by Sandra Balzo
‘We’re going to have to make this quick,’ Rachel said as she pressed the up button by the elevators. ‘I have to look at a property later this afternoon.’
‘Are you moving?’
‘Me? No way. Once I have it out with Ted, I plan to send him packing.’
‘Ted doesn’t have any idea that you—’
‘Of course not.’ An elevator arrived and we stepped in. Rachel pressed ‘8’ and the doors slid closed. ‘I want to wait until I have all the facts. Whatever gave you the idea I was moving?’
‘You said you needed to look at a property this afternoon,’ I reminded her.
‘Oh, that.’ She was checking her cellphone. ‘We’re considering buying the Hamilton and turning it into a Slattery.’
I was impressed. The Hamilton is a legendary old hotel – complete with obligatory ghost – about six blocks from Lake Michigan. Perfectly positioned downtown, it had gorgeous city and river views to the west and lake views to the east. The owners closed it down last year for renovations, but when building costs skyrocketed, they’d been caught short. I’d heard the Hamilton was going to be turned into condos, but apparently the Slattery family had other ideas.
‘I didn’t realize you were still involved with the family business,’ I said to Rachel as we stepped off the elevator and onto the burgundy-carpeted foyer of the Slattery Hotels’ business office.
‘I wasn’t, for a long time. I didn’t want anything to do with the hotels.’ She shrugged. ‘But circumstances have changed. I need to step up.’
Maybe it was because we were on her turf or maybe it was because Rachel had inadvertently given me a glance of the shrewd woman beneath the miniskirt, but all vestiges of the ditz seemed to have disappeared.
In her place stood a hotel mogul. Or mogulette.
Rachel tapped on the ornate wooden door in front of us, but didn’t wait for an answer before swinging it open.
The front door at Uncommon Grounds tinkles. My door at home, on the other hand, crunches – the result of Frank gnawing off the doorstop, leaving the plaster wall to be repeatedly pounded by the doorknob. The door of the Slattery offices did not tinkle, nor crunch. And creaking would have been unimaginable. The Slattery Arms door glided. A measured, dignified glide.
The man at the desk beyond that door wasn’t so dignified. He was what Amy would call hot. Hell, I’d call him hot.
Stephen Slattery was shuffling through some papers on the receptionist’s desk, sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up, knot of his tie pulled down, blond hair rumpled. He grinned when he saw Rachel and came around the desk to hug her. ‘Hey, you. How’s everything?’
The words were conversational, but his tone implied more. I wasn’t sure what Rachel had told her brother about why we were there, so I planned to keep my mouth shut and listen. Neither are things I do well.
Rachel, who was nearly a foot shorter than Stephen, grinned up at him. ‘Just fine, Stevie. I told you not to worry about me.’
Stephen’s gaze flickered over to me. His eyes were the color of dark chocolate. Seventy to eighty percent cocoa content. I know my chocolate.
‘Stephen,’ Rachel was saying, ‘this is Maggy Thorsen. I don’t think you’ve ever met.’
Since I’d skipped Rachel and Ted’s nuptials, I was fairly certain that was true.
Stephen’s eyebrows had shot up. ‘I don’t think so.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Good to meet you, Mrs . . . umm, Ms . . .’
‘I don’t think “how to address your sister’s husband’s ex-wife” is covered in the etiquette books,’ I said, taking his hand. ‘Why don’t you just call me Maggy?’
‘Maggy – thank you,’ Stephen said gratefully and we shook hands.
‘Hello?’ Rachel said.
I turned, thinking it was the kind of ‘hello’ loosely translated as ‘are you aware of the fact you’re an idiot?’. But Rachel was answering her cellphone.
‘I didn’t hear it ring, did you?’ Stephen asked.
I shook my head. ‘According to my son, there are ringtones available that are high enough that most people can’t hear them.’
‘Like dog whistles?’
‘Exactly,’ I said, perhaps a little too readily. Afraid he might think I was calling his sister a dog, I backtracked. ‘Well, not exactly. The younger a person is, the higher the registers they can hear. My son Eric can hear sounds I can’t and since Rachel is closer to his age than . . .’
I slapped my mouth closed before I said, ‘Ted’s.’
