by Joy Fielding
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, Caroline. You mustn’t give up hope.” Becky reached for her hand, her fingers fumbling for Caroline’s. “You want to know what I think? I think Samantha’s alive. I think she’s alive and beautiful and happy.”
Caroline gasped, her breath catching in her throat, blocking further sounds.
“I don’t think she was taken by some pervert,” Becky continued, clutching tight to Caroline’s trembling hand. “I don’t think she was murdered or sold to a pedophile ring, like the papers speculated. I think whoever took her was just desperate for a baby, like I was, and that she’s being well cared for and loved.”
Caroline realized how badly she wanted to believe what Becky was saying. “You really believe that?”
“I really do.”
Caroline felt a flurry of faint hope flutter in her breast. “Thank you.”
“No. Don’t thank me.”
“Thank you for what?” Steve asked from the doorway.
Caroline turned toward the sound of his voice. She’d been caught so off guard by both Becky’s pronouncement and the fervency with which it had been uttered that she hadn’t heard the door open. She saw Steve leaning against the doorframe, resplendent in a pale blue shirt and black pants. “Becky thinks Samantha is alive. She thinks she’s being raised by a good family who loves her.”
“Well, she’s always been a bit clairvoyant, so let’s hope she’s right.” He walked to Becky’s bedside and gave her a kiss on the cheek, then leaned in to kiss his sister, whispering in her ear. “She’s been saying some pretty strange things. Try not to let her upset you.” He straightened back up, dragged the other chair to the side of the bed, then reached over to adjust Becky’s wig. “That’s better,” he said with a gentleness that surprised Caroline.
Too bad he hadn’t shown such tenderness toward her when they were married, she thought. Maybe if he had, they never would have divorced. There wouldn’t be all these unresolved issues between them.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said to Caroline. “I told Becky she should call you. She has all this guilt she’s been carrying around, thinks she deserted you in your hour of need,” he continued under his breath. “Anyway, I wasn’t sure she’d listen to me. She never used to,” he said, speaking to Becky now. He smiled, although the wattage of his killer smile was noticeably dim. “Are you hungry?” he asked his former wife.
Becky shook her head, then winced in obvious pain.
“What hurts?” Steve asked.
“Everything. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”
“I’ll call the nurse,” Caroline said.
“Don’t,” Steve said. “I have something that’ll work better than any pain medication she’ll give you.” He pulled a small plastic bag out of the side pocket of his pants and waved it in front of them.
“Is that what I think it is?” Caroline asked.
“Mexico’s finest.” Steve put the bag in his lap and pulled some small squares of paper from his back pocket.
It was Caroline’s turn to wince, as she did every time someone mentioned Mexico. “You can’t be serious about smoking dope in here.”
“Of course I’m serious. There’s no good reason for Becky to be in pain. Not when there’s a simple solution.” He sprinkled some weed onto one of the square pieces of paper and licked its sides together.
“Simple and illegal,” Caroline protested.
“Then let them arrest me,” Becky said, her voice surprisingly strong, as Steve lit the fat cigarette and took a long drag before holding it to his ex-wife’s lips.
Caroline watched Becky open her mouth and inhale deeply.
Steve extended the joint toward his sister. Caroline shook her head. “Come on,” he told her. “It’ll do you good.”
Caroline hesitated before taking the joint from his outstretched hand. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d smoked a joint, deciding it had probably been in college. Hunter had never approved of getting high, although he had no such reservations about drinking, something he did often in the months after Caroline had returned home from Rosarito.
“So, what do you think?” Steve asked, taking another drag before returning it to Becky’s lips. “Good stuff, no?”
“Great stuff,” Becky answered, falling back against her pillow and closing her eyes.
“Smelly stuff.” Caroline pushed herself out of her chair and walked to the window, cranking it open and waving the sweet-smelling smoke toward the outside. “If anyone were to walk in…”
“Nobody’s going to walk in without knocking first.”
“You did.”
Steve’s response was to take another drag, then pass the joint back to her.
“Where do you get this stuff anyway?” Caroline asked, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in her lungs until she thought she would burst.
“I have a guy,” Steve answered.
Caroline nodded, beginning to experience a pleasant sensation at the nape of her neck, as if her head was about to separate from her body. Steve always “had a guy.” Ever since they were teenagers, Steve had managed to find someone to help him shortcut the system, whether it was to buy him alcohol when he was too young to do it himself, or supply him with illegal drugs, or front him the money for a seat at a high-stakes poker game. And, of course, if things didn’t go quite according to plan, or if they went south altogether, there was always their mother to come running to his rescue.
Their mother—the biggest “guy” of all.
“Feeling better now?” Steve asked Becky when there was nothing left of the expertly rolled joint but a burning ember between his fingertips.
“Hmm,” Becky muttered, drifting toward unconsciousness.
“It’s pretty powerful stuff,” Steve said to Caroline. “She’ll probably sleep for a while. You don’t have to stay.”
“Neither do you.”
“On the contrary. It’s the least I can do.”
