by Stacy Juba
Her eyes warm, Kris laid a hand over Cheryl's palm. "Nicole and I had a fight. Right before she died."
"What was it about?"
"I can't talk about it. Even now."
"She would've forgiven you. You've got to believe that, or you'll drive yourself nuts."
"I don't think she would've."
Cheryl lightly squeezed Kris's knuckle. "That doesn't say much about her as a person, does it? We all blow up over trivial things that pale in importance when we're faced with something bigger. I'm sure your fight was upsetting, but I doubt it changed Nicole's feelings for you. It's just a shame you never had a chance to make up."
"You're lucky that your mother is so open about Diana and your dad, and that you can talk about things. Death was a bad word in my family."
"How so?"
Kris drew back, her shoulders slumped. "I'll give you an example. After Nicole died, my Uncle Neal mentioned her at a July Fourth party. He said she loved seeing sparklers and fireworks when she was little. My grandfather asked why he had to ruin a happy occasion by bringing up sad memories. He stormed into the house. Uncle Neal strode in after him, and we all sat on the picnic bench as they yelled at each other."
She looked at Cheryl, whose face held the damp remnants of her own grief. "I know Grandfather missed Nicole, too, but he was so non-demonstrative."
"Sounds like he had trouble coping with his feelings," Cheryl said. "That wasn't a healthy attitude to pass down to his children."
"Grandfather was the same way about his wife. When I was seven, I asked about her once. My mom got flustered and explained that my grandmother had died of cancer a long time ago. She said never to ask Grandfather that question or it would upset him."
Kris clamped her fingers around her cold mug. "My mother's a lot like him. They spent a great deal of time together. They were both doctors, so they had the same interests."
She drank the water to moisten her raw throat. She'd never analyzed her family before. The observations had popped into her mind as she mused aloud. Now there they were, out in the open. Kris slanted another uneasy glance at Cheryl.
"Were you bitter that you couldn't talk about death?" Cheryl asked.
"I guess. I wanted to tell my mother about Nicole, but she changed the subject whenever I brought up her name. She stopped seeing my Aunt Susan and never explained why. She won't discuss anything important. Now I find myself doing the same. I keep everything pent-up inside."
"It's good to question the attitudes you grew up with. You can make sure you don't repeat patterns with your own children."
"My mother and I don't click," Kris said. "Sometimes she looks at me, and it's like she wonders how she got stuck with me as her daughter."
"Maybe she has a hard time expressing herself to you."
"I can't talk to her, either. Eric's lucky to have you as a mom."
Cheryl hugged her, a quick maternal embrace. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in weeks. Anytime you need a sounding board, I'm here. We have a lot in common, you and me. More than you know."
***
At home that night, Kris read her new mythology book, but she couldn't stop thinking about Cheryl Soares. Kris liked her. A lot. Cheryl had given her a paperback on grief, slipped it inside the bag when Kris wasn’t watching. She would read it later.
She had to help Cheryl's family. They were nice people who didn’t deserve the tragedies they had suffered.
Purring, Chipmunk curled beside her on the couch. Kris flipped through the oversized pages. Each chapter related a separate myth: Hercules, Midas, the Golden Fleece, Cupid.
Her high school Latin teacher had assigned myths in class. Ancient Greeks had created the gods in their own image, making them petty, jealous, vain and inconsistent, like humans. The Romans borrowed the Greek gods, but gave most of them different names and qualities to fit their customs.
Her Latin teacher preferred the Greek versions. Romans took their religion more seriously, she'd said, and had turned the gods into sedate, boring, beings.
Kris skimmed a paragraph about Zeus, the Greek king of the gods. He'd cheated on his wife, Hera, changing his shape to seduce women.
"If Zeus were my husband, I'd get a divorce," she told Chipmunk, scanning ahead.
Two of his illegitimate children were twins, Apollo and Artemis. Apollo, the god of music, reigned over the sun, and his sister the moon.
Kris touched the page. That's right. How had she forgotten?
The Romans knew Artemis as Diana.
Chapter Eleven
25 Years Ago Today
A new 40-unit housing complex for senior citizens is called the Franklin Dennett Project.
