by Carol Snow
“He went diving alone? Why the hell didn’t she dive with him?” Her voice cracked.
“I don’t dive,” I whimpered. “I tried a few years ago and it . . . it scared me.”
There was a pause as Ana digested the fact that she was on speakerphone. Or that Jimmy had gone diving alone. Or that I’d let him. Or that Jimmy was missing. Jimmy was dead.
“It might be in the newspaper,” Mary said quietly. “We didn’t want you to find out that way. Also, we hoped you might have a phone number for his parents.” Ana didn’t say anything. “Do you think you might have that? A phone number?”
“I don’t—I don’t know,” Ana said, sounding dazed. “I can look in his office. But he doesn’t like people going through his things.” She gasped. “Though I guess he’s not going to care if . . . if . . . Is he dead?”
“They haven’t found his . . . They haven’t found him,” Mary said.
Chapter 10
This was the second time I’d worn an engagement ring without a proposal. The first time, I was twenty-eight, and I’d been “in a relationship” for two and a half years. That’s what I used to say: “I’m in a relationship,” as if the relationship mattered more than the man—which, I suppose, it did.
Steve was an ophthalmologist. (“I’m in a relationship with a doctor.”) We’d met in the frozen-food section at the Brea Trader Joe’s. Steve was buying a handcrafted Thai chicken pizza. I was on the other side of the aisle, buying orange chicken. We backed into each other. We apologized. We talked about frozen halibut and chickenless chicken nuggets. About hormone-free milk and health supplements. About restaurants in Brea. About what we were doing on Saturday night.
Two and a half years later, on a Saturday just after Thanksgiving, we were talking about cell-phone chargers. Steve needed one for his car. I suggested we go to the RadioShack at the mall. Afterward, we could have dinner at California Pizza Kitchen—you know, really make a night of it.
Parking was awful; even the lot by the Red Lobster was full. Steve circled several times while I said, “We could go somewhere else. You want to go somewhere else?” Finally, we snagged a spot, and I said, “Whew! I’m glad we didn’t go somewhere else.”
The mall was done up for Christmas: carols blasting from the speakers, big metallic balls, elaborate wreaths. Santa sat in his big chair while young women dressed as elves kept children of every conceivable ethnicity in line. Outside, it was seventy degrees; earlier in the day, it had reached ninety.
We had to wait an hour for a table at CPK. When we finally sat down, it was too loud to hold a conversation. We finished our meal forty-five minutes before the mall was due to close—plenty of time to pick up a cell-phone charger. Plenty of time to window-shop.
The jewelry-store window was packed with diamond rings: simple stones set in platinum, elaborate designs surrounded by gold. Diamond solitaires, diamond bands, diamonds flanked by other jewels. A hand-lettered sign read THE GIFT OF A LIFETIME. I slowed and then stopped. Steve walked a few paces before realizing I wasn’t with him. He retraced his steps and stood next to me, silent.
We had never discussed marriage. It was the elephant in the room, in the car, and now, in the mall. Plenty of people had urged me to give him an ultimatum, but I wanted him to propose because he wanted to, not because he felt he had to.
“RadioShack is going to close,” he said finally.
“Not for forty-five minutes.” I was sick of that elephant. “The rings are making you nervous, aren’t they?” I tried to keep my tone playful.
“Only an idiot would buy a ring at a mall. They double the price.” He was trying to keep his voice casual. Or maybe he didn’t have to try.
“Would someone who’s not an idiot buy a ring somewhere else?” I asked awkwardly.
“I don’t know—I guess.” He looked at his watch.
“That would be a no.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” A ridiculous statement: he knew exactly what I was talking about.
“Am I wasting my time here?” I asked. (Did I mention? I’d had two glasses of wine at California Pizza Kitchen.)
“I just want to go to RadioShack and then go home,” he said coolly.
“I’m not talking about RadioShack. I’m talking about the rest of our lives.”
“Do we need to decide this right now?” His voice was getting tight.
