"But I didn't know Linda at all," Helen said, bewildered by his confidence.
"Go figure," he said with a wretched laugh. He lifted Helen's hand to his lips and kissed it. "You're the key," he insisted.
"Tell me about her first, then," Helen begged. "Why would she take ergotamine when she was pregnant? She seemed so devoted to her motherhood."
"I can't tell you that," he said in a voice that tore at Helen's heart. "All I can say is that there was a bottle of the pills, with the cap off, on the floor when I found her in bed."
"Are you absolutely sure that's what—?"
"Yes. They were absolutely sure," he said grimly. "I was at the inquest."
"But—"
He shook his head. "That's all I'm going to say. That's more than I've said to anyone else except her mother."
"And Peaches."
"Obviously." He relented a little and added, "Linda was bothered by cluster headaches on and off throughout our marriage. When she became pregnant the second time, they became unbearable. Apparently hormonal changes can do that."
"But she did understand about ergotamine and pregnancy?"
"Yes. We found a medical manual with a bookmark on the page." He let go of Helen's hand and stood up. "I'm sorry," he said with a queer little sigh. "I guess I haven't put it as far behind me as I thought. I've been through the denial, vented my anger, worked through my depression. I thought I was finally coming around to acceptance. Apparently not."
"You're rushing the process," Helen said, all too aware that it was folly to try.
He seemed to be thinking of another meaning to her words altogether as he said, "I hope I haven't got you in too deep with your son."
"He'll get over it," she said lightly, remembering the kiss. But I will not.
She saw Nat to the door, not so much to protect him from being stoned by Russ as to drag out the seconds of her time with him. Because that's all they ever had: seconds here, minutes there. A night would be—well, pure fantasy.
She swung the door open to a warm, starry night in Salem. June was a month to break anyone's heart, and this June was a bigger heartbreaker than most. Nat stepped over the threshold onto the painted porch. The amber teardrop in the porch light—so dim, so historically correct— made him look young and carefree and, presumably, Helen, too. What did she care about a hundred-watt security light? Right now, she felt great with seven.
"I'll see you soon," he promised.
"At the Ice Cream Social ... if not before."
He lowered his mouth to hers in another kiss—this one, less tentative, less deliciously surprising, than the first. But it had something else, something more: heat.
Too fast, she thought, drawing back reluctantly. Give it time.
"Good-night," he said, and so did she, and then she forced herself to close the door rather than stand there smiling and waving and generally making an idiot of herself while he backed out of the cobbled drive.
Inside, she leaned against the door, reliving his kiss. It was safe now to let herself break into an idiotic smile, and she did.
But then she heard the upstairs door to Russ's room slam nearly off its hinges, and the smile died on her lips.
****
Peaches was in the kitchen, warming a wedge of brie in the toaster oven, when Nat popped his head in. "Just in time!" she said cheerfully. "I was about to make myself a snack. Shall I make it for two?"
"Thanks, no, Peach, I'm all set. I bummed dinner off Helen Evett."
Helen Evett.
"Oh, good," Peaches said without missing a beat. "Although I thought you were going to grab something at the office."
"I was, but then I didn't, and—anyway, I'll have a drink while you nibble. Music room?"
She nodded, smiling, and he said, "Meet you there."
That little bitch.
Peaches quickly arranged an attractive plate of the cheese, some crackers, and green grapes. Her mind was working overtime, trying to second-guess his feelings for the Evett woman. It can't be love; there was that consolation, at least. Nat was still too full of anger over what he thought was Linda's apparent betrayal to be thinking straight.
He could be trying to get back at his wife, never mind the grave that separated them. Vengeance: It was a powerful motive. Dumb but powerful. Peaches herself had no use for it. It involved emotions. She had no use for those, either. The one thing, the only thing, that made any sense to her was money. Lots of it. Nat had that. Once Linda's will was probated, he'd have even more.
Maybe he was driven by sex. It had been months, obviously, since he'd had any. Men didn't like to go months without it. So there was always that possibility. But no. If he were sexually motivated, he would've come to Peaches, a much better object of desire than that twit at the preschool. It couldn't be sex.
