by Nancy Martin
I closed my eyes and leaned back against the staircase. One of the spindles in the hand railing fell out and landed in my lap. I shoved it back where it belonged. Michael straightened it, and we both steadied it in place, holding our breath that it would stay put. Then his hand turned gentle on mine.
I looked up at him and knew it was time for a serious talk. “I’m getting uncomfortable, Michael. Who was that gentleman weeping in my driveway?”
He pulled his hand from mine. “My embezzler. The guys found him for me and brought him here without asking. Sorry.”
“Where are the . . . um . . . guys taking him now? He’s not going to sleep with the fishes, is he?”
I was almost joking, and Michael knew it. He smiled wryly. “It didn’t hurt that he thought he might get wet.”
“Michael . . .”
“I know I shouldn’t bring this stuff into your house, especially now with everything else you’re coping with. I’m sorry. But I’m between a rock and a hard place. I have to settle business personally, at least at first. And I can’t let somebody steal from me and just roll over, either. If I let that happen, everybody’s going to try to bulldoze me, and that’s just . . . embarrassing.”
“So what are you doing to your embezzler?”
“He’s going to disappear for a while. No, don’t panic. We asked him some questions, and he spilled a little, but then he clammed up. Sometimes interrogation goes better if you just let his imagination run wild for a while. I’ll send him off to a safe house to sweat more information out of him.”
“And to allow your enemies to think he’s dead? Oh, Michael—”
“Take it easy. Can I help it if my enemies—that’s your word, not mine—can I help it if they think the worst? He’ll be fine. In a few hours, he’ll be up to his ears in pizza and all the ESPN he can take.”
“Meanwhile, the rest of the underworld is supposed to think you’ve killed him.”
“Can I help it if they have good imaginations?”
I didn’t like the situation, but I couldn’t offer any alternatives. It all made me uneasy—as if we were starting down a slippery slope. But I had to trust that Michael knew what he was doing.
“And your other problem? Your daughter?”
He sighed, and I could see embezzlement hadn’t been on the front burner of his mind. We were all trying to cope with too many things. He said, “That’s a different animal altogether.”
“You talked to her again? What’s her name, by the way?”
“Carrie. Yeah, we talked again last night. For a long time. I think she was hoping I’d be a TV dad who smokes a pipe and would give her an allowance. I was honest with her—as much as I could be on a telephone that might be tapped. She’s disappointed I’m not what she expected. A little mad, too, I guess. There was a lot of silence on the phone. We’re both—I dunno. This is going to take some time.”
I slipped my arms around him. “I wish I could help.”
“I wish you could, too.” He rested his chin on top of my head. “But you’ve got your own troubles.”
“Yes. I’m going to see Sutherland tonight. I have to find out what really happened to Madeleine, and he obviously knows. I can’t stand the idea of her reputation being ruined.”
“You going alone?” Michael asked dangerously.
“I don’t need one of your wise guys tagging along.” Perhaps my voice was cooler than I intended. I pulled out of his embrace. “Sorry,” I said. “I must be more shaken up than I thought. What a mess. I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted just when you’ve come home.”
“You’re not the only one who’s distracted.” He ran his thumb under the neckline of my sweater and touched bare skin. “I’m sorry about last night, Nora. Believe me, it wasn’t the way I wanted our first night to go.”
I smiled a little, feeling my skin turn warm beneath his gentle caress. “Me neither. I bought new underwear.”
His gaze sharpened. “Oh, yeah? Can I see it now?”
I touched his face. “Later. When we have enough time for you to appreciate it properly.”
He eased closer for a kiss. “I don’t think there’s going to be anything proper going on.”
CHAPTER NINE
Before the kiss got good and steamy, we heard raised voices from the kitchen.
“He’s not even walking yet!” Emma said. “He couldn’t kick a football now if you put it in his lap! As usual, you’re being an idiot!”
Michael and I reached the kitchen in time to see Libby spread a colorful brochure on the table. It pictured young children playing various sports and looking as cheerful as the Hitler Youth.