“You’ve had two and a half years to decide this.” (Inside my head, a little, sober voice was saying, Shut up! You’ll ruin everything! )
I was about to drop the subject, to huff off to RadioShack, when a man came out of the jewelry store. He had smooth olive skin, carefully cut black hair, a double-breasted suit. His cologne was too strong, but it smelled nice, like a forest. “Can I help you? You like to try on some rings, maybe?” He had a Middle Eastern accent and bright white teeth.
“Yeah, sure—let’s look at rings,” Steve said, crossing his arms.
I should have walked away right then, but my left ring finger itched with desire.
“Okay,” I said. “If you think we have time.”
He shrugged.
The store was quiet, carpeted, and cool. It smelled of the salesman’s forest-y cologne. The cases were blond wood and glass. The salesman—he called himself Frank—offered us cushioned beige chairs.
“That one,” I said, pointing to a simple solitaire in a platinum setting.
He unlocked the case and plucked out the ring. “Fits you perfectly—doesn’t even need to be sized,” he said after I had slipped it on my finger. “We could send you home in that ring tonight,” he continued, as if he were selling me a sporty roadster.
I shifted my hand this way and that. The diamond caught the light and twinkled.
“Is just under a carat,” Frank said. “So is good deal for the money. Price goes way up once you hit a carat.”
I bit my lip. When it came to diamonds, did size really matter?
“You want, we could put you on a payment plan,” Frank purred.
“You give me down payment tonight, you pay a little bit every month after. Is beautiful ring, huh?”
“It is,” I murmured, though I was thinking: I’d really like a full carat.
“You want to try on another one?” Frank asked.
“No, we’re done,” Steve said.
Frank and I both looked up at him in surprise, like we’d forgotten he was even there. Was this the big moment? Would he drop down on one knee?
“I’m not buying the ring,” Steve said in a flat voice.
Frank smiled and shrugged. “Well, if you change your mind . . .”
Steve looked at me. Through me. “I’m not going to change my mind.”
“Do you just mean . . . this ring?” I asked. “Or . . .”
“I’m not going to buy you a ring. Any ring.” He ran a hand over his face and then said, “I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. He cleared his throat. “We can still make it to RadioShack. I mean, if you still want to go.”
I nodded. Who would miss an opportunity to visit RadioShack?
The ring slid off easily. How could Steve be calling off our engagement when he’d never proposed in the first place?
We walked out of the hushed, heavily scented jewelry store and back into the chaos of the mall without speaking and made our way to the electronics store. Steve managed to buy the charger with fifteen minutes left before the mall closed. “You want to go into the bookstore?” he asked, considerate to the end.
“Sure,” I said, wondering if we were going to pretend the ring incident had never happened, wondering if we could just continue as before, a flicker of hope still burning in my heart.
I bought a detective novel. He flipped through magazines but left the store empty-handed. He drove me home without speaking. His car smelled like leather. He slid a jazz CD into the stereo. At least if he dumps me I can stop pretending to like jazz, I thought.
At my door, he kissed me on the cheek and said, for the se
cond time that night, “I’m sorry.” He put his hands in his pockets. “I should have said something sooner, but I figured we’d get through Christmas . . .”
I nodded. The jewelry store hadn’t changed anything. It had just sped things up.
He touched my cheek one last time. He looked sad. He didn’t love me, but he didn’t want to hurt me. “You’ll find someone,” he said.
Steve was right: I had found someone.
And now he was gone.
Chapter 11
Ana called back within the hour. I was still in the condo and didn’t plan to leave all day. What if Jimmy came back and I wasn’t there? Mary had offered to bring me something to eat, but the thought of food made me nauseous. Light made me slightly nauseous, too, which was why I’d left the blinds closed.
“Is this . . . Jane?” Ana said.
“Yes,” I said, still feeling hurt that Jimmy had never mentioned me. I rubbed my engagement ring with my thumb. He cared. Even if he didn’t know how to express himself, his feelings ran deep.
