Alex had received a frantic call in the middle of the night.
"Come get me." Vanessa's words were slurred.
Alex had picked up her alarm clock and peered at it—three o'clock in the morning. "What's the matter? Where are you?"
"In the street."
"What street?" Alex sat up and tried to focus. "Are you hurt?" Vanessa sounded drunk. Alex expected this kind of behavior from Pigeon but not from the middle sister.
Alex dragged on her sweats and went to pick up her sister. It was an obscure location but Alex's GPS got her there. She'd found Vanessa sitting on the dirt road, her heels and shredded stockings in her hands, the neon lights of the blues bar—the letters u and r missing—blinking in the background.
During the ride back, Vanessa explained that she and George had gone away for the weekend. On the way back to Manhattan, he'd asked her to move in with him. "We're alike, you and I—eyes wide open. I know I'm older than you, by many years, but we're cut from the same bolt of cloth. World wise, sure about who we are." He had pulled over and stopped the car, turned in his seat, and reached for her.
"What are you talking about?" Vanessa jerked away from him. "Why are you messing everything up?"
"I'm trying to make a commitment, to say something important."
"Don't bother." She'd opened the car door. "Men don't make commitments. They just use words and play out their own selfish shit."
"How can you say that?"
"I'm not like your other women, and I'm nothing like you." She'd climbed out of the car. "If you ever want to see me again, never bring this up."
Vanessa walked for at least a mile in the middle of nowhere, in three-inch heels on a deserted road, with no idea where she was going.
George trailed along for a while. He'd begged her to get back in the car, but she'd kept walking. When she reached the blues bar, George drove off.
In the bar, Vanessa met a guitar player. They'd gotten high on speed and had sex in the back of his truck, her skirt hiked up and legs wrapped around his waist. She'd sworn to Alex this was the first time she'd ever done anything like that, including taking drugs. She'd promised, slumped against the door of Alex's Jeep, that she'd never do it again. Last night, watching Vanessa pop pills in her BMW, rattled Alex's confidence in her.
The phone rang, bringing Alex back to the present—it better not be Vanessa calling to cancel. Caller ID told her it was Pigeon.
"I'm so glad to hear from you." Alex had been up long enough to shower and find an outfit still wrapped in plastic from the cleaners. She took a deep drag on a phantom cigarette. "It must be early in LA."
"I couldn't sleep."
Alex tugged her fingers through her matted curls; she needed a haircut. She knew she was using her mother's singsong voice and tried to sound more normal. "So why can't you sleep?"
Pigeon's response was wet and husky, the way people sound when their salvia goes down their windpipe. "Yesterday was such a crazy day, nothing like I thought it'd be." Alex waited. "There were so many of them. I can't keep them straight."
"This is Cool Breeze's family?"
"Yeah—his cousins, aunts, uncles, sisters and brothers, nieces. They cook together and everyone talks at once except nobody gets mad."
"And this is a bad thing?"
Pigeon didn't joke back. "They're regular, Alex. The kind of family we used to pretend to be when we were kids."
Alex walked into the kitchenette. She needed coffee. She rummaged through the refrigerator. "So why isn't it great, being with a family like that?" Her hand snagged an orange juice that had expired a week ago. "Do they like you?" She opened the carton and sniffed.
Pigeon's voice dropped to a whisper: "I guess."
Alex poured as she glanced at the clock on the microwave. Vanessa would be there any minute. "Help me understand what's wrong."
"It's Breeze—he's really sweet with me and his mom is nice."
Juice in hand, Alex walked back into her bedroom. "So?"
"She's a giant and kind of a hippie."
"A giant, you mean taller than I am?"
"Bigger. She dresses in long skirts and has a braid down to her butt. When we landed, she grabbed me and hugged me. I just met her and she's already welcoming me to the family."
Alex could picture Mrs. Cole, dressed in tie-dye, holding onto to little Pigeon, who wouldn't know where to put her arms. "What's so terrible about all of this? Is Cool Breeze pushing you to get married or something?"
"No . . ."
