Oh, well, she was sure her cousin would be happy with Dr. Trenton. If not, Dee would be happy enough for both of them to have a titled man in the family.
She turned her attention to more pleasurable reading—the university newsletters. Occasionally, Dr. Nell Oney, the ethics professor who’d mentored her and suggested she become involved with Rescue, wrote a feature column. And sometimes Carl Seger’s name was mentioned within the pages since he was active in coordinating alumni activities. Roxann rolled down Goldie’s windows and scoured the newsletters while loitering in the United States Postal Service parking lot.
Homecoming week was just around the corner, with lots of activities planned to raise money for a new student counseling center—a brick sale, a bike-a-thon, and a bachelor auction. Her heart skipped a beat when she spotted a black-and-white candid of the man who hadn’t been far from her thoughts today.
Dr. Carl Seger, theology professor and coach of the varsity soccer team, will be the guest bachelor auctioned off as part of the Homecoming fund-raising events.
The man still had all of his glorious salt-and-pepper hair. She rubbed her finger over his handsome face, his winning smile, and nostalgia warmed her limbs. Assuming the picture was current, he’d barely aged a day in the decade since she’d seen him. The fact that he was still single surprised her, since the man wasn’t exactly short of admirers. If his classes were still eighty-percent female, he’d probably fetch a hefty sum at the auction.
She’d counted herself among the smitten. Dr. Carl had held her spellbound from the first moment she’d walked into his freshman theology class. Handsome, thoughtful, articulate. In comparison, most of the college boys were hopelessly immature. She and Angora had attended his class together as freshmen and whiled away many pajama powwows spinning fantasies about the man.
But because Angora had moved out of the dorm, she wasn’t privy to the relationship that developed between Roxann and Dr. Carl during their senior year.
“After you graduate,” he’d murmured once in the library stacks, “we won’t have to hide our feelings.” The unrealized sexual energy between them had been palpable, and had left her damp and sleepless more nights in the dorm than she cared to recall.
But mere days before graduation, Nell Oney had paid her a visit. Carl was being brought before the Board of Regents to defend allegations of impropriety with a student. He was, after all, a professor of theology, and a deacon of the university church. Knowing she herself was the student in question, Roxann agreed to leave until things settled down.
At Nell’s urging, she’d joined the Rescue program, and moved to Memphis, where a facilitator was needed, but remained poised to leave as soon as Carl called. Except when he’d called, it was to beg her understanding for choosing his job over her. If he were ruined, he’d told her in a tortured voice, he’d have nothing to offer her, and honor dictated that he stay. Of course she understood. She’d cried for a month, then thrown herself into her volunteer work, determined to prove something to Carl, even if he never knew.
Seeing his picture brought all that pent-up longing flooding back to her. Everybody had one person in their past, one person who evoked questions of what might have been. Other men had come and gone, men who on the surface appeared to be concerned with the state of the world but, when it came right down to it, were unwilling to do more than write a letter or don a T-shirt for the cause.
Her former lover Richard Funderburk fit that category—he made the bar circuit with his guitar and his backpack, singing about the indulgences of man, then took his pay in Canadian beer. She would lie in bed after cryptic sex and wonder if she would ever again meet someone who moved her as much as Carl had without even touching her.
She closed the newsletter, then blinked her eyes wider at an old photo of herself on the back page under a caption that read “We Remember.” In the dated photo, her mouth was open, delivering a yell, and she hefted an unreadable protest sign. In 1994 political-science student Roxann Beadleman led a protest against modesty discrimination in the art department that resulted in policy change.
Roxann smiled wryly, remembering the rally. The art department had sponsored a show of nudes drawn from live models, but the drawings of the male models had featured little flaps of canvas over their privates that observers had to lift for a peek. The drawings of the female models, on the other hand, were free of the “modesty flaps.” Roxann had been outraged at the discrepancy and led a march to have the flaps removed.
When political cartoons in national papers began to parody the issue, school officials caved. But her newly won notoriety made it difficult to see Carl on the sly. Then the allegations against him had ensued and she’d left South Bend to embark on what now seemed a fairly aimless path.