Yes, you’ve always been very good at doing the least, Caroline thought, wondering what had provoked her brother’s change of heart but reluctant to question it.
“I hope she didn’t upset you too much,” Steve said. “I know that wasn’t her intention.”
“She didn’t. Actually, if anything, she did the opposite. I’ve been concentrating so much on the negative lately, obsessing on all the bad things that could have happened to Samantha. And she gave me hope.”
“Well, then, it’s good she called you.”
Becky stirred, opened her eyes. “Is Caroline here?” she asked, as if unaware of their earlier exchange.
“Right here,” Caroline told her.
“Caroline?”
“Yes.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I know.”
“Forgive me,” she said.
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
“Did you hear that?” Steve asked his former wife as she drifted back toward oblivion. “Caroline says there’s nothing to forgive.” He kissed her softly on the lips, then slouched back in his chair. “I’m the one who should be begging for forgiveness. I was such a prick.”
“You just weren’t a good match,” Caroline offered, trying to be kind.
“Poor Becky,” he said, gently stroking her arm. “You deserved better.”
Didn’t we all? Caroline thought, pushing herself out of her chair and floating toward the door, her head lost in a drug-filled cloud. When she looked back, her brother was hunched over Becky, whispering soft words in her ear, still stroking her arm.
Caroline woke up the next morning with a headache, the result of a night spent arguing with Michelle, their earlier altercation having spilled over into her dreams. She swung out of bed, her head pounding with each step as she padded toward the bathroom and gobbled down two extra-strength somethings, then returned to bed. Remnants of her disturbing dreams hovered just out of reach, as stubbornly elusive as the daughter who provoked them. Half an hour later, her head
was still pounding, keeping time with the beating of her heart. She thought of Becky, how she’d ignored her headaches until it was too late. She wondered if she, too, could be nursing a tumor, and if anyone would be there to mourn her loss, as Steve had mourned his former wife. Would Hunter be filled with similar remorse for the shabby way he’d treated her? Would Michelle regret her harsh words, her blistering accusations?
“Okay. Enough of that.” She showered and dressed, then went downstairs, made a pot of coffee, and retrieved the Sunday paper from outside her front door. She was sitting at the kitchen table, working on the crossword and enjoying her third cup of coffee, the caffeine having mercifully reduced her headache to a dull throb at her temples, when Michelle entered the room. Her daughter was wearing a black leotard and a hot-pink cropped top with the logo TRACK FITNESS stenciled in bold black letters across her chest, her hair pulled into a high ponytail and tied with a ribbon the same color of pink as the laces of her sneakers. She poured herself a cup of coffee and drank it standing up in front of the sink.
“Good morning,” Caroline said.
“Morning.”
“I didn’t realize you were here.”
“What else is new?”
Caroline’s headache returned full force. “It’s just that I didn’t hear you come home last night.”
“No, you were pretty much dead to the world when I looked in on you.”
“You looked in on me?”
Michelle rolled her eyes as she finished her coffee and deposited her empty cup in the sink. “I’m off to the gym.”
“Don’t you think you might be overdoing the exercise? I read somewhere that too much aerobic exercise can actually shorten your life.”
“Funny. I heard the same thing about reading.” Michelle headed for the front door.
“Michelle, wait.” Caroline followed after her. “Can we talk about what happened yesterday?”
“I think we’ve probably talked enough, don’t you?”
“You made some pretty strong accusations.”
“Forget I said anything. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. You have to know I love you, sweetheart. More than anything in the world…”
“I do,” Michelle said. “Really. I do. Now I have to go or I’ll be late for my class.”
“Wait,” Caroline said again, reluctant to let her daughter leave, but not knowing what else to say. She ducked into the living room and grabbed her purse from the floor where she’d left it the previous afternoon. “Can you pick up some coffee? We’re almost out.” She fished inside her purse for her wallet, withdrawing a twenty-dollar bill and handing it to Michelle. “Wait,” she said again, as her daughter was turning to leave.
“Something else we need?”
“My phone,” Caroline said, her hand searching the bottom of the bag. “Where’s my phone?”
“How should I know?”
“Did you take it? When you came home last night…”
“Why would I take your phone, Mother?” Michelle asked, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “You probably just put it somewhere…”
“I haven’t touched it.”
“Well, neither have I.”
“It was in my purse. I forgot to take it out when I went upstairs.”
“Which means I took it?”
“Give me back my phone, Michelle.”
“Give it a rest, Mother,” Michelle said before opening the front door and jogging down the front walk to the street.
Caroline slammed the door after her, as Michelle had slammed it the day before. She dumped the contents of her purse onto the gray slate floor, watching her wallet, comb, lipstick, sunglasses, and an assortment of crumpled tissues fan out across the foyer. No phone. “Damn it, Michelle.”
How would Lili get in touch with her now? What if she’d already called? What if Michelle had answered and repeated her threat to call the police? Would Lili have known such threats were groundless? Would she risk calling again? Would she try the house or get in touch with her at work, as she had before?