"Do you like them?"
"It's complicated."
"Give me the number where I can reach you." Alex searched around for a pen and paper, finding them on her dresser under some bills that needed attention. "Vanessa will be here any minute, we have something important—" She caught herself. This was not the time to tell Pigeon about Kara. "I really want to discuss this with you, though. Can I call you back later?"
"How's Daddy doing?"
"Okay, he's holding his own." She would give Pigeon a better update later, not now.
"I think I love him."
"Daddy?"
"Breeze."
"You just met him." The doorbell rang; confident it was Vanessa, Alex pushed the buzzer that unlocked the lobby door. "If you want to come home, I can send you money."
"Thanks, but I'm okay, I'm just all mixed up."
Someone pounded on Alex's door. "I'll call you back." Pigeon could be impetuous. Actually, that was an understatement—
she was always winging it. "Maybe coming home would be good. Think about it." The knocking grew more insistent. "I gotta run. I love you."
Alex pulled opened her front door just as Pigeon said, "Love you too," and hung up.
Vanessa looked clear-eyed and annoyed. "It took you long enough."
"Sorry." She stepped aside to let Vanessa in. "I was talking to Pigeon—trouble in paradise."
"Let's get moving, you can tell me on the way."
"I need my coat." Alex yanked her coat off its hanger. "I did a quick search on Google, LinkedIn, and Facebook."
"For Kara?"
"Yeah. Just in case she's still a Lawrence. You know, maybe the people who adopted her kept her name."
"That doesn't make sense."
"There are a lot of them—one's an author, they all blog and tweet. None seemed to fit."
Vanessa pursed her lips. "I'm hoping this grandmother has the answer so we can put this behind us." She gave Alex a once-over. "You look nice." She sounded surprised.
Alex had made an effort to look professional. She wanted Kara's grandmother to trust her, so she wore a black pantsuit and a cobalt-blue collared shirt—an "ask for the order" outfit she used for sales pitches. She'd put on makeup—foundation, lip gloss, and mascara—something she seldom did. Her tumble of curls looked tidy tied back in a ponytail. Vanessa, of course, was dressed in a perfectly tailored camel coat and Alex knew that underneath was a designer outfit.
Alex shrugged into her nondescript winter coat. "I want to make a good impression."
"In the Bronx?"
Alex laughed aloud, which felt good and unusual. She laughed far too infrequently. Ninety percent of the time, she was worried about something—her father, work, Pigeon, Vanessa, her mother. Now she added one more person to the list. Kara Whatever-her-new-name-was.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The familiar ring tone of her cell phone pierced the air. Eyes stinging from sweat, she grabbed it. It was Zach.
"Hey, babe, how'd you make out today?"
At first, Kara thought he had learned about the visit from the FBI. Relief swept over her. It was going to be all right, it was a mistake; Zach would fix it.
"You got the envelope to Sam, right?"
He was checking up on her. She rubbed the sweat from her eyes.
"Did you deliver it?"
"I did. But I had a bad feeling about it." Kara paused, waiting for Zach to say something, but there was only quiet from the other end. "Is everything . . ." she sear
ched for the right words, "on the up and up?"
"What kind of question is that?"
Zach seemed to be whispering into the phone. In the background, she could hear the clattering of dishes and the high-pitched voices of young children—he was at home. A new sadness descended upon her.
"I'm worried. Sam implied . . . Well, do you think you can trust him?"
"Implied what? What are you trying to say?"
Distant laughter came over the phone line. Kara heard a woman say, "Stop it." A child responded, and more peals of laughter followed.
"Kara?"
"I'm still here."
"Meet me at the apartment in one hour, we can talk then." His whisper was urgent.
Kara didn't want to go. Maybe the FBI would follow her there. "Why not now, on the phone?"
His tone changed, his voice turned warm, soft. "Now's not a good time." Then, sounding vulnerable, the way he sounded when he talked about his kids, he said, "Listen, sweetheart, I can tell you're upset. I am too. It's funny, you asking me about Sam. I'm worried about him, like maybe he's not playing straight with me."