Did I keep it closed, though?
Nah. What fun would that be?
‘As we get older,’ I babbled on, ‘the higher ranges are the first thing to go. Which could explain why you, or we, didn’t hear the ring.’
Those eyebrows rode up again. One of them had a little slice through it, like Stephen had fallen and cut himself as a kid.
‘Not that I’m saying you’re old,’ I added hastily. ‘I mean you’re younger than me – much younger, I’m sure. Probably just lost that higher level at some rock concert.’
‘The Grateful Dead,’ he dead-panned.
I laughed. ‘Right. More like the Smashing Pumpkins.’
‘No, seriously.’ He settled on to the edge of the desk. ‘It was a Grateful Dead concert in 1985. I was fourteen or fifteen.’ He touched his eyebrow. ‘That’s where this happened, too.’
‘How?’ I asked, while trying to do mental arithmetic. If Stephen was fifteen in 1985, that meant he wasn’t as young as I’d assumed. All that tousled hair had made me miss the fine lines starting to show around the cocoa-colored eyes.
‘A friend and I managed to worm our way up to the front row,’ he said. ‘The advantage of being a skinny kid, I thought. Little did I know that once you’re up there, it’s only you between the snow fence and ten thousand screaming, pushing people behind you.’
I gasped. ‘Were you trampled?’
‘No.’ He rubbed the eyebrow. ‘But I did manage to get the fence pole stuck in my eye – or close to my eye. I came home with blood streaming down my face. I thought my mother was going to kill me.’
Rachel snapped closed her phone. ‘Which time?’
‘The Grateful Dead concert.’
‘Oh, that.’ Rachel waved it away as inconsequential. ‘Why ever were you talking about that?’
I looked at Stephen blankly. Stephen looked at me, equally blankly.
‘Oh, wait,’ I said, trying to track it back. ‘We were talking about losing the higher registers of our hearing at rock concerts.’
‘And again, I ask why?’ She had dug a pen out of her tote and was making a note on the back of a crumpled receipt. Her tone seemed to insinuate that if we weren’t talking about her, we should be sitting quietly with our hands folded.
‘Because I didn’t hear your phone ring,’ Stephen explained.
Rachel rolled her eyes. ‘It wasn’t your ears. I have it on vibrate.’
The simplest explanation is usually the best. Not that I hadn’t enjoyed the silly little tangent Stephen and I had taken off on.
‘We were just exploring other alternatives,’ he said, tossing me a grin.
‘Right,’ Rachel said. ‘That’s what you told Mother and Daddy every time you changed majors.’
She stuffed the note and the pen into her bag and checked her cellphone again. ‘It’s nearly three. We have to get moving here. I’m meeting a building inspector at the Hamilton in thirty minutes and God knows where I’ll find parking around there with construction.’ She held out her hand imperiously. ‘The calendars, Maggy?’
I obediently dug the stack out of the bag I’d brought them in. In contrast to Rachel’s designer tote, mine was brown and made of paper. With the aroma of onions still clinging to it. Can’t say I’m not a hard act to follow.
I held the calendars out. Stephen didn’t reach for them. ‘Do you, umm . . . I mean . . .’ He was turning red under the tan. Seemingly at a loss, he turned to Rachel. ‘I mean, does she . . .?’
; ‘She knows,’ Rachel said flatly.
Stephen turned sympathetically to me. ‘I know this is tough on Rachel, but it can’t be easy on you, either.’
I shrugged, trying for an air of sophisticated nonchalance. The grocery bag at my side and the yellowing papers in my hand weren’t helping much.
Before I could actually say anything, Rachel spoke up. ‘Personally, I’m surprised at how well Maggy is taking it.’ She took the stack of mismatched calendars from me. ‘I mean, he only cheated on me for a couple of years and I’m ready to kill the bastard. He cheated on her for what?’ She looked over at me. ‘Maybe a decade? Two?’
I wasn’t sure which Rachel I liked more. Or less. The sweet ditz who was master of the malapropism or the hard-edged businesswoman who could do math.
‘Two,’ I said automatically. ‘We were married nearly twenty.’ In fact, Ted told me he was leaving me just two days shy of our twentieth anniversary. Must have been saving himself the cost of the anniversary card and dime-store bouquet.