Roxann drove toward her apartment wrapped in a swirl of bittersweet memories, trying to ignore the clench of yearning in her stomach. The road not taken taunted her—marriage, family, a permanent address, Sunday pot roast. Maybe she hadn’t fought hard enough for Carl. She’d told him countless times that she didn’t believe in marriage. No wonder he hadn’t put his career and church appointment on the line…
She hadn’t given him reason to believe she was commitment material.
And how could she be? Then or now. Between her parents’ fiasco of a marriage and her exposure to the underbelly of relationships through Rescue, she was much more familiar, perhaps even more comfortable, with dysfunction.
Feeling prickly, Roxann parked in a multilevel garage, then walked two blocks before slipping between two houses. After veering right, she tramped through high grass to get to the backyard of her duplex. With one last look over her shoulder, and Capistrano’s threat running through her head, she climbed the small stoop and removed her door key from her bag.
“Hi, Roxann!”
She nearly swallowed her tongue before she realized that Mr. Nealy was standing at the rear entrance of his side of the duplex, leaning on a broom. “Hello, Mr. Nealy.”
He doffed his plaid flop hat—which might have matched his pants if they’d been the same color. Or the same plaid. “You’re home early.”
She nodded and smiled, loath to engage in a drawn-out conversation.
“Has your roommate come back?”
She shook her head—another land-mine subject.
“Never liked her myself,” he said.
Not sure how to respond without encouraging more trashing of Elise, she said nothing.
“I was thinking that since you’re alone now, er, perhaps you’d like to join me for dinner tonight?”
At the jaunty set of his chin, she realized incredulously that the old man was hitting on her. The people who had shown a love interest in her lately were a lesbian and a senior citizen.
“Thank you, Mr. Nealy, but I can’t.” Even though she was hungry enough to eat his hat.
“You know, Roxann, if you ever need anything, anything at all, you can call on me.” His voice was spookily wistful. His wife had died in the flower bed a year ago, before Roxann had moved in.
“Th-thank you, Mr. Nealy. Have a nice evening.”
He winked and disappeared into his unit. Sighing in relief, she inserted her key into the lock, surprised when the door swung open with no resistance.
Somebody had been there.
Objects overturned, drawers upended. She froze, her ears pricked for any sound that would indicate the intruder was still inside, but only silence greeted her. As a precaution, she reached into her gym bag and withdrew a can of pepper spray. For a split second, she considered yelling for Mr. Nealy, but then thought better—she might have to save them both. With her heart pounding, she moved toward the TV room, her weapon poised, her muscles twitching in case she had to unleash a few well-placed kickboxing moves: kneecap, groin, nose. She suddenly regretted missing class the last two weeks.
Motives swirled through her mind. Burglary? If so, the perp would have been mightily disappointed. Apart from a broken strand of pearls, she had little wort
h stealing. In the living room, cushions were turned and books scattered. The TV had been tumbled, probably because the thief had been irritated to find an unimpressive nineteen-inch model with a garbage bag twistie for a knob.
Had the person been looking for something in particular? She gingerly rounded the corner to Elise’s former bedroom, which sat empty except for a box of clothes for Goodwill, now thrown helter-skelter.
The sight of her own bedroom made her ill, the Terra-cotta Summer wall paint notwithstanding. Her closet door stood open, and clothes had been dumped on her bed. Bureau drawers hung open, the rug was upturned. From her desk, the blue monitor of the aged computer glared at her, and her initial relief that it hadn’t been stolen was replaced by apprehension when she saw from the doorway that words had been typed on the screen. Only after she checked the bathroom and under the bed did she concede she was alone, and made her way back to the computer.
I’VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, YOU FAKE.
The blinking cursor was a silent exclamation point. She stumbled backward and fell hard on her tailbone. Warm blood oozed around her teeth from having bitten her tongue, and her mouth sang with pain. She scrambled to her feet, still staring at the screen. The words were personal, not the mischief of a random intruder.
