Once She Knew

by Sheila Connolly

  She left the room hastily, even though she wasn’t sure why she was in such a hurry. In the hall, she wavered. How to get to Leah’s apartment? She had her bag—how had she managed to hang on to that? That meant she had the keys to Leah’s place. Did she have any money? She rifled through the pockets of her bag and came up with some bills—enough for a taxi, she thought. Unless, of course, I’m in New Jersey or something. It wouldn’t surprise me. Cautiously, feeling like an old lady, she found her way down to the ground floor of the hospital and out to the street, into the cool gray light of dawn. Morning had finally arrived. Claire spotted a lone cruising taxi, and as she raised her arm, she prayed that some of Leah’s taxi magic had rubbed off on her.

  32

  The taxi took longer to deliver Claire to Leah’s doorstep that she had expected, or maybe her time sense was totally warped. After running around the empty nighttime streets, Claire found it odd to see the streets full of cars and buses and people again. She felt jet-lagged, even though she hadn’t been anywhere, unless it was through the looking glass. In front of Leah’s building she found the right key to open the lobby door, but then she almost gave up the whole effort as she looked up the three endless flights of stairs to Leah’s floor. But sleeping in the lobby did not appear to be a real possibility, so Claire trudged her slow way up, and up, and up. At Leah’s door, she stared stupidly at the rest of the keys, and it took her several attempts to find out which fit in which lock. And you with a Ph.D.

  Once inside the apartment, she looked around. Empty. Quiet. Messy, but it was a normal, comfortable mess. And there was a bed. Claire shrugged off her coat, dumping it on the floor. She dropped her bag next to it, and then she headed straight for the bed. She fell into it facedown, without removing as much as her shoes, and then she was gone.

  When she woke up again, she hadn’t moved, but at least her brain seemed to be back in working order. The bedside clock read 5:53, and no light filtered in through the windows. She must have slept the day away. Well, she had promised herself twelve hours of sleep. She twisted around until she lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Priorities: food, shower. Amend that: she wanted to watch the six o’clock news, see if anything had happened, or if there was any coverage of the U.N. conference. Then food. The last thing she could remember eating was a few bits and pieces at the party, which was now nearly twenty-four hours behind her. Then shower, although that was complicated by the fact that she had very few clothes to her name, none of them clean, and none of which she wanted to wear, clean or dirty. Obviously shopping was in order, but not tonight. And this awful haircut, which was driving her crazy. Maybe Leah knew some hair person who could return her hair to its proper state. Fast.

  Armed with her mental list, Claire got out of bed and went in search of the television remote. She found it in time to catch the headlines for the evening news. There were clips of the First Lady, looking untroubled, addressing the conference, and Claire could see Annabeth on the stage behind her. “Freedom for women is the right to speak and vote, work and worship freely,” the First Lady told the eager throngs of women in front of her. “I want to see a future of peace and opportunity for my daughters, and for daughters all over the world.” Amen to that, Claire thought. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask, does it? For a brief moment she allowed herself to imagine what this news report would have looked like if she and Jonathan and Leah and Annabeth had not put all the pieces together in time. It had been such a close thing. She felt a small measure of satisfaction that they had been the ones, rather than Jonathan, who had figured out the plot and put a stop to it. They had struck their blow for women’s rights, even if the rest of the world would never know about it.

  She left the news on and went burrowing into Leah’s refrigerator in search of food. Her search yielded an assortment of interesting odds and ends—Leah was certainly the queen of take-out—and Claire filled a plate, nuked it in the microwave, and returned happily to the love seat in front of the television. She helped herself to a glass of wine, promising herself that she’d replace the bottle. Maybe with a case. Or with some champagne. Didn’t she and Leah have reason to celebrate? She watched the rest of the local news, and then the national news, which featured the same clips from the conference. Nice tidy sound bites. No mention of terrorists.

