by Joy Fielding
The little girl said nothing, her lower lip quivering.
“What is it? Don’t you like the new dress we bought you?”
“That’s just it. The dress is perfect,” the child said, gazing imploringly at her mother.
“I don’t understand,” the woman responded.
“Where will we ever find a pair of shoes to match it?” the young girl wailed.
Her mother laughed. She was still laughing as the elevator doors opened onto the second floor.
Had Marcy ever felt the freedom to laugh at her daughter in such a casual way? Or had she interpreted Devon’s every frown as a potential harbinger of impending doom, an intimation of coming disaster? And had she unconsciously transferred those fears onto Devon, creating doubt and turmoil where none had previously existed? Had she read too much into things … or not enough? “Excuse me.” Marcy wiggled her way around the still-spinning boy, touching the top of his blond head as she made her exit.
“Mummy,” she heard the boy exclaim as the elevator doors shut behind her, “she touched me.”
Mommy! she heard Devon cry, her voice cutting through the past like a hook to grab at Marcy’s heart. She spun around, already knowing there was no one there.
Her room was only steps from the elevator. Marcy opened the door to find a wall of leaded windows overlooking a private garden, and a beautiful marble bathroom with a large tub and separate shower stall. The bed was king size, the sheets crisp and white, the walls a pale apricot. A fluffy white bathrobe hung in the closet. “I think I’ll stay here forever,” she said, lying down on top of the bedspread and gazing up at a portrait of two young women that hung over her head. She closed her eyes, picturing Vic lying beside her, imagining his arms tight around her. Seconds later, she was asleep.
She dreamed she was in the shoe department of a large store, her feet bare, piles of discarded shoes spread out on the floor around her. “I need something to match my dress,” she told the hapless salesclerk, pulling on the sides of the emerald-green apron covering her blue, flower-print dress.
“There’s nothing here,” the clerk told her. “You should go home.”
“I’m not leaving. Not until I find my shoes.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” the clerk told her in John Sweeny’s voice.
A man came running toward her, holding out a pair of black stilettos, their leather scratched, their heels broken. “How about these?”
It was Vic Sorvino.
“Vic!” Marcy exclaimed, her arms reaching for him.
“Don’t touch him,” Liam cautioned, appearing out of nowhere to snatch the shoes from Vic’s hands. “I don’t trust him.” Liam tossed the shoes to the floor. They ricocheted off the wood and bounced toward the wall.
Marcy woke up with a start, the sound of shoes hitting the floor continuing to reverberate in the distance.
“Housekeeping,” she heard someone say from outside the door to her room, accompanied by a gentle knocking. Not shoes, she realized, sitting up in bed and glancing at the clock. It was after five. She’d been asleep the better part of two hours.
The door opened and a uniformed maid entered the room. Both women gasped. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” the maid said, backing toward the door. “I didn’t realize anyone was here. I knocked and knocked. I’ll come back later.”
“No, that’s all right.” Marcy jumped off the bed, crossing toward the large windows. “I must have fallen asleep. Please, go ahead. Do … whatever.”
“I’ll just be a minute.”
Marcy watched the young woman, whose long dark hair was twisted into a braid at the back of her head, turn down the bed and fold up its ochre-colored bedspread, then lay it across the top shelf in the closet. If the maid was surprised not to see any clothes on the hangers, she didn’t let on.
“Will there be anythin’ else I can do for you?” she asked.
Marcy shook her head. Then, “Wait!” She reached for her purse, quickly extricating the envelope containing her daughter’s pictures and holding out the most recent one. “Do you recognize this girl, by any chance?”
The maid took the photograph from Marcy’s trembling fingers, bringing it so close to her face that she was almost touching it with her short, upturned nose. “No, can’t say that I do,” she said.
Marcy pressed. “Are you sure? You don’t sound sure.”
“It’s just that I can’t see so good without my glasses.”
“So you might know her?”
“No. Don’t think so,” the girl said.
“But without your glasses …”
“I squinted. That’s almost as good.” The maid smiled as she returned the picture to Marcy’s hand.