‘But I don’t think he . . .’ I stopped. What did I really know, after all?
‘Men are scum,’ Rachel said flatly, moving to the desk to sort through the calendars. Most of them were pocket-size, from my years at the bank. A few, though, had hung on the side of the refrigerator. As Rachel shuffled through the pile, I caught the occasional glimpse of Eric’s artwork.
An involuntarily sniffle escaped. From me.
Stephen put his hand on the pile Rachel was rifling. She looked up at him in surprise and he tapped his watch.
‘You said you needed to get to the Hamilton,’ he reminded her. ‘If the inspector finds rot, we’ll have to rethink this deal.’
Rachel wrinkled her nose. ‘Why would anyone build a hotel on wood pilings stuck in a swamp?’
I didn’t have an answer to that.
‘It was state-of-the-art in 1914,’ Stephen explained. ‘And it’s not a swamp. There are underground water deposits between the river and the lake. If the pilings have been properly maintained, there should be no problem. In fact, the structure may be sounder than some more modern buildings.’
Rachel had pulled out her cellphone to confirm the time. ‘Damn. I guess I should go.’ She bit her lip. ‘Do you suppose you can do this if I leave everything with you?’
‘I have a meeting myself,’ he said. ‘But I can, after that. What years do you want me to check?’ He looked from his sister to me and back.
Rachel already was getting out her car keys. ‘Well, let’s see. I started in the dental office three years ago, but we controlled ourselves for at least two months.’
Good of them.
Rachel was looking all dreamy-eyed, like she’d forgotten how the sandman had bitten her in the butt. ‘The attraction was there from the moment we met,’ she said. ‘We both felt it, we said so after we made love that first time.’
Stephen cleared his throat to get her attention, cocking his head toward me.
‘I’m still in the room,’ I confirmed with a little wave.
Rachel rolled her eyes. ‘I know that. I just wanted you to know that I’m not a complete slut. Ted and I were in love.’
I didn’t say anything. I knew I didn’t have to. Like I said, Rachel wasn’t dumb.
Sure enough, her blue eyes welled up. ‘Or I thought we were,’ she whispered.
‘Listen,’ Stephen said, putting his arm around her and walking her toward the door. ‘You go and I’ll sort through Maggy’s calendars and see if I can match them to the room keys.’
‘Oopsy, that means you’ll need them.’ Rachel dug through her tote again to come up with the key cards.
Stephen took the stack and looked through it. ‘Our machines should be able to read some of these. Others, I may need help with. I know a vendor who owes me a favor, but it could take some time to get hold of him.’
‘That’s fine,’ Rachel said, heading out the door. ‘Just have them done before I meet with my lawyer on Monday.’
‘Well, I don’t know . . .’ Stephen started, but the door had glided closed behind his sister. He turned back to me. ‘Guess I’ll have them done,’ he said with a shrug.
But I was still looking at the calendars and day-planners on the desk. The dog-eared pages of my life as I had once known it. Or, like Rachel had said, thought it to be.
‘Do you need to keep all of these?’ I asked, moving to pick up the top one.
Stephen came over to me. ‘For Rachel’s purposes, the last three years are really all I need. You can take the earlier ones, unless . . .’ He stopped.
I looked up at him. ‘Unless I want to know if Ted was cheating before that?’ The day-planner in my hand was from the year Eric was born. ‘I do wish I knew,’ I said under my breath.
‘So you want me to look back further?’
I smiled sheepishly. ‘Actually, what I meant was that I wish I knew if I want to know.’
‘Is wondering better than knowing?’
I smiled ruefully. ‘Your sister asked something similar.’
Stephen laughed. ‘My sister doesn’t usually ask,’ he said. ‘She tells. She’s like our mother that way.’
I was paging through the planner. ‘February 4. Ultrasound – 2 p.m.’ I remembered the day like it was yesterday. Actually, I remembered it more clearly than yesterday. February 4 was the first time I saw Eric, albeit as a shadowy figure on a monitor. I asked the technician if it was OK that he looked like a tadpole. She’d laughed and reassured me it was.
Reassured me. Just me.
