by Jean Stone
He moaned. “Oh, God, Kris …”
“Sssh,” she whispered. “Just let it feel good, Edmund. Just let yourself feel good.” She closed her eyes, and as she did Kris realized that tears were there—tears of joy, tears of peace.
From somewhere below them, a loud banging began.
Edmund raised his head. “What the hell …?”
Her hand slipped from its place. “Edmund, wait …”
The pounding continued.
“Shit,” he said, and slumped his head back on the pillow. “Someone’s here.”
Kris rolled onto her back. “More reporters.”
“Why? Haven’t they had their fill?” He pushed back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. She could not see, but Kris suspected his wonderful erection was now gone.
Rising from the bed he pulled on his pants. “I’m going to stop this once and for all. I’m telling them to get the hell off this estate or I’m calling the police.”
Kris sighed and got out of bed. “Edmund, I’ll go.”
“No. I can face them, Kris. I’m not a child.”
She winced at the sound of his anger. He stormed from the room as she pulled on the sweats she had worn last night—last night, which had become so magical and now had so quickly dissolved.
Running her hand through her hair, Kris followed his lead from the room and headed down the stairs. As she reached the landing she heard Edmund open the door.
“Mr. Desauliers,” came the now-familiar voice of Sergeant Donnelly.
Kris held herself back and stayed on the landing, out of eyesight but not out of earshot.
“It’s a bit early for harassing people, isn’t it?” Edmund asked.
“Depends on whether or not you’ve got a murder to solve.”
Edmund said nothing.
Kris felt her heart beat softly under her sweatshirt.
“Some new information has come to light, and we’d like you to come down to the station.”
“Have you … have you found her body?”
“No. But we have learned something else that perhaps you can help us with.”
Kris leaned against the railing, waiting, waiting.
“Well?” Edmund finally said; “what is it?”
“It’s quite simple, Mr. Desauliers. We know about you. And we know about Helen Larson.”
• • •
The sex last night had been phenomenal.
Larry lay on his back, listening to the soft snores of Grady beside him, and decided this was a delicious way to begin a new year, the year that would be the best of his life.
He put his arms up over his head and stretched, a grin passing over his face.
Everything was so fucking good.
Yesterday he had signed the papers on the villa in Spain. The bank had not hesitated to give him a two million dollar mortgage; his half-million down payment had secured it.
It had been close, though. Rupert’s had been ready to back out of the deal, until he’d convinced Sondra that her future was at stake.
“It’s your last chance to thank Abigail,” he’d pleaded, “for all she did for you. And it will make your father happy.”
Sondra had smiled and done what was needed.
Yes, she told the Rupert’s group with confidence, they were going to be a team even bigger than Abigail herself. They were young. They had the contacts, the savvy, and the name Abigail Hardy. They would build an additional audience of single mothers. They’d quickly draw all of America into their fold.
Rupert’s said perhaps they should put a six-month hold on the deal.
Then Larry convinced them that six months without Abigail’s name or Abigail’s legacy would only harm the ultimate results.
“We need to secure things now,” he’d told them. “While the pain of her death is still … fresh.” He’d wanted to say while it was still breakfast-table gossip, but he decided that sounded too harsh.
Unbelievably, they had agreed.
It was the biggest coup Larry had pulled off since he and Sondra had taken over the business, since he’d convinced her to combine her 10 percent with his 15, then won six of the other seven board members over to their side. With 55 percent of the stock in their pocket, Abigail’s 40 percent would not have mattered, even if tomorrow her body floated to the surface and she leaped from the Hudson with venom in her eyes and vengeance in her heart.
Hardy Enterprises. The Rupert’s deal. The villa in Spain. And Grady to fuck.
Yeah, Larry thought, closing his eyes, it’s going to be the best year of my life.