The need to talk about his feelings? There was that possibility, certainly. He and Helen Evett had both suffered losses in a savage way. It was a sobering thought: traumas in common. He could tilt either way—to Peaches or to her—in his need to share. Damn.
She set the plate, a glass of wine, and two napkins on a tray of inlaid wood, then checked her hair and makeup in a small mirror in the pantry before going out to join him.
She found him slouched in the biggest armchair, deep in thought, nursing a brandy. She didn't like the look on his face. It was too intense by half, and there was no computer in sight.
Peaches put the tray between them on the low table, then slipped off her shoes and snuggled on the end of the sofa nearest him. Plucking a grape from the bunch, she said, "So how did the interview go?"
"Hmm?" he said, looking up at her with blank blue eyes. He was a million miles away. "Oh. The interview. Pretty well. We're gonna make him an offer. He's a know-it-all hotshot, but we'll see. Twenty-four years old," Nat added, bemused. "A frigging kid."
"You were twenty-six when you took over your first mutual fund."
"Smaller fund."
"Different dollars."
He smiled at the compliment. "Well, in any case I'm older now. Wiser now."
Richer now.
"And a hell of a lot less cocky," he said wryly. "You should've seen this kid. God. Tonight I feel old."
Peaches laughed and said, "Oh, yes; you're ready for Wall Street Week's Hall of Fame, all right."
"I mean it. If it weren't for the fact that I have a three-year-old ...." He took a sip of his brandy, then said, "Did Katie go off to sleep all right?"
"Pretty well. Every day she seems a little more relaxed." Every day away from that wild fainting stunt, she implied. And yet the truth was that Peaches admired Helen Evert for it; it was a damn good way to end up in Nat Byrne's arms.
Nat began to smile at some recollection. "She wants me to hire another three analysts so that I have more time for Katie," he said.
No need to explain who "she" was.
"Mrs. Evett is a single parent with a career and two teenagers," Peaches said, slicing into the oozing cheese. She spread some on a cracker and handed it to him. "I expect her children are too much for her to handle. She feels overwhelmed, so she assumes everyone else is, too."
Nat took the offering and said, "Funny you should say that. Helen had the same lament. She's wrong, of course; I could see that she has a terrific relationship with her daughter. The boy's a pistol," he added. "But what the hell. He's fourteen."
"I know fourteen-year-olds who're model citizens," Peaches sniffed. But that was pushing it too far, so she added, "But fourteen is a devilish age."
"You got that right," he said, laughing at some other recollection. "The snot just got caught—well, never mind," he added, smiling to himself.
He thought about it some more and laughed. "I can just see her now with the two of them." He shook his head, unable to wipe the smile off his face. "I'm sorry, Peach. I know I'm being rude. I'd love to tell you this story, but I don't think she'd appreciate it. Let's talk about something else."
"Yes. Why don't we?" she said with a smi
le that was perfectly entitled to look annoyed.
It was time to up the ante.
Chapter 17
For the fifth straight year, the weather for the Ice Cream Social was perfect. Blue skies, puffy clouds, enough warmth to make the ice cream worth eating—it couldn't get any better than that.
At twelve-thirty Helen Evett and Candy Greene were in the basement kitchen of The Open Door, wrapping full length aprons around their sundresses to protect them from the drips and stains of flower arranging. The work was fun, the fragrance, divine. But that's not why Helen volunteered for the job. Her ulterior motive—her only motive—was to pump Candy about her late friend Linda Byrne.
With the easy intimacy that gardening promotes, they chatted for a bit, and then Helen began a roundabout approach to her goal. "We'll miss Astra at The Open Door," she said. "She was such a delight."
Expertly stripping a rose stem of its thorns, Candy said, "She loved every minute she spent here. Today I had to practically bribe her to stay at home with Henry until two o'clock. I hope she's as happy in kindergarten. Will you ever offer that level, do you think?"
Helen sucked in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "I've thought about it, but the school keeps me flat out—and away from my family—as it is. The fall term is completely booked, and the waiting list keeps getting longer."