“Damn it,” Marcy muttered when she was gone. Had she really expected her to recognize the photograph? She shook her head, no longer knowing what she expected. She plopped back down on the side of the bed, understanding she was no farther ahead than she’d been when she first arrived back in Cork. If anything, she was in worse shape. She had no leads, no clothes, not even a toothbrush.
As if on cue, there was another knock on the door. “Housekeeping,” a woman’s voice announced.
Had the maid realized she was mistaken, that she recognized Devon after all? Marcy threw open the door to find a big-bosomed, gray-haired woman of around sixty holding a toothbrush in one hand and a small tube of toothpaste in the other. “I understand you’re in need of these,” she said brightly.
“Thank you,” Marcy said, the hand holding Devon’s picture reaching for the items.
“Oh, who’s this now?” the woman from housekeeping asked.
“Do you know her?” Marcy asked in return.
The woman studied the picture for several seconds. “I thought for a minute it might be Katie.”
“Katie?” Marcy could barely fit the word around the sudden pounding of her heart.
“My neighbor’s daughter.”
“Her name is Katie?”
“Yeah, but it’s not her.”
“You’re sure?”
The woman nodded. “Now that I have a good look, I can see they’re quite different around the eyes.”
“You’re sure?” Marcy asked again. “Have you known Katie long?”
“Only all her life,” the woman said, and laughed. “She’s a handful, that one. Always has been. Who’s this, then?”
“My daughter,” Marcy told her. “Also a handful.”
The woman smiled. “Yes, well. I guess they all are at that age. I better be off. Enjoy your stay. If you need anything else, just ring.”
I need my daughter, Marcy thought. “Thank you,” she said. Then, “This girl, Katie …” she began, not sure what she was going to say next.
“Yes?” The woman waited, a puzzled wrinkle disturbing the otherwise serene line of her smile.
“Do you know the sort of places she likes to go? A favorite pub or hangout? My daughter will be joining me soon,” she added when she saw the puzzled expression on the woman’s mouth spread to her eyes. “I thought it would be nice to take her to a few places where there are lots of young people.”
“Oh, there’s no shortage of those.” The woman laughed. “There’s Dingles, over on Oliver Plunkett Street. I understand it’s pretty popular. And there’s Mulcahy’s on Corn Market. It’s a bit rough, but the kids all love it.”
“Thank you.” Corn Market Street was in the flat of the city. No doubt she’d walked past Mulcahy’s many times in the last few days and failed to notice it. It might be worth another look, she thought, deciding to shower first.
Hopefully a blast of hot water will wake me up, she thought as she stepped under the shower’s oversized nozzle. Emptying the tiny bottle of shampoo the hotel provided on her head, she scrubbed her scalp until it tingled, wishing she could clean out the inside of her brain as thoroughly, free it of all the cobwebs of the past, the doubts and recriminations she carried with her everywhere. And now there were questions as well: Could Vic Sorvino really have ha
d anything to do with the trashing of her room at the Doyle Cork Inn? Was he really capable of such a vicious act? And if so, why?
She unwrapped a small, round bar of lilac-scented soap and began vigorously rubbing it across her naked torso, grateful for the amount of lather it produced. The questions continued: Was Vic angry with her for running off? Was he jealous at seeing her drive off with another man? Was he a psychopath?
Did he know something about Devon? Something he didn’t want her to find out?
The thought shot through Marcy like an electric shock, her arms shooting into the air, the bar of soap flying from her hands. It bounced to the tile floor, slid into a corner. Marcy froze.
Was it possible?
No, she told herself, regaining her composure and equilibrium and retrieving the soap from the floor, the water from the overhead nozzle continuing to spill down her cheeks, carrying the bitter taste of lilacs into her mouth. It wasn’t possible. It didn’t make sense.
But then, what did?
She heard her cell phone ringing as she was getting out of the shower.
“Marcy, are you all right?” Liam asked as soon as she said hello. “The gardai were just at Grogan’s, askin’ all sorts of questions. What the hell happened?”
