Tied to the Tracks

by Rosina Lippi

  “You wouldn’t rather come back tomorrow?”

  “Heavens, no.” Harriet sat down with a plop on the sofa and threw back her head. “Tomorrow I won’t have time to breathe much less come back here. It’s a good thing I took this week off.” She dropped her chin to her chest and glared at Angie.

  “You know I love her dearly, but I could kill Caroline. Leaving us with all this, and Tab in the hospital—no, no, don’t make a face. He’s doing fine.”

  Angie said silent thanks that Harriet was so easily diverted.

  She was saying, “He’s doing so much better, the nurses are going cross-eyed dealing with him. Tab is not a good patient, you had best believe me. Mother Teresa would end up slapping him silly, and I’m no Mother Teresa.”

  “He’s got to be in some pain,” Angie offered.

  “Well, of course he is,” Harriet said. “But I guarantee you whatever he’s feeling has got nothing on childbirth, and I got through that three times without offending half the hospital.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “You know he can’t keep a dental hygienist? The longest one ever held on was three months, and she was deaf in one ear. I swear, once this wedding is over and he’s out, I’m going into hiding myself.”

  “A retreat must sound like a good idea just about now.”

  Harriet snorted. “To hell with retreats, I’m thinking Mexico, or Bermuda maybe. Can we get down to it, sugar? I’m running late.”

  Angie cast a longing glance at the closed darkroom door and the red light burning above it. There would be no rescue from Rivera, and so she sat with Harriet Darling and took exhaustive notes about a wedding that was not supposed to happen. Because the groom had already backed out, but Harriet Darling didn’t know that. Angie tried not to think of Harriet’s reaction when she finally found out that all this rushing around had been for nothing.

  “You all right?” Harriet asked. “You’re looking a little pale. I hope the Liars didn’t keep you up too late.” She winked suggestively and laughed.

  “They were very sweet,” Angie said.

  “Well, you were worth every penny. Didn’t you look a treat? I swear, girl, I don’t know why you dress the way you do. I’ve seen nuns with more fashion sense.” And then she bit her lip. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

  “It’s okay,” Angie said. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard it. My mother is always after me about clothes.”

  “Tell you what,” Harriet said. “After the wedding, once Tab is out of the hospital and on his feet, I’m going to start looking for an apartment. You help me with that, and I’ll take you shopping.” Her eyes gleamed at the thought. “We can spend the day in Savannah, get you a whole new wardrobe.”

  Angie was trying to find a way to let Harriet down easily when Rivera popped her head out of the darkroom.

  “I’ll be ready in fifteen,” she said. And: “Hey, Harriet.”

  “I’ve got to go too,” Harriet said, her expression suddenly much more subdued. She stood up and wiggled so that the crease in her linen slacks fell into place. “Rivera, I don’t know if you realize it, but it’s likely you’re going to get some nasty comments, now that people know—” She tilted her head. “After what happened at the picnic auction. I hope you’re ready for that.”

  There wasn’t exactly disapproval in her tone, but something of a frustrated mother scolding a teenager daughter, one who had gone against all good advice and now had to face the consequences.

  “I’ll manage,” Rivera said. She stood in the open door like a queen, straight of back, her head held high on her long neck.

  “I suppose you will,” Harriet said dryly. “But then again you’ll be gone by next summer and Meg has to live here.”

  “She’ll manage, too.” Rivera said, in a particular quiet tone that set alarms ringing in Angie’s head. “You’d be surprised how liberating it is to put lies behind you. But you know that, don’t you? You’re just about to leave your husband.”

  “That’s not the same thing,” Harriet said stiffly.

  Angie said, “Rivera. Don’t be a mope.”

  That earned her a flashing grin and one shoulder lifted in acknowledgment, and just that suddenly the crisis was past.

  Harriet turned and took Angie’s hand to squeeze it. “Thank you, sugar. You’re so sweet to help out with the wedding. I guess it can’t be easy, but you don’t let on, and that’s got to cost you something.”

  Angie felt herself flushing. “Don’t mention it,” she said, trying not to look at Rivera. “Please.”

  SIXTEEN

  Ogilvie Bugle NEWS ABOUT TOWN

  Will Sloan, director of WOTV, Ogilvie Public Access Television, asks us to remind our readers that there are some exciting programs coming up at OP-TV. Today and through the weekend The Eye on Ogilvie team will be roaming the campus during the reunions to find out what the alumni have been up to. On Saturday there will be a special broadcast of Patty-Cake Walker’s popular Girl Talk, live from the wedding of the season. Rumor has it that Lucy Ogilvie Black will be coming home to Ogilvie to see her son John Grant married to Caroline Mae Rose, both English Department faculty members at the university. See it all on Channel 12, starting at 10:30.

