by Sharon Potts
“Sorry? About what?”
“That he hurt you so much.”
“It was my fault as much as his. I changed a lot more than he did.” She took another photo out of the box. “Look at this one.”
Aubrey examined the second photo. It was of both her parents. How beautiful her mother was! Long dark hair framing her heart-shaped face, large brown eyes filled with light. Her parents had their arms around each other’s waists. Behind them in the distance was a large crowd, a lake, and trees with red-and-orange leaves. Mama was smiling. No—it was more like she was laughing. Aubrey couldn’t recall ever seeing such pure joy on her face.
“It was taken the day we fell in love,” Mama said.
The nagging feeling in her gut was back. It didn’t make sense that her mother was sitting here reminiscing and looking at old photos when they both needed to figure out who’d taken Ethan.
Unless she was looking for something in the photos.
Aubrey picked one up from the top of the pile. “Who are they?”
“Friends. The one with the glasses was my roommate.”
Three very pretty young women holding up two fingers in the 1960s symbol for peace. They were all roughly the same height, but otherwise very different. Her mother was in the middle, smiling broadly, her dark brown hair loose on her shoulders. The girl to her left was blonde and meek-looking. The girl to her mother’s right had a muted smile and a strong chin. She wore wire-rim glasses with pink lenses, and her black hair fell in a single braid across her embroidered white blouse. With her other hand, she fingered the rectangular shape on her necklace.
“Your roommate looks awfully intense.”
“She was.”
“What’s she holding? It seems very dear to her.”
“Her brother’s dog tag,” her mother said. “She never took it off, even when she showered.”
“Did you stay in touch with either of these women?”
Her mother stiffened, then took the photo out of Aubrey’s hand. “No. We lost touch.” She dropped the photo into the box and put the lid on.
End of subject.
But for Aubrey, something was opening up. These girls, or something else in the box, might have a connection to Ethan’s disappearance. At least, that was what she was certain her mother believed.
Why else would she be looking at these photos?
Aubrey wasn’t buying that it was because of nostalgia. Unfortunately, it was also clear to her that Mama wasn’t ready to share.
“I’m going to the hotel to check on Kevin and Kim,” Aubrey said. She knew her mother wouldn’t be comfortable going into Simmer territory herself. “Will you be okay?”
“Yes, of course.” Mama held the small box tightly against her, as though she were protecting it, or its secrets.
Aubrey left the room, wondering what secrets could possibly be worth protecting when Ethan’s life was at stake?
CHAPTER 21
She held the small box tightly against her. It had been a reflex to grab the photo from Aubrey, but Diana knew it would serve no purpose to tell her daughter about that time of her life.
She took the lid off and went through the photos one more time, lingering on the one of her with Gertrude and Linda. She had forgotten how close the three of them had been at the beginning of freshman year. Before things changed.
She put the photos back in the box, trying to ignore the small white envelope, yellowed with age, but finally gave in to the nagging sensation and slid the card out of the envelope. It had accompanied a dozen roses sent to her dorm room the day after the Central Park antiwar demonstration.
Diana studied the cursive writing, similar to his careful script once he became a lawyer, but stronger and more determined, as he had once been.
D-Our love is stronger than the pain. Love, L-
Maybe that had been true once, but not anymore.
She put the card back in the envelope, stuck it between the photos, then tucked the box back into the old blue suitcase where she had kept it all these years. It wasn’t a hiding place, exactly—or was it? But if she’d been hiding the box, it had been to keep the memories from herself.
She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, shivering with the memory of her bare midriff on that chilly night.
The brownstone belonged to a freshman named Michael Shernovsky, who had recently joined Stormdrain. Although belonged wasn’t quite the right word. The building was owned by Michael’s parents, who were letting him live there with a couple of roommates. It was on the border of East Harlem and Morningside Heights. But if Michael had told people that, many of them might not come—the whiteys who attended Columbia weren’t big favorites in the black community. At least, that was what Lawrence said when he explained about the Halloween party they were going to.
