by Joy Fielding
Still nothing.
“I’m not leaving till I talk to you.” Amanda presses her ear against the door, waiting to pick up even the tiniest of sounds. But after several minutes, she is forced to the realization that no one is there. Is it possible the grieving family went out for breakfast? And if so, where?
Amanda runs back to the elevators, holding her finger down on the call button until an elevator finally arrives. Then she pushes through the doors before they’re fully open, stumbling into the arms of two men standing in the center of the car. Normally she would have cracked a vaguely risqué joke and walked out with at least one invitation for breakfast, but this morning is far from normal. “Sorry,” she says simply to the two men, not quite looking at either of them, and pressing the button for the Studio Café on the second floor.
The Studio Café is a long, narrow space, with lots of windows overlooking the shops along fashionable Yorkville Avenue. The furniture is modern, as is the decorative art hanging from the walls, and brightly colored glasswork occupies prominent positions throughout the room. Perhaps a dozen people are already seated, reading the morning paper and enjoying breakfast. The smell of food reminds Amanda she hasn’t had anything to eat.
“Good morning, miss.” The maître d’ gathers several large menus into his hands. “Will someone be joining you for breakfast this morning?”
“Actually, I’m just looking for someone.” Amanda’s eyes flit from one end of the room to the other. “A woman and two children. A boy, around ten, and a girl, maybe thirteen.”
“Looks like you’re the first one here,” the maître d’ proclaims. “I can seat you, if you’d like.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll check downstairs first.”
“Certainly,” he says, as if his approval were required.
Amanda hops on the escalator that runs from the second floor to the lobby. A second restaurant is located at the foot of the escalator, but a quick glance reveals Hayley and her children aren’t there either. “God, don’t tell me she took them to McDonald’s,” Amanda whispers into the collar of her coat. She just passed one on Bloor Street. Is it possible she’d run right past them? That they were enjoying Egg McMuffins and hash brown potatoes while she was fleeing the scene of an accident?
She pictures Ben standing beside his beloved Corvette. He’d always taken such good care of that car. Never an accident, never even a dent. Until now. And it was all her fault. She was the reason he’d driven his car into the back of that stupid Toyota, that he was forced to make nice to that odious little man. And what had she done? She’d announced she didn’t have time for such nonsense and run off. Something Ben should be used to by now, she thinks, wondering what to do next.
There are dozens of restaurants in the area. She can’t very well check them all out. It’s hopeless. She’ll just have to make herself comfortable in the lobby, relax, and wait for them to come back. Just like her mother, she realizes with an audible groan, deciding to check with the front desk instead. It’s possible someone might have seen them leave, noted the direction they took. Perhaps Hayley even spoke to one of the clerks, told him where she’d be. Admittedly a long shot, but then, it never hurts to ask.
Sometimes it does, Amanda corrects, thinking of all the questions she’d asked her mother, the questions she has yet to ask Hayley Mallins. Sometimes it does hurt to ask.
She takes off for the lobby, practically pouncing on an unsuspecting clerk behind the reception desk. “This is an emergency,” she tells the startled young woman, who takes a wary step back. “I’m trying to locate Hayley Mallins. I know she’s staying in Suite 2416, but I’ve just been up to her room, and she’s not there, and it’s urgent I get in touch with her. Did you see her?”
The young woman quickly types something into her computer. “I’m sorry, but Mrs. Mallins has checked out.”
“What do you mean, she checked out? That’s impossible.”
“It appears she checked out last night.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Amanda feels sick to her stomach. Is it possible she took her children and returned to England? “Shit. Shit,” she says again, louder the second time.
“Is there a problem here?” a man asks, coming up beside the young woman and glancing at the computer screen. The name tag on his lapel identifies him as William Granick, Hotel Manager. “Can I help you with something?”
“I’m trying to locate Hayley Mallins. It’s urgent that I speak to her.”
“I’m afraid Mrs. Mallins has checked out.”