It must have been a dream. A very nice, very wonderful dream, but a dream nonetheless. Kris paced the library, still in yesterday’s sweats, her thoughts scattered like milkweed seeds in the wind. She’d told him he didn’t have to go, that the police could not force him to go to the station unless he was under arrest, and that they could not arrest him with no body present and no definitive evidence against him.
But Edmund had insisted.
He’d also insisted she stay behind. The look in his eyes told her he couldn’t afford to have the police know there was anything more between them than the fact that she’d been his wife’s best friend, and that now she was helping settle Abigail’s affairs.
Affairs, she thought, staring at the picture of Grandfather Hardy. The undoing of all of us. The undoing of all of us in search of love.
“Kris?”
The voice startled her. Her heart leapt to her throat. Quickly she turned. Standing in the library was Maddie.
“Maddie.”
“Kris, what’s going on? Where’s Louisa? I rang the bell. The door was open …”
“Louisa’s gone.”
“I’ve been trying to call you. I wanted to know if you’ve found out anything about Abigail …”
Maddie was dressed in sleek wool pants, a short silk sweater, a cropped wool jacket. Her hair was newly streaked blonde-over-warm-autumn-haze, her makeup was neat and subtle. The once dowdy woman looked ten years younger.
Instead of Maddie, it was now Kris who looked and felt like the image of depression captured in a living, barely breathing sculpture.
Her hands moved to her face, her shoulders began to quake, and Kris Kensington—controlled, fearless, unaffected Kris Kensington—broke down and cried.
And then Maddie’s arm was around her, holding her while her body wracked and shook with sobs, while her soul made its way to the surface, like the raw nerve of a tooth exposed to the air. Maddie said nothing but after a moment led Kris to the sofa and sat her down. Kris did not resist.
When her tears slowed, her friend spoke.
“Is it Abigail, Kris? Did you learn something?”
Kris shook her head.
“Where is Louisa? Where’s Edmund?”
The tears began again. “Oh, Maddie, I don’t know what to do. This is all my fault.”
“All your fault? What’s all your fault?”
“They think … the police … they think Edmund murdered Abigail.”
Maddie’s gasp echoed in the large room. “Murder? Edmund?”
Kris straightened her body and tried to pull herself together. “They can’t prove anything, of course. But he didn’t do it, Maddie. He couldn’t have. I still don’t think she’s dead. Oh, God, maybe she is. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“You look terrible,” Maddie said. “You’re going into the library, and I’m going to bring us some tea, and then we’re going to talk. And you’re going to tell me what’s going on All of it.”
“It started when we were sixteen” Kris told Maddie when she’d returned. “It was after the accident. I felt so guilty about Betty Ann, I guess I was desperate for someone to tell me that it was okay, that I was still a good person, that I was still worthy of being loved.”
She told Maddie that her parents, of course, had been out of the country. Istanbul, she believed, though she couldn’t remember for sure. When they’d learned of the accident they told her it must be God’s wi
ll, to go back to school, to put it behind her. They were not there, but Grandfather Hardy was.
Yes, she had wrecked his car. Yes, a young girl had been killed. It had not been many years since his son—Abigail’s father—had been killed. But until then, until Kris’s tears, he said he had never shed any himself.
Together they had cried. Together they had wept through pain and loss and guilt.
And then Kris had traded her body for love. Again and again they’d clung to each other. In the stables, in the greenhouse, in the gardens after dark, they’d made love.
“The abortion,” Maddie asked when Kris was finished, “was it …”
Slowly Kris sipped her tea. Then she nodded.
Maddie offered no comment. She interjected no judgment, but tears glistened in her eyes. She drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “After the accident,” Maddie said in a whisper, “that’s when I started eating everything I could get my hands on. I figured I was fat anyway, so it didn’t matter. I guess I was trying to stuff down my guilt with junk food and ice cream.” She sighed. “Whenever I’m upset, it’s what I still do.”
“And I have kept running to sex,” Kris said. “I’ve kept looking for a penis to make my life right. Until now.”