  Thursday morning John called his brother into his office and handed him the letter from Caroline. Rob leaned against the wall to read it, and though John watched him closely, he saw no change in Rob’s relaxed posture or in his expression. Which might mean that John had been thinking about it too hard and long and blown it all out of proportion. A less appealing option occurred to him, but couldn’t be rejected out of hand: Rob was hiding his real reactions behind his lawyer’s face.

  “Well, that explains some things.” He folded the letter and put it back in its envelope.

  “Really. Then maybe you can fill me in,” John said. “Because I’m confused as all hell.”

  “What I mean is, it explains why you didn’t show up for your bachelor party last night.”

  That hit John like a fist to the gut. He let his head drop to the desk, and groaned.

  “Don’t worry,” Rob said. “I told them you had gone up to the retreat house to see Caroline, but that her sisters weren’t supposed to know about it. The guys were so busy talking about how you’d sneak into a convent that they went along with the whole thing.”

  “I was at home,” John said dully. “With the phone turned off.”

  “It wasn’t a good day for you yesterday,” Rob agreed. He looked at the letter for a long moment. “I thought you were going to take a chunk out of Patty-Cake a time or two. Not that she doesn’t deserve it.”

  John pressed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger and counted to three. “Okay, I did let that crap about the photocopier get to me,” John said. “A mistake, huh?”

  “Let’s just say you gave her what she wanted.” Rob crossed over to the couch and sat. “So what do you think is going on with Caroline?”

  “You first,” John said. “Please.”

  Rob thought for a minute, his head turned to one side. “A couple of possibilities come to mind. I would say she hadn’t got your letter when she wrote this, so my first guess is that she has got some idea about Angie and is about to dump you.”

  “But—”

  “Let me finish. That’s the most obvious answer, but it doesn’t sound like Caroline to me.”

  John, who had come to this same conclusion almost twenty-four hours ago, nodded. “Go on.”

  “The list of things serious enough for her to run off like this is pretty short. I’d guess her sisters are worried about her wanting to be a nun.”

  “Probably they are,” John said. “But I can’t see Caroline going into a convent.”

  “Too melodramatic by far, you’re right. Have you considered that she might be in love with somebody else—”

  “Nope,” John said.

  “Okay.” Rob was looking at him closely. “You’re sure?”

  “As sure as I can be. You know Caroline, she’s not
adventurous. And I can’t think of any man around her who might have . . . distracted her.”

  “Maybe it’s somebody from her past,” Rob said. “Maybe it snuck up on her.”

  John heard an unusual tone in his brother’s voice. “Is there something you know you’re not telling me?” he said. “Something about Caroline and somebody else? Are people talking?”

  “Hold on there,” Rob said. “Don’t get carried away. No talk, no gossip, no rumors, no suspicions. Caroline isn’t Mama, okay?”

  John nodded, relieved. The idea of people snickering behind his back was enough to make his gorge rise. “So what do you think it all means?”

  “I don’t know,” Rob said. “Beyond the fact that you’re stuck until she comes back here and you can ask her. What was Angie’s take?” And after a moment: “Please tell me you’ve talked to Angie about this.”

  “I wanted to figure it out for myself first.” John heard the defensive note in his own voice and winced.

  Very quietly Rob said, “You haven’t talked to Angie since you got this letter on Tuesday evening?”

  “Now, wait—”

  “Since Tuesday,” Rob repeated. “A good part of which you spent with Angie in my spare bedroom.”

  John closed his eyes. “Look. The whole town thinks I’m getting married the day after tomorrow, and I can’t call the wedding off because the bride has run away. What exactly am I supposed to say to Angie?”

  Rob got up and began to pace. “I want you to listen to me now, and carefully. My advice is, go find Angie and tell her what’s going on. Leave not one detail—not one—out. Show her the letter, and run through every reaction you’ve had. Then throw yourself on the mercy of the court, and maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll pull your ass out of the fire with nothing more than a few blisters. I hope you do, but you’re going to have to work at it.”

  A pulse picked up in John’s temple, not because he was angry, or at least he wasn’t angry at his brother. His heart was racing because he knew the truth when he heard it. He swallowed. “I’ve got to be at this alumni thing in a half hour.”

  “Then you had best get a move on,” Rob said.

  At the door John hesitated. “I’m going to need all the help I can get these next two days.”

  Rob said, “You know where to find me.”

  It took every bit of persuasion she could muster, but Angie managed to get the whole crew into the editing suite by seven on Thursday morning.

  The novelty of working in such a well-equipped and comfortable space put them all in a good mood. They could spread out logbooks, files, computers, and their personal gear, along with an array of cups and carryout bags. Best of all, they had enough computing power and no restrictions on how much of it they used, or how long they spent here. That was such a luxury that it took Angie a full hour before she relaxed enough to stop constantly looking at her watch.

