At that moment, Sabrina had felt both devastated and relieved. The best she’d been able to do was to look from one doctor to the other and let her eyes ask what her tongue wouldn’t.
But Howard Frasier had only shaken his head and smiled sadly. “I can’t tell you that. I can’t recommend that you institutionalize your son, if by doing so you’ll be miserable.”
“Would I be wrong to do it?” she asked cautiously.
“I can only answer from a medical standpoint—and even then, what I say is nothing more than my opinion. No, you wouldn’t be wrong to do it.” He raised querying brows toward his colleague, who tossed a hand at the file folder that lay on the desk. It was bulging with papers.
“Your son has undergone every imaginable test. Researchers are always studying brain damage, and it is possible that in five or ten years a new test will be devised to better identify the source and scope of the problem, but as far as medical science has evolved today, there’s nothing more we can do for Nicky.”
“Do you recommend institutionalization?” Sabrina had asked, seeking direction.
“I’d have to agree with Howard. You wouldn’t be wrong to do it, but the decision has to be yours.”
Sabrina had sat quietly, weighing—again, still—the pros and cons of the move. Finally she confessed, “I think what worries me most is the prospect of placing Nicky and then, when he’s in a different environment, seeing an improvement.”
Frasier had held up a cautionary hand. “That might happen. We have no guarantee that it won’t, but you have to understand that if it happens, and that’s a big if, it will be a small improvement and most likely temporary. Nicky simply doesn’t have the wherewithal—” he tapped his head, “—to think.” He let out a breath. “And that’s what you have to accept. Finally.”
It was at once the easiest and the hardest thing to do, and on some level Sabrina was still grappling with it as she talked with Maura. “I left that office and went home determined to prove them wrong. But two more days was all it took. I couldn’t keep up the pace. I don’t have what it takes.”
“Maybe not to be a full-time caretaker, but very few people can be that.”
But he’s my son. If I love him, I should be able to rise to the occasion. I’m his mother. I carried him for nine months. I brought him into the world with a defect. He’s my responsibility. He has no one else. Can I really be so cruel as to send him away … send him away … send him away?
The arguments echoed in her mind as they’d been doing for months, and lest she forget one, she’d been reminded of them often in the past few weeks. Family … friends … all with opinions about the fastest route to martyrdom.
“Anyway,” Sabrina said, “I brought him to the Greenhouse for an evaluation.” She smiled crookedly, doing her best to mask the emptiness she felt each time she thought of it. “They fell in love with him. Who wouldn’t? He’s an adorable little bugger.”
“Can they help him?”
“No one can help him. But they’ll take him.” She thought back to her most recent visit there and the warm reception Nicky had been given. “I suppose I could do a lot worse. As institutions go, the Greenhouse is un-institutional.”
“Well, it’s a cute name.”
“It is, literally, the Greens’ house. They’re a middle-aged couple—professionals, he was a teacher, she a social worker—who went through hell trying to find a placement for their own son. They finally decided that if they wanted a place that was progressive and upbeat and clean, they were going to have to make it themselves. So they bought a huge house on dozens of acres in Vermont, renovated it, added a series of smaller outbuildings, got licensed, hired help and went into business.” She sighed but said nothing more.
“Are the Greens nice?”
She nodded.
“And their staff?”
“Efficient and dedicated.”
“I take it the facilities are good. How about the other inmates?”
“Not inmates. Residents. There are only about twenty-five. They’re from all over the country, range in age from three to eighteen, come from families that can swing the stiff cost, which means that they’re well dressed. They have varying types and degrees of handicaps, but they’re all mentally deficient.”
“Sounds ideal,” Maura said dryly.
“As ideal as any institution for the retarded can be.” The void yawned in the area of her heart. Ideal or not, she’d be leaving her baby there. Her baby. She’d give her right arm for a better solution, but there was none. “The thing is, I don’t want to be a caretaker or a martyr. I want to lead a normal life.”
Maura sent her a sympathetic look. “You always did.” Then she scowled. “Old Nick was supposed to do it for you, but he blew it.”
Sabrina snorted. “Old Nick. Old Nick may be smarter than me. Know what he did last week?”
“What did he do?”
“Flew off to Haiti and got a divorce.” She tossed it off with nonchalance, but there was hurt beneath her bravado.
“What was the friggin’ rush?”
“It seems that he’s fallen in love. He married her last weekend.”
“The rat!”
“Our relationship was over. We reached an amicable settlement. It was all very legal.”
“But to turn around and run to someone new before the ink had even dried—he must be very insecure.”
Sabrina found Maura’s analysis disconcerting. More than once she’d wondered if that was what she was doing with Derek—running to him out of insecurity. She didn’t think so, though he was good for her ego on many scores. But if her insecurity was man-related, it didn’t make sense that she’d run to him. He was in prison. He couldn’t squire her around town. She couldn’t preen on his arm the way some women did their latest conquests. Or brag about his sexual prowess.
Not that she’d ever do that.
No, she didn’t think it was insecurity. And, in any case, the theory that Nick had been insecure enough to marry the first woman he found wasn’t apt.