“Yes, so I’ve been told. But surely she left a number where she can be reached.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you.” The tone of William Granick’s voice says he wouldn’t help her even if he could.
“I don’t think you understand—”
“Amanda!” Ben’s voice suddenly calls out from somewhere behind her.
She spins around to see him walking toward her. His face is very red, an indication he’s been standing outside in the cold for some time. “Ben, thank God.”
“What’s happening?”
“They checked out last night.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“What happened with your car?”
“Guy decided he didn’t want to involve the police after all. I think you scared him.”
Amanda smiles, the smile immediately flipping into a frown. “Do you think they went back to England?”
“It’s a good possibility.”
“Can we find out?”
“Let’s get some coffee.” Ben leads Amanda toward the lobby bar. “Two coffees,” he orders, pulling his cell phone from his pocket, and checking his watch as he punches in a series of numbers. “Hi. It’s me,” he says, his voice unnaturally low. She can tell by the guilty hunch of his shoulders that he’s speaking to Jennifer. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t get home till really late.… Actually, I didn’t get home at all,” he admits after an uncomfortable pause. Then: “Yeah, she’s still here. Yes, I’m with her now.” Another pause, this one even more uncomfortable than the first. Amanda wonders if it’s as uncomfortable for Jennifer as it is for Ben. She watches his face, sees the sadness in his eyes, hears the regret in his voice. Is he having second thoughts? About Jennifer? About her? “Can we talk about this later?”
“Is there really anything to say?” Amanda hears the other woman ask.
“It’s a complicated situation,” he tells her. Then: “Look, I need to ask you for another favor.”
Certainly not what the other woman was hoping to hear, Amanda knows, holding her breath and saying a silent prayer that Jennifer will be curious enough to listen to his request.
“Can you find out if Hayley Mallins has gone back to England? We’re at the hotel now, and apparently she checked out last night.” Ben waits for several seconds before dropping the phone to the small round table between them. “She hung up.”
The waiter brings their coffee, asks if they’d like anything else.
Ben stares out the side window.
“No, thanks. That’s everything,” Amanda tells the waiter. “I’m sorry,” she says to Ben.
“Don’t worry. I have a few other connections. At nine o’clock, I’ll start calling around.”
“I meant about Jennifer.”
He shrugs. The shrug says, I’m sorry too.
“You didn’t have to tell her you were with me.”
“Yeah, I did.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Besides, she had it pretty much figured out for herself.”
“I’m sorry,” Amanda says again.
The air around them grows heavy with the silence of regret. “You’re still planning on leaving, aren’t you?” he says, a leading question. Like any good attorney, he already knows the answer.
What have I done? Amanda wonders. She satisfied an itch, and now everybody’s bleeding. “As soon as this is over.” Is that all she can think of to say? �
�I think it’s for the best.”
He nods, glances back out the window. “And last night?”
“Last night was—”
“—something to get out of our systems once and for all,” he says.
More like temporary insanity, Amanda thinks. “She loves you, Ben,” she says, thinking of Jennifer. “You’ll call her in a couple of days, explain the circumstances …”
As if on cue, Ben’s cell phone rings. “Hello?”
“Okay, don’t ask me why I’m doing this,” she hears Jennifer say.
So maybe he won’t even have to wait a couple of days, Amanda thinks, watching as Ben listens, his eyes narrowing in concentration. “Okay, thanks. I’ll call you later.… Okay, yeah. Bye.”
“Okay, yeah, what?”
“Apparently we freaked Hayley out yesterday. She got permission from the police to return to England.”
“Oh, no.”
“It’s all right. We got lucky. She couldn’t get a flight back to England until tonight.”
“She’s still here?”
“At the Airport Hilton.”
“Let’s go.”