Or would she just give up, decide it wasn’t worth the effort, and never call again?
“How could you be so stupid as to leave your purse lying around?” she castigated herself, retrieving the items from the floor and returning them to her leather bag.
The phone rang.
“Lili?” Caroline wondered aloud, scrambling to her feet and racing into the kitchen, slamming her hip against the brass knob of a cabinet as she grabbed for the phone and pressed it to her ear. “Lili?”
“Caroline?” a man’s voice said.
The voice was vaguely familiar, although Caroline couldn’t place it. “Who is this?”
“It’s Jerrod Bolton.”
“Who?”
“Jerrod Bolton,” the man repeated with a chuckle. “I realize it’s been a long time…”
“Jerrod Bolton,” Caroline repeated, a picture slowly forming in her mind’s eye. “Jerrod Bolton,” she said again, seeing his face clearly now, although he remained as nondescript as the last time she’d seen him standing beside his glamorous wife in Mexico. Why was he calling? “Jerrod, my goodness. This is a surprise. How are you?”
“I’m fine. I was wondering if we could meet for lunch.”
“Why?” Caroline asked.
He laughed. “I see we’re not going to waste any time beating around the bush.”
“Why do you want to meet for lunch?” Caroline persisted. “Is something wrong?”
A brief pause, then, “There are some things I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Such as?”
“I’d rather not talk about them over the phone.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“Sorry. I don’t mean it to. I’ve just learned some things I thought might interest you.”
“What sort of things?”
“The sort of things one doesn’t discuss over the phone. Can we meet?”
“Does Hunter know you’re calling me?”
“No. And I’d prefer you didn’t say anything to him, at least for the time being.”
“I don’t understand.”
“And I’d be happy to explain. At lunch. Today, if you’re available.”
“Where?”
“Darby’s, over on Sunset Cliffs. Say twelve o’clock?”
Caroline repeated his words silently in her head, trying to make sense of them. Why did he want to see her again after all these years? Why didn’t he want Hunter to know? What possible things could he have learned that would interest her?
“Caroline, are you still there?”
“Darby’s, over on Sunset Cliffs,” she said. “Twelve o’clock.”
—
Darby’s was a typical Southern California beachfront restaurant: large, casual, airy, and inviting. Light walls, dark hardwood floors, a giant swordfish mounted on one wall, half a dozen strategically placed televisions broadcasting an endless stream of surfing videos, a giant bar in the center of the room staffed by beautiful young women in tiny black dresses that barely covered their high, firm backsides.
Caroline approached the reception counter and looked around the main room, already crowded with midday diners. She didn’t see anyone resembling Jerrod Bolton, although she reminded herself that fifteen years had passed since their last encounter and he hadn’t been all that memorable to begin with.
She tried not to think about the possible things he’d learned in the interim that might hold any interest for her, as such speculations invariably proved wrong. It was always the one thing you hadn’t thought of, the one possibility you hadn’t considered. How many times had Hunter told her to stop worrying about what might be and concentrate on what was, to forget suppositions and deal strictly with the facts? And the fact was that she hadn’t seen either Jerrod Bolton or his wife in fifteen years. So why did he want to see her now? What could he possibly have to tell her that would benefit her?
“Can I help you?”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Bolton. He’s on the patio. Right this way.”
Caroline followed the young woman as she maneuvered her way in staggeringly high heels through the close-together tables of the main dining room to the patio outside at the back.
“Caroline,” she heard a man call over the sound of the ocean waves, the easy authority of his voice rising above the screech of the seagulls swooping across the sand. “Over here.”
Jerrod Bolton was standing beneath a navy canvas umbrella, half in, half out of his white plastic chair, waving her over. In the years since she’d last seen him, he’d put on a few pounds and lost most of his hair, the shine of his now bald head accentuated by the loud orange-and-white-flowered print of the Tommy Bahama shirt he wore. Other than that, he was as nondescript as ever, Caroline decided as she walked toward him. If she hadn’t been expecting to see him, she doubted she would have recognized him. It was strange: he’d been part of the worst, most difficult time of her life, and yet she might have passed him in the street a thousand times over the past fifteen years without even knowing.
“You’re looking as beautiful as ever,” he said as she approached. He took her hands and pulled her forward to kiss her on both cheeks. “The way the French do,” he said with a grin.
“How’ve you been?” Caroline asked, sitting down.
“Wonderful. Health is good. Business is great. I can’t get over how lovely you look. Really, you haven’t changed a bit.”
She was wearing only a minimal amount of makeup and a shapeless yellow sundress. The humidity was playing havoc with her hair. “I doubt that’s true.”
“It’s true. Trust me.”
Why should I trust you? Caroline thought.
The waiter approached.
“What would you like to drink?” Jerrod asked.
Caroline shrugged. She normally didn’t drink in the afternoon, and she didn’t know much about wine.
“How about some champagne?” he asked, not waiting for her answer before ordering a bottle of Dom Pérignon.