“If you plan to keep your baby, Emma, you could share your child-rearing opinions as much as you like. But we all know you’re not the motherly type, so kindly keep your rude suggestions to yourself.”
Emma made the rudest of suggestions.
Libby swelled with offense. “You don’t know a single thing about children! Have you even started taking Lamaze classes yet?”
“I’ll wing it,” Emma said tartly. “If you can do it, I should be able to muddle through.”
“Hey,” I said, trying to restore peace. “There’s no need to start insulting each—”
“Who’s going to be your partner?” Libby inquired. “A stranger off the street, like all of your other paramours? Or the baby’s actual father?”
“Leave him out of it,” Emma snapped.
Michael and I exchanged uneasy glances.
Libby said, “Surely you’ve been in touch with him lately. Shared the usual milestones with him? Has he seen the sonogram films?”
Emma’s face settled into sullen lines. “No.”
“Did he go with you to hear the baby’s heartbeat?”
“Is this any of your business?”
“I’m just wondering, Emma, what you’re thinking. Having a baby is not like buying a few wild ponies and keeping them in Nora’s pasture for her to look after. Have you decided to keep this child? You, of all people? The one who thinks cereal is a food group? I’ve known cats who are more responsible than you are!”
“Libby,” I began. But Michael squeezed my hand.
Emma said, “I can do my own damn thinking without any help from you. Either one of you.” She jabbed her finger in my direction.
As luck would have it, Michael’s cell phone rang in his pocket. Reluctantly, he pulled it out and checked the screen. He sent me an apologetic look and headed for the door. Whether he was off to talk to his newfound daughter or negotiate the end of illegal gambling in the tristate area, I couldn’t guess. When he had closed the door quietly behind himself, Libby launched the rest of her ammunition.
“Emma, you’ve been around during all my pregnancies, my ups and downs, my highs and lows. You’ve seen how difficult child-rearing can be, how draining it is for a single woman—even one as unsinkable as I am. I can’t believe you haven’t reached a few conclusions about your own situation by now. What are you going to do? Wait until you’re in labor before you make your decision? Leave a basket on a stranger’s doorstep?”
“Take it easy,” I said.
“No, Nora, it’s time Emma made a choice. Where, exactly, is Hart in this equation?”
Emma glared at her in silence.
“Are you prepared to raise this child alone? Because, to be honest, dear sister, I don’t see you managing everything. Not while continuing to conduct your life the way you have been. Forget a Grand Prix career. You can’t jump in a truck and go to a horse show in Florida when you feel like it. And you certainly can’t go running off to meet your randy young men at all hours of the night.”
“Okay, maybe having a kid isn’t exactly my kind of gig,” Emma said, pointing at her stomach. “What am I supposed to do about it now?”
“Have you thought about adoption?”
“Of course I have.”
“What about Nora and That Man of Hers? Have you considered asking them to raise this child?”
&nbs
p; Emma shoved her plate away and got up from the table with surprising speed. “I may not be the best decision maker in this family, but even I can see what kind of risk that would be.”
“Risk?” I said carefully, determined not to lose my cool.
“What risk?” Libby demanded.
“Listen.” Emma planted a forefinger on the table. “I like Mick as much as the next person. He’s a good guy under the whole Corleone thing. One of the best. But do I want my kid sleeping in a bed that might end up with a horse’s head in it?”
“What nonsense,” Libby said.
“Is it?” Emma transferred her glare to me. “You’ve got armed guards at your front door, Nora. And Mick has an official bodyguard now. The guy running numbers down at the ice cream parlor is ready to start a gang war because he’s being driven out of business. So how come you aren’t the pregnant one here, Sis? Don’t tell me it’s because you haven’t been lucky. It’s at least partly because you’re afraid to bring a kid into his world.”
I said, “Michael would protect a child with his life.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Emma said. “I don’t want him dead any more than you do. There aren’t any easy decisions around here, see? All I’m saying is—oh, hell.”