I’ve got your number.
Was the message literal, meaning the person knew her unlisted information? Or figurative, meaning they had damning information about her? Her mind raced, sifting through the list of people who could have broken in and taken the time to leave an enigmatic calling card.
Frank Cape? He might have tracked down her address hoping to scare her into revealing Melissa’s whereabouts. In the newspaper exposé, the thwarted husband had used the word fake a half-dozen times. Those Rescue people are a bunch of fakes. Frank could have simply borrowed the wording.
Richard Funderburk? When she and a few of his friends had confronted him about his drinking, his reaction had stunned her—ugly, vengeful, and defensive. I’ll get you back, you self-righteous fake.
Elise? Roxann had asked for the key when she moved out, but Elise could’ve had a spare. During their argument following Elise’s shocking announcement, hadn’t Elise used the word fake? You led me on with your fake friendship.
Detective Capistrano? He hadn’t bothered to hide his disdain for her and the program. Unless you’re a fake. Maybe he was desperate enough to search her place for clues about Melissa Cape and make it look like a breakin.
Or—she swallowed hard—was the past catching up with her? A dirty little secret that sometimes jolted her awake from a deep sleep to remind her that the venerable life she’d built had been the fruit of a poisonous tree. But no one knew about those circumstances except Angora, and it didn’t seem likely she’d be terrorizing Roxann when she was on the verge of getting married. Besides, Angora had just as much to lose if the truth were revealed… maybe more.
She shook away the useless train of thought, forcing herself to deal with the immediate situation: call the police and report the breakin. But halfway to the phone she stopped. And tell them what?
That a man might be after her because she helped his ex-wife disappear, oh, and by the way, the woman is a material witness to a crime in which a cop was shot, but no, she can’t reveal the woman’s whereabouts.
And did she mention that her former roommate might be out for revenge because she had rebuked the woman’s advances?
Or that her former lover had threatened to teach her a lesson for embarrassing him with an intervention?
Plus she’d talked just this morning with one of their detectives who might have taken the law into his own hands to get the answers she wouldn’t give him?
The police would show up all right—with a net.
She performed a cursory search to see if anything was missing, although it was hard to tell. Her scant costume jewelry had been rifled, but her broken pearls were safe in the glue-bound teacup she’d kept all these years. Her personal files were in disarray, but it was policy not to keep Rescue records at home—she even shredded names and phone numbers scribbled on scratch sheets of paper. The contents of her shredder had been strewn, which led her to believe that either the intruder hadn’t been searching for anything in particular, or had simply given up. Somebody had wanted to scare her, to send her a message.
A quick check of the windows showed no signs of forced entry, and the door hadn’t been jimmied. Someone with a key, or a good lock-pick. She yanked out a duffel bag and stuffed in clothes as she found them, along with a few personal items. On the way to the back door, she noticed her land-line phone-message light was flashing—a rarity.
Holding her breath, she pressed the button. Two hang-ups, then some heavy wheezing that sent a chill up her spine, then another hang-up. She erased the messages, then nearly lost the contents of her bladder when the phone rang. It took her three rings to find the cordless receiver. She hit the talk button, heart leaping in her chest. “Hello?”
“Last chance—I’m thawing a rump roast.”
She closed her eyes and asked herself why she’d given the man her phone number. “Thanks, Mr. Nealy. Really.” She winced at the rhyme. “But I’m going out of town for a few days.”
“Is something wrong, dear? You don’t sound like yourself.”
“No, nothing’s wrong. Mr. Nealy, you didn’t happen to see anyone outside today, did you?”
“No. Why?”
“I’ve been expecting a package, that’s all.”
“Oh. Shall I water your plants while you’re gone?”
“No, that’s not necessary.” She had no plants.
“Well, I’ll keep an eye out for your package.”
“Thanks. But don’t open your door to a stranger.”
“Oh… kay.”
No need to take chances if the culprit was some kind of neighborhood gang. She promised to join him for dinner when she returned, and he seemed satisfied.
