The blare of a horn startled her, and in her rearview mirror she saw an old white truck riding her bumper.
“Calm down,” she yelled at the driver, as if he could hear her. She moved through the intersection but he stayed right on her, pressing for her to go faster, when she was already going the twenty-mile-per-hour speed limit.
She was tempted to gun the engine but she stood her ground, staying at twenty-five until she turned right on Fifty-third Avenue and he zoomed past.
“Grrr.” She could feel the stress in her hunched shoulders as she pulled up to a stop sign, and much as she told herself to breathe deeply and relax, she knew the tension wouldn’t unwind until she got to work.
It didn’t help that she was already late. After dropping the girls at St. Pete’s, she’d gotten a call from the office. Gracie had forgotten her history notebook, so she’d had to return home, then double back to school, and now this.
But it’s better to be late for work than late on your birth control pills, she thought. In fact, she was already two days late, but she figured she could take those two pills this morning and start catching up. The beginning of the cycle shouldn’t be a big deal, right? She’d heard of people who remained infertile for months after being on the Pill.
She circled the pharmacy again, and this time she got stuck behind a car double parked on Bell Boulevard.
“This is ridiculous!” She pounded the steering wheel, but that didn’t make it any easier to home in and land the car anywhere near the pharmacy.
“Forget it. Just forget it.” She buzzed ahead and turned left on Oceania to head toward the office. Worst-case scenario? She got pregnant, and they’d have their third earlier than planned. Brendan would be happy about that, and she might not be too far behind him. With stress like this, she could use a few years off being a full-time mom. Not that it was an easy job, but it was closer to her heart these days.
And honestly, she could be pregnant already. Since she’d started on the Pill she’d gotten lazy about marking a calendar and keeping up with her cycles.
Maybe this is a blessing in disguise, she thought as she pulled into the right lane of the expressway. She could tell Brendan about it tonight, after the kids were in bed. She would snuggle up to him on the couch. Start with a kiss and then wrap her arms around him. Nibbling on the ear always did him in. The television would remain on Modern Family or whatever ball game he was watching, but they would sneak into their room and lock the door and switch to something R-rated. And if she told him they were actually trying to make a baby, he would get off on that.
Of the two of them, Brendan was the one who couldn’t live without children. “It’s what we’re here for,” he had told her in the early days of their relationship when they’d argued the point. “Our children are our legacy. We have to make this planet better, then our kids carry that on, and then their kids inherit the job. See how well that works?”
He’d been stubborn about the kid issue. In turn, she’d been stubborn about the career issue. Not only had she insisted on having her work, she refused to start a family until Brendan had a real job, with benefits and longevity. “We are not raising a family on the money you make doing landscaping around the neighborhood,” she had told him. “There’s no job security in mowing Mrs. Hurley’s lawn.” He’d remarked that grass keeps growing, but in the end, he got the message and took the police test.
She had told him he didn’t have to be a cop. She was fine if he wanted to drive a train or bus, fight fires, or sling trash. She smiled, remembering how Brendan had put a hand to his heart as if wounded. “If you think I’d survive Sunday dinners in any of those professions, you haven’t been around my family long enough,” he’d said.
And so, around ten years ago, he’d been hired by NYPD. Gracie was born some nine months later, and she’d had to put the brakes on awhile or else they’d have ninety kids like his parents. Maisey was almost five now, and very manageable. If they were going to have a third, it was about time.
She smiled as she got off at her exit. There was fun in their future. Sometimes it was the small things in life that changed your course. She always told Brendan that, but she’d lost sight of her own words of wisdom. One morning you can’t make it to the pharmacy, next thing you know you’re having your third.
After circling once, Sarah found a parking spot four blocks from the office, but this time she didn’t mind walking. And no one would care that she was late for work, as long as her paperwork was done. Her boss, Artie Metcalf, was great that way.
