by Glenn Meade
She couldn’t imagine Jan being unfaithful to her.
Unless . . . unless that saying had come true. That some men are about as faithful as their options.
Jan had options—lots of good-looking women in the orchestra, and admiring female fans. She tried to wipe those thoughts from her mind as she washed her hands, and dried them with a cotton hand towel.
Questions raged through her mind as she looked at her face in the mirror, and right now they seemed more important.
Will my pregnancy be normal?
Will I be a good mother?
She felt anxious.
She looked down at her hands.
She was folding and unfolding the cotton hand towel in neat squares.
As far back as she could remember, whenever she felt anxiety, she always ended up folding or unfolding a hand towel or napkin, or whatever piece of cloth came to hand.
Then she felt it: a sharp twinge in her stomach that made her jerk.
Her heart stuttered. The doctor had told her to expect changes in her body, but she felt afraid. She knew friends who suffered twinges before they miscarried. Am I going to miscarry?
She prayed that wouldn’t happen.
She wanted to have a normal pregnancy.
She knew she had to be positive, even if her fear was moving to the panic zone.
She looked at her face in the mirror and told herself: I’m going to be well. I’m going to have this baby.
Then she remembered the other news she had to tell Jan.
But after lunch.
She didn’t want to upset him.
She tossed the used towel in the wicker basket and went to rejoin him.
4
* * *
“If it’s a boy, what will we call him?”
“I hadn’t thought about it, Jan.”
“If it’s a girl, how about Baize, after your grandmother? Or is that too old-fashioned?”
“Don’t talk about names just yet.”
“Why not?”
“It’s almost like bad luck.”
“You think?”
Carla pushed aside her unfinished dessert. “Let’s wait until nearer the baby’s due. Are you nervous about tonight?”
“You know me, I’m always nervous before a concert.”
“You worry too much.”
“There’s a whole bunch of VIPs and dignitaries—the mayor, a slew of politicians, and visiting Arab and Russian billionaires. The kind who have nothing better to do on a Friday night than listen to a klutz like me playing.”
“You’ll knock them dead.”
“And I meant to tell you. I’ve got to fly to Europe in another two weeks.”
“But you don’t have a concert there for another five months.”
“I’ve still got business to arrange, honey. Conductors to see.”
“Nothing you can’t do over the phone?”
“I wish it was that simple.”
“Why don’t I fly with you?”
“You really think that would be a good idea now that you’re pregnant?”
“I think it’s considered still okay to fly until the sixth month.”
“I’d feel safer with you not taking that risk, Carla.”
“Don’t be silly. If it’s good enough for the Academy of Family Physicians, it’s good enough for me.”
Jan checked his watch. “It’s really just going to be a quick turnaround, a night in London, one in Paris, then fly back. But we can talk about it again.”
She put a hand on his arm. “Okay. You still want me to pick you up after the concert?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll make supper. Try not to be late.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be off that stage faster than a bullet once I’m done. You know what else? I’ve got a plan to celebrate our news.”
“What is it?”
“The last concert’s tomorrow night. Why don’t we pack our bags on Monday, drive up to the Catskills, and stay a week. Have some time together.”
“You mean that?”
“I’ll book a cabin. One with a hot tub under the stars, the works.” He emptied his glass. “I better go. What’s wrong?”
“There was something I wanted to talk about. But it can wait.”
“Important?”
“I think so. But we’ll talk tonight. I love you, Jan.”
“Love you, too. See you later. Wish me luck.”
• • •
There are some people who claim they have the power of premonition.
A finely tuned sixth sense that alerts them to a tragedy or an accident about to happen. Carla Lane never believed she had a sixth sense.
But that afternoon, she would recall afterward, she felt a strange sense of foreboding, a feeling that something terrible was going to happen.
She put it down to hormones, to the battle raging inside her body. And maybe her recent nightmares were part of it? They certainly seemed bizarre. She would discuss them with Jan tonight. She just hoped he wouldn’t think she was crazy.
Something else bothered her. She had the distinct feeling that Jan didn’t want her to travel to London with him.
And then a thought niggled her—what if Jan was seeing someone else?
What if all those delayed trips away from home added up to an affair? That the card for the “gentleman’s club” foreshadowed a bigger problem? These things happened, as much as she dreaded admitting it. Husbands left wives even when they were pregnant.
Her unease distracted her all afternoon. Later, when she showered she felt a twinge in her stomach again.
When she started to pack an overnight case for them both, she was sure she felt it once more. Was it just nerves? Or was she overly sensitive of her own body now that she knew she was expecting?
Whatever it was, it distressed her that late afternoon as she laid out the table, the red candle waiting to be lit. Two crystal glasses stood on the white tablecloth, and she placed a bowl of cherries in the refrigerator, a damp cloth over them, Jan’s favorite fruit.
At six, he called her.
“Tell me I’m crazy, but you know what I thought?”
“What?”
“Forget about taking the cabin on Monday.”
“Why?”
“Let’s do it Sunday instead. So finish packing those bags.”
“How did rehearsals go?”