"Marvelous. And you don't even advertise," Candy said as she tucked magenta roses among blue-black delphiniums in a parian vase. "Word of mouth—it's so effective."
"Speaking of which," Helen said, seizing her chance, "I wanted to thank you for referring Katie Byrne here; she's a real sweetie."
"Oh—Katie. Yes. She's an angel."
Implying that somebody else wasn't? Helen didn't know what to make of the remark. She was mulling a response when her assistant Janet Harken, coordinator of the affair, marched in.
Janet took one look at the stainless-steel counters covered with iris and lupines and lilies and said, "What? You're not done with the flowers yet? For goodness' sake. I need those counters. I need the sink. I need the kitchen, and I need it all now."
She brushed aside the women's protests that you couldn't rush art. "If you wanted to make a Broadway production out of this, ladies, you should've come earlier," she said, sweeping some of the stems and scraps into a waste can.
"Janet, you're a bloody tyrant when you want to be," Helen said, scowling. The timing was infuriating.
Janet wasn't intimidated in the least by her employer. Fitting a hair net over her curly gray hair, she said, "It's an ice cream party, not a New Orleans cotillion. Mrs. Greene, you can just go ahead and finish what you're doing over there," she said, pointing to a small freestanding table out of the flow of traffic.
Then she turned to Helen and said, "As for you, you'd better hand in your apron. You have parents to greet—you do realize that some eager-beavers are already out there, don't you?"
"What! It's only one-fifteen!" Helen made an exasperated remark about early birds and what she'd like to do with the worms, then dumped the apron into Janet's outstretched hand and rushed outside to welcome the newcomers.
On her way, she intercepted Russ and Scotty, who'd finished setting up the tables and chairs on the pea stone surface of the playground and the adjacent grass. They were sitting on the low-slung toddler swings, looking more gangly than ever as they talked in bored tones while they waited for their next assignment.
Helen felt a stab of pain. It seemed only weeks ago that Hank was pushing his son on a swing like that, and Russ was shrieking, "Higher, higher!"
"Thanks, guys," she said. "It looks good. Now go see if Janet needs you for anything." She waved to the early arrivals, who still had forty-five minutes of embarrassment to go.
"We're not settin' the tables or nothin'," her son warned.
"Or anything," she corrected automatically. "All right. Maybe you should go over and show people where to park. Not by the rhododendrons, make sure. Otherwise they'll block the way."
"Yeah, okay, we can do that," said Russ, acting as shop steward. He nudged Scotty hard in the ribs and they sprinted away.
Forget med school, Helen thought. Forget law school. Her son's apparent career of choice was to be a parking valet. He'd been fascinated by cars since his Tonka-toy days. She knew he'd probably sell his soul to sit in Nat's Porsche; it's a wonder he hadn't tried to steal the thing.
She went over to reassure the self-conscious parents that they were hardly early at all, and to tell them that the lemonade would be out shortly. The Baers had opted to make a generous donation to The Open Door's "Scholarship Fund" instead of bringing ice cream or toppings, and Helen took the opportunity to thank them again for it.
Every year Helen accepted two local kids into the preschool without charge. When the Scholarship Fund fell short, as it invariably did, The Open Door made up the difference. It was Helen's own little Head Start program, and a wonderfully rewarding one; she was explaining how she still kept in touch with most of the recipients' parents, when another car pulled into the parking area.
She watched as Russ and Scotty, with much wild waving, made sure the car parked efficiently. "Ah. It's Alexander and his mother," Helen said, surprised that Mrs. Lagor had bothered to come after withdrawing from the summer and fall terms.
Introductions were made as fat, shy Alexander, clutching his Thomas the Tank Engine, clung to his mother with his free hand. Little Molly Baer, a whole year younger and twice as bold, began coaxing him over to the jungle gym.
The ever-watchful Mrs. Lagor handed an Igloo Cooler over to Helen. "I brought mint chocolate chip. I've packed it in dry ice, so we won't have to worry about salmonella from melting ice cream," she said. "Alexander! Not so high!"
Without bothering to explain the obvious—that ice cream would melt before it would spoil—Helen thanked her and took the cooler back to the kitchen, where Candy was finishing a magical arrangement of yellow achillea and fragrant white lilies entwined with sweet peas.