According to legend, the Diana of myth had roamed the wilderness, accompanied by nymphs and a pack of hounds. Artists portrayed her with symbols -- the stags she hunted and a silver bow. Kris closed the book as the phone rang. This was crazy. She wouldn't learn about the real Diana from ancient religion.
She snagged the cordless off the kitchen wall. "Hello."
"I'm sorry, Kris," Holly said, talking fast. "I don't know what got into me. I shouldn't have been judgmental about your Diana Ferguson story. I'm glad you like your job and that you want to explore reporting."
Guilt rushing over her, Kris scraped out a chair from the table. She’d forgotten about the fight with Holly. She had to give her sister credit for making the first move. "I'm sorry, too. It wasn't fair to leave you in the lurch."
"I shouldn't have been jealous you're in a field that excites you."
"Doesn't medicine excite you?"
"Truthfully? I'd rather be an airplane pilot."
Hoping she wouldn't sound too puzzled, Kris spread a napkin out in front of her like a place mat and tore the corners. Maybe it was lack of sleep, but she wasn't following this conversation. "An airplane pilot?"
"Don't you remember that Airline game we used to play? I was always the pilot."
Kris tried to picture her sister in a pilot uniform, but she couldn't erase the white lab coat from her mind. "Sure I do. You just caught me by surprise. I never realized you were serious about it. Why didn't you go for it?"
"Mom pushed me into pre-med. Suddenly, we had so much in common. We were closer than ever, and I loved that. I just kept going, and now I'm a doctor." Holly gave a dry laugh. "Weird, huh?"
Had their mother and grandfather talked about anything besides medicine? Not that Kris could recall. Now the cycle was repeating.
"Are you happy?" she asked.
"I met R.J., so I thank God for that. And I like helping patients. But am I passionate about my job? Not really. I envied you when you went to New York and got out from under Mom's wing. You don't care what people think. I wish I could be like that."
Kris played with the snowfall of napkin bits. "Don't envy me too much. Remember, I work irregular hours so I can sleep. I've got a cat to keep me warm at night, not a husband."
"Being single bothers you? I wondered."
"Sure it does, but I just can't ..." Get close to anyone. "I can't find any guys worth my time."
"You will, don't worry," Holly said. "It's not too late."
"It's not too late for you, either. You could switch fields."
"I've invested so many years in medicine. And it wouldn't be fair to R.J. if I focused on something else." Holly cleared her throat. "Listen, R.J. and I are throwing a party next Saturday to break in our china. Will you come?"
How Kris hated parties, but it was her turn to make an effort.
"I'll be there," she said.
***
Her talk with Holly haunted Kris that evening at work. Her sister wasn't perfect after all. Still, Kris couldn't pity her too much. Holly made excellent money, had a loving marriage and surrounded herself with close friends. If she wanted to change careers, she could. Her husband would support her in anything. She didn't know what real regret was.
Bruce approached Kris’s desk with a stack of faxed press releases. She had barely seen
him all week. Most reporters had erratic schedules, but he seemed even less tied to a timeclock than the others. He wouldn't last a day as editorial assistant.
She turned from her wedding announcements and glared up at him. "Why did you tell Jacqueline about that obit?"
Bruce dropped the press releases into her in-box. "What obit?"
"The one where the son reamed me out."
Shrugging, he riffled through the pile. "Oh, that. I didn't think it was a big deal."
"Jacqueline thinks so."
"She overreacts."
Kris squeezed her pencil tighter, tempted to snap it in half. "Then why would you tell her?"
"She must have asked me. Hey, I saw your yo-yo feature on Dex's desk. I'm glad he's giving you those puff pieces. His priorities are screwed up. Can you believe he used to make me drop everything for that fluff?"
She had slaved over that article, fitting in the interview and the twenty inches of writing between her daily tasks as editorial assistant and her Diana Ferguson sleuthing. It would appear in the Sunday lifestyle section with a color photo. She had even gotten Dex to fork over some money for her freelancing. Here was Bruce, putting down her hard work. He was Narcissus, in love with his own reflection.