Maddie reached over and took Kris’s hand. “How could one incident so long ago still have such power over us?”
Kris shook her head. “You haven’t heard everything.” By the time she had finished half a cup of tea, she had told Maddie the details of Abigail’s plan: the heirloom jewelry, the suicide note on the dashboard.
“She was waiting for me to come back from L.A. She wanted me to drive her ‘getaway’ car. But everything got screwed up.” She cried again as she related to Maddie the night she’d been alone with Edmund, and the quarrel that had followed and ended with Kris confessing her secret, exposing Abigail’s grandfather.
“If only I’d never come on to Edmund. If only I’d never told her …”
“If only, if only,” Maddie said. “There are a thousand ‘if onlys’ in everyone’s life, and they don’t mean shit.”
“When I learned about the accident I assumed—I hoped—she had enlisted you to drive the car, to help her escape. Now I wonder if she hasn’t achieved the ultimate revenge—against me—by putting me through this torment.”
“Could someone else have helped her? Her assistant, what’s his name?”
“Larry? No. Abigail was angry at Larry, too. She’d discovered he wasn’t what she’d thought. Oh, Maddie, I just know Edmund had nothing to do with this. But how can I tell the police without letting on that Abigail might still be alive?”
“Even if you did tell them, you don’t have any proof.”
Kris’s heart sank. Maddie was right. There was no proof that Abigail had intended to disappear. No proof at all.
“Did you call that friend of your agent’s?” Maddie asked. “The one with the FBI?”
“He hasn’t heard from her.” She drained her cup and shivered. “I just can’t accept the fact that she’s dead, Maddie.”
“Maybe you should. Maybe you should just leave here and let Edmund work this out. If it’s true that they can’t arrest him …”
“It’s too late for that, Maddie.” She hesitated, then figured what the hell, she’d dumped everything out anyway. “I care about Edmund, Maddie.”
“Yes, but …”
“No, Maddie. I can’t leave him right now. He is too vulnerable.”
They were silent a moment, as if both were deciding if it was Edmund or Kris who was really more vulnerable.
“I slept with him last night,” Kris said.
Maddie looked at her a moment, then nodded. “It was what Abigail wanted, right?”
Kris shrugged. “So I once thought. But I don’t pretend to know much of anything anymore. Except that what happened between Edmund and me was not about sex. It was about friendship. And caring. And now I just don’t know what to do.”
The grandfather clock at the end of the room resonated the pain of their lives.
Suddenly Maddie laughed. “Probably the worst thing we ever did was come up with those damn birthday wishes. Whose idea was it, anyway?”
Kris paused. “Betty Ann’s.”
The clock ceased its chime.
“Oh,” Maddie answered.
Silence hung again. Then Kris stood up and walked to the fireplace. “Maybe we’d have been better off not to wish our lives different, but to simply be grateful for the lives that we have.”
“Don’t philosophize on me now, Kris. Parker is coming home from Paris tomorrow, and he’s leaving his new young wife behind.”
Kris cast a glance at Maddie. “No shit,” she said. And for the first time since Edmund had gone off with the police, a smile stole over her face.
Timmy had refused to go to the airport with her. “You can’t make me,” he’d barked, and stormed out of the house.
As Maddie stood now looking down the long concourse, she realized this had been brewing since Parker had left them. The tension had escalated over the years, then peaked when Timmy discovered the photos—the photos and the magazines. She doubted that her flimsy explanation had been believed by her too-bright son.
Still, it made her heart ache that Timmy wanted no part of his father, though she often wished she could feel the same. It would be so freeing; it would be so … weightless.
On the monitor that hung from the ceiling, their flight had moved to the top of the screen.
Air France. Arrival 8:45. On Time.
Her heart fluttered. She checked her watch. Eight forty-two.