“The fact is,” Sabrina said, “that Nick’s been seeing Carol for over a year.”
“Shhhit.”
“Mmm.”
Maura said nothing for a minute, then asked in a low, slow voice, “How did you find out?”
“Cybil Timmerman. Nick and Carol held their reception at the club. Cybil is the club maven. She couldn’t resist calling me to get my reaction to the wedding. I suspect she rather enjoyed worming that little tidbit into the conversation.”
Maura offered a murmured evaluation of Cybil Timmerman that would have shocked a truck driver, but there was something about the annoyance on her face that gave Sabrina pause.
“Maura … did you have any idea?”
“Any idea of what?”
“Nick and Carol.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you,” Sabrina came back with dawning light. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew he’d been seeing her before he and I split.”
“I didn’t know it,” Maura protested, then began to waffle. “I may have suspected it, but you know me. I have a filthy mind. I can’t trust half of what I think.”
Sabrina was distressed and more than a little disappointed. Maura was her good friend, and a good friend was to be counted on for the truth, regardless of how filthy it was. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. It came out in an airy, “Oh, Maura, why couldn’t you have told me?”
“Because I didn’t know for sure, and anyway, you don’t just go up to a man’s wife and pop news like that.”
“There is such a thing as a subtle delivery.”
“Not my specialty, hon.”
“You could have written me an anonymous note.”
“You’re the writer.”
“And you’re my friend. If I can’t rely on my friend to tell me something like that, who can I rely on? You could have saved me a little humiliation.”
“Oh? Now how could I have done that? The facts haven’t changed. Infi
delity is infidelity, and it’s always a bitch for the one who is two-timed. Would it have been any less humiliating if you’d learned while you were married that he was screwing around?”
“Yes. Then I could have had the upper hand. I could have had the satisfaction of kicking him out on his ear.”
Maura shifted in her seat, ordered a double scotch to Sabrina’s wine spritzer, then finally met Sabrina’s gaze. “Okay. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
But Sabrina, too, had given it more thought. “Don’t be,” she muttered. “You did what you thought was right, and anyway, I should have seen it. I should have known … all the business trips … not being able to reach him on the phone. I should have guessed it, but I didn’t. Maybe I didn’t want to. Subconsciously, I may have been fighting the idea of divorce. Maybe things had to happen the way they did for me to accept it. The marriage was over. It wasn’t Nicky. It wasn’t Carol, or any other woman. It was us.”
“That’s philosophical of you.”
Sabrina gave a low chuckle. “You’ve caught me in a mellow moment. By the way, your hair looks great. More auburn than Titian this time?”
“Mmmm. I think it looks more mature. At least, that’s what Franco says.”
“Franco?”
“My stylist. He loves Titian hair, and he loves mature women.”
“Franco?” Sabrina echoed dubiously.
Maura flicked several fingers into the air. “For a little while. But he’s only a means to an end. Mature is very definitely in my future. Want to hear about my latest project?”
“Goose eggs are mature?”
“Not goose eggs. You were right. Cheesecake is overdone. No, no, this is more exciting.” She paused and held her breath, eyes glowing.
Sabrina waited expectantly, then, when Maura simply beamed, opened a hand and said, “Well?”
“Urban spas.”
“Urban spas?”
“Urban spas. You know, health spas. There are loads of them outside the city, but practically none in. And why not? Why shouldn’t a woman—or a man—be able to walk uptown, check into a spa for the weekend, come out massaged, sauna-ed, exercised and five pounds lighter? Most people gain their weight on the weekend. My plan would prevent that. It would be a first-class pampering operation but so close to home that it would be just as easy to go in the middle of a blizzard as during the dog days of August.”
“But going to a spa is an escape. Part of the joy is the change of scenery.”
“With the proper décor and ambience, an urban health spa can provide that. And if you’re going to say that people from the city want the country, I answer that the country can be simulated right here.”
Sabrina was skeptical. “I don’t know. Most of the services you mention are already offered in health clubs, of which there are dozens and dozens in the city.”
“It’s the whole package, Sabrina. The idea of checking in, severing oneself from the rest of the world for two days, or three or four.” She held up both hands, palms out. “Just think. I’d start small, with a flagship spa in one of the better hotels. I could then franchise out into other hotels, other cities. The possibilities are vast.” She ended with her brows raised expectantly. They lowered seconds later. “If I can get the backing. It’s the old Catch-22. Y’need money to make money.”
“Got any leads?”
“A few,” Maura said in a voice that implied that she hadn’t contacted any of them yet. She seemed to realize that she’d betrayed herself, because she rushed on. “I can do it, Sabrina. This time I’m serious. I think it’s a solid idea. I have confidence it’ll work.”
“Urban spas?”
“Yup.”
“In five-star hotels?”
“You bet.”
“Well,” Sabrina said thoughtfully, “it’s a better idea than some you’ve had.”
“It’s a five-star idea,” Maura returned, proud of the joke.
“I think,” Sabrina said offhandedly, “that I’ll have to write a book. It may be the only way I know of to save you from yourself.”