Ted had missed that appointment. He was away at a meeting. Tampa, if I wasn’t mistaken. He’d been in Tampa a lot.
I had been holding my breath and now I let it out. Maybe it was time to let go of other things, too.
‘That’s fine,’ I said, putting the calendar I’d been holding back on the desk. ‘Go as far as you can.’
Stephen nodded, his brown eyes watchful, but he didn’t say anything.
I knew that he was feeling sorry for me. It made me uncomfortable. I don’t like people to pity me. It made me feel . . . pitiful.
‘Assuming you have the time, of course.’ I was trying to put both of us at ease. ‘After all, you probably have better things to do than―’
Stephen waved aside the objection. ‘Right now, I admit, I have to get to this meeting. But I’d be happy to do what I can after that.’
It seemed like a lot of work to do for a virtual stranger. ‘That’s very nice of you, but why?’
Stephen shrugged. ‘Anything I find can only strengthen Rachel’s argument and, in turn, protect the family.’ All of a sudden he was looking as dignified as the office he stood in. It seemed an uncomfortable fit.
‘The Family?’ I asked, picking up my brown paper bag and flattening it. ‘In capital letters?’
Stephen blushed. It went nicely with the tousled hair. ‘Only the T’ and the F.’
‘What a relief,’ I said, tucking the grocery bag under my arm. ‘I’d hate to see you going all caps.’
He laughed. ‘Self-aggrandizing, I agree. Sometimes, though, we fall into the trap of believing our own marketing.’ He walked me to the door.
‘Don’t I know it. I spent nearly twenty years in public relations.’ Before I told him the rest of my life’s story, I pulled open the door. ‘Just let me know when you’re done with the calendars and I’ll swing by to get them.’
‘I’d be happy to drop them off at your coffeehouse, if you like,’ he volunteered, looking down at me. Then his expression changed. ‘I want to thank you. What you’re doing for my sister is―’
‘Yeah, well, maybe I’m doing it for me, too,’ I said, slipping out into the elevator corridor.
Stephen Slattery followed me and pushed ‘Down’. The elevator door opened immediately and I stepped in.
‘Yeah, well, maybe I’m doing it for you, too,’ he said softly, as the elevator door closed.
Chapter Four
If you’ve dated someone a few times and never quit
e had sex with him, is it cheating to have impure thoughts about another man?
Beats me.
As I drove west on Brookhill Road toward home, I gave Stephen Slattery some thought. The man was damned attractive. And I thought maybe he liked me, too, despite the fact he was five or so years younger than me. Or maybe because of the age difference. Maybe I had become a cougar and didn’t realize it.
Nah.
I was acting like a fourteen-year-old, but it was hard for me to be sure of these things. Ted had been my first real love. So now, cut loose, I was the equivalent of a relationship virgin. A really old relationship virgin.
Which might explain why I had no idea where things were going with Pavlik.
I pulled into the ‘right turn only’ lane behind a Brookhill’s Barbie – expensive wardrobe, more shoes than she can wear, tall, beautiful and a little bit plastic. Oh, and she even comes with her own sports car!
The light turned red and Barbie stopped, apparently going straight. Meaning I’d have to wait for the light to change before I could turn right on to Poplar Creek Road. I checked the time. Nearly six. I didn’t know where Pavlik wanted to go to dinner, but I thought it might require more than an Uncommon Grounds T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans.
Pavlik and I had been going out – as best as our respective schedules allowed – for nearly a year, but the relationship hadn’t been . . . consummated. Every time we got close something would happen. Pavlik would be called out to a crime scene. The burglar alarm would go off at Uncommon Grounds. I would trip over Frank and break my nose.
You know, the usual things.
It had gotten to be a joke between us, but I was a little tired of laughing. And a lot frustrated.
A part of me – the part that was still fourteen – wondered whether Pavlik really wanted the relationship to develop or if he was just as happy to continue with the occasional dinner date.
Like tonight.
As the light changed, someone to my left blasted the horn. I turned to see Sarah in her lemon yellow 1975 Firebird, squeal around the corner and turn left to head home. Sarah’s horn was a lot like Sarah. In your face and annoying, but she was your horn, damn it.