Di held Lawrence’s arm more tightly as they stepped around broken bottles on a cracked sidewalk lined by three-story, reddish-brown townhouses that had probably once been elegant but were now mostly in a state of disrepair. Boarded-up windows covered with graffiti proclaimed: BLACK IS BEAUTIFUL. BE YOURSELF. MLK JR. DIED FOR US.
She followed Lawrence up a stoop to a weathered oak door that was covered with gauzy webs, a hanging skeleton, and a peace sign. Now that they were here, Di was questioning the wisdom of her Halloween costume. She had rejected wearing her everyday clothes because she wanted to stand out from the rest of the girls, who she was pretty sure would be dressed in headbands and long, loose cotton shifts, or torn jeans and peasant blouses. Instead, beneath the green army jacket she’d gotten at an Army Navy Surplus store, she wore harem pants and a top that left her midriff bare, in the style of I Dream of Jeannie. Unfortunately, instead of sexy, she was feeling self-conscious. She and Lawrence had only been seeing each other a couple of weeks and hadn’t crossed the line her roommate did with so little thought, but she was afraid her outfit screamed, “Make love, not war.”
Lawrence used the tarnished brass knocker and gave her a smile, as though reading her mind. He was dressed as himself, wearing his white headscarf and flowing white shirt, though she knew he would be just as gratified if people mistook him for Lawrence of Arabia.
The door opened, though Di couldn’t have said by whom, since the person disappeared by the time she stepped into the dark foyer and blinked the smoke out of her eyes. She smelled pot, tobacco, and incense, but there was another smell that she dragged deep into her lungs.
Chocolate.
Music hit her from different directions. Jimi Hendrix on the electric guitar, Ravi Shankar on the sitar, and the hoarse screaming voice of Janis Joplin.
People stood in the rooms to the left and right of her—smoking, drinking, and talking animatedly. Most everyone was from Stormdrain and not wearing costumes, but she noticed a Richard Nixon, and someone trying to be Paul or Ringo—she couldn’t tell which.
Steve was talking to Albert in front of a boarded-up fireplace. He wore a football jersey with shoulder pads, and Albert was dressed as Groucho Marx. They both held red plastic cups, probably rum-and-Cokes, which Stormdrainers liked to refer to as Cuba Libres, because they were, after all, revolutionaries.
Their host, Michael, dressed in an astronaut suit, approached and gave Lawrence a bear hug. “Hey, man. Got some good shit.” He passed Lawrence a joint, who took a hit and handed it to Di.
She’d smoked pot a few times at their meetings, but this burned her lungs and made her cough.
Michael grinned. “Like I said. Good shit.” He pointed to the stairs behind him. “Coats in the mudroom. There’s a keg in the kitchen, and plenty of rum, and some dark-haired sorceress baked us Alice B. Toklas brownies.”
“I’m getting one of those,” Di said, heading toward the kitchen. Lawrence followed, stopping to greet various people in the hallway.
A waifish girl with very short blonde hair, wearing a quilted pink bathrobe, was arranging brownies on a tray in the kitchen. Di did a double take. “Linda?”
Her friend turned and touc
hed her head. “Do you like it?” she asked, widening her blue eyes as if there was any doubt that she was utterly adorable. “I cut it like Allison cut hers in Peyton Place.”
“It’s great,” Di said. “Now you really look like Mia Farrow.”
Lawrence reached for two brownies and handed one to Di. “I’d better not find any hair in these, Linda.”
Linda giggled. “Don’t worry. I didn’t make them, but I’ve had one. There’s plenty of grass. Have fun getting stoned.”
Di took a big bite of the brownie. The rich fudge didn’t quite mask the bitter taste of the pot.
“What’s wrong?” Lawrence asked.
“It has a chalky undertaste,” she said with a straight face, hoping he’d get the movie reference.
He laughed and grabbed her arm. “Come on, Rosemary, before the devil gets you.”