THIRTY-THREE
THE Airport Hilton can be summed up in two words: Hilton and airport. That tells you pretty much everything you need to know about the hotel, Amanda thinks as she and Ben cut across the lobby to the elevators at the back. Functionally attractive in shades of beige and green, it is situated a short distance from the airport, in the middle of a strip of such hotels that cater predominantly to businesspeople with neither the time nor inclination for sightseeing, or to travelers connecting with early-morning flights. The lobby is rife with women in smartly tailored suits and men toting heavy briefcases, everyone looking terribly purposeful, Amanda thinks, stepping aside to allow a newly arrived elevator to disgorge its passengers.
“What if she’s not here?” Amanda asks as Ben presses the button for the third floor.
“She’s here.”
The elevator bumps to an unexpected stop on the second floor, and the doors open to reveal a couple locked in a lovers’ embrace, and surrounded by suitcases. So tightly are the two people welded together that Amanda can almost see the young man’s tongue jammed down his companion’s throat. She turns discreetly aside, trying not to remember the feel of Ben’s tongue as it played gently with the corners of her mouth only hours earlier. She brings her fingers to her lips, feels Ben lingering, but she can’t bring herself to wipe him away. Only a few hours ago he was inside her. Now he stands a careful distance away, the hands that caressed her limp at his sides.
Which is exactly as it should be.
Did he really expect anything different?
Did she?
Amanda coughs into her hand, and the couple breaks apart, the young woman’s mouth and chin red with the imprint of the man’s pronounced morning stubble.
“Just married,” the young man says, grinning sheepishly, as he carries the assorted bags inside the elevator. His face is the shape of an inverted triangle, and black, curly hair falls across his flat, wide forehead.
“We’re going to the Bahamas.” The girl giggles, leans into her husband’s side. Her long, honey blond hair falls around a heart-shaped face that is dominated by huge brown eyes.
She looks barely out of her teens, Amanda thinks. Barely older than I was when Ben and I eloped. Of course she and Ben hadn’t been able to afford a honeymoon in the Bahamas, or anywhere else for that matter, and they’d spent their wedding night on a mattress in the middle of the floor of Ben’s tiny, one-room apartment. Even now she can recall the joy of waking up in the morning to find him beside her. This is it, she remembers thinking. I’ve come home. I’m never leaving.
And yet, that’s exactly what she did.
That’s what she’s still doing.
The new groom presses the button for the lobby. “Oh,” Amanda tells him apologetically. “I’m sorry. We’re going up.”
The young man shrugs. “Guess we are too.”
“What time’s your flight?” Amanda asks in an effort to still the voices in her head.
The bride grabs her new husband’s wrist, checks his watch, and groans audibly. “Not for another couple of hours. We have so much time.”
“I just think it’s smarter to be a little early than to rush around at the last minute getting all uptight,” the young man says defensively.
It’s clear to Amanda that they’ve already had this discussion several times since the wedding, and that they will probably be having variations of this argument throughout their married lives. She wonders whose patience will be the first to run out, who will be the first one to bolt for the door. “Good luck,” she wishes them as the elevator doors open onto the third floor.
“You too,” the newlyweds say together.
Amanda looks back before the doors are fully closed, catches a brief glimpse of two forms swaying toward one another, their hands reaching for each other, their fingers almost clawing at the air, as if it’s physically painful for their bodies to be apart. It is painful, she decides, feeling an ache growing in the pit of her stomach, then metastasizing like a particularly virulent cancer and spreading throughout her body. She fights the urge to shout after Ben as he walks down the hall, to yell at him to stop, slow down, turn around, come back to her. This can wait, she wants to tell him. Everything can wait.
Except it can’t.
And she doesn’t.
And he doesn’t.
“What room?” she says instead, catching up to him.
“Right here.” He stops in front of Room 312, knocks with quiet authority on the door. “Hotel manager,” he announces before the occupants of the room have time to ask who it is.
The voice from inside is tentative. “Is something wrong?” Hayley Mallins opens the door a tiny crack, her eyes widening in alarm when she sees who’s on the other side. She tries to shut the door, but Ben has grown used to people slamming doors in his face, and his foot is already wedged inside, acting as a doorstop. “No,” Hayley hisses, slamming her shoulder against the door. “Go away. Go away.”