"What a pretty combination," Helen said. "I'd never have thought of it."
"Helen, I am in the business, after all," said Candy.
Helen was well aware of it. Candy's floral-design business was a favorite with upper-class Salem. As a result, she'd been in the home of everyone who was anyone—and was privy to the choicest gossip. Candy would know, if anyone would, about Linda Byrne's affair.
They were alone, so Helen jumped in with both feet. "We were talking before about Linda Byrne," she reminded Candy.
"Oh, yes," said the designer, hardly listening; she was intent on her arrangement.
"I was wondering if you knew anything about how she died? I'm asking strictly for Katie's sake; I wouldn't want to pry."
Candy looked up from her flowers. The question was intrusive. She knew it, and Helen knew it. Nonetheless, she obliged Helen with an answer of sorts. "It was her heart," she said.
Yeah. It stopped, thought Helen. This was getting her nowhere. Disappointed but determined, Helen let out a sigh of sympathy and tried one last feeler. "She was so young."
"Yes," Candy said coolly. "It was tragic."
Well! Nothing more there. Temporarily defeated, Helen took herself off to see how she could help Janet, who had begun impatiently to spread the tablecloths on her own. Janet needn't have worried: Becky drove up right on time in her Escort—today being an exception to the driving ban that was still in force.
Outfitted in a black spaghetti-strapped dress and a straw bowler topped with a sunflower, Becky emerged from the Escort, whacked her brother on the head over some insult or other, waved cheerfully to her mother, and helped her arthritic great-aunt out of the car.
Helen set up a rocking chair under the maple tree for her aunt, who never missed the Ice Cream Social. She loved to watch the young ones romp while their parents, dressed in summer pastels, mingled nearby. True, Aunt Mary was older now, slower now; but her joy was the same. She always dressed with particular care for the social. In her floral frock, white gl
oves, and neat bun, Mary Grzybylek gave the event the kind of dignity that only old age can confer.
Janet Harken, on the other hand, supplied the momentum. "Timing is everything," Janet liked to say. She had a mind like a stopwatch and a voice like a starting gun.
In the next half hour she had her ragtag volunteers performing like a crack catering unit. A long table was set with bowls, spoons, and napkins arranged in pretty patterns. A second table was set with several luscious sauces—hot fudge, cold peach, plain chocolate, warm apple, crushed strawberry. Next to the sauces was placed a vast array of toppings: nuts, candy sprinkles, chocolate chips, crumbled cookies, sliced berries, chopped pineapple, chocolate-covered espresso beans and raisins, mini-marshmallows, and last of all, maraschino cherries.
In between the tables, in copper tubs that the fathers had filled with dry ice and topped off with ice cubes, the mothers began nestling the ice cream itself. (As always, Janet had insisted on the classics: French vanilla, dark chocolate, butter pecan, black cherry. Mrs. Lagor's mint chocolate chip was unexpected; but room was made.)
By two o'clock the place was rich with the sound of happy squeals and summer laughter. Parents milled, children cavorted, a dog or two barked excitedly. Expectations were high. The place was full. Everyone knew not to be late for an ice-cream affair.
Almost everyone, anyway.
Helen, who'd been moving briskly among her guests introducing outgoing sets of parents to incoming ones and incoming ones to each other, had no real reason to expect Nathaniel Byrne to show. The man had a long history of good intentions and broken promises.
If his heart's in the right place, Aunt Mary had said.
Unquestionably, Nat's heart was in the right place. But the pressure to make money for his shareholders was intense. He was a wizard at it. Wizards had obligations. How could a bowl of ice cream expect to compete with two billion dollars?
Time is money. It was an old saying.
Money is the root of all evil. That was an old saying, too.
Damn it. You could make a case either way.
Helen put aside her disappointment and turned her attention to a three-year-old whose ice cream was about to slide out of its bowl and into the mouth of a lurking golden retriever. After averting that crisis, Helen stood up and found herself facing another one: Nathaniel Byrne, getting out of his Porsche in the parking lot.
Beyond Midnight Page 20
