “Everyone, cell phones in the fireplace, now!”

  Jane, ignoring Mark’s pressure on her arm urging her to remain seated, began to rise, diverting Veronica’s gaze in her direction. “Who are you, and why are you made up to look like me?” Mark groaned inwardly. Why, oh why couldn’t she have gone as Darla, the cute blonde cheerleading vampire? I knew that wig was a mistake.

  “She’s my sister,” Rachel piped up.

  Briefly examining Jane, Veronica sneered, “I don’t like you. You look like a cheap, slut version of me. Sit down and shut up if you want to live,” she threatened, shaking her purse at Jane, which caused Abby to drunkenly giggle. Everyone flung Abby a look as Veronica placed a chair in front of the locked door.