"Luckily, that fluff added to my paycheck this week," Kris said.
Her intercom buzzed and a voice told her she had a visitor. Good thing. Bruce looked ready to kill. She had the same urge herself.
Out in the front office, the female employees hiked purses over their shoulders and shut down computers, waiting for the stroke of five. Kris halted. Eric Soares stood at the counter, following her with his direct gaze.
"I didn't expect to see you," she said.
"I hear you're going to New York."
"I'm visiting Diana's old friend, Raquel."
"I want to go, too."
She stared at him. She and Eric, alone on a three-hour car ride? "You want to come? To Hyde Park?"
"You were right. If we don't take a risk, we'll never find out what happened to Diana."
Her mind sorted out the possibilities. Had his family coerced him into playing guardian once again? Kris led him over to two chairs against the wall. "You really feel that way? Since when?"
Eric pulled out a leather wallet and handed her a packet of photographs. "Take a look."
She flipped through the pictures. A couple of children, a professional portrait of his parents. She stopped at the next photo.
A young girl crouched behind a little boy outside, her arms around his neck. Both laughed into the camera, showing the same dimples. Adoration wreathed the child's grinning face. Kris felt a stab of pity for Eric.
He'd been too young to understand the finality of death, but he must have wondered where his beloved aunt had gone and sensed his family's pain. Their grief and disillusionment would've influenced his upbringing. Had Diana lived, he might have been a different, more trusting, person.
"You asked what I remembered about Diana," he said. "I only have this one picture of her taking me to a park, pushing me on a swing."
"It seems like a nice memory."
"I wish there were more. I do want justice for her death, just the way you did for your cousin. Were you close to her?"
Glancing again at the picture, Kris shivered. "Yes," she whispered.
She regained her composure. "Look, here’s the deal. I'm leaving for Hyde Park tomorrow. I told Raquel I'd be there by three. If you meet me at the bookstore, I'll drive."
"Fine," he said. "See you there."
***
Kris turned up the volume of the car radio. She and Eric hadn't spoken since Burger King in Connecticut. He didn't know what to say any more than she did, or else he wasn't interested in small talk. After a few useless attempts, she concentrated on a Beatles marathon. Eric bent over a notebook, scribbling.
At a stop light in Poughkeepsie, she stretched out the tight muscles bunching up her back. "What're you working on?"
"A song. It's not coming together."
"Do you write many songs?"
"When I have time," Eric said.
They passed a string of shopping plazas and restaurants. "I've heard the Hudson Valley is a nice vacation spot," Kris said. "FDR's house is in Hyde Park."
Eric nodded. She kept her mouth shut for the rest of the ride.
Craft shops and snow-laced trees lined the curving road into Hyde Park. Eric directed her to the street address. Kris parked in the driveway and stared up at a white Victorian house on a hill. Through the pines, the blue Hudson glimmered against powdered mountains.
A skinny teenage boy answered the door in a heavy metal tee-shirt and ripped jeans. He ushered them in with a mumbled hello. "Ma!" he called, jogging upstairs.
They waited in the foyer. If Diana had lived, she might have had a son his age. Kris couldn't picture Diana Ferguson as forty-six. She brushed off her boots on the welcome mat. It moved slightly, uncovering a nick in the tile. Through the doorway, board games, school books and coats littered the dining room table. Gorgeous house, but lived-in.
A woman trudged down the staircase in a nylon warm-up jacket and sweatpants, her gray-threaded bob framing a puffy face. She hesitated on the last step, her knuckle white around the banister. "Hello."
Kris barely recognized her. This was the sex object who had picked up guys everywhere she went? No, that wasn't fair. Raquel had aged, like everyone did.
Except for the unlucky ones.
"Thank you for inviting me," Kris said.
"I'm glad you could come. Please, follow me." Raquel escorted them down three steps into a sunken family room with a bar and pool table. Flames crackled in the brick fireplace. Photographs of Raquel, an athletic-looking Hispanic man and three teenagers adorned a shelf built into the paneled wall. Raquel's nervous fingers found a loose thread on her jacket. She twisted it around her thumb, then stared at it in surprise.