“Even better than I expected. Gotta go, Carla. See you after the concert.”
• • •
Carnegie Hall was packed with VIPs.
Carla recognized a presidential candidate among the New York mayor’s crowd, and lots of politicians and foreign dignitaries, some of their limos parked in a row on the street outside.
Jan’s picture was on the posters, the one they always used, with his blond hair falling across his forehead, his arms folded, his smiling eyes pensive.
Carla arrived midway through the concert’s second half and the manager recognized her and immediately led her to a seat in a private box.
Jan was playing Rachmaninov’s Concerto No. 2 in C Minor, with his usual intensity and energy, the spotlight on him. She never wanted to bathe in his reflected glory, that wasn’t for her, but she always felt a surge of pride whenever she watched him play.
She knew that part of the intensity in his music came from his own childhood torment, that secret well of hurt deep inside himself he never talked about. When the finale came, a storm of applause roared around the hall and everyone in Carnegie Hall rose to their feet.
Jan was called back again and again, the audience clamoring for an encore. He obliged, seating himself again at the piano. There was complete stillness and he started to play “Le Pastour” by Gabriel Grovlez.
It was so moving that the moment the last note fell the audience went wild again. Bouquets of flowers landed on the stage.
She caught Jan’s eye as he went to bow. He waved up at her, gave her the usual signal with both his open palms, all fingers splayed: see you in
ten minutes.
She blew him a kiss.
• • •
They always met in the parking lot near Carnegie Hall.
She parked Jan’s Volvo in their reserved spot and it took her ten minutes to walk back. Jan hated the attention after a concert and always tried to slip away. He once told her that if he’d known being a concert pianist was so much show business, he’d have kept it simple and joined the circus.
VIP Mercs and limos began to start up, their engine fumes choking the lot.
Carla saw a metal door snap open, about a hundred yards away.
Jan came out, all smiles. He had changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater and jacket, and when he saw her he waved. Over his arm was draped a suit carrier for his tuxedo. She waved and hurried to join him.
Jan reached the Volvo first. Carla was fifty feet away and she flicked the remote to open the doors.
Jan went to tug open the passenger’s rear door when there was a brief, sharp crack, followed by a huge flash, and then a powerful explosion thundered through the parking lot.
It lasted barely a fraction of a second.
Everything seemed to turn deathly slow and silent, as if it were happening under water, in slow motion. The car lifted; Jan’s body was blown into the air. Carla felt a tremendous force punch her body, and then everything was smothered in a waterfall of dust and masonry, metal and glass.
• • •
TV news vans with satellite dishes crowded the nearby streets, cordoned off for two blocks.
No one was allowed in or out except the police and emergency crews. An NYPD Bomb Squad truck was ushered through, its lights blazing. On a corner, a uniformed cop held back the crowds of onlookers.
“Move along now, folks, move along.”
A man approached, fit-looking, stocky, muscular, and flashed a Jersey police detective’s ID. “Hey, Officer, what’s up?”
The cop from Midtown’s North Precinct barely gave the ID a glance. If he had, he still wouldn’t have noticed it was a forgery. The off-duty looked like that southern actor who was once married to Angelina Jolie—Billy Bob Thornton, that was the guy. With a ready grin, a kind of goofy white smile.
“There was an explosion in a parking lot near Carnegie Hall.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“I heard we’re talking bodies. They’re still working the scene. Some kind of bomb, maybe a terrorist thing.”
“Sounds like you guys got the dirty end of the stick. Take it easy, man.” The guy moved off, down an empty side street. He pulled out a black Samsung cell phone, punched the number. A click sounded.
“It’s done?”
“Yeah. The problem’s gone—gone for good.”
5
* * *
NEW YORK
She came awake to the sound of a man’s voice and her eyes flickered open.
She was lying in a hospital bed in the ICU. A cheerful doctor wearing a blue bandana and fresh green scrubs leaned across and took her pulse.
“Welcome back, Carla. We’ve been hoping you’d come round.”
A nurse checked the drips hooked up to both her arms, an electronic monitor flickering above. Carla felt groggy, confused, a branding iron pain in her forehead.
“Can you hear me?” the doctor asked.
“Y . . . yes. Where am I?”
“Mount Sinai Hospital. How do you feel?”
“Apart from a blinding headache, confused.”
He winked at her, patting her hand. “No hearing damage then, or at least we hope. You’re very lucky to be still alive, young lady.”
“What’s going on, what happened . . . ?” She noticed small bruises on her arms and on the backs of her hands, where drips had been inserted.
“We’ll get to that. For now I need to know how you feel. Where’s the headache? All over, or in your temples?”
She put up a hand to massage her forehead and felt a strip of bandage across it. “Right . . . right here.”
“Any other pains or aches anywhere, or blurry vision?”
“I . . . I don’t think so.”
The doctor held up two fingers, moved his hand from left to right a couple of feet from her face, and observed her eye movement. “Try to follow my fingers with your eyes. How many digits do you see?”
“Two.”
“How about now?”
“Four.”