“This is Ana. From Jimmies.” She paused. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice sounded hoarse, as if she’d been crying. “It just blows my mind that . . .”
“I know,” I said.
“I feel so bad that I never even met you,” she said. “That’s just like him, though, not to tell anyone what was going on in his life outside of work. I didn’t even think he had a life outside of work. Though I guess I’ll probably meet you at . . .” Her voice trailed off, but the unspoken word, funeral, hung between us.
I started to correct her, to say, He may still be alive, but I couldn’t get the words out. I closed my eyes and tried to steady my breathing.
“Anyway,” she said. “I got the number you wanted. For his parents.” She paused. “That’s going to be a rough phone call.”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
“Hello, Mrs. James? This is Jane. Jane Shea.”
“Yes . . . ?” Clearly, she didn’t know who I was; no big surprise.
“I’m calling about your son.”
“Douglas or Michael?”
“Um—Michael.” I’d forgotten that she called him that.
“Are you his secretary? He couldn’t call me himself?” Her words were brisk, clipped. Somehow, I had expected a western drawl.
“No—he couldn’t.” I was trying to break the news gently, slowly, but she wasn’t reacting quite the way I’d expected.
“Do you know if he’s coming to his father’s birthday party?” she demanded. “Because he was supposed to let me know by last week. The caterers need a head count.”
“A party?” I croaked. He’d never even mentioned it. “No—he won’t be able to make it.”
She made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a snarl. “It’s his father’s seventieth birthday,” she hissed. “Surely he can get away for a couple of days.”
“Mrs. James, your son is missing,” I blurted.
There was a long pause, after which she said, “Did you try his cell phone?”
“No.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “I’m not his secretary—I’m his . . . girlfriend.” She didn’t need to know about the ring, at least not yet. “We’re in Maui. Your son went diving yesterday, and he just . . . he never came up.”
“Try his cell phone,” she said again, sounding more insistent this time. “He doesn’t always answer it, but I know he checks his messages.”
“Mrs. James, you don’t understand. I was on the beach. Waiting for him. I watched him go in the water. And he never came back.”
The line was dead for a moment. “But where is he?” she finally demanded.
“I don’t know. In the water—under the water.” I started to cry. “I stayed there all day.”
“Why isn’t anyone looking for him?” she shrieked. “Why didn’t anyone call us sooner—we know people, we could have done something. Why isn’t anyone doing anything?”
“They are, Mrs. James.” I was sobbing now. “They’ve got the police out, the fire department, coast guard, lifeguards. Everyone’s looking. They searched all day yesterday and since sunrise this morning. But he’s just . . . gone.”
“No. Oh, no,” she moaned, suddenly understanding. “I told him that scuba diving was dangerous. I told him to be careful.” Her voice caught. “Not my baby. Not my boy.”
“We were going to get married.” It seemed right that she should know.
“You were?” Her voice went up, as if that gave her a ray of hope: surely her son wouldn’t miss his own wedding. But then the reality hit her and she began to cry like a little girl.
Chapter 12
When the police called a few hours later, I knew it had to be bad news.
“I think you should come down to the station,” the detective said.
“Did he . . . did you find him?” I croaked.
The detective paused for an excruciating moment. “It’s really best if you just come down here.”
Mary offered to drive, and I probably should have let her. The way I was crying, I could barely see the road. Jimmy’s cell phone sat on the seat next to me, charger attached. When it was juiced, I could play back his message, hear his voice a final time. It was a poor substitute for the man I loved.
The police station was up on a hill, past some tennis courts and just beyond the community center. The building was clean and pale, blocky and low. It looked like a town swim complex.
In the parking lot, I took a few minutes to compose myself. I looked awful: puffy eyes, sallow complexion. I’d managed to spend three days in Maui without getting anything resembling a tan. My hair was lank and dirty. My clothes—a yellow Lands’ End T-shirt and navy shorts—were rumpled.