Marcy balanced the phone against her ear as she struggled into the terry-cloth bathrobe and gathered both sides around her, throwing a towel over her wet head. “The police were there?”
“They just left. They said your room had been ransacked.…”
Marcy quickly explained everything that had happened since Liam had dropped her off in front of the Doyle Cork Inn.
He made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a snort of disbelief. “What—I can’t leave you alone for a second?”
“Apparently not.”
“The police think it was that guy you was with. Is it true he destroyed all your things?”
“Somebody did,” Marcy said, still reluctant to conclude it was Vic. “What did the police say exactly?”
“Exactly not very much indeed. Just asked a lot of questions, mostly about you. And your daughter.”
“What sort of questions?”
“How long I’d known you, your background and stuff like that, if I thought you were unstable,” he added after a brief pause.
Marcy held her breath. “And do you?” she asked with a sad smile, hoping Liam wouldn’t take offense.
A second’s silence, then, “What I think is you’re not safe.”
“What are you talking about? Of course I’m safe. Why wouldn’t I be safe?” Until this very minute, the thought that she might actually be in danger had never occurred to her.
“Some lunatic just trashed your room and tore up all your things,” Liam said forcefully. “He could come back, Marcy. I really think you should think about goin’ back to Toronto.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re just bein’ stubborn. All right, look. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m not going anywhere until I find Devon.”
Another pause. “All right. I have to go. Grogan’s givin’ me the evil eye. Will you do me a favor and just stay put for the rest of the night?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking of going over to Mulcahy’s.”
“Mulcahy’s over on Corn Market? Have you taken total leave of your senses? It’s a dive. No way you’re goin’ there alone. No, you’re goin’ to order room service and get into bed, and that’s the end of the story.”
“Okay,” she said, agreeing reluctantly.
“You promise?”
Marcy smiled. “You don’t have to worry about me, Liam.”
“Can’t seem to help it.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Marcy was still smiling as she disconnected the line and tossed the phone to the bed. She wondered idly if it was the same bed Vic had slept in and pondered again if there could be any connection between the soft-spoken, middle-aged man from Chicago and her daughter. She mulled over each encounter, replayed their previous conversations, reconstructing each one in as much detail as she could remember. Had his interest in her been more than a simple combination of attraction and opportunity? Was there something sinister behind his seemingly innocent facade? Was he really a recently divorced, retired widget salesman from Chicago, still grieving the death of his first wife, or had that all been a clever ruse, calculated to charm and disarm her? Was there even such a thing as a widget? Marcy wondered, almost laughing out loud. Had anything he’d told her been the truth?
Liam is right, she decided, drying her hair with the towel around her neck. Her head was spinning; her eye had resumed throbbing. She was in no condition to go out again tonight. She should just stay put, order room service, and get to bed early. She’d go out first thing in the morning and buy some new clothes.
At least my photographs of Devon escaped unharmed, she thought gratefully, grabbing her purse from the desk near the wall of windows and hugging it tightly to her breast. Everything valuable, everything she really needed, was in this bag—her money, her passport, her memories. She opened it and withdrew the by-now-tattered envelope containing Devon’s pictures. “My baby,” she whispered, gently laying the photographs along the desk’s smooth surface, watching as Devon grew up before her bewildered eyes. “My beautiful baby.”
My beautiful mommy, Devon whispered back.
Marcy removed the picture of her own mother from the envelope. “My beautiful mommy,” she repeated, laying her picture down beside Devon’s, breathing in their uncanny resemblance. Slowly, reluctantly, her fingers trembling, she reached back inside the envelope and removed the second, smaller envelope, the one marked “MOMMY,” carefully withdrawing the single sheet of lined paper that was folded neatly inside it. She turned the piece of paper over in her hands several times before unwrapping it, lifting it to her tear-filled eyes.
My beautiful mommy, she read, Devon’s awkward scrawl playing hide-and-seek with her tears. I don’t expect you to understand what I’m about to do.
Marcy trembled. When had she ever understood anything her daughter had tried to tell her?