It was Sam, not Zach. "That's what I was thinking."
"Baby, I need your help on this one. If something's going on—and it's probably nothing—we should compare notes, think this through together. Please, baby. I need you."
The FBI could have it wrong. Sam Westin was probably the one doing something illegal. "I'm not sure."
"Talking to you really helps me."
Could she sneak out and make sure the agents weren't following her? Was that even a good idea?
"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. Give me an hour and then meet me at the apartment."
"Sam made it sound like you knew exactly what was going on."
"Trust me. One hour."
Kara caved. "Okay."
She disconnected the call. The phone was wet with perspiration. Kara rubbed her hands against her black workout shorts and took several deep breaths. Why would Sam have said we each time he spoke about the deal, as if Zach were 100 percent in on it? On the other hand, Zach was trusting; that's how his wife hurt him. He had believed her when she lied about where she was going, who she was with—he could have misjudged Sam too. Kara pressed her fingers against her forehead to ease the stabbing pain in her temples. Of course, Zach could be the one lying.
She walked into the bathroom, stepped into the shower, and scrubbed as hard as she could without tearing her skin. How could she uncover the truth? She toweled off, put on skin lotion, dressed, applied makeup, grabbed her tote, and went down the stairs. Danny and Mrs. E. were watching a basketball game. She could tell by their grim expressions that their beloved Knicks were losing again.
"I'll be back," she said in their general direction, not slowing down enough to invite questions. Danny called her name as the door closed behind her with a solid thunk.
At the corner, a gypsy cab rolled by. Kara waved it over and climbed in. She gave the driver the Upper East Side address.
"Nice night." The cabby caught her eye in the rearview mirror. "Can't wait for spring. All this cold makes my arthritis act up, you know what I'm saying?"
Kara murmured politely.
"Hurts bad. 'Course, you're too young to be worried about an old man's aches."
She nodded politely at his reflection.
"Me and the missus, we both got it, but she doesn't seem to mind as much. 'Course, she isn't driving no cab fourteen hours a day, shaking up her insides. It backs you up, if you get my drift. Kneels in church a lot though. That can hurt an arthritic knee—least that's what you'd think. But you wouldn't know it from her. She's a come-to-Jesus sort. No offense."
Kara closed her eyes, hoping he'd take the hint.
"She's always praying. Wish she'd pray me into retirement," he chuckled.
Kara kept her eyes closed and the driver finally stopped talking.
* * *
The street in front of Zach's apartment building was filled with couples and laughing families. Seeing them brought a familiar ache to Kara's stomach and moisture to her eyes. Whenever she thought about parents with their children, she felt sad. It had eased in recent years due to hard work under the gentle guidance of her psychologist, Dr. Marci Nye. But ever since Big Jim died . . . She shuddered. She had to banish him from her thoughts.
Zach was waiting. Dressed in jeans and a sweater, a ski jacket hanging from his arm, he looked rumpled.
"What's all this about?" He pushed the elevator button several times. "What made you wonder about Sam?"
Kara, her eyes wide, opened her mouth in surprise. The kind voice from the phone call was now a low growl. The elevator doors opened. Zach grabbed her arm and pulled her inside. His grip hurt.
"I'm not sure you should trust him." She tugged her arm away and rubbed it pointedly. "He said some things that worried me."
"Let's talk inside."
He walked ahead of her, reached his door, and pulled out his keys. She could see his hand trembling as she followed him inside. He dropped his jacket onto the recliner in the living room.
"Tell me exactly what happened. What did Westin say to you?"
Kara picked through her memory.
"So?" he prodded.
"After he opened the envelope, Sam said you were always careful. That you've never gotten caught." She waited, watching his expression.
"Then what?"
"Then there were those guys on the street stalking me." She described the scene outside her house during the murder investigation, failing to mention the subsequent visit by Special Agents Boyd and Woo. "They could have been anyone, but they seemed more like private detectives." It was close to the truth at least. "Could they be your competitors? You know, someone trying to learn more about your business deal?" Kara raised her eyes to his. "Is your wife suspicious, do you think?" Now she was not only lying, she was being mean. Kara could feel her cheeks getting warm.