Maddie had spent the entire day watching the clock. She should have been answering phone messages, checking the stock of her film and chemicals for the shoot with Howard Stern next week. Instead she’d poured over recent Our World issues—stopping, always stopping, at Parker’s picture; flipping pages forward, flipping pages back; always landing on the one-inch square of his image.
When she’d grown tired of that, she turned to the pictures from her telephoto lens.
Still, the seconds of the day had dissolved as slowly as a cube of sugar in a glass of iced tea. No word came from Kris, and Maddie was too preoccupied to try and arrive at a solution for her.
A woman brushed past her now, hurrying toward a gate. She wore sunglasses and a long wool scarf over her head. Maddie thought of Abigail. Had she done that, too? Had she tried to disguise herself and slipped out of the country? She wondered if the police had checked. If Abigail hadn’t changed her identity, surely the airlines would have a record from her passport …
Kris seemed determined to clear Edmund of suspicion. Yet how could she? And now that she’d slept with him, could Kris really be objective? What if Edmund had killed Abigail …
The flurry of airport activity increased. Sounds on the concourse increased another level as footsteps and greetings clamored all around her. Maddie stretched her head in search of Parker and Bobby. As she did, fierce pain erupted at the base of her neck. She drew back and rubbed it. Her vision blurred; pressure in her ears seemed to shut out the sounds. She lowered her eyes and felt as though she were swimming through a tunnel, a very long tunnel … Stress can often magnify menopausal symptoms, she’d read in a book.
“Hey, Mom! There she is, Dad!”
It was Bobby’s voice, somewhere in the tunnel. She raised her head and slowly blinked. Her vision returned into focus as her son approached.
She forced a smile. “Happy New Year,” she exclaimed with as much strength as she could gather, trying to keep her eyes on her son and not have them drift toward his father.
Though he protested with “Mom!” Maddie hugged Bobby; then Parker was beside her as well.
“Happy New Year, Maddie,” he said, and kissed her so quickly she wasn’t certain it had happened.
“Happy New Year,” she repeated, stepping between them and mechanically falling into the herd that trudged toward Baggage Claim, still tasting the taste of his lips on
hers and wondering why she’d chosen now to get a headache and wishing to hell it would go away.
• • •
“Tired?” she asked as she turned the car onto the ramp for the Thruway. Bobby was asleep on the backseat, headphones still over his ears. She wondered if Parker was thinking about their trips to Long Island when the boys were young, cuddled against the beach luggage, sleeping on the long drive home, only to rouse when they stopped at McDonald’s, as if Happy Meals had an aroma that triggered their wake-up alarm.
“Not really,” Parker answered. “I slept on the plane.” He’d already suggested that he drive out to Westchester with them, that he’d catch a late train back to the city and save Maddie the trip.
“Care to stop for a Big Mac?”
Parker laughed. “No. But half a bottle of wine would taste really good right about now.”
Maddie wondered if he meant that she could have the other half. Her hopes surged; her headache tingled. “There’s a new place in the village where I’m told they have a nice wine cellar.” She did not mention that Cody had been the one to tell her, one night when they went there before going to his apartment.
He glanced over at her. “I think I’ll take you up on that. But let’s drop off Junior first.”
She nodded and drove the rest of the way without speaking, letting the soothing sounds of the stereo flood through the car, easing her headache and putting Parker into what seemed to her like a comfortable doze, and hoping to God that somewhere between here and there her ex-husband would not change his mind.
It was after eleven when they all went into the house. Sophie was in her room, asleep. On the television screen an old black-and-white movie flickered. Maddie turned off the set and returned to the hall. Bobby went quickly to bed; Parker told her that Timmy, too, was asleep.
She stood nervously in the foyer. “Well,” she dared to ask, “how about that wine?”
Parker shook his head. “I’m too tired. I’d rather we just went to bed.”
Kris tossed and turned on the king-size bed.
Edmund had not returned from the police station until late.
“You’re still here,” he’d said when he walked through the door, his face drawn, his gait slow.