  The evening passed in fits and starts. Claire took a shower, then wrapped herself up in Leah’s terry-cloth robe while she rinsed out underwear and enough clothes to wear out in public until she could replace her skimpy wardrobe. The rest of her skanky outfits she would be happy to toss in the nearest Dumpster. She helped herself to more wine, made some instant popcorn, and settled in front of the television with a DVD from Leah’s eclectic collection, after vacillating in front of the shelf, trying to figure out what she was in the mood for. Nothing too cerebral, because her brain couldn’t deal with it. Nothing too violent, because she’d had as much violence as she could handle over the past few days. Jeez, at this rate she was going to be reduced to watching National Geographic specials. Something romantic? She had deliberately not included the visual media in her critique of contemporary imagery of women, not because they were irrelevant, but because there was only so much time in the world and she had had to narrow her focus. But it could be a useful comparison, and Leah had a surprisingly large collection of traditional tearjerkers. Apparently Leah was a closet romantic, no matter what her gender orientation. Love was love, whatever the package? Aha: Gone With the Wind. Perfect. Larger-than-life heroine, dashing hero, triumph over adversity—and no saccharine HEA. She could fast-forward through the pesky war scenes. Claire snuggled up with the remote once again, and fell asleep halfway through the movie.

  She was awakened by the sound of the locks opening, and for a moment she panicked, disoriented. She was relieved to see Leah walk in.

  Leah looked little the worse for wear. “Hey, lady. How’re you doing?”

  “Hey, what are you doing back? Oh, it’s after midnight, isn’t it?” Claire yawned.

  “I got all of our dignitaries tucked into their hotels or whatever, and I thought maybe I should come home and clean up—and make sure you made it back. Tomorrow’s going to be a real busy day. Not quite like the last one, though—right?”

  Claire laughed. “If I have my way, nothing will ever be like the last twenty-four hours.”

  “I hear you. That wine looks good—did you leave any?”

  “I fell asleep before I could finish it.”

  Leah went into the kitchen to find a glass, then returned and threw herself down on the love seat next to Claire, kicking off her shoes. She held out her glass. “Fill it up. This should be enough to put me out like a light. I am getting too old to pull all-nighters.”

  “I’m sorry I kept you up,” Claire said primly. “I thought saving the nation was more important than your beauty sleep. Did everything go all right? How’s Annabeth holding up?”

  “Her ex-boyfriend is being escorted out of the country for plotting major mayhem, her former student is being grilled by the FBI, and she just plows right ahead and gives her speech, and schmoozes all the poobahs. She’s either a stone-cold bitch or she’s got a lot of what my grandma would call grit.”

  Claire shrugged. “You know, I had never met her before—goodness, yesterday, I guess, although I knew her by reputation, and from her publications. She’s always been a solid feminist, as far as I know. That’s why I have trouble believing she was so quick to fall for Philippe, or that she didn’t see right through him.”

  “Maybe she didn’t want to, you know,” Leah mused, swirling the wine in her glass. “Maybe she figured she didn’t have a lot of chances left, and followed her heart.”

  “Or her hormones. Her word, not mine.”

  “Oh, right. So how’s himself?”

  “I think Jonathan was mad that he missed all the fun. I can understand that—it was his lead, or whatever. And then Annabeth showed up, and I left.”

  “Huh. Is he gonna be okay?”r />
  “Far as I know. It was just a lump on the head, and some stitches.”

  “That’s good. You have your little chat with Mr. Agent Maguire?”

  “I think so. My memory’s a little fuzzy. I do know I asked him if I needed a lawyer, and he said no. He just wanted to fill in the blanks. As you can see, I’m not under arrest.”

  “Right.” Leah thought for a moment. “So I just tell him what I know, straight out?”

  “No reason not to—except for the bit about Jonathan’s friend, and you don’t know much about that. Anyway, Maguire said that given everything that had happened—or that didn’t happen—he figured it was okay to wipe the slate clean. So I assume whatever he asks you will be pretty tame.”

  “That’s good.” Leah took another sip of her wine. “About your hotshot journalist—you planning on seeing him again?”