He got it. He “got” her. They had their own inside joke now.
He led her past people slumped against the hallway walls leading into the mudroom. A door with peeling paint led out to the back of the house. A few coats hung from pegs on the wall, but there was a bigger pile of coats on the floor.
“Take off your jacket,” Lawrence said, removing his own and dropping it on top of the pile.
She thought about her skimpy costume and wrapped her arms around herself. She should have worn something else. “I think I’ll leave it on. It’s cold in here.”
“I’ll keep you warm, baby.” He shoved the rest of his brownie in his mouth and slipped his hands under her coat, his fingers spreading over her bare midriff.
His hands were surprisingly warm, but she shivered at his touch.
“Mmm. Nice,” he said, pulling her closer and pressing his lips against hers.
His tongue darted into her mouth, all warm and wet and chocolatey. She went slack in his arms, feeling light-headed and delicious from the brownie.
A raspy voice was crooning about love being stronger than pain.
“Oh, man,” he said, gently pulling away. He grinned at her, a crumb of chocolate wedged between his front teeth. “Primo.”
She laughed, though she wasn’t sure whether he meant her or the brownie. She finished the rest of hers, the buzz growing.
“Good girl,” he said. “Now, off with that jacket. I want to see what I’ve been touching.”
She slipped it off, then threw it on top of his.
He stared at her, making her feel naked.
“Our love is stronger than the pain,” the singer spat out, the words rubbing between them.
Don’t stop. Never stop looking at me, Di thought.
A guy in fatigues staggered into the tiny room, pushing past them and throwing open the back door. A blast of cold air surrounded her, along with the sound of retching as the guy puked in the backyard.
“Let’s split,” Lawrence said, taking her hand. He opened a door that seemed to lead to the basement. “I want to see what’s down here.” He touched the inside wall, then she heard a click and a light came on. “Man, this is great.” He dropped her hand and bounded down the stairs.
She held on to an unfinished wood railing and went halfway down the wooden steps leading into a large, cold room that smelled damp and musty. There were no basements in the houses in Miami, and this one definitely creeped her out. She quickly took in the wood shelves, hanging pipes, rusting water heater, and some other mechanisms she couldn’t identify. A large workbench was shoved up against a brick wall that oozed mortar.
Lawrence was poking around in some cobwebs and seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Lovely,” she said. “Can we go now?”
“You want to go? But this place is far out. I’ll ask Michael if we can use it as Stormdrain headquarters. We can get some folding tables and chairs. Maybe a printing press to do our own flyers.” He wandered from one side of the room to the other. “This area will be great for supplies.”
What kind of supplies? she almost asked, but she didn’t really care. She just wanted to get out of there. “I’m going up for another brownie,” she said.
“Okay, baby. I’m coming, too.” He raced up the steps behind her, stopping when he was inches away. “But wouldn’t you rather check out the rest of the house?” he whispered in her ear.
“What did you have in mind?” she said, though she knew exactly what he had in mind. She did, too.
He led her up the stairs to the second floor, past people drunk or stoned, blocking the way.
Joe Cocker was screaming about needing help from his friends.
They reached the top of the stairs, and Lawrence opened a door, releasing the smell of incense, candle wax, pot, and something more human. She peeked inside the room. Candles threw shadows against the walls. Flesh-colored blobs were writhing on the white rectangle on the floor. Arms and legs and heads and tongues and breasts and penises.
Di took a step back.
Lawrence laughed. “I’m guessing this is a little too groovy for you.”
One of the bodies separated from the others and slid off the mattress. The naked goddess came to the door, her black braid mostly undone, her brother’s dog tag hanging between her perfect naked breasts.
“Come back here, Gert,” a voice called from the room. Di recognized the growl as Jeffrey’s and was surprised Gertrude let him call her by a nickname.
“Go fuck a law book, Jeff,” Gertrude called back, then turned to smile at them.
“Have you had a brownie?” Gertrude asked Lawrence, though it sounded like she was offering him something else.