Please don’t be mad, and understand that this is not a decision I’ve made lightly. I know how much pain I’ve caused you. Believe me when I say I have no desire to cause you any more. Marcy lowered her head, unable to continue. When she looked up again, her tears blinded her to everything except the letter’s last paragraph. “Please know how much I love you,” she read out loud, desperately trying to match her daughter’s voice with the words she’d never heard her say.
Her hands shaking, Marcy refolded the tearstained paper and returned it, along with the photographs, to her purse. Minutes later, her damp curls framing her head like a wreath, she crawled back into the jeans and gray sweater she’d been wearing all day and headed out the door.
TWENTY-ONE
MARCY HAD TO WALK up and down both sides of Corn Market Street twice before she spotted the sign for Mulcahy’s. No wonder she’d missed it, she thought, staring at the ragged piece of scrap metal with mulcahy’s hand-painted in black across it, accompanied by a wobbly arrow pointing toward a narrow flight of stairs at the side of an ancient dry-cleaning shop. “This can’t be right,” she muttered, glancing over her shoulder. But the normally busy street was relatively quiet. Only a few people were out walking, most having run for cover when the skies had opened in a sudden violent cloudburst half an hour earlier. Marcy had taken temporary refuge under the green-and-white-striped awning of a nearby butcher shop, listening to the thunder’s furious roar as she watched impressive streaks of lightning catapult across the dark sky.
Her sneakers and socks were soaked right through to her skin, and the odor of damp denim and wet wool mingled with the fragrance of leftover lilac from her shower. I’ll be lucky if I don’t catch pneumonia, she thought, thinking again that Liam was right. She should have stayed at the hotel, ordered up a nice meal and a glass of red wine, and
gone to bed early. What was she doing standing alone on the corner of a deserted street, shivering with the cold and damp, and staring at a square piece of crumpled metal with the word MULCAHY’S hand-painted in black across it, next to an arrow pointing down?
Straight into hell, she thought dramatically, and might have laughed had she not been so altogether miserable. This is crazy, she thought as she descended the concrete steps, stopping at the closed basement door. She tried the handle. It didn’t budge. She knocked. Nobody answered. “Hello,” she called out stubbornly, already knowing the place was deserted. “Is anybody there?”
Of course nobody’s here, she told herself, continuing to knock regardless. The place, such as it was, whatever it was, was obviously closed. Sealed up tighter than a drum, she thought, wondering what night it was and realizing she’d lost all track of time. Since she’d come to Cork, one day had pretty much blended into the next. “Hello,” she called again, refusing to give up.
“Excuse me,” she heard someone call from somewhere above her head.
Marcy backed away from the door, looked up toward the street. She saw an enormous pair of legs, stretching for the sky. The legs were attached to a man whose head seemed disproportionately small for the rest of him, probably due to the angle from which she was viewing him. Drops of rain clung to his handlebar mustache, glistening under the glow of a nearby streetlamp. Marcy wondered for an instant whether she might be hallucinating.
“Can I help you with somethin’?” he asked.
“I’m looking for Mulcahy’s,” Marcy said.
“It would appear you’ve found it.” The man nodded toward the sign.
“It seems to be closed.”
“Don’t think it opens ’til after ten,” the man said.
“Ten?” Marcy repeated, glancing at her watch but unable to read the time in the dim light. Still, how late could it be? Seven o’clock at most, she calculated, listening as the bells of St. Anne’s Shandon Church confirmed her estimate with seven loud peals. What was she supposed to do for the next three hours? “Are you sure?” she asked the man, but there was no answer, and Marcy realized he’d already left. Guess I could head over to Grogan’s, she thought, then quickly dismissed the idea. Mr. Grogan wouldn’t be too happy to see her again, and she didn’t want to get Liam in trouble. He’d already put himself out for her more than enough. Besides, he’d only try to talk her into returning to her hotel and catching the first available flight to Toronto. Did he really believe she was in actual danger? She dismissed the uncomfortable thought as she returned to street level and turned north toward Kyrl’s Quay, a smattering of raindrops falling on her already wet shoulders.