  “I don’t know. Why would I? I just figured we’d go our separate ways, once all this was cleared up.” Claire regarded Leah with suspicion.

  Leah put her empty glass down carefully. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think maybe you’re missing the obvious.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You. Him. There’s something going on there. Am I wrong?”

  Claire gaped at her. “You’re nuts! The man literally fell into my life and completely disrupted it. He dragged me down the Eastern Seaboard with the FBI on our heels, chasing terrorists. He nearly got me—and you, I might add—killed, and then, on top of all that, we had to rescue him. The sooner I can wash my hands of him and get back to work, the happier I’ll be.”

  “Whatever you say.” Leah stood up. “I am going to bed,” she announced. “I’ve got to be up early in the morning. You got any plans?”

  “Bloomingdale’s. Thank God I can use my credit cards again. And do you know a decent hairdresser who handles emergencies?”

  “Girl, I like that look. You don’t look as . . . boring. But, yeah, if you insist—I’ll give you his card. You want the couch?”

  “Sure. I can’t stay awake much longer anyway. When’s the conference over?”

  “Not until Sunday morning. There’s one last get-together—great photo ops, you know—and everybody spouts platitudes for an hour or two so they can all go home feeling good about themselves. Want to do something outrageous Sunday afternoon? If Maguire doesn’t keep me tied up?”

  “You’re on.” Claire paused. “Leah? In case I haven’t said it enough—you’re the best. I’m so glad you were in this with me, and I don’t know what I would have done without you. Even though you don’t know squat about some things—like men.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, we done good. Don’t count on seeing me tomorrow. There’s a big dinner thingy.” Leah disappeared into the bathroom and could be heard brushing her teeth.

  A thought struck Claire. “Leah?”

  Leah stuck her head out, foaming at the mouth. “Wha?”

  “I saw the clips on the news, the First Lady’s speech. Leah, did she know? About the terrorist plot?”

  Leah ducked back into the bathroom, spit, rinsed, spit. Then she leaned against the door frame. “Yeah, she did. Took some guts to stick around, didn’t it? But she said that canceling would send the wrong message. Of course, we had Secret Service and security crawling all over everything, thanks to your pal Maguire. But still . . .”

  “Good for her. ’Night.”

  33

  The next morning Claire waved good-bye to Leah and took herself shopping and indulged in more clothes than she had bought in the past two years. But as she told herself, how often did she get to New York? And all the clothes she owned, upon consideration, were frumpy. Drab. Boring. Not that the earnest students of Sophia and the worthy denizens of Northampton placed much value on such trivial things as outward appearance, preferring instead to value the richness and complexity of the inner person, but it was kind of fun to feel fashionable, at least once in a while. This is my once, Claire told herself.

  Then she’d wheedled Leah’s hairdresser into fitting her in “just for a trim,” and she’d emerged feeling so good that she’d treated herself to an outrageously expensive lunch at a restaurant she had read about in a glossy magazine, and had lingered at her window table, watching people walk by, all of them unaware that the world was just a little bit safer this morning because of Claire and company. Knowing that Leah would be tied up through dinner, she stopped at Bloomingdale’s food court and stocked up on exotic goodies and a couple of bottles of good wine to take back to the apartment. Finally she whistled up a cab and took herself back to Leah’s place, where she spread out all her goodies and tried to decide what she wanted to try first.

  She was interrupted by the door buzzer. She pushed the intercom button. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Jonathan. Can I come up?”

  Claire managed to avoid dropping the phone. She had tried her best to forget his existence for the last ten hours, and, as she had told Leah, she had believed he would just take himself back to . . . wherever he lived. Yet here he was, and she had to admit to herself that they had unfinished business.

  “All right.” She pushed the button to release the door downstairs. She could hear him trudging slowly up the three sets of stairs, and was surprised to find herself nervous when she opened the door.

  “Hi. Come on in. How’re you feeling?” He still looked pale, and he moved gingerly, as if he were afraid to jar his head. She didn’t recognize his clothes, except for the coat, which looked decidedly the worse for wear.