He stared at her just like he had ogled Di earlier, with the same hunger. “Yes,” he said. “They were primo.”
Di flinched. That word belonged to her.
“I made them,” Gertrude said. “Old family recipe.”
He smiled at her. “I’ll always be Alice Toklas,” he said, “if you’ll be Gertrude Stein.”
An inside joke between them, and Di was very much outside.
“So are you coming?” Gertrude grinned as she reached for his hand.
He glanced back at Di.
“Pollyanna, too.” Gertrude grabbed Di’s hand. “Come join the huddled masses.”
Di felt herself being pulled into the room, into the frenzy.
But this was all wrong. Sex was supposed to be about love, not just groping bodies. Di jerked her hand out of Gertrude’s and ran back into the hallway.
Hot tears ran down her cheeks. She was a fake. A poseur. Not the real thing like Gertrude. And she had lost him, probably forever.
Jefferson Airplane was crying about truth and lies.
Then his warm hands encircled her waist, his warm breath on her neck. He spun her toward him. She closed her eyes and licked the chocolate from his lips, melting into this man she wanted so desperately. She felt a burning sensation on her back, as though a pair of eyes were boring into her.
She turned, expecting to see Gertrude watching them.
But no one was there.
Diana’s eyes flew open. Her heart was pounding. There was something in the memory she’d forgotten, but it wasn’t about Gertrude. It was Jeff. Jeffrey Schwartz. She hadn’t thought about him in twenty years, so why now? She tried to slow her breathing. Jeff had had a thing for Gertrude—Diana had always known that. But what she’d forgotten was that Jeff had been a law student at Columbia. At the same time as Jonathan.
It couldn’t mean anything, could it? Then why couldn’t she shake this feeling that Jeff was just beyond the door, watching her. Laughing at her.
CHAPTER 22
The Coconut Grove Ritz was on a slight bluff overlooking the bay, a ten-minute walk from Aubrey’s house, but it had taken her six. She had hurried in order to see Kevin and check on what was happening at the Simmers’ command post, but she was also eager to get back home to her computer to continue digging into her mother’s past. She hoped to find something on those two women in the photo, or anything that might relate to the brownstone explosion.
She stepped into a hushe
d, sumptuous lobby filled with earth-tone marble and grand columns, where a number of reporters were milling about. She followed the desk clerk’s directions to one of the meeting rooms off the lobby. A man in a dark suit stood at the door with an iPad. He checked for her name on his tablet, then asked for ID before allowing her into the room. She wondered whether the police had been so careful the day before when someone slipped the greeting card in with the mail.
The large room buzzed with voices. Aubrey took in the different stations of the Simmers’ command post. Two women in T-shirts that said “National Center for Missing & Exploited Children” sat at a table near the front of the room. They were both wearing headphones and typing on their laptops, probably fielding calls from the hotline. At a nearby table, Detective Gonzalez was talking to another police officer.
A half-dozen men and women in suits had commandeered several tables in the back and were busy at their computers or on their phones.
They looked like FBI but were probably the private investigators the Simmers had hired.
Kevin, Kim, and the Simmers weren’t in the room.
Aubrey approached Detective Gonzalez. She looked more haggard than the day before, her black hair greasy and pulled back from her pale face.
“Do you have a minute?” Aubrey asked.
“Sure.” Gonzalez led Aubrey to a corner where they had some privacy.
“I was wondering about your reaction to the Coles’ attack on my mother. Could they have Ethan, and are hoping to misdirect the police?”
“We considered that possibility. I went to see them last night after the interview.”
“And?”
Gonzalez shook her head. “They admitted they had no basis for accusing your mother. They saw an opportunity to publicly hurt her, and they took it.”
“Yes, of course. But it shows their motive to kidnap Ethan.”
“We’ve already confirmed their alibis regarding their whereabouts when Ethan was taken. We’ve also had them under surveillance since the kidnapping. At this point, it’s unlikely they’re involved.”