She slung the duffel over her shoulder and headed for the door, her mind spinning. She’d pick up Goldie, alert the home office that she was being harassed, and hit the road while she considered whether she needed to find a new place to five.
Her mail was scattered across the kitchen floor where she’d dropped it in her haste to arm herself. She scooped up the envelopes, stopping at the sight of the wedding invitation on top. An idea bloomed.
The nuptials were to take place tomorrow afternoon in the showiest cathedral in Baton Rouge. She could get a hotel room tonight, be in her hometown by noon tomorrow, catch the highlights of the wedding, then swing by to argue with her old man for a while. It might even be fun to see Angora again, and to check out her doctor man. Heck, it would be worth it to drop in without an RSVP just to piss off Aunt Dee.
And, in truth, it would be nice to take a break from reality, to peek in on her cousin’s charmed life until she could clear the cobwebs in her own head.
Minutely cheered, Roxann slipped out the door and locked it behind her.
Chapter 4
“On three, ladies. One… two… three.”
Angora Ryder strained not to blink, but from the photographer’s post-click frown, she suspected she had. Her first childhood memory was of being posed and photographed, but today she couldn’t stop blinking for some reason. A nervous tic?
“Let’s try it again,” he intoned. “On three.”
Her mother stood beside the camera pointing to her own cheeks and mouthing, “Watch the laugh lines.”
Watch the laugh lines. Dee’s mantra. After thirty-two years, Angora realized it was the closest thing to motherly advice she was going to get. Well, today was her wedding day, darn it, so she was going to smile. Some. If only she could keep from blinking.
“Let’s try it again,” the photographer bellowed, eyeing her.
October thirteenth, at last. She was minutes away from marrying an intelligent, handsome doctor. Then she would embark on a three-week honeymoon to Hawaii, and upon return, Dr. and Mrs. Trenton Robert Coughlin (
she loved the way that sounded) were moving to Chicago. Trenton had landed a spot with a prestigious podiatry practice, and she had snagged a position with the number one art agency in the Windy City. So what if the owner’s passion for Notre Dame and its progeny had cinched the offer?—she would prove her worth when she discovered the next Kandinsky. She just needed a chance. And maybe a brilliant secretary.
Goodbye, cataloging exhibits at the Baton Rouge River Walk Museum. Goodbye, overbearing mother. Goodbye, Angora Michele Ryder. Hello, Life.
“I think I got it that time,” the photographer said. “Okay, ladies, I need for you to turn sideways and move in as close as possible so I can get the fountain behind you.”
Twenty-four bridesmaids in primrose pink. Angora inhaled as the girls on either side squeezed in closer. Not an easy feat to round up twenty-four girls from the club who weren’t pregnant or who hadn’t already ballooned up because they’d been married too long to care, but she’d done it. True, three of the girls she barely knew, but they came from very good families, and twelve maids on each side of her would look splendid in the photos.
She’d wanted to ask her cousin Roxann to be a bridesmaid, but her mother had vehemently refused. Dee detested Roxann, which was a shame since she was Dee’s only flesh-and-blood niece, but things were what they were.
“Angora, darling, stop frowning,” her mother called.
She smiled, which triggered the pantomimed reminder about laugh lines, so she tried to fix her face into the nonsmiling, nonfrowning expression her mother had patented.
If truth be known, Dee hated Roxann because Roxann was smart. Smarter than anyone Angora knew, and certainly smarter than anyone in the family, including Dee with all her conniving talent, so devious at times it bordered on admirable.
“Your cousin is a beatnik lesbian and I won’t have her at the wedding,” her mother had declared when Angora proposed the idea.
She had nearly burst out laughing. Roxann, a lesbian? Her cousin had taught her how to give a blowjob on a tube of toothpaste. Roxann could recite verbatim entire chapters from How to Make Love to a Man, and had been working her way through the positions illustrated in The Joy of Sex. When Angora had been forced to leave the dorm, Roxann and her poet grad-student boyfriend were up to “the Figure Eight.” She always wondered how that one had turned out.
Got Your Number Page 3