Next, the doctor probed Carla’s ears with a lighted instrument, before he went to work with his stethoscope.
She felt the cold steel on her chest. “Please, can’t you tell me what happened?”
“What do you remember?”
“Jan was standing by our car . . . it . . . it seemed to catch fire. There was an explosion.”
“Anything else?”
Carla felt her forehead throbbing ease a little. “Everything after that is kind of vague.”
The doctor’s trained eye studied a series of old, thin scars down Carla’s right arm but said nothing. “You suffered some external cuts from shrapnel, all minor really, some bruises and concussion. You’ve been here four days.”
“You . . . you’re serious?”
“You’ve been in and out of consciousness, but mostly semi-comatose.”
Carla had completely lost track of time. She recalled the intensity of the explosion, the terrible crump. She vaguely remembered being dragged away from the blazing car and hearing the endless bleat of ambulance sirens, but after that she’d passed out and everything afterward was ghostly, disjointed. “Where’s Jan? Is he safe . . . ?” Her throat felt dry, hoarse.
The doctor finished his examination, scribbled on the chart, and hung it on the end of the bed. It was as if he hadn’t heard the question, or deliberately ignored it.
“Over the next few days we’ll want to make certain you suffered no permanent damage. If not, we’ll release you. The good news is that your scans show no internal signs of injury.”
“I . . . I’m pregnant.”
“We know. We contacted your doctor. You had a letter from him in your purse.”
“Will my baby be okay?”
“So far everything still looks all right, Carla. But we’ll talk again. Right now, there’s someone who’s anxious to see you.”
• • •
The door opened again after the doctor and nurse left and her grandmother came in.
School friends of Carla’s used to call Baize Joran the last of the hippies—she’d been to Woodstock, and wore those old colorful kaftans if the mood took her, or sometimes a diamond stud in her nose.
For a woman touching seventy-three who smoked a half pack of herbal cigarettes a day, rarely exercised beyond a touch of light housework, and was no stranger to a bottle of wine, she usually looked terrific.
Today, Baize looked burnt-out, as if she hadn’t slept in a week. Her gray hair looked even wilder than usual, and she wore no makeup. Her face was the color of ashes, her eyes raw from crying.
She flung her arms around Carla and squeezed tightly, and neither of them seemed able to let go, Carla drowning in the familiar scented haze of Baize—Elizabeth Arden perfume and the faint aroma of herbal cigarettes.
“Where’s Jan?”
Her grandmother’s desperate look said it all as she stepped back, still clutching her hand. “He didn’t make it, Carla. I . . . I’m so sorry.”
Carla looked away, and found it difficult to breathe. The reality punched her like a gunshot, carrying with it a tide of grief and disbelief. But not anger, not yet. That would come later. “Oh, dear God.”
Baize gripped both her hands.
“I’m here for you, Carla, I’m right here, sweetheart. I haven’t moved from outside your room since they brought you here.”
Carla found it difficult to breathe, her chest tight, and suddenly whatever strength she had in her body seemed to bleed out of her. She had lost the one man she had truly loved, who mattered most in her life. Her heart felt as if it were falling into a bottomless chasm.
&nbs
p; Baize held on to her hands, said gently, “Do you feel like talking, Carla?”
“I don’t know how I feel.” She wanted to cry but somehow she couldn’t; it was as if her mind were in a deep freeze.
“I just wish Dan was still here. We could do with someone like him to help us through this. He was always so capable, so strong. I feel so helpless.”
“Tell . . . tell me about Jan.”
Baize took a paper tissue from her sleeve, dabbed her eyes. “They tried hard to save him. It seems that he took most of the force of the blast. He lasted about an hour in ER. It’s all so unreal. I still can’t believe it.”
Carla stared back at her grandmother, speechless. Jan dead. He died and she lived.
“Honey, why didn’t you tell me about the baby?”
“We . . . we’d just found out.” Racked by anguish, Carla felt hysterical, in the grip of a sudden uncontrollable urge. She went to raise herself from the bed. “I want to see Jan. I want to see him right now. Tell them to take me to the mortuary.”
Baize stopped her. “The funeral was yesterday morning, Carla.”
“Jan’s been buried?”
“Paul thought it better for the service to go ahead. He thought it better to bury his brother. We didn’t know when you’d come round.”
Carla made a fist of her hand, put it to her mouth, her eyes wet again. Every part of her body shrieked with grief. She didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye.
Baize’s grip tightened. “So many people attended the service. Paul’s devastated. He wanted me to call him as soon as you came round.”
Carla was overcome, and couldn’t speak.
“It’s not going to be easy in the coming days and months, sweetheart. But you have to stay strong. For your baby’s sake. It’s how Jan would have wanted it.”
“What . . . what do the police say?”
“They interviewed me, but I couldn’t tell them anything, and they’ve made no public statements. But a lot of VIPs attended the concert. The mayor and lots of important foreign dignitaries. The newspapers are saying it may have been a terrorist bomb. That it looks like a case of mistaken identity, and whoever was responsible picked the wrong victim.”
“A bomb?”