“Please,” Amanda urges the woman. “Just let us talk to you.”
“Spenser, call downstairs,” comes the immediate response. “Tell them to send security.”
“I don’t think you want to do that,” Ben advises, pushing so hard against the door that Hayley has no choice but to step aside and let them enter.
The room is clean and nondescript, taken up almost entirely by two queen-size beds. Ben moves quickly toward Spenser, who is standing at the small desk in front of the third-floor window, cradling the phone and fighting back tears. The boy, still in his faded blue pajamas, drops the receiver as Ben draws near and runs to his mother’s side.
“It’s okay, Spenser,” Ben tells him. “We’re not going to hurt you.”
“What do you want with us?” another voice asks, and both Ben and Amanda turn toward the sound.
Hope is sitting in the middle of the second bed, also in her pajamas. She stares at Ben and Amanda with cold defiance.
“Go away,” the young boy shouts at the intruders, emboldened by his mother’s protective arms. “Go away and leave us alone.”
“We can’t do that,” Amanda says.
“I don’t have to talk to you, you know,” Hayley tells them. “The police said I’m under no obligation to talk to you.”
“Then suppose you just listen.”
“And if I’m not interested in anything you have to say?”
“You’ll listen anyway.”
“Please,” Hayley pleads. “You’ll only make things worse.”
“Your husband is dead and my mother is in jail,” Amanda tells her. “How can things possibly get any worse?”
“Because they can,” Hayley replies simply, sinking to the foot of the nearest bed, Spenser seemingly glued to her side. She is wearing the same moss green sweater she had on the day before, and her hair is pinned away from her face by two large bobby pins. She w
ears no makeup at all, and her skin is ashen, verging on outright gray. She nods, giving in. “I don’t want my children to be present,” she says softly.
“Why don’t I take them downstairs for something to eat?” Ben offers.
“No,” Spenser wails, clinging tightly to his mother’s waist.
“We’re not leaving you,” Hope says.
“Breakfast sounds like a very good idea,” Hayley says calmly. “You were just saying how hungry you are, Spenser. That you fancied a big plate of blueberry pancakes.”
“I want you to come too,” the boy cries.
“And I want you and your sister to get dressed and go with Mr. Myers.”
“Ben,” Ben says.
“You go with Ben, and I’ll be there as quickly as I can. I promise.” Hayley smiles, although the smile is forced and wobbly. “Please, sweetheart. There’s nothing to worry about. I promise you. Obviously this lady has something very important she wants to say, and she isn’t going to go away until she says it. So let’s just get this over with, shall we?” She appeals to Hope with her eyes. “Please, love. Go get dressed.”
With great reluctance Hope climbs out of bed. She grabs her clothes from the closet and disappears inside the bathroom.
“Get your things together, Pup—Spenser,” his mother directs.
“I don’t know what to wear.”
“Wear what you wore yesterday.”
“Don’t want to.”
“How about your new brown sweater? You look so handsome in it.”
Spenser slides off the bed and retrieves his sweater from a drawer, pulling it over his head, and only then removing his pajama top. He pushes his arms into the sweater and smooths down his hair, staring at Amanda with a look that tells her exactly what he’s thinking. Which is that he wishes she were dead.
Amanda looks toward Ben. “Thank you,” she mouths, as reluctant to let him leave as Hayley’s children are to leave their mother.
After several minutes, Hope emerges from the bathroom, neatly dressed in jeans and a pale pink sweater, her long, dark hair swept into a high ponytail.
“You look lovely,” Amanda tells the young girl sincerely, reminded that pink was always her mother’s favorite color. Hope ignores the compliment as she assumes Spenser’s former position on the bed beside her mother. Hayley takes her daughter in her arms and kisses her forehead. They all have variations of the same face, Amanda thinks as Spenser brushes past her into the bathroom. The same high cheekbones, the same full lower lip, the same piercingly sad eyes.