Everyone looked up when I walked in the door, and then a couple of officers immediately looked at the ground. Two phone lines rang at once, a police radio blared, desk drawers jangled, a computer printer whirred. I heard the terms domestic incident, stolen bicycle, smashed windshield, assault and battery.
Detective McGuinn came to me. “Good morning, Miss Shea.” He was about my age, a little chubby, with curly brown hair, dark eyes, and a kind face. I nodded to him, unable to speak. He didn’t say aloha, I thought absurdly.
“You probably saw the newspaper this morning. I hope it didn’t take you off guard. But when someone goes missing, we like to get the word out. The more eyes the better.” He motioned to the back of the room. “Please—come with me.”
I stood still for a moment, the now-familiar sensation of coldness washing over me. As long as the detective didn’t tell me that Jimmy’s body had been found, he might still be alive. I couldn’t let him tell me.
Fighting the urge to flee, I finally began my slow walk across the room. I didn’t notice her until I sat down: a young woman, in her twenties, with long dark hair cut in elaborate layers and streaked with gold. Her generous lips were pillowy, as if she’d been crying. Carefully arched eyebrows framed light brown eyes accented by (apparently) waterproof mascara. Unnaturally large breasts spilled out of a black halter top, the top of a tattoo peeking over the fabric. Her tiny shorts and high heels were both white.
“Miss Shea, I’d like you to meet Tiara Cardenas. Miss Cardenas, this is Jane Shea.”
I tried to force a smile but couldn’t. Her eyes flickered over me and then returned to the floor.
“We received a call from Miss Cardenas early this morning. Her boyfriend is also missing.”
I felt a sudden bond with this sniffling, big-breasted woman. “Oh God—I’m so sorry. Did he—was he in the water?”
“I don’t know,” she whimpered. “Last I saw him, he was in our”—here she paused to sob—“hotel room. We’d just”—sob—“made”—sob—“love.” She began to wail.
The detective cleared his throat. “When Miss Cardenas’s boyfriend left their hotel room yesterday morning, he told her he was planning to scuba dive.”
“The currents were so strong!” I said. “There should have been signs up. Warnings.”
Tiara nodded, too wrecked to speak.
Suddenly I realized why Tiara and I had been brought together—and it wasn’t to form a support group. I gawked at the detective. “You found a body, didn’t you?” I gasped, comprehension dawning. “But you don’t know which one of them it is.”
Tiara looked up, horrified. We locked eyes and then glanced hurriedly away, both struck by the same thought: Let it be her boyfriend, not mine.
“Does either of you have a picture of your companion?” the officer asked.
“I don’t,” I said. For a while I’d kept some shots on my cell phone. I’d flashed them proudly while visiting my sister at Christmas (she’d long since deleted the one I’d e-mailed). I’d never printed the pictures, though—it seemed too possessive, too serious—and I’d deleted them in anger one evening after Jimmy canceled our plans so he could take a customer out to dinner.
“How about you, Miss Cardenas?” the detective asked. “Any photos?”
Tiara bit her hand and sniffled. “I can’t show them to you.”
“It would be very helpful,” the officer said, not explaining the obvious: a picture might save one of us from having to view . . . whatever was left. At least the damage couldn’t be too gruesome if a snapshot was enough to identify the body.
“In the pictures I have of him—I’m in them, too,” Tiara said, nibbling on a bright pink fingernail.
“That’s really not a problem,” the officer said. “Unless you’re—oh!” His eyes popped.
“It was just a—it was a private thing,” Tiara said. “Between consenting adults.”
I can’t wait to tell Jimmy about this girl’s naked pictures, I thought for an instant before realizing he wasn’t here to tell. Jimmy would have thought this was hysterical. If only it were all a joke, if only there weren’t two men missing, at least one of them almost certainly dead. The diamond felt heavy on my left hand. I rubbed it with my other hand as if doing so would yield three wishes. Right now I’d settle for one.
“Perhaps you can describe your boyfriend, Miss Cardenas,” the officer said.