Libby stood up to give her a hug, but Emma shoved out of her embrace and slammed out of the house. I rushed to the door in time to see her brush past Michael, Bruno and Ralphie. With a stormy look on her face, she climbed into her truck and fired up the engine.
Beside me, Libby said, “Well, that didn’t go very well.” She sat down again at the table to fold up her brochure. “I started some research about Aunt Madeleine’s art collection. Would you like to hear?”
Shaken, I managed to say, “I’m not sure I could absorb any information right now, Lib.”
“No?” She checked the clock on the wall. “Just as well. I missed aromatherapy, but I can just make my Zumba class if I take off right now, so we’ll have to talk about this later. Bye-bye.”
I opened my mouth but decided trying to be reasonable with Libby was a lost cause.
I went upstairs to change my clothes. I tried to forget what Emma had said in the heat of the moment. Maybe she was right. But I didn’t want to think about it. Not now, while Aunt Madeleine was on my mind.
Upstairs, I reached for my trusty black Calvin Klein pencil skirt. Wearing that skirt, I could show up with confidence to anything from a Little League game to a formal gala—depending on accessories, of course. Likewise, my black Chanel boots. I pulled a cotton camisole from Target over my head and finished off the look with an Alexander McQueen jacket from a few seasons back. The fabric was a swirl of different colors, but mostly blue, with tiny feathers woven into the warp. It had come from Penny Devine, a Hollywood star who decided to chuck fame and fortune for a life on the beach with a rotation of handsome young men. I put on her jacket and felt as if I could conquer Louis B. Mayer and anyone else who got in my way.
When I came back downstairs, Libby had gone and Michael was busy in the library. He had the television turned on to the futures market, the sound off.
With the phone pinned to his shoulder, Michael spread his hands apologetically at me, but his voice was cold. “No,” he said to his caller. “The price per gallon should be based on the cost per barrel in the futures. So don’t try to finesse me, Dave. I can see the numbers right here on my screen. I can go to your competitor, you know. He’s a phone call away.”
Bruno lounged on the windowsill, chewing on a toothpick and staring out the window with an expression that communicated how hard he wasn’t listening to Michael’s phone conversation about the price of gasoline. I wondered if he had a gun under his pinstripes. Or was Michael adhering to the letter of the law and making sure no weapons were in the house? I fervently hoped so.
I gave Michael a kiss on the cheek and didn’t interrupt. I could wait to discuss Emma’s outburst when we were alone this evening. Surely we’d also talk then about the latest development with—what was her name? Carrie? My head spun just thinking of all the new wrinkles in our lives.
I went outside, where the pig had taken up a position on the porch. He looked up alertly as I came through the door, but disappointment quickly clouded his piggy gaze.
“Sorry, Ralphie,” I said. “Michael’s busy.”
Ralphie settled down to wait.
“He loves barbecue,” I warned.
Ralphie’s expression said he doubted me.
Beside Bruno’s parked car, the SUV and Reed waited for me. He already had the milk stool in place at the rear passenger door.
Reed glanced at my face. “You don’t look happy.”
“If I have to ride in this behemoth again, at least let me drive it as far as the end of the driveway.”
Reed’s eyes popped wide with consternation. “Now? You want to try driving now? With Mick watching?”
“He’s on the phone.”
“But—”
“Just to the end of the driveway.”
Reed set his jaw, but he couldn’t resist for long. He helped me up behind the wheel, then climbed into the passenger seat, buckled his seat belt and pulled it extra tight. “Take it slow,” he said. “Really, really, really slow.”
I tried a K-turn first, but to turn the big vehicle around took me several laborious maneuvers, and Reed let out one strangled yelp when I got a tiny bit too close to the pasture fence.
“Take a chill pill, Reed. I’m doing fine.”
I could have sworn he gave a little whimper.