"You have a lovely home," Kris said.
"Thank you. It gets messy with three kids."
"If you think this is messy, you should see my apartment," Kris said.
As she and Eric sat down on the plaid sofa, their hostess offered tea, scones and mixed nuts from a tray on the coffee table. Eric fixed his attention on Kris's short black sweater. Whoops. It had slipped down her shoulder, revealing bare skin and the strap of her black satin bra. Reddening, she tucked the strap back underneath where it belonged.
Oblivious, Raquel squeezed into a rocking chair and slathered a scone with strawberry jam. She cupped the pastry close to her heart. "You came all the way from Massachusetts to talk to me?"
"We were eager to meet you. This is Diana's nephew, Eric Soares." Kris poured a cup of tea.
Startled, Raquel covered her mouth with a napkin. "Little Eric! My God, I can't believe it. Di babysat you all the time. I kept her company once or twice."
Kris chuckled. Eric cut her a look.
"Most of the time, Di watched you at your parents' place," Raquel said. "She'd bring sketchpads and draw while you were sleeping. You were a spoiled kid. Your mother would call from work, and your dad came home on his lunch break. God, I feel old." She nibbled her scone, relaxing with every bite.
"What were you doing the night Diana was killed?" Kris asked. "Were you both working together?"
"I stayed till midnight, then went home. Di's mother called a couple of hours later, and woke up the whole house. I wasn't worried, but I'll never forget my mother. She knew even then that something was wrong. She told me Di was too considerate to not call home. Not like me."
"Why do you think Jared Peyton was responsible?"
"The phone calls, of course. The last month Di was alive, he'd call the bar every night. Afterwards, she'd go in the bathroom and cry. She kept it secret at first, but I pressured her to tell me. I thought she should talk to the police, but she wouldn't."
"Jared claims it wasn't him," Kris said. "Did you ever answer the phone yourself and recognize his voice? Or did you take Diana's word for it?"
<
br /> Raquel blinked. "I picked it up a couple of times, and the voice was familiar. And Di said it was him. Who else would it be? Besides, Jared came in the night she died. She started yelling at him and the bouncers tossed him out. When Di got another call that night, it was the last straw. She left work a little while later, said she was sick. That was it. I never saw her again."
The same phrase Jared had used. I never saw her again. So final.
"What was your impression of Jared?" Kris asked. "Before all this happened?"
"Truth is, I don't remember him well." Raquel smiled ruefully and rustled into the nuts. "We met at a party, and I'd had a few drinks. The other time, I was busy at the bar. That's the night Vince Rossi beat him up. Jared picked up Di from work, and Vince was drunk. His friends egged him on, saying Di had been sneaking around behind his back. Vince lost it."
Eric leaned forward. "Did you see Vince the night Diana was killed?"
Kris knew what he was thinking. If Vince had used his temper on Jared, maybe he'd turned it on Diana. But he had an alibi ...
"Yeah, he came in around seven to get liquor for a party. His father didn't like him doing that, but his dad wasn't around much. Mr. Rossi was a smoker and had lung problems, so Vince was in charge most of the time. Anyway, Vince was pestering Di, trying to lure her to his party. Di didn't pay him much attention. Vince was no angel, but I keep going back to Jared. He sure got over her death fast. A few months later, he was hot and heavy with Yvonne Harper, of all people."
"Who's Yvonne Harper?" Eric asked.
Raquel wrinkled her nose. "She's his wife. They met in college, but Di and I knew her from high school. Her dad was Thomas Harper, a selectman who owned a construction company. Her older brother was a football hero. She believed her bloodlines made her the princess of Fremont."
"That's funny," Kris said. "Jared didn't tell me that his wife knew Diana."
"She didn't like Diana or me. Yvonne and Di were in an art class together, and Di was the star pupil. Yvonne painted, too, and she'd get jealous. She'd pretend she didn't care, flaunting her wealth and trying to make us feel inadequate. Luckily we didn't see her after high school." Raquel gave a dry laugh. "Let's just say she preferred country clubs to bars."