  Big companies with large staffs allocated the logging to assistants, but Angie liked everything about this part of the process. Most of all, she loved the working together and the talk about the story while the digital counter at the bottom of the screen ticked along steadily. The entire time she scribbled, writing down minimal information about the scene and its location while Tony did the same on a laptop.

  Markus wanted to know if Rivera was going to take notes, too, at which she flexed her fingers in the air like a surgeon wiggling into sterile gloves.

  “Hell no,” she said, settling down in front of the controls. “Somebody’s got to drive.”

  They had been working together like this for so long that it was like dancing with a very well known and trusted partner. Rivera often froze the flow of the video in the split second before Angie or Tony could ask her to, either to catch up with note taking or to talk about a particular shot. Sometimes it was no more than an expression on a face perfectly lit by the late-afternoon sun, but there were dozens of segments that made Angie catch her breath and remember, with complete clarity, what she loved about her work, and why she was here.

  Which had nothing to do with John Grant, not in the first line.

  “Angie?” Rivera was saying.

  “Sorry. What?”

  “Could you put my mark next to this bit of John and Miss Zula talking?

  “Sure.” Angie picked up her red pen to draw a star next to the entry that read 02:02:38:13, 02:04:04:13, JG talking 2 ZB re fall schedule. Z 2 Louie asleep & pan around office and got a blob of ink instead. She turned her head.

  “Where’s Markus?”

  “He left a half hour ago to run errands for his mother,” Tony said. “Jeez, Ang. You drag us in here at the crack of dawn and then you fall asleep yourself.”

  “I’m not sleeping,” Angie said steadily. “I was concentrating. Hold up, I’ve got to go get another pen.”

  John came into the reception area just as Angie was closing the door to the supply closet. She stopped where she was and tried to smile, but didn’t quite manage. Breathing was almost as hard.

  He was dressed in a dark gray summer-weight suit with a deep red tie over a snowy white shirt, and Angie had a sudden memory of the dry cleaners he used in Manhattan. The woman behind the counter—small and round with a heavy Slavic accent—had talked to John as an indulgent but hard-to-please grandmother might have. Angie had come to the conclusion that he liked it, or he would have taken his business to one of the hundreds of other dry cleaners in the city.

  She said, “What was that woman’s name, the one who called you booby?”

  John smiled so suddenly and so beautifully that Angie’s breath hitched and caught and she thought, Where the hell have you been? But she bit her lip to keep from saying it.

  “Mrs. Pulaski. I think about her, too, every time I put on a suit. The dry cleaner here is Miss Nellie, and she calls me John-John. I miss Mrs. Pulaski.”

  “You haven’t been back here all that long,” Angie said. “Cheer up, I’m sure you’ll find some shop clerk willing to abuse you to your face.”

  “Probably not in Ogilvie,” John said. “Mostly people wait until you’re out of hearing to bad-mouth you.”

  That made Angie think of Win Walker. She realized that she had successfully put the condom episode out of her head—so successfully that she had yet to tell John about what had happened after he shimmied out the bathroom window. But then she had run into Patty-Cake at least four times since the afternoon of the fourth, and there was no indication that her nephew had been whispering in her ear. Angie had to assume that he kept quiet out of professionalism, which made her feel guilty all over again, this time for underestimating him. She was thinking about that when she realized John was saying something quite important.

  “—and then Rob called me an idiot.”

  Which he was, most certainly. An infuriating, frustrating, gorgeous idiot she had missed beyond all reason for almost forty-eight hours, and what did that make her?

  She said, “We agreed it was best to keep contact to a minimum.”

  “I should have called, at least.”

  True. Another thing not to be said aloud, not at this moment. Instead Angie said, “You look like you’re on your way someplace.”

  “Reunions on campus, I have to go to a luncheon.”

  “That explains all the people wandering around.”

  “I have to give a talk this evening, too, and then there’s a supper—”

  “Isn’t Miss Zula giving a talk, too? Because we’re supposed to shoot it.”

  “Ah.” John looked disconcerted at this news. “Well, I suppose I’ll see you there.”

  “I suppose you will.”

  He cleared his throat again. He said, “There’s a letter from Caroline.” He said it lightly, but there was a tension in him that she could see in his shoulders and the tilt of his head.

  Angie leaned against the closet door and crossed her arms on her chest. “She’s told her family?”

  “No. Not yet. It’s complicated,” John said. “I need to talk to y
ou, but I have—”

  “This alumni thing, you said.”

  “Are you around later this afternoon?”

  The urge to hear what he had to say, good or bad, to get it over with once and for all, that urge was at war with the far less pleasant compulsion Angie was feeling. If suffering and regret were going to be on the itinerary, she would take him along for the ride. She said, “We’re in the middle of a big logging session, and we’ll be at it all day.”

  His face fell. “Okay, well. Maybe after this alumni supper thing? You could come over to the house, that might be safer.”