Like most city offices, theirs lacked creativity and planning, which Sarah always had found ironic for the office of Building Permits and Planning. Someone had plunked a desk into the hallway outside the door leading to the architects’ offices and called it a reception area. Alma Sanchez, a large-breasted, maternal woman with a love for bright colors, had the unfortunate job of playing reception in the middle of the corridor.
As soon as Sarah stepped into the hall, she could see the two dark figures hovering near Alma. Two more steps and she could tell they were cops.
The late police, she said to herself, biting back a smile. She’d worked herself out of a funk, and she wanted to stay positive. She assumed they were here to talk with Artie about some permit problems.
“Sarah?” Alma rose from her desk and worked the hem of her fuchsia sweater over a sizable belly. “I thought that was you. These officers are waiting for you. I told them you were late, and they said they’d wait.”
For the first time Sarah looked at their faces and saw that these two men were sucking the life and energy out of the corridor with its asbestos tiles and greenish fluorescent lights.
“Mrs. Sullivan?” The older man spoke, turning his hat in his hands, and his words scared her. Mrs. Sullivan was her mother-in-law, Peg, and these were not familiar faces.
“What’s going on?” When she paused and made eye contact, the younger cop had to look away, and the older guy seemed on the verge of either vomiting or bursting into tears.
That was when she knew.
Even before they asked if there was a private place they could go and talk.
She knew. Oh, dear God, she knew.
Chapter 19
“Rise and shine!” Mary Kate Marino called, knocking on her son’s bedroom door. At twenty, Conner should have been setting his own alarm, and maybe he was, but she could hear him snoring in there and couldn’t stand to sit by as he slept through his classes at Queens College.
“Come on, come on.” She opened the door and stepped over the surly mass of inside-out shirts and jeans. “Out of bed, you lazy bag of bones.”
Somewhere in the tangle of the surfboard print comforter was Conner, who had never surfed. “What time is it?” the lump demanded.
“Almost ten. Don’t you have a class at eleven-thirty?”
“Yeah.” His head materialized from the folds of sheets. “But that means I can sleep for another hour.”
“No can do.” She picked up a pillow that had fallen off the bed and tossed it at him. “I know you. You won’t go out until you eat and shower, and thirty minutes is not going to cut it. If you get up without whining, I’ll make you pancakes and sausage.”
“Real men don’t whine,” he called quietly as she left his room. “And how can you be so cheerful this early in the morning?”
“Early? It’s almost noon.” She grinned as she headed downstairs. When Conner had flunked out his freshman year at the State U, she had worried that having a kid at home again would cramp her style. She and Tony had spent twenty years talking about the things they would do when they finally had an empty nest. But really, having Conner at home had been a blessing. With Tony drifting away from her, she’d had the time to bond with her son as a young adult. They shared the same taste in movies, and Conner had developed his father’s gift for storytelling. At the end of the day, Mary Kate enjoyed listening to Conner’s tales about campus life and friends while they watched a movie.
Right now the only catch was that Conner didn’t know about Tony, and she wasn’t sure what to tell him and when to spring it on him. How do you want your eggs, and, oh, by the way, I think your father is having an affair. Or, would you pick up milk on your way home, and tell your father he can keep his mistress and car as long as I get the house.
Well, it hadn’t gotten that bad yet, but at the rate Tony was going, she sensed talk of divorce on the horizon. He would say that he still loved her and all that, but if he didn’t spend any time with her, how true could that be?
She cracked an egg into the pancake mix and beat it with a fork, wondering how far Tony would go with his lies. So far he had concocted a million stories about overtime and retirement parties and afterhours clubs where “all the guys from work” were going. And she had believed him, or at least she’d given him leeway.
But now ... this routine he’d pulled over the last two days of not coming home at all ... that was just crazy and she wasn’t going to put up with it. She didn’t know where he was staying. He told her they had cots at the precinct, and she’d smiled bitterly at the thought of her Tony going anywhere near a bedbug-ridden cot some criminal had peed on. It was one of his half lies. True, they had cots in the precinct. False, if you think Tony Marino would ever sleep on one.
By the time Conner appeared in wet hair and sweats, there was a stack of pancakes tucked under a bowl to stay warm, and maple sausage links in the skillet.
“Thanks, Mom.” He shuffled four hotcakes onto a plate. “Brain food for my history test.”
“You have a test? Good thing I got you out of bed. Did you study?”
“It’s on the Constitution.” Conner grabbed a spot on a stool at the end of the small kitchen island. “How many times do they have to hit you up with the Constitution in school? I memorized the preamble in fifth grade. We wrote mock amendments in high school. I think I got this one down.”
She stabbed a sausage link with a fork. “And ironically, some kids will be clueless on the test.”
He swallowed a walloping bite of pancakes. “So where’s Dad this morning? Another big arrest?”
Despite all her deliberation, she hadn’t concocted a quick answer, and she turned toward the sink and ran hot water into the pan.
“What? Is he out chasing girls or something?”
Mary Kate turned back to glare at her son. “Don’t say that about your father.” Her son’s expression of curiosity was so open and genuine that she couldn’t bear to face him with another lie. She turned away quickly.
“Crap, it’s true!” Conner said. “Erin told me to watch out for you. She thought Dad was dicking around.”
“Watch your language,” Mary Kate said, gripping the counter. “And what does your sister have to do with this?”
“She suspected something, and since I was going to be living home again, she gave me a heads-up.”
So the kids knew. They knew and they were trying to look out for her. A knot of emotion grew in her throat. That was so sweet, but it seemed inappropriate. She didn’t want to turn them against their father, even if he was the one acting like a jerk.
She turned back and faced him, a little disconcerted by the dark eyes that resembled his father’s. “Honestly, things aren’t going well between your father and me right now. I don’t really know what he’s up to, so I can’t say much more. But when I have it figured out, I’ll let you know. And tell Erin she can call me directly if she wants to talk about it. Your brother, Joseph, too.”
Wow. She didn’t know where that speech had come from, but it was worthy of publication in Parents magazine.
He nodded, still chewing. “Okay.”
Slightly reassured, she was scrubbing pans when the phone rang. She and Conner both glanced at the caller ID.
“Aunt Bernie,” he said.
Mary Kate wiped her hands and picked up. “Hey, Bernie.”
“MK, thank God you’re there. I tried your cell but there was no answer.”
Earlier that morning, after trying to reach Tony unsuccessfully, Mary Kate had tossed the damned cell onto her bed and left it there, threatening to toss it into the toilet next. But she didn’t think Bernie needed to hear her long explanation; she sounded upset.
“What’s the matter, Bernie?”
“Dad asked me to call you, and MK, it’s bad.” The sound of Bernie’s voice cracking and calling her MK brought Mary Kate back to the time when Bernie was little. Mary Kate was already fifteen when her sister was born, but she’d been the built-in sitter, and one-year-old Bernie had been the one to come up with MK when she struggled to say her sister’s name.
“What is it, sweetie?”
“There was a shooting at ... at Dad’s coffee shop.”
“Oh, no.” Mary Kate tried to visualize the sense of this while Bernie took a breath.
“I know you’re not supposed to say things like this over the phone, but I can’t string you along. Brendan got shot and ... and they’re saying he’s dead.” The last words barely squeaked out.
“What about Dad?”
“He was at the bank when it happened. Some psycho came in and shot four cops. I’ll give you the rest of the details when you get to the house.”
“Okay. I’ll ... okay.”
“I’ll let you tell Tony.” Emotion swelled in Bernie’s voice again, and Mary Kate pressed a fist to her mouth as tears filled her eyes.
“I’m on my way,” Mary Kate said, her mind moving to the details as she clicked off. She would have to notify work that she wouldn’t be in, and then there was Tony, the bastard. Not answering her calls. Well, how would he like to hear about it through the grapevine instead? Hear it on TV? That’d serve him right.