"I doubt it's Lori," Zach replied after several beats. "It's not her style. She's up front, more likely to pitch a fit than investigate."
Kara let that piece of information settle for a second. "Wouldn't it be hard for her to accuse you, since she committed her own transgression?"
"What?"
"Since she cheated on you, she might choose to hire someone to follow me instead of confronting you." Of course, Kara knew it was the feds, but now she doubted everything Zach had said to her. Maybe he'd lied about Lori's affair.
"It's not Lori, okay." His voice was hard. Zach sank down on the couch. "Sit." He patted the seat next to him. "Sit next to me."
Still wearing her coat, she sat on the edge of the couch, her knees pressed together, her gloved hands folded in her lap.
Zach pulled his sweater over his head and tossed it next to his jacket. In his normal voice, one that hinted at a childhood in the South, he said, "I'm thinking your first instinct is probably right. Either it's nothing, or maybe it's somebody trying to get in on our deal." He paused, pondering. "Maybe Sam is double dealing—I'll find out. Don't worry about it anymore."
Kara stayed quiet.
"I won't let anything happen to you—ever." His eyes, much warmer now than when she'd entered the lobby, searched her face. "If it's the competition, they're only trying to scare you."
"They've succeeded."
"I'll take care of this."
Zach leaned closer and stroked her hair. His hand drifted from her hair to her neck, and then with three fingers he stroked her cheek. Kara sat stiffly, her hands still in her lap.
"On Monday," he said, his hand resting on her neck, "I'll put someone on this and we'll get to the bottom of it."
"What would your competitors gain by following me?"
"How about you stay here tonight and tomorrow?" He lowered her coat from her shoulders. "You'll be safe here, just in case it is something. I'll stay with you."
He kissed her neck, his hot breath warming her, his hand rubbing her breast through her sweater. She wasn't getting the inform
ation she needed. "What will be different on Monday?"
He lowered his head to kiss her covered breasts, not responding to her question.
"Maybe you should just tell me what this is all about. I might be able to help."
"I need you to trust me—I said I'll take care of it and I will." His hand slipped under her sweater and he squeezed her nipple with his fingertips. Then he pushed her back against the couch and kissed her hard on the mouth.
She wanted to believe him.
He pulled the cotton sweater up over her breasts and kissed each of them in turn through her lace bra. Kara closed her eyes and let the heat of his kisses ease her fears. Against her thigh, she could feel the hardness of his penis. Fear rippled through her. Once again, she got aroused, but she knew that terror would quickly take over and her dull headache would turn to a throbbing one. This is what normal people do. This is what couples who love each other experience. It's all going to be fine. She took a deep breath and imagined a beautiful cascading waterfall with a rainbow arching over it. Rays of sun made the water sparkle. Zach sucked one of her nipples, and she kept the images strong.
"I have to make a few phone calls," he said between nips and kisses. "Why don't you get undressed and pour us both a glass of wine. There's a nice Merlot on the counter and a chardonnay in the refrigerator, your choice." He got up and walked over to the phone. "I'll order takeout from that Thai place you like."
Kara went into the kitchen, opened the red wine, and poured two glasses. She walked into the bedroom, listening to the quiet murmur of Zach's voice in the other room. She tried not to listen, but she could tell he was speaking with his wife. The conversation ended and he made a second call—this one sounded confrontational. Finally, in a louder tone, she heard him call the Thai restaurant. She waited.
He entered the bedroom. "You're still dressed."
"I'm enjoying the wine." Her ever-present headache was heating up.
* * *
Long after Kara's pain from making love had subsided, after eating their takeout dinner, after Zach had fallen asleep, she had a startling thought: they were spending the night together—something Zach always said he couldn't do. This time, with one phone call, here they were. Moreover, she still didn't have an explanation about Sam Westin and the FBI.
Getting It Right Page 9