I finally got the SUV headed in the right direction and put my foot on the accelerator. The vehicle jumped, and gravel flew, so I hit the brakes, and Reed’s head snapped forward. I tried inching my way around the side of the house and finally straightened out and headed for the road.
“Slow,” Reed said, gripping the door handle as if his life depended on it. “Slower. Please, slower!”
I smiled to see Michael’s men all scattering in mock terror. I didn’t expect any of them to have a sense of humor. When I finally got the SUV stopped, they crept out from behind the safety of their vehicles.
As I climbed down from the driver’s seat, I realized I had put the front tire of the SUV halfway into the drainage ditch.
“Funny how it’s so hard to judge distances when you’re sitting up so high,” I said.
“It’s okay,” Reed said, sounding calmer.
“You see? I’m getting much better, Reed. I just need to practice.”
Without a word, he helped me up into the backseat and drove me into the city.
In the backseat, I wrote my daily letter to Lexie. Usually I filled my notes with silly news, but today I took the time to describe the arrival of Michael’s daughter. That news would surely break up the monotony of prison life. I decided not to write about the latest development in Aunt Madeleine’s story. By tomorrow, I’d have answers from Sutherland and everything would make sense. At least, I hoped so.
After finishing the letter, I got to work. In recent weeks, I had begun reviving the custom of including society weddings in the lifestyle section of the paper. A while back, the editors had cut weddings entirely, and they refused to believe that the subsequent drop in newspaper subscriptions was a related phenomenon. But I’d started doing a cute Q&A with newly married couples—asking how they’d met, where the proposal happened, details about their wedding and honeymoon. I printed the interviews with photos. My gut feeling? Everybody loves a love story. Especially with pictures of dresses and shy little boys carrying pillows. Interest in the page had shot through the roof, so I’d been given the go-ahead to do more.
Choosing which wedding to feature had become a tough job, though. Families flooded me with e-mails and letters. Sorting through it all had become a time-consuming chore. But a fun one.
As I pulled all the papers from my bag, I came across the card I’d received from the young woman who had accosted me outside the hotel after the MEWA dinner. I sat back and read her na
me again. Zareen Aboudi.
I stewed for a while. Zareen had a problem, all right, but I was the wrong person to help her with it.
Except . . .
I’d been helpless to do anything for Lexie during her courtroom drama. And I wasn’t doing much good for Emma at the moment, so I really wanted to do something useful for at least one person in the world.
Perhaps I could call Anahita about Zareen’s plight. Even though Anahita had complained about getting phone calls about every woman wearing a hijab, she was my only option. She might have a suggestion about how to help someone slip out of Syria long enough to visit a sick relative.
I pulled out my phone and took a chance on reaching Anahita at her office. But she was busy with a client, so I ended up leaving a message. I explained the situation and asked her for advice. Before the beep, I said I’d call her back sometime soon.
That done, I tucked Zareen’s card into the front pocket of my bag for later.
My first stop of the day was a children’s party at the museum. I dashed up the steps where part of the Rocky movie had been filmed and worked my way through the crowd of museum-goers who were leaving for the day.
In a distant room, I found the party. Perhaps it was the wrong event for me to attend after Emma’s hurtful remarks, but I had already responded that I’d show up. I tried to adjust my attitude as I walked through the door. The event was intended to raise money for a new program to expose underserved children to making and appreciating many forms of art. Some organizer had the brilliant idea of mixing kids from a homeless shelter with the brightly dressed four-year-olds from families who donated money to such causes. I took one look at the room full of kids wearing smocks and flinging paint at big rolls of paper and wondered if perhaps the cultural mix had been too ambitious. The intrusive suburban mothers were all talking to the homeless children in loud, patronizing voices. And all the kids just looked as if they wanted to splash their paint.
I snapped a couple of pictures and spoke to one of the moms I recognized.
“Oh, Nora!” She shook my hand. “I’m Reggie Markelson. We met at the party for the animal shelter. I wore a red dress by Tory Burch, remember? You took my picture for a Web site.”