“What happened?” Conner’s voice was tentative.
She faced him, once again reminded that he wasn’t a kid anymore, and even if he were, there was no way to sugarcoat news like this. “There was a shooting at Sully’s Cup. Uncle Brendan is gone.”
“Holy shit.” His eyes went wide, and he put his fork across the plate. “I thought it was Nana, when you said, you know, your dad.”
She nodded, swallowing back the viscous emotions that threatened to choke her. “Grandpa’s okay. I’m going to the house.” Her parents’ house, the center of the universe ... it would be like Grand Central Station. “But you need to go to your classes.”
“I knew you would say that.” He put his dishes in the sink. “Let me drive you, Mom. You’re not supposed to drive when you just got news like this. I saw it on Grey’s Anatomy. Besides, Nana and Grandpa are close to Queens College. I’ll swing back when I’m done.”
“Okay.”
“And I’m sorry about your brother. Uncle Brendan was a good guy.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry, too. You’d better go put some real clothes on.”
He left the kitchen, then returned. “Right now, I find it really hard to believe. Like, I don’t feel like crying or anything because it doesn’t seem real. Is that weird?”
“It’s normal. Didn’t you ever study the five stages of death and dying?”
“Nope.”
She pointed to the stairs. “Get dressed. We’ll talk about it in the car.”
As she cleaned up the kitchen, Mary Kate thanked the Lord that Conner was here right now. She prayed for the repose of Brendan’s soul, and asked God to give Sarah strength during this difficult time. Then, as she spilled the coffee grounds into the trash, she thanked God that none of her children seemed interested in working in law enforcement.
Chapter 20
When Yvonne Curtis got off the elevator on the second floor and saw the drops of blood leading down the linoleum tiles of the hallway, she had a funny feeling it was going to lead to her apartment, and damned if she wasn’t right. That boy Peyton had gotten himself in another pack of trouble.
“Peyton Curtis, what the hell you been doin’?” she hollered as she pushed open the door.
And there he was, sunk down against the wall with blood soa
king through his jacket. He curled his neck so that he could press the folded towel down against his shoulder. His good shoulder.
Her temper drained out just like that. “Oh, Peyton. What happened?” She held her breath as she leaned over him, scared by the sight of her baby bleeding on the floor.
“I got hurt, Mama.” His dark eyes flashed open, plaintive and pathetic. “Help me fix it up. Help me, please.”
“Oh, baby, you’re bleeding like crazy. There’s blood all over the floor out there. Come on, get up, and we’ll get you downstairs. Get you a ride to the hospital. You’re gonna need a doctor to look at that.”
“No hospital,” he moaned, his eyes closing. “I can’t do that.”
“You need a doctor.”
“No doctors, Mama. You know what they do.”
“Peyton, what are you not telling me?” She was not going to take any shit from this boy. She knew when someone was laying it on thick. “You got in trouble with the law again?”
“It wasn’t my fault, Mama ...”
“Oh, Peyton.” She held a hand to her mouth, not sure what to believe. “I’m gonna help you. And you are gonna tell me the truth.” She put her groceries and purse on the kitchen table. “But first, I gotta go out there and Swiffer that hallway. You left a trail of blood that’s like a pirate’s map with arrows. X marks the spot.”
She peered into the hallway and waited while some kids ran to the stairs. When it was empty, she made quick work of swiping up the drops of blood, which were on their way to drying.
Did that make her an accessory now? She didn’t know. Only thing she knew right now was, she didn’t want anyone beating on her door any sooner than necessary. Maybe Peyton could get better on his own. Maybe he’d be fine and this would all blow over and be done, like a bad day. Peyton was a good boy. He deserved a break.
Inside the apartment he was passed out again. “Come on now, baby. Let’s get you into the bathroom to wash up.”
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