  “I’ll live. They tell me I’ll have a headache for a week or so, and they gave me some pills and a whole list of things I shouldn’t do. But at least they let me go.” He looked hesitant as he looked around the small apartment. “Leah’s not here? Oh, right, the conference is still going on. How’s that working out?”

  “Good, she says. Did you catch the First Lady on television?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I did. Look, Claire . . .”

  Claire interrupted him. “Did Agent Maguire talk to you?”

  “Yes. I gave him almost everything, except Rick. Thanks for covering for him, by the way. I’d hate to lose him as a source. Or as a friend, for that matter.”

  “I figured as much. What are you going to do now?”

  “Head home and try and put together a draft of all the stuff I’ve got. Maguire gave me the go-ahead to use the material on Philippe, as long as I run it by him first—all off the record, let him vet it. He’s not a bad guy, if you give him a chance.”

  “We owe him a lot. He could have made both our lives a lot more difficult if he’d wanted to.”

  Jonathan smiled. “I think he didn’t want to let anyone know we gave him the slip back in Maine. And he gets a lot of points from his bosses for getting Philippe out of the picture.”

  “What did you say to Annabeth?”

  “I told her to can it with the apologies—maybe she made an error of judgment in getting involved with Philippe, but it was a human mistake. And most people don’t run security checks on their lovers.”

  An awkward silence fell. Then Jonathan said, “I like the hair. Looks a bit better than what I did.”

  “Thanks.” Claire restrained herself from touching it. “Look, I’ve got plans . . .” It was a lie, but he didn’t have to know that.

  “Oh, right. Do you mind if I hang on to what’s left of the cash? I’ve got to get something to wear, I guess, and get home, and all my ID and credit cards are still in Maine. I’ll pay you back. Uh, Claire . . .” He seemed to be trying to say something else, but was having trouble getting it out.

  She cut him off abruptly. “I’m glad you’re all right. You can just mail me a check at Sophia. Good luck with your article or whatever.” She extended her right hand.

  He looked at it, and then up at Claire’s face. “No.”

  She let her hand fall. “No?”

  “Claire, we have to talk.”

  “Why? You didn’t think it was necessary when you
dragged me into all of this. I’m glad it worked out for everyone, but now we can go back to our normal lives. Thank you and good-bye, Jonathan.”

  He didn’t move, but cocked his head and looked at her curiously. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

  Claire wrapped her arms around herself and prowled around the room, putting a safe distance between them. She could feel Jonathan watching her. “Get what?”

  “Claire, stop pacing, will you? Are you going to offer me something to drink?”

  She stopped and stared at him. “Right. That’s all we need.”

  “I meant coffee. Water. Whatever. I’m just going through the polite conventions. That’s not the point.”

  “Fine. Whatever. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “That would be great. Please.”

  Claire retreated to the safety of Leah’s small kitchen, where she searched out the makings for coffee. Claire, what the hell is wrong with you? Why is he making you so nervous? She stared, mesmerized, as the coffee dripped, then realized she needed cups. She opened the cupboard, pulled out two mugs, set them down, filled them. “You want sugar? Milk?”

  “Just sugar.”

  She knew that. Didn’t she? That’s what he had asked for that first day, a lifetime ago. She added sugar, then held out the mug to him.

  He took it carefully, avoiding contact with her hand. “Thank you. Can we sit down now?”

  Claire took her coffee and brushed past him, out of the kitchen, and dropped into the chenille chair, leaving Jonathan the couch. He sat. Silence fell, and Claire could hear the ticking of the clock in the kitchen.

  Finally she couldn’t stand it anymore. “What are we supposed to talk about?”

  “It’s hard to know where to start. I wanted to explain about my book.”

  “What’s to explain? It’s crap.”

  Jonathan smiled into his coffee. “I agree with you.” He hesitated, then plunged on. “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about—why I wrote it, and how it happened.”