Maura sucked in an audible breath and held it for a minute before asking, “Are you serious?”
Sabrina nodded. She’d been waiting for the opening. She was suddenly very serious. “Pretty soon I’ll have the time. I have a feeling I’m going to be desperate for ways of busying myself once I bring Nicky”—her voice wobbled, then steadied—“once I bring him to Vermont.”
“Damn right you will. Any ideas?”
“Uh-huh. Derek McGill.”
“Derek McGill?” Maura repeated blankly, then her eyes went wide and her voice jumped. “Derek McGill? Of Outside Insight? But he’s in prison.” She stared at Sabrina for a minute, then broke into a slow, calculating smile. “It would have all the ingredients—good-looking stud who makes it big then loses it all, and his name is more recognizable than your grandmother’s. Not bad. Not bad at all. In fact, I love it. From media master to murderer. What a terrific idea!”
“From media master to murderer is your idea. I had something a little more … dignified in mind.”
“Dignified doesn’t make best-seller lists.”
“I don’t care. It’s either dignified or nothing.”
Given that particular choice, Maura yielded. “What, exactly, did you have in mind?”
“A biography of the man, with the emphasis on his experiences since the shooting. He was a visible and well-respected reporter before it happened. Suddenly he’s seeing the justice system from the inside. I think that he’d have a lot of light to shed on the strengths and weaknesses of that system.”
“An exposé on the prison system in America?” Maura sighed. “That does sound like something you’d want to write.”
“Not an exposé of the prison system. The study of a man intimately involved in that system. I want to get into his feelings about the crime, the conviction, the sentence, and so on. If you’re worried that it’ll be dry, don’t. Derek argued that he shot Joey Padilla in self-defense. He still maintains that.”
Maura eyed her cautiously. “You sound like you’ve already started researching. Do you know Derek McGill?”
“We met a while back. I’ve visited him several times in prison.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. The prison is in western Massachusetts. I pass fairly close to it on my way to Vermont. It’s easy enough to stop.” She purposely didn’t mention those times when she’d made the trip solely to see Derek. She was still tying to understand her personal feelings for him. She certainly wasn’t ready to share them with Maura.
“He’s agreed to the project, then?”
“Uh … well, not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that we haven’t worked out the details.” Which was bluffing in a big way. It had been several visits since Sabrina had mentioned writing the book. When she’d been with Derek lately, there had been other things on her mind. Mostly her problems, she realized, but Derek hadn’t objected. The few times she’d tried to turn the tables and talk of what was happening to him, his eyes had darkened and he’d grown distant. Not wanting that, she hadn’t pushed.
The week before, when she’d spent several hours at Parkersville while Nicky was being evaluated in Vermont, she’d needed every bit of Derek’s support. She hadn’t wanted darkness or distance. She’d wanted understanding. She’d gotten it, along with comfort and encouragement. And stimulation.
She’d been aware of his body. It was incredible, because she’d been so upset about Nicky, but it was true. It was hard not to be aware of a chest that was snugly fitted with a scooped-out piece of thin white knit, and Derek’s chest wasn’t run-of-the-mill. It was well developed. It was skin rolling tightly over sinewed shoulders, a shy display of dark chest hair, virile contours lovingly outlined.
The skimpy undershirt made him look rugged, a little dangerous, a lot carnal. It also made him look sexy.
“Jesus!” Maura exclaimed in a whisper. She twisted in
her seat to scan the diners who sat behind her. “Your eyes are positively smouldering. Who are you looking at?”
Sabrina went bright red. “No one. It must have been a trick of the light.”
Maura turned front again, clearly disappointed at not having seen anyone even remotely interesting. “Well, then, I’ll repeat what I just said. If I read between the lines, I come up with the uncomfortable notion that Derek McGill doesn’t want you to write the book.”
“He has some reservations,” Sabrina conceded. “He doesn’t like the idea of being spectacularized. He’s a very private person.”
“Do you think you can get him to change his mind?”
“I think so.”
“Any sex?”
Sabrina’s eyes widened.
“In the book,” Maura specified. “Any sex in the book?”
It was a minute before Sabrina got her pulse under control. “No. No sex.” She folded her hands in her lap. “So. Do you think it’ll sell?”
“Oh yeah, it’ll sell.”
“Then why the glum face?”
“Because it has the makings of a blockbuster, but you’re cutting off its balls.”
“Maura. Listen. Sex or no sex, this is a celebrity book, and there is a loyal market for celebrity books. In addition, I was under the impression that my last book won me some clout in literary circles. Any book I write, celebrity or otherwise, will be capably done. I would think it fair to assume that we both stand to make a little money here. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Then smile.” She leaned forward and said, sotto voce, “There’s a good-looking guy who just took a table on your right. He is alone. He has cast several lengthy glances your way. I may be mistaken, but that looks like a diamond tie tack.”
Maura smiled.
Chapter 9
J. B. MONROE didn’t smile when Sabrina mentioned that she was thinking of writing Derek’s